#and then next week the cycle starts anew

[critdeeznuts]

i love how before playing, the dndads crew will be like “omg put hermie on the table! aww what a little guy.”

then they start recording and they’re immediately like “hermie is a burden. we have to abandon him first chance we get.”

[triffany-lottablog]

Hrng

[forgotten-daydreamer]

Took twice the max dose of melatonin before the final revision for tomorrow’s exam, I’m shitting my pants and I genuinely don’t know anything as thoroughly as I should but if I sleep less than 4 hrs before it I just know I’m gonna do even worse somehow

[sesshy380]

Back to the grindstone tomorrow 😭

Five more days of work, then heading downstate for Youmacon! (Yes, I am in countdown mode lol)

Still working on the other Ship Ask Meme that I am being self-indulgent on. Trying to have it finished before I go down. This one shouldn't take as long, since a lot of the questions relate to future chapters stuff and I am trying not to spoil anything. At the current moment, Atem and Bakura are barely tolerable of one another.

[cungader0]

thought abt asgore too hard and now i feel ill GOAT MAN THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU

[flowergardeninthewall]

Every Wednesday I sit here and think maybe MAYBE, we will get a Cellbit stream.

And then it doesn't happen. I sigh. And put on another VOD.

[blood-mocha-latte]

literally just realised someone else asked you that already 😅 so...fave webgott headcanons instead?

bestie i am happy to answer ANY ask of yours do not Fret. anything for u truly. now!! have some post-war webgott <3.

- they don’t end up with each other. at least in a conventional way: there’s no staying at the same house, or eating dinner together, or even being on the same coast.

- even when it’s been years, and there’s no reason to fear something happening, or either of them being caught, or they could do it, maybe, they could maybe make it, it doesn’t matter. because in their heads, maybe they can’t.

- webster still comes down to california, of course. liebgott tends to not find himself in the east, he says it’s too cold and it’s the same thought of not making it that keeps webster from complaining.

- they’ll spend maybe a week together, fighting and annoying and bothering each other.

- web leaves, doesn’t write to liebgott and liebgott doesn’t write to him. then one of them will call and have the same conversation about california and webster is buying a train ticket all over again.

- and so the cycle begins anew.

- liebgott is prone to anger. to fighting back. always has been, but after the war it seems to become drier, like a husk that he can’t peel away from his organs.

- and, well, websters father was prone to dry anger. he isn’t real good at fighting back against it.

- they clash against each other and into each other and with each other but it’s always dry anger, and on the offset that it’s more gentle than thought doesn’t matter because the anger comes right on back with the nightmares and lost thoughts of guilt and grieving and the whole cycle starts all over again.

- webster reads and re-reads and re-re-reads the hollow men by ts eliot. next to him in a too-small bed, liebgott puts a cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand and tells him that if the world is going to end, it sure as hell won’t be with a whimper.

- there’s a bell in the kitchen that webster thinks that liebgott might have stolen from a restaurant; he likes to ring it to make the other come out and make him breakfast.

- liebgott never does, so webster rings the bell to entertain himself and then sorts through the cupboards that he memorized years ago to find pans and mugs and plates.

- web may not be catholic anymore, but a cross isn’t a skin that can be shrugged off. it isn’t a coat or an idea, it’s as core to someone as the knowledge that lungs inflate when someone inhales. it’s believing with every atom in your body that something doesn’t exist, but still having a small part in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like a child asking are you sure?

- he carries around a bible, the only tab in it opens onto leviticus 18 22.

- the cover is dusty and hardly seems to have ever been opened. liebgott sees it only once, carefully packed into websters back with ts eliot and oscar wilde and doesn’t say a thing on it

- once, when webster came down in november, he opened it. read where the tab marked and closed the book again. he didn’t touch it, after that.

- webster was awake when he flipped through the bible. the next time he went down to california, he left it at home in a box under his bed.

- guilt is a funny thing, and he has a lot of it.

- over the book. over his own thoughts. over a war that ended a millennia ago that he missed out on, and doesn’t regret, but does look back on and wish. for what, he doesn’t know, but he’s always been an outsider, so he supposes it doesn’t matter.

- of course, it doesn’t matter. it never did, it never will, it never has.

- liebgott pretends that he forgets websters first name. won’t say it, ever, and webster can’t figure out why. it makes him angry, but not the angry that liebgott is, that his father was.

- a shakier kind of upset, that’s more grief than rage. all it seems to do is prove an argument he made inside his own head.

- webster always leaves the same way. in a huff. slams the door shut, liebgott won’t accompany him down to the train station. he won’t call him, either, and webster had given up on writing to him years ago.

- but maybe liebgott sits down and writes a letter, one day. maybe he writes, and it’s the first thing he’s ever written to web and the war ended twelve years ago and there’s a bell sitting in his kitchen, deathly quiet.

- and webster always tends to be predictable. he always has to get the last word in.

- the next visit down to california is much, much longer.

[afreakingdork]

Soft Spot - Chapter 6

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Sometimes you gotta replace something as simple as a lightbulb like Donnie in this week’s chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

LAST WARNING FOR THE 🍋 UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

You and Donnie hadn’t had sex today.

It wasn’t like he had an obligation to fuck you, but a tone had been set. Yesterday marked the start of your third ovulation cycle since you had started trying to have a baby. This one fit nicely into a Friday night which meant you were primed for debauchery. You had spent much of the evening in delicious throes and expected the weekend to follow a similar suit.

You’d awoken to your husband nonchalantly cooking a late breakfast.    

You had trailed over to him, nude, and meant to have a different kind of meal first, but he had disarmed you with a single question about what type of omelet you wanted. He had options laid out and you picked over them dully. You could only think of a different kind of egg as he went through the motions of cracking several in a bowl and whisking.

You’d eventually gone to wash up and throw something decent on since apparently your unencumbered body wasn’t enticing enough.

You imagined maybe it was a different kind of hunger plaguing him so you went along with your usual Saturday morning. It came with talk of plans, light chores, and things that needed to be purchased. You caught up on the mundane and also relished each other’s presence. It harkened back to simpler times which wasn’t at all a problem, but an oddity as of late.

Donnie’s regime for your body was a rigid one. It was only flexible in that your actual shifts in cycles were ones that roved. Tweaks happened like a board live updating with data, but the facets were the same. A menstrual cycle started on the day of your first bleed and ended on the next to start anew. You’d shed the slope for however long necessary from your lining and then primed for the next candidate. Around day 9 you would begin to have sex with purpose. By 14, you were charged for ovulation and the peak of your lovemaking filled that 24 hour window.

As you saw it, you were technically still within that time frame, so it seemed odd for Donnie not to be taking advantage of it as he was so zealous to do.

You pondered on it through getting dressed and heading out. You had two stops today and January’s cold bit into your bundle. A sharp wind zipped through the buildings where it could and snapped at you. It had you tucking closer to your mate that minded you the best he could. He would shift his form, stepping in to block the blusters, but only so much could be done. When you hit a grocer, you shook as soon as the heat hit you to try to physically rid yourself of the cold.

Donnie hurried the necessities along by splitting up the list to divide and conquer. It left your nose burning as you had a separate basket to grab what was requested. In total, you’d be heading through the ten items or less line as the staples you needed for the week didn’t amount to much. You met back up at checkout and were soon out for your second chore.

It was something about light bulbs and Donnie had difficulty getting them delivered. You entered a shop filled with nothing but the specialty item and while Donnie spoke to someone at a desk, you thought on these sorts of places. The specificity of the business always made you wonder how they stayed open. You could get light bulbs at most home good stores, so why run a business off solely that?

It had you creeping towards your mate to see if this was some sort of front. While he had been true to his word about removing himself from ongoing villainy, you imagined if he needed something illicit, he could grab and go from any number of sources. The only place that seemed off limits to him now was the Hidden City. The last you heard, Ignis had taken over Donnie’s holding in the land of Yokai City holdings and was doing a decent job. You guessed Raph was now Donnie’s direct supplier there and you doubted the apparent hero would get him anything prohibited. 

Still, you snuck up close to find Donnie had three different brands of what were actually light bulbs out on a counter and a worker was explaining to him the advantages of each. Donnie listened with rapt attention and you felt like something hanging like a lampshade. You guessed the oddity of today was making you second guess things. That seemed further cemented as you saw some charts about lumens and correlated color temperatures that you didn’t care to decipher.

This wasn’t a world you had given much thought and you felt out of place in it.

You guessed you did in a larger sense too.

There was a register ding for purchase and you met back up with your mate who held up his bag. You nodded and followed him out to depart. You’d be heading back to the apartment now. You hadn’t thought of today’s chores in a grand scheme as they were simply things that needed to get done. That fit your sense as of late of everything as of late and the layered similes felt tiring.

The calendar of your body’s changes felt like that. It was oddly steadfast and marked with what must be done. You weren’t trying to leave conceiving to luck and that meant you had to go through the necessary procedures. Free time had to be allotted and what was that other than another notch in the long standing circle of life. You were born and went through what you had to in each phase. You grew and society demanded more. You met those challenges in whatever way you could and continued on for as long as possible.

You had slowed and Donnie took notice.

You caught back up with him and wordlessly assured him through your bond that you had a lot on your mind.

He sympathized intangibly.

Your mate knew that cycle better than anyone. He’d been denied choice at a young age and was forced to do what he needed to scrape by. The moment that stopped, he’d almost been paralyzed with how much life was laid out for him. He’d gone about living the best he could on his own and had slowly been joined by others. Yourself included which he said opened his life up to actual possibilities and though you protested, you knew that wasn’t wrong. It still wasn’t because of you, but you’d helped show him more because there was only so much one could do alone.

You snuck glances at your mate as you neared your apartment. You hadn’t talked too much about that time, but you knew he liked a schedule. While he dabbled in villainy before he met you, he also had a routine. It wasn’t unlike the current one and you wondered if he thought of tracking your cycle as a similar extension. You could easily ask him, you thought, but you also sort of wanted to proposition him when you got home. He’d been working so hard on all the planning aspects of conception since you’d be the one doing the physical toil of growing your little one.

You wondered if today’s deviation had just been an overlapping interest. While getting you pregnant was the goal, that hadn’t meant life stopped. Other things, specifically a missing light bulb upset Donnie’s habitat and you knew how much he disliked a fault in his environment. You entered your building and wondered where the burnt out bulb was. You couldn’t recall a spot within your home that was especially dark and you bet that was something you’d notice more than say the missing milk that Donnie had picked up.

You neared your door and had to squint down your hall.

You blinked right out of your lowered lids and sought your husband.

He had a lazy sort of smile on his face as he caught your attention.

The bulb in the hall outside your apartment was out and you hadn’t noticed.

You guessed you had rushed right through your door as of late to meet your mate in the sheets.

You kindly collected the shared grocery bags from Donnie and left him to change the bulb. You imagined he had probably hassled the building manager, who presumably did nothing. Donnie then, on principle, wouldn’t have the thing mailed. As he’d done so in the past, he decided he’d fix the problem himself. You put the groceries up and debated how best to thank him for his attention. It would surely please Mrs. Kaczmarek too who had been in better spirits these days since seeing your wedding rings.

She’d probably badger you about the baby.

You dreaded as much and pushed off the counter at nearly the same time Donnie opened the door.

You approached him with intent as you pulled on your scarf.

Donnie appraised you lightly as he entered and you elongated your limb while unraveling the fabric. He slowed in getting his own coat off and tipped his head back to watch what would clearly be a show. You smiled coyly for him and slid the scarf free from your throat in a dangle. It fed across the back of the couch until it was free from your hands and you moved to your coat.

You grabbed each lapel for a snapping pop before twisting your body to one side. Your lids descended and your head tipped in a way that you knew accentuated your lashes. It was another flirtatious dip that you paired with rolling your shoulder. The bulb came up to caress your cheek as the fabric was knocked off. It slid down that arm and then you rolled your momentum to the other. There was another bob and weave to unsheathe your coat from your torso and you meant to let it drip off when Donnie appeared.

You shot him a heated look as you figured you’d enticed him, but he pinched up your coat.

With little effort on your part, he got it from you, along with a pit stop to grab your scarf before he moved to hang them on the coat rack.

You stared at the back of his head and nothing about it read interest.

He turned, showcasing more of the same and only gave you a quick smile before he moved to toss out the now empty light bulb box.

Were you not going to have sex right now?

You were sure he’d been clear.

You’d read the same material as him, at least as much as you could.

While the peak time frame of ovulation was a total of 36 hours on average, your actual eggs lifespan bobbed around 12-24 hours.

If it wasn’t fertilized then it would die and dissolve.

Did he know something you didn’t?

He could smell when you were ovulating.

Could he smell more?

You chased after him.

He felt your urgency and turned with concern.

No.

He’d be over the moon if he somehow knew you were pregnant.

He wouldn’t be acting like this.

He wouldn’t be going about so mundanely. 

He couldn’t smell the individual parts.

There was no way he could smell the beginning stages of mitosis.

Your mood dropped, but his concern rose.

“Y/N…?” He ducked his height to catch your gaze.

You shook your head. “It’s nothing. My thoughts are all over the place.”

You reassured him through your wedding band as well and he looked down at it with a scrunched brow.

It was overwhelming evidence that your dismissal was honest.

“If you’re sure.” He reluctantly agreed before lifting back up.

“Yeah…” You buoyed your voice. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

He bobbed in thought. “Lunch I imagine will be a light fare as we have our planned dinner…”

You tracked over his body.

“That was our schedule for the day. Did you have something in mind?” He appraised you with little interest.

You placed a thoughtful finger to your lips and studied him.

Were you really going to take a break from fucking?

You supposed you didn’t mind, but you had been mentally ready.

The expectation was set and your early hypothesis about him having a momentary diversion seemed off.

He should have been able to get right back on track.

Was it a ploy?

He didn’t read particularly teasing.

He was openly watching you now.

There wasn’t a trace of jest on his features.

You’d had enough of pondering and walked up to him with an outstretched finger. “Sex.”

He reached up and casually wrapped his large hand around your digit. “I can be enticed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I tried enticing you at the door. You weren’t super into it.”

“You looked lovely-“

“And before breakfast.”

His eyes darted.

You suppressed sounding a eureka. “What are you up to?”

“Notathing.” He fumbled the word and rushed to mop up the mistake. “Nothing.”

“I don’t like that you’re getting better at masking when you’re up to something…”

He craned a curious brow.

That seemed like a strange action and pinched yours.

“Have I gotten better?” He wondered aloud.

“You… Wait, what?”

His head tilted.

You wriggled your finger free from his grip to poke his plastron. “Did you or did you not have a plan today?”

“I did.” His features spoke as if that was obvious. “You’re aware. We needed groceries and a light bulb.”

You jabbed him. “No, a different thing. What you’re hiding now.”

“That was my only scheme, if you could call it that.”

“Then why the shifty eyes…?” You leaned up into him as if getting closer would help you catch something.

“I didn’t know I evaded you this morning.”

Your lips twisted. “Seriously…? You didn’t know I was trying to get you back in bed?”

“It’s not unusual as of late for either of us to parade around naked. It saves time.”

“I posed all sexy beside the counter! You asked me what I wanted to eat!”

“Yes, I am now aware.”

Your expression dropped. “But sex…”

“Shall we?” He spoke a little too non-pulsed.

“What did you think of me taking my stuff off at the door?”

“That my mate is a stunning creature.”

“But you grabbed my coat.”

“Yes. You were taking off your outer layers.”

“Donnie.”

His attention was elsewhere, but he reached up to cup your hand to his pectoral scutes. “I… am missing cues.”

“I guess…?”

“Have there been others?” He looked at you with renewed interest. “When you were chilled, was that a veiled one?”

“Oh… Uh, no… Just those two today, I think.”

He patted your appendage before walking over to the bed and taking a seat. “That’s worrisome.”

“What?” You followed him.

“I… There is little foundation since today has been the first, but I wonder if our scheduled copulation is making me less aware of solicitation.”

You blinked a few times and felt flashbacks of all the scheduling you’d thought of today. “Since sex is a given, you aren’t looking for outward signs of me needing you anymore…”

His lips flattened out in both agreement and concern.

“Aren’t I still ovulating? There should still be scheduled sex to have.”

His eyes showed some attention before he moved to kneel. “May I?”

You nodded.

He was careful in getting to his knees and wrapping his hands around your waist. He moved your shirt with tender care and rolled it just out of his way. He held the fabric at bay and got your waistband. Sliding to the button, he undid it along with the fly for a slow reveal. There he didn’t move to disrobe you and instead tucked a finger in your underwear and pulled it out so the scent would waft up. He closed his eyes there, divvying up the smell until he let out a languid exhale. “You should still be viable.”

“Are you not… interested?” You whispered, afraid of the question.

His eyes flashed up to yours. “I am!”

“Then why…?”

Distress openly painted him and he manifested a spiral of screens around you.

You looked amongst them and they seemed to be all his tracking data for your cycle.

He plucked a few from their rotation and overlapped them. The data then melded and more appeared in what you read as a comparison. Donnie moved furiously, grabbing the rest of the screens until they were all stacked. There they reorganized into comparable tables and he plucked out one section to expand. What he found there made him click his tongue softly.

“What is it?”

“The times align.” He pointed and threw the screen up for you to see.

It seemed to be some sort of average.

“The schedule goes: We seed you as much as possible. Once your ovulation period ends, the sex stops due to us both being overtaxed and because the window has closed off.”

“We rest.” You agreed.

“Your last cycle pushed this ovulation period. In taking the average, this is about the time we would go into our idle phase.”

“It’s only been three months...”

“We’ve been strict.”

You guessed you hadn’t had sex outside of the necessary window.

“I prefer routine.”

You made a small noise and brushed the screen away.

“I find you no less attractive.” He squeezed your hips for attention.

You looked down at him.

“I am at your disposal. I will be hard at a moment’s notice should you so desire. This might be something automatic, but is not indicative of anything greater. I am conforming to you. I assure you.”

“But you didn’t notice…”

He grimaced. “That… I have no defense for.”

“I guess… I haven’t really pushed to have sex outside the schedule either.”

He lit up as if to jump on that fact, but withheld himself.

You were thankful for it and put a hand on top of his head.

He pressed up comfortably under your palm.

You let the moment linger before something bobbed in your mind. “I know honesty is best, but there’s something so unsexy about all of this!”

His chin was still raised and he looked down his beak at you.

“Like the sex is hot, but we’re already treating it like it’s a chore?! And now I’m going to have to blatantly say ‘let’s bone’ if we want to fuck off the clock?”

Donnie squeaked a faint upset commiseration.

You hunched forward and switched your grip so you had his jaw.

You held him in that tilted position so you could easily kiss his head.

“Sex with you has never been work.” He told you the moment you were close.

You smiled and nuzzled his forehead.

“We’ve caught the early glimpses and will offset it. I will set renewed plans to romance you when we are not trying to conceive.”

“Donnie…”

“Valentine’s is coming up…” He churred.

“Outside the window too.” You puckered your lips playfully.

He bounced so you’d kiss his head again.

You giggled and obliged.

“Let’s press creative endeavors. The pillow method bothers us both. It’s formulaic.”

“We get kinky when it doesn’t matter as much.”

“Incorrect.” He scolded you with a deep frown.

You blinked wide.

“We explore kinks when it matters most.”

A happy noise bubbled in your throat before you threw yourself forward to hug him.

He lifted from his knees to better catch you.

“What have you been waiting to use?”

“New toys, double penetration, B.E.D.F.A.S.T. has new attachments, and… there is something very specific at the lab.”

“The biodome?” You pulled back to check with him.

He shook his head and emphasized the letters. “The lab.”

“Roleplay…?” You tried.

“In a way… You are my only test subject.”

“You sully Genius Built’s name…”

“Or I will create a new branch title.”

“Donatello!”

He chirped happily.

You squeezed him.

He held you for a long moment and you felt the exact moment his attention shifted.

You curled inward so your breath would tease the side of his head.

It enhanced his growing interest. “I have one technique that straddled the line…”

“Line of what?”

“Our breeding and this other realm.”

“You holding back on me…?” You kissed his cheek.

He tried to roll into you to catch your mouth, but you kept away. “More like it skirted something you’ve complained about before…”

“What?” You moved a hand up to keep his lips at bay.

He kissed your hand relentlessly.

You waited, making it obvious you wouldn’t move until he told you.

He gave one last longing press before he spoke against your digits. “It falls along the line of edging.”

You groaned loud as you extracted yourself from him.

“I only mentioned it!” He complained from where he stayed on the floor.

“I hate edging!” You yelled your frustration with the concept and not him.

“I know, dearest.”

You tapped a foot for a second before checking back with him. “If it’s not edging, but like edging… and it…” You felt like light bulbs were going off. “It’s both, meaning it would help with breeding… What is it?”

You could tell his tail was wagging by the way his bottom barely moved.

“It’s a science thing too?!”

He pleaded with his eyes for you to give him the go ahead on an explanation.

He was adorable. “Let’s hear it.”

He hopped straight to his feet and curled up right into your side at the same time an article appeared in your face.

A quick scan read it was something about what to avoid in trying to get pregnant which Donnie immediately verbalized.

“Now this trends further into territory that has little scientific support, but…” He moved the article so a specific section was in the dead center of the display.

Its header listed certain lubricants.

With a careful point, his fingernail underlined ‘salvia.’

You sent him a side glance.

He didn’t look, but his lips wrinkled. “Certain lubricants can negatively impact sperm quality and their ability to move up the cervix.”

“Uh huh…” You held onto your knowing weight.

He did not buckle. “We could employ a hydroxyethylcellulose-based lube, but I haven’t cared for the smell…”

You leaned against him.

He tucked an arm around to hold you.

“So you eating me out might be a problem, but what’s that got to do with edging…?”

“I disagree that it is a problem as, again, my sperm are tenacious. Also it isn’t sperm motility hindering either of us; it’s genetics, but… I have considered what enhancement there might be if we were to increase your natural lubrication…”

You thought over his verbiage. “Me getting wet.”

“Not just wet.” He nudged you with his beak.

You shared a glance side by side.

“Soaked. You are my primed environment already, but making it so you are dripping that need. Expand my semen’s runway. Invite me in through not just an open door, but an entire blown out wall.”

“You’ll drive me crazy…!” You whined and tossed your head back.

His shoulder ducked in time so you could lay it against him. “But that is an end goal and not the necessary means to get you there.”

Your eyes widened toward the ceiling. “How do you get me there?” 

“Womb massage…” He murmured sultry against your head.

“Fuck…” You breathed the word out. “What?” 

“I have studied the motions…”

“Are you studying porn...?”

“No.” He huffed and bumped you. “It is a non-invasive technique based on spiritual practice. It works as any massage technique would by increasing blood flow and relaxing muscles.”

You felt compelled to apologize. “Sorry.”

“Porn when I have you, scoff.” He lowered his center of gravity so he could pick you up.

You shifted your weight so he could easily move you.

He placed you in the center of the mattress and poured over you. “Shall we…?”

“I want an out.” You spoke automatically.

He craned his head to show he’d listen to your proposal.

“You can’t keep going until you’re satisfied. If I hit a point and say that’s enough, you have to fuck me and not prolong the torture.”

You could tell he had complaints.

“I’ll hold out as long as I can, but meet me halfway.”

His gaze lowered then snapped to you. “Okay.”

“You sure? I’m trusting you not to pull anything.”

A small raw tear appeared in his person.

You caught his sleeve. “I always trust you, but you are stubborn.”

He was both soothed and took culpability.

You slid your hand under his sweater and to his forearm. “Okay.”

He waited a moment longer.

“Make me crazy.” You laid back with a readied posture.

He trilled ecstatic and got off the bed.

You kicked out your feet and watched as he began to disrobe. He had little pretense and expertly yanked his shirt off. You watched on as he let his clothing drop until he stepped out, naked, from his pants which he kicked back and out of his way and prompted you to ask, “No show?”

“And miss the cue?” He teased.

“Too soon.” You joked.

He made an interested noise and stalked toward you. You watched him lower down and half crawl toward your person. It was similar to his heat self and you could tell he knew he was intending exactly that. You reached out to him in a limp handed offer and he caught your appendage to scent it. He scrubbed his scales against your palm before he let your hand roll down his neck. He caught it before it completely fell away and pushed your open hand to spread over his mating mark.

It was a sigil you both had sort of let slip away in light of your wedding bands. You thumbed over bubbled crescents on his skin and scarcely remembered the last time you renewed it. He’d broken yours only once or twice since your honeymoon, but it was less to refresh the mark and more because he was caught up in a moment. You felt compelled to lean forward and Donnie stalled out as you moved.

He supported your weight as you kissed all over the area. His churr slipped enamored and you nibbled at the skin just below the wraps at his throat. He gave you a gentle nod go ahead, and your fingers trailed to undo them. He only palmed your sides as you were slow to unravel them. With the marathon sessions, he’d been keeping them on as of late to save his muscles. You yearned to see all of him and his scarred skin soon appeared.

You kissed it with reassurances and he pressed into you to levy your position. You were soon better sat and he tucked searching digits under your clothes. They teased skin only because it was there and were more in search of the best way to reveal you. You sighed against him, far too latched to allow him to do his job and he gave up for the closeness.

You breathed him in and it felt like ages since you last touched without impregnation in mind. It wasn’t like you avoided one another, but there was something different to skin contact. Your closeness recently had either been illicit or the carefree kind that came with a long term relationship. You keenly remembered a few weeks ago when you tangled against each other reaching for opposite sides of the kitchen at the same time.

When was the last time you bathed together that wasn’t to drown in or wash away cum?

You nosed over the bones in his shoulder and kissed towards his bulb. There were more wraps from there on his arms and you found the edge with your thumb. Instead of immediately undoing one, you thumbed it slowly, getting it free with a single digit. The top loosened and you traced out the fabric’s journey so it could naturally unravel. It unwove its concentric circles in a downward spiral until it was a pool of noodles at Donnie’s wrist. You coiled them up on one hand before repeating the process on his other limb.

Your husband allowed you all the time in the world and when you glimpsed his face he was the picture of some divine being. He’d ascended in the process and you bet he was thinking exactly what you were about missing this. You asked him through your bond as you curled into him once again and he responded immediately in kind. 

‘Make more time for each other,’ you thought as loudly as you could even though those exact words wouldn’t reach him. You were sure he knew anyway and pulled away from him.

It cracked his lids and you waited until you had his full attention before you flung yourself back onto the bed. It bounced your body once and you toed at his sides for the sake of it. He churred readied and dipped forward to nuzzle one of your knees. The bones there seemed like an odd place to start, but he persisted through your pant leg.

The jostling made you realize your fly was still down, but there was no way for your bottoms to be removed in this position. You redistributed your weight to free them up, but Donnie nipped your thigh. You kicked the hinge of his shell lightly and he scolded you with a few clicks. You chuckled at him and lifted your head to watch. He swam like an alligator in the lower half of your vision and played up a little tune that said he would strike. You shrieked for the sake of it when he did and he shoved his hands up your shirt to tickle your sides.

You wriggled against him and in the process your top hiked up. It was when your belly was exposed that he lowered with obvious teeth. You strained again, but he held you down to prick you with his canines. He then mouthed, removing the chance of pain and letting his tongue sweep over the skin of your abdomen. You sighed against his mouth, feeling him dip and chase each breath you took.

He moved without exact reason and only tasted your flesh. It lulled you with its warmth and he trailed a cold wetness in his wake. That had you squirming slightly and he moved to wipe you clean. It struck you as a silly follow the leader over you until his beak bumped your bra.

There your breath caught and he ghosted with his mouth over the fabric. The cups slacked with you on your back and disinterested him. He moved until he found more of you around your sternum and licked clean up there to your chin. Your toes curled at the sensation and when he appeared overhead you tried to muster a scowl at him.

He smiled brightly at your troubles before dipping into your ear, “Mind if I remove this troublesome clothing?”

“Troublesome.” You echoed. “You’re silly.”

He chirped quietly for you.

You felt compelled to give a few back before you nodded.

He nosed you happily and tucked his hands around your ribs. You rose up with his aid and in green blurs he got your upper half bare. You meant to lay back down, but he caught you with a firm hand to your spine. You were oddly lifted, bent uncomfortably at the waist instead of the preferable fold at your hips. He paid your grimace little mind and openly gawked at your chest.

It was pointed attention and the very faint traces of saliva that had your skin piqued. Prickles of goose bumps ripped across your flesh and perked your nipples. Donnie watched on, self satisfied with what he had done to you and you resisted bopping him for it. He rewarded you with that opening of his jaw again and this time he enveloped a breast. It came with an immediate swirling of his tongue and you arched into him. He held you firm, your stomach feeling the tightness from the position and gave one breast attention before unlatching to do the same to the other.

He left the soak behind this time and the cold made you shudder. It reminded you of the weather outside and the usual heat your mate brought about. It was there, around the bite of his teeth, but he left chilled skin wherever he wasn’t. You shifted to outright complaint and he stopped licking to kiss over your chest and down towards the rolls formed on your stomach.

He dotted each of them with a wet peck until his hand disappeared from your back.

You weren’t ready and fell as you’d been putting your weight on him.

It was with a soft thump against the sheets and instead of more of his mouth, your mate's hands found you. He slid across the moistened skin as if his spit were a lubricant and stroked downward in a way that read massage to you. With heavy focus force from his palms, he didn’t exactly hit muscle groups as he instead pressed inward toward your organs.

A strange sensation, you felt latent nerves about whatever was in your digestive tract. He treaded lightly in that sense and you didn’t feel anything shoved. Instead it was like he applied enough pressure so you could feel what was encased in your torso and each rolling dip was to abate any lingering discomfort.

You felt a bubble shift somewhere and made a noise before you burped.

Donnie stifled a laugh and you covered your face. “Shut up…!”

He shushed you instead of outright responding and moved further down your abdomen. You felt him move away from one bodily track and set course on another. It was reproductive in nature and you could tell that he was orienting himself. He first moved without precision and instead seemed to be seeking. You felt little pleasure and instead only prodded in the process.

His hands spread out in a sweeping twist that placed both his thumbs on each of your hip bones. It meant part of his hand was tucked under the fabric of your bottoms and you thought for a second time that he might strip you. Remembering his earlier complaint, you didn’t assume and that seemed like a good choice. He held firm there, staring down so hard at your body as if he could see through it before he moved inward.

His fingers flexed, a set of four probes, that crawled along your lower abdomen. They rapped as if asking for entrance even though there was no way you could grant that. The tapping headed inward until the two sets met and together they pressed at a single midpoint that shot a sensation straight down to your cunt.

You wheezed an involuntarily breath even though it hadn’t hurt.

Donnie met your eye and you shared surprise.

“Was that… not supposed to happen?” You felt nervous.

“No… I just… You’re sensitive…”

“Is that… bad?” You murmured.

He shook his head.

“Good…?”

“Not definitive.” He told himself as much as you and stroked downward.

You squirmed under him and he urged you with a few chirps to calm. You did with closed eyes and felt keenly aware of how he moved his hands. They switched one over the other and he followed some kind of clockwise motion moving up and around your belly. You could feel yourself clenching and Donnie skirted those tight muscles a little too obviously.

“My love…” He urged along with his fingers against you.

“I’m doing this wrong.”

“No…” He hushed you. “There’s no wrong.”

“Next you’ll tell me to relax.”

“I wouldn’t bother.”

You puffed with a bitter laugh and felt his digits sink into the rolling flesh.

“It would be counterintuitive as of now.” 

“Great.” The sarcasm soured your throat.

He wasn’t discouraged and continued to feel you.

You would make him doubt himself at this rate.

He said he studied.

You wondered for how long.

He had leagues of time when you were at work.

You barely knew when he went to the lab.

He had enough free time to plot pretty much anything.

He was never without a project.

He was an odd sort of busy as it was on his time.

Always something.

Those two words repeated in your mind.

Just like life.

Those three words echoed similarly.

They overlapped and twisted in your head until the cacophony of it drowned you out.

The moment your eyes opened you heard the silence of the room.

Donnie’s hands still moved on your torso, but they were soundless.

You strained to hear, but you couldn’t catch much.

There was no sound to the way he touched you. 

His hands sunk each time and you caught how they were stacked. Both to pinpoint and alleviate the heft of his pressing, he continued staunchly in his massage. He was up towards your lower ribs again and you wondered when he’d get back to your womb, if that was the strange point he’d hit earlier at all. It shouldn’t have had feeling, similar to how you rarely thought of any of your organs if you could help it. There was just a steadfast movement as he kneaded your body.

The way your skin bounced back after each plush press made you think about tensile strength. There was the forbidden skirting of how you hoped to balloon up, but you roved around that. Your skin was a hearty organ that protected just about everything. It lay across the whole of your being and tried to keep itself closed as necessary. On cue, Donnie moved across your scars.

You’d been stabbed, they surmised during your hospital stay. Your attack was still an event you had no memory of. You never would and in a way you were thankful. Those dark times had passed. With healing, your mate could now brush the area and you had some sense of where he did. A few of your nerve endings had reconnected, but others were permanently lost to that breach of your precious skin. You thanked your epidermis for trying so hard as Donnie’s circling of your belly continued.

You were feeling looser by the second even though your mind was hung up. Little aches that you seemingly weren’t aware of were unwinding and your stomach felt warm. It was more than just from the friction and you bet it was the blood vessels opening up that your husband had mentioned. Your blood flow was improving and it made little sense how that helped anything between your legs. As most humans, the center of your body was junked up with many of your organs that helped puppet the thick of you.

Streams of fingers worked up and over your belly button in a dizzying display.

You were rapidly losing track of Donnie’s finer movements and instead settled into a slosh. It was the liquefaction of your insides and your mate held the container. Under his tutelage, nothing spilled, but the contents were rocked. He moved incessantly, unable to let you still, but the jostling had its own advantage. Algae or other particulates couldn’t form if the water continued to flow fresh. It was a lifeblood circling and it strained against your container which was shaped like you. It was both trapped within your skin and your skin itself moved in an endless cycle as everything else in life.

You were still in that quasi-heightened, but stunted state of awareness when Donnie pressed just above your pubic bone. He seemed to feel something there that you could not. Your pelvis pulsed around it as the muscle fiber connections were tested. It was yet another example of your interconnected inner workings and your husband had a hand directly in your machinery.

He lifted up, the first time he’d let you be in what had to be at least a half hour and your skin burned for him. It ached for him to continue his melding and you heard him inhale at something. You weren’t sure when your eyes had closed, but they were too dreary to open. You could only listen while he took pound for pound of oxygen. He never stopped siphoning, even when all four of his digits returned to your pelvis and up to the hill of your mons.

You gasped your own air there, feeling tickling fingertips that moved in unison against horsehair chords. He was playing notes, you figured, of something guttural. The fine tuned instrument was one he had been caring for for years now and he knew it like no other. It was one both his own and yours and you knew just how to pluck him the same. You’d played the sweet music of his sighs and gave one of your own both of and against your violation.

It was that tandem game that marked the line of you versus him. The one you both wanted to play into in hopes of creating something new. A child would be your ultimate melding and something you feared now to lay your hopes on. You thought you might be expecting too much from this unseen thing and had been taking each bloody failure personally.

Donnie had reminded you.

You were fertile.

You both were.

It was your chemistry sets that weren’t mixing for the right solution.

You could only make the environment an advantageous one, but until the cells mixed, there would be no reaction.

There would be no split and division.

There would be no small growth.

There would be no ultimate melding.

That was okay, wasn’t it?

You got so close.

Right now it was hard to tell where Donnie ended and you began.

There were your mating marks.

Your wedding bands.

Your tied mysticism.

His hands on you.

Your skin to his.

Atoms if anything was all that separated you.

It was okay.

If it never took.

If it never happened.

If nothing were to come of it.

You had each other.

You would have each other.

Your eyes opened and felt wet.

You blinked a few times from streaking tears and studied your mate who at some point had switched sides of the bed to better access you. He looked to be his own sort of weepy, but no tears were falling. You hadn’t thought you were in that mystic room between you both, but it felt like he was feeling the same. You guessed that emotional tether went just as deep as you imagined.

You found he was counting and squeezing your flesh now. From moving down in stimulation, he dragged upward on a slow beat and stretched and pressed into you. Besides the mist bringing shine to his gaze, he was otherwise not quite where you were. You imagined he was in that same liquefied state only in the position you imagined. He was still holding you together, now seemingly literally and the care he was keyed into was one he could not break from.

You relaxed into it and didn’t shy away from the sensations now. You felt how he pressed into you and what that stirred. As he said he was massaging your womb, but it felt like more than that. Whether it was in your head or not, it felt as though he were opening blocked channels. You guessed that was the spiritual aspect he had mentioned and you couldn’t quite knock the thought. You felt rich and full of warm feelings and thick nourishing blood.

The word ‘prowess’ came to mind and you weren’t sure who it addressed. You knew Donnie was skilled at basically whatever he set his mind to and this was no exception. It also felt like it meant you and what you were capable of doing and bringing. You brought giant mutant men to their knees without a second thought. You did only what you could, but it flowed out with repercussions that spoke of far greater things. It was an action you often downplayed, but in this moment, right now, you felt like you could create anything.

Did that extend to life?

You were cautious after what you had been through.

It had been no time and all the time in the world.

For some, they’d already be knocked up.

For others, they would spend years trying.

It was all different pathways and journeys just like the ones in your abdomens. They mapped out New York’s roads in a grid system that connected everyone. From you to Donnie to your neighbors and beyond, you were all a living tapestry that continued to be woven. There was no exact pattern followed, only fabric cords that continued to be laid, one on top of the other.

Like Donnie’s hands against his own.

Like Donnie atop you.

Like that push down inside your body.

Like the building of your womb to make it a hearth.

You were ready to stop Donnie when he came to a halt all his own. He cooled down, flapping his hands out from apparent cramping and moved right back into you for that early clockwise motion. It was the end of the process, you could tell, starting at the beginning, and you watched him with growing affection. His focus stunted from having been so intense for so long and he was using you as a literal grounding technique to bring himself back. It made his swipes now far less coordinated than his earlier ones, but when he finally came to his real conclusion, it was raising tired eyes to meet yours.

His crow’s feet wrinkled affection at seeing you and you both moved inward to kiss.

You were both rejuvenated in different ways and it was against your mouth that he mumbled to you. “You need to drink water.”

“Okay…” You chuckled into a few more presses before he went to get you some.

You sat up only partially so your stomach would crease again.

It helped you feel the pudge of your innards and the latent heat that continued to trickle from all where Donnie had massaged. He appeared again, by your side and with a bottle that you took first out of duty then ravishing thirst. You downed the whole thing before you realized it and when you came away with a dribble to the side of your mouth, Donnie swept it up with his tongue. He then shared the cool moisture, licking into your mouth and you teased him with eager noises as he got a taste.

He broke free with a gape and heavy breath.

You watched him, leaning back on your elbows and panting in a similar manner.

He watched you swipe your tongue over your lips and he had to physically shake his head to clear his thoughts.

“Should I tell you how it feels?” You wondered.   

“No need.” He stepped back as if there was some grand reveal.

You stared for a moment before searching for whatever he was trying to show you.

It increased his smile.

“What…?” You asked genially.

He churred between chuckles and hopped forward playfully.

It landed his knuckles on either side of your hips and he leaned into you with a glint in his eye.

You loved when he broke his serious character and reached up to scratch under his chin.

You found his favorite junction and his churr flared delight.

“D-demonstration…” He forced out between the rolling thunder and you stopped to give him a chance at lucidity.

He immediately hooked your pants and you got the message to lift your hips.

You did so with a clench to your core and you felt a dribbling flow before he moved.

It was a rush similar to when blood piled up inside you and you almost stopped him for that fear, but he shared a glance with you that said otherwise.

Though you felt the first sensation, you had difficulty believing anything had been built up until he began to remove your bottoms. Both pairs were taken at the same time and as soon as the cotton fibers pulled against one another, you felt the soak. It then came with a peel as the fabric was shimmied down your hips until it felt near impossible for whatever was between your legs to come free.

It did because nothing was holding it, but the sop traveled down and you watched with huge eyes as you saw the sticky mess revealed there. It clung in stringy puddles to your underwear and beyond where it had leaked out to your jeans. An odd sort of laugh rattled in your open mouth and Donnie took great care in making sure that spill on the clothes did not touch you as it traveled down your legs.

Your thighs bumped one another and that soak still found a way to dirty you.

You could feel it already leaking onto the bed.

A hand crept over your stomach to examine, but Donnie’s voice stopped your momentum.

“I must taste!” He growled out before clenched teeth kept him at bay.

“That… good…?” You asked, breathless from the revelation that you had gotten this wet without a single specific horny thought.

“Ambrosia.” Donnie basically demanded it of you.

You felt your body tilt into your smile. “That would defeat the purpose I’m told.” 

“True…” Donnie sneered before his attention shifted. 

You knew exactly what he was going to do because it was already in his hands. He cradled the set of your bottoms and was meticulous in extracting your underwear from your pants. They hung heavy in the gusset with slick and he had all the pupil expanding pretense of a pubescent teen as he brought the cotton up to his beak. He first inhaled with eye rolling euphoria as he soaked in the scent. He licked his lips next before he delicately rearranged his grip. Your honey shined from where it was presented in a strip across his fingers and he was discordantly ferocious to his preparatory care as he moved to devour the sap. It was messy slurps that had your cunt clenching in lonely pulses since that tongue should have been in you. 

“Donnie…” 

“Not enough…” He graveled out with your underwear still clinging to his face. 

“Gone already…?” You squirmed in a show that you had the pot that had once filled his bowl. 

“If I can’t taste more in the usual sense then I have to partake in another way…”

You hiked your legs up so your heels caught the edge of the bed and you were spread wide to him. “I wonder how…?”

“Not like that.” He hissed even though he dove toward you and tossed the underwear aside like a lesser thing. 

The moment his body dropped close, you heard his cock slop out with a soaked sound.

He had no embarrassment and continued to move. He threaded his arms through the bend of your legs so your knees sat atop his forearms. He then dipped down to catch your ass and lift you straight into the air. It strung you up, spread open to him, and you felt the mess between your legs drip further from gravity.

“T-this position won’t-!” You cried out as he bounced your body to get you closer. “The gravity!”

You caught his neck and helped angle yourself the best you could.

He slammed your torso flat against his plastron and held you in a tight hug to free up one limb.

There he disappeared below you to wrangle his cock and set its boiling tip at your entrance. “Fuck the position.”

He adjusted your load again and this time you bounced on his glans.

“Fuck the pillow.”

You felt the flex of his fist as he fed his cock into you.

“Fuck the time table. For once. Just us. What we want.”

His hand disappeared to return you to your strung up position and he lowered you down his shaft at an achingly slow pace.

You felt your features open up to him and he chased this with a dark roving of his eye. You slid down until the pop of his spread expanded wide within you as a lock. He adjusted your being one final time before fucking you in his arms. You cried out at the fold and heat and how obscenely lewd each squelch sounded. It was ADR laid over a pathetic porno, but painfully real. It brought the boil from his cock to your cheeks and you felt yourself crying out in tandem for each drop of your body.

Only your pelvis seemed to dip as he had your legs and you struggled to find a grip. His neck and shoulders weren’t enough so you dug your nails into his upper plastron lip and that proved to be the best you could get. He thrust up, burying deep and felt dangerously close to springing out on each back swing. It was the soak that was negating his glans and you almost wished you could clamp down on him to keep him in place.

An impossibility as this was on his terms, you instead felt your head loll freely as you gave over to him. He churred like an off the hook dial tone and the sound became a point you locked on to. It surrounded you and caressed you. It reached inside as he had before except now he was excavating your cervix which had risen to peak position.

As Donnie said, this moment wasn’t about breeding and instead both of you. It was your connection and your time together. It was one you both manifested and you would come together because you wanted to and not for the beaten down end goal. You grew closer, tightening in spite of the incessant hose of your fluids. There was no catching him amongst the slip and from the angle you couldn’t properly seat the knot. Instead you bumped against it, barely squeezing it in between forceful strokes and Donnie only grunted as he came sharply.

You chased after him and together you felt the precarious wave of cumming during standing sex as it meant letting go would mean you were both going down.

Only sheer will kept you both upright and you felt the quake as Donnie lurched forward. You rose with your arm strength alone to kiss him and it gave him the boost necessary to hobble you both to bed. There you fell on your back and you were finally able to lock your legs possessively around him. He rocked against you, trying to alleviate the weight and chase a little more of your soaked sex. You felt a renewed build up, both from not having enough and the feeling of what was brought on by too much. Donnie churred out his question and you gave a mating call in response that you would be fucking directly into a second round without break.

-

“What does my period smell like…?” You murmured into Donnie’s plastron from where you were curled up on the couch and in a mental debate to make that trek to the bed.

“I akin it to the smell of sweat if blood were to have that property.”

“That’s… an interesting way to put it.” You pulled your legs a little tighter and imagined the scent there could be cut off.

“It’s the bacteria and dying cells.” Donnie continued on. “Sweat similarly doesn’t have an odor, but when it mixes with bacteria on skin, it picks one up.”

“Bacteria in my pussy…”

“There’s an entire biome.” Donnie offered.

You made a noise that said you understood.

He rubbed your lower back as he tried to help alleviate the faint cramps plaguing you.

The cycle had begun yet again.

He leaned against your head.

“It’s weird to think about…” You breathed deeply. “When I’m ovulating, you smell the fresh cells and it smells good, but then it sort of rots and slops off and gets bad and old and gross…”

“For bad I would substitute ‘unviable'. Old, in a way, but gross is debatable. It is a biological process; it knows no shame, only society has unnecessarily written one.”

“Don’t tell me you’d eat that too.”

Donnie’s silence spoke far too loudly.

You found his arm through the blanket to pinch him.

He nuzzled into your head. “I’d consume all of you if you’d let me.”

“Cannibal.”

“Carnivore.” He corrected.

“Omnivore!” You emphasized. “You’re human too!”

He trilled proud at your knowledge.

You tipped your head up to kiss him. He shared a lingering expression there that you took as supportive before he met you.

💜NEXT💜

My betas are always busy chugging with fixes @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

[vhagar-aemond]

Hi there 🙋🏻‍♀️! Just saw you're taking requests, so I thought I'd place one for Daemon x female reader where he comforts her as she suffers an illness/difficult (menstrual) period.

Really glad to see another writer join the HOTD gang, have a lovely day 💐

Thank you so much for the request! I’m excited to be a part of this writing community at last😊. I hope you like this! Warnings: not beta read, blood (period), fluff, slight nudity

Around noon, sudden nausea overcame you, and the familiar intense pain in your abdomen began. It felt like daggers trying to escape you from the inside, leaving you hunched over on your bed with each throbbing wave. You lie squirming in bed, weeping at the ache, unable to find words to call for anyone. Your thoughts remained on your lover, Daemon. He had initially made plans for you and him to go dragon-riding today and probably wondered why you hadn’t made the trip to the dragon pit by now. With all the throbbing in your head, you could hardly make out all the shouting in the halls until your bedroom door burst open. Daemon scanned the room until he saw your hunched form on the bed and the faint tint of red that now painted the bedsheets. His eyes widened in concern as he drew dark sister, looking around. “My love, what has happened here? Who has hurt you?” he asks cautiously. The pillow beneath you was the only thing keeping you steady as another wave of pain started. You had only whispered that you weren’t hurt until Daemon finally understood what was happening. He knew you had terrible moon cycles and would usually tend to your needs when he could. Seeing you struggling without the help of medicine brought the anger out of him. “Why hasn’t she been given a tonic for her pains? Where have you all been as she suffers!?” Daemon almost shouts. The servants bowed apologetically as they scurried about to comfort you. Daemon took his place beside you, rubbing soothing circles along your upper and lower back as he kissed your temple. “While you’re at it, draw her a hot bath,” he commands. The sudden smell of fresh food clouded your senses, making your mouth water, but the pain demanded you stay still. “My love, you must try to eat. It’ll make you feel better—look, it’s your favorite honey-coated chips,” he says, helping you sit up. He made a plate for you full of other favorites, then made you drink the fresh tonic afterward. Once the bath was ready, he excused the servants, helping you undress instead, then led you into the perfect hot water. Your pains slowly faded with each passing hour while he sat behind you, rubbing your back. His light kisses along your neck and shoulder made you hum in bliss as he held you in his arms for your pure comfort. “You’re too good to me,” you finally say. “I’m sorry we couldn’t go dragon-riding as you planned.” “Not to worry,” he chuckles. “Your painful blooming only means you’ll be ready and fertile next week. And you’ll be riding a dragon in thanks then.” You turn to face him with a slap against his naked chest while you both share a laugh. He continued caring for you for the next few days until you were anew—and kept his promise the following week.

[shadowsandlint]

Long as Amber of Ember Glows; or, the Prythian Prometheus

For Eris Week day 6: Retellings

706 words. Read on Ao3.

Long had the Fire belonged to the Fae.  It was power, and it was knowledge. It was sacred.  The humans did not possess it. They struggled along in darkness, only seeing the shadowed patterns the fire cast all around them, interpreting the motifs as truth. Never knowing the true meaning of light and warmth, those shadows were their only reality.  None treasured the Fire more than the High Lord of Autumn, and he kept its burning embers close to his greedy heart. From up on his dais – fire licking at his fingertips – he scoffed at the lower beings crawling along Earth’s crust, wrinkling his nose at their barbarism.  He urged his subjects to do the same.  Occasionally he shot his flames down onto the humans, letting them devour people and homes alike, laughing scornfully at his cruel jest. Treating their lives and deaths as mere entertainment for his depraved whims, the High Lord played with the humans as if their worth was null.  He urged his subjects to do the same.  The humans, eager to please their overlords, sacrificed their livestock in an attempt to halt the ravaging flames. The High Lord devoured their offerings, but when he again grew impatient and hungry, he burned the Earth anew. Remembering their last reprieve from the flames, the humans gave more of their precious sustenance to appease the Fae, hardly leaving any for themselves. Eternally gluttonous, the High Lord filled his belly with their immolated oxen, goats and sheep.  He urged his subjects to do the same.  But the High Lord’s eldest son, Eris, saw the treatment of the humans, and shame burned willfully in his chest from the strife. The next time his vicious father feasted on their hard earned provisions, he ate so much that he fell into a deep slumber. Eris crawled up the dais to the Autumn despot’s sleeping form and stole the fire from him, before starting his descent to the human lands.  When he reached the Earth, the cunning prince distributed the flame among the humans, enlightening them with knowledge, technology and civilization. As if rousing from a vivid dream, the humans saw the world as it was, and so shaped it in their own image. Pleased with their creative power, Eris returned to his father’s seat quietly, pretending never to have left at all.  But upon waking, the High Lord found that his flames had been taken from him, and he was furious. He turned to the humans and tried to seize his fire back, but it had been split into so many parts that he could never catch them all. Vowing to destroy them for their theft, the High Lord again directed his flames towards the Earth, but Eris – who by now loved the humans as his own kin – stopped his father by admitting his guilt.   Enraged by the treachery, the High Lord punished his son by chaining him to a rock upon the highest mountain in Prythian, where every day eagles would eat his immortal liver, and every night it grew back for another day of torment. It was a never ending cycle.  The pain of the tearing beaks became so unbearable that Eris pressed himself deeper and deeper into the rock until he became indistinguishable from it. Therefore, in the course of thousands of years, his deceit was forgotten – forgotten by the Fae; forgotten by the eagles; forgotten by himself.  Only the lowly humans remembered.  They commemorated Eris by creating an altar to him in the grove of their first academy, holding a festival in his honor where they lit a torch with the Fire he gifted them, then raced it along the streets of their newly built cities. Mirroring the chains in which Eris was trapped, they adorned themselves with wreaths made from the plants they cultivated, never forgetting his sacrifice.  And so, the fire gave life, and it took it away.  Generation upon generations of humans came and passed as the Fae sat sulking upon their thrones, never quite remembering where their unhappiness stemmed from.  But the glowing embers of one crucial sacrifice continued to warm the hearts and hearths of humans, the lone figure on the rock never more than a thought or prayer away. 

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@erisweekofficial @talibunny30 @jules-writes-stories @mistandmemories @c-starstuff-man0 @chunkypossum

[annoyed-galaxy]

If you know anyone with PMDD, please take care of them. Figure out when their period is and take care of them the week before.

I say this because the smallest of fucking things trigger me right now during my PMDD week. And it's bad. Going through a full spiral breakdown where the PMDD triggers every single emotion I have to the point I'm hurting myself. I'm yelling at myself, punching my head, digging into my skin with my nail, and punching walls. Emotions of rage, anger, sadness, depression, worthlessness, all of it. And the smallest of things set this shit off.

Thoughts of massive self-hate lead to self-punishment and even the darkest thoughts of suicide. Maybe I'm lucky to have been dealing with this shit for so long, I can identify when this is a PMDD week so I know the feelings will pass.

But in the moment? It's hard. Especially when there was a time I was medicated and didn't deal with this.

The levels of emotions are raised to unbelievable heights. After the breakdown, I feel so tired and it's hard to pick myself back up. And this just happens every month.

One week: I go through mental hell. Tiny things can trigger me and make me extremely pissed off and violent. Or make me break down and hate myself and violent against myself.

The next week: Period. Cramps and misery and bleeding and dealing with all those aches and pains.

The third week: Recovering from the precious two weeks of hell which take a lot of effort and energy causing me to be extremely tired and wore out.

Final week: Have started to finally enter the full recovery state. Only for everything to begin anew.

It's hell. It's tortuous.

The worst part is that this condition is rare. So not a lot of people have heard about it. It bums me out because I feel like I'm alone in this. And when someone says "yeah I know what you're going through" no, you don't. Unless you have PMDD which I have not met another person who does. It's fucking awful. My life is controlled by this disorder. A constant hellish fucking cycle.

So, again, if you DO know somebody who has PMDD, please check on them. Help them out. It makes everything worse having this shit. Feeling suicidal, depressed, anxious, angry, etc.

I feel so fucking alone during this time because I'm not myself. I can't control my emotions and turn out to be much more of an asshole to the people around me and they don't understand why.

So yeah.. Just keep an eye on us. It helps. To know we can make it through this awful rollercoaster that happens every fucking month.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unchained

for Angstpril, Day 5: (alt) Serious Injury

cw: torture, hand whump, general brutality, broken bones

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Two priests, each trained in truth and the magic of the mind, were but a few days' journey away, and Cerus remained as stubborn as ever.

The fallen king had been a prisoner for weeks now, denied all but that which kept him alive and under constant abuse at the hands of the guards. Beaten and tortured, then healed only to have the cycle start anew. And despite it all, he refused to yield even an inch.

Every time Nisha removed the bit, they were met with curses and threats and insults. It didn't matter if they were asking questions or offering sustenance. Cerus would not bow.

Though they knew the soon-to-arrive priests would take care of the kingdom's worries of blood magic, Nisha still felt as if they'd failed at their task. Granted, they knew it wasn't wholly their fault. Breaking a man took time, especially someone so steeped in pride and immorality as Cerus, but despite that, they wished they could've given the holy mages someone more…pliable to work with.

Perhaps they still could.

The Shadow King was lying on his back when Nisha entered the cell, chained limbs still spread wide to further restrict movement. His torso and thighs were littered with scourge marks from the previous night's session, half-healed by a mage to keep him from sinking too far into delirium. Weeks of meager food and near-immobilization had left his body visibly weakened, and one would be hard pressed to find even an inch of unbruised skin.

"Our time together is drawing to a close, you know," Nisha said, kneeling to remove the bit in Cerus's mouth. "In a matter of days, your fate will be decided. How does that make you feel?"

"I'll strike your men down the moment I step out of this cell. And I'll save you for last so you can watch them d—nghhh!"

Nisha dug a finger into one of the gashes over his ribcage, turning his threat into a strangled scream.

"And why haven't you struck down any of my men yet, hm? Biding your time?"

"If I weren't in chains you wouldn't dare be so bold," Cerus snapped.

Suddenly, Nisha had an idea. "Then perhaps I'll remove them and prove you wrong," they said.

"You are a fool."

"Perhaps." They stood, moving to the gauntlets that rendered Cerus's hands immobile, and began to unlatch them. The Shadow King flexed weak fingers as Nisha removed each metal glove, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You're mad," he said at last. "What are you hoping to achieve?"

"I only wish to see if you're capable of following through with your promises."

"Unchain me and see."

"Not yet."

Nisha made a point to take off the blindfold before moving to the wall of implements and selecting a heavy cudgel. They decided to leave the bit out. They wanted to see if Cerus was capable of begging after all.

The fallen king's face went ashen when he saw the weapon in Nisha's hands, and they relished the barely-concealed fear in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Cerus said. It sounded more like a threat than a question, but Nisha didn't care, encroaching slowly, silently on their target.

"What are you doing?" Cerus demanded again, louder, more desperate.

"If I'm going to remove your chains, I need to ensure you can't run away," Nisha said plainly, stopping at Cerus's feet, raising the cudgel over a pale, bruised shin, and bringing it down just above the ankle.

The crunch wasn't unlike a sound they'd heard in battle, the scream that followed much the same. The only difference was how both sounds cut through the quiet in the cell, undiluted.

Once Cerus's screams died out, Nisha moved to the other leg, waiting for the look of horror to cross the chained man's face, the realization that it was going to happen again, before bringing the cudgel down a second time.

The resulting scream was just as rewarding as the first had been, something gutteral, animalistic. More than Nisha had been able to drag out of him so far. As before, they waited for the screams to soften before moving on. This time, to Cerus's exposed right hand.

Enclosed as his hands had been, they were unmarred, looking out of place compared to the rest of his body. Nisha would remedy that.

Cerus's eyes were wild with pain and fear, body shaking and straining against the chains, as if he were capable of doing anything to save himself. Nisha tapped the hand gently, as if marking their target, then raised the cudgel high in the air—

"D-don't— stop, stop, or you'll regret this night—" Cerus gasped out. Still making threats. What a pity.

Nisha brought their weapon crashing down onto the hand, and then, when the first strike didn't quite satisfy, hit it again, drawing another inhuman shriek from Cerus. And as Nisha moved to stand next to their final target—

"No, please, please stop, please!" The words came out as sobs, barely intelligible, but they left Nisha grinning broadly. A victory at last.

They raised the cudgel—

"Please! Please!"

—and brought it down, twice in quick succession. 

They drank in Cerus's ragged whimpers as they hung the cudgel back in its place, then moved to unlock the manacles that bound him.

His chest heaved as they moved from shackle to shackle, unclasping each in turn.

"What— why?" He barely got the words out.

"You're unchained," Nisha said. "Strike me down."

Cerus didn't respond, shaking arms folding in to cradle shattered hands to his chest, legs curling as he rolled onto his side with a great effort, eyes glazed over with pain.

"Strike me down," Nisha repeated, not taking his silence as an answer. They delivered a hard kick to Cerus's torso, then another. A scream tore itself from the man's throat as their foot connected with his wrist.

"Will you?" They continued their assault, heedless of Cerus's choked cries. "Will you?"

When at last they stopped, they were panting heavily, sweat trickling down the back of their neck. Nisha swallowed.

"I thought not." They ran a hand through their hair, tucking wayward strands back. "Count yourself lucky that the priests are expecting answers, or I would've cut out your tongue too."

They left without reattaching his chains; a small mercy. 

He'd be back in them soon enough.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

[fordarkisthesuede]

Batman the TellTale Series: Fangs of Ouroboros - Prologue

Over the years, Bruce has found that his life as Batman had a particular cycle. Like the ouroboros, his fight against crime would come to a head with a large, almost overwhelming and violent case before tapering out and starting anew. Batman, and his mission, would seemingly continue on ad infinitum. He’s at that point of the cycle again. He knows seemingly nothing will rest until a whole new row in each city cemetery is filled. Only this time, with his upcoming nuptials a mess, one too many foes roaming the streets, and his alter-ego being framed for murder by a ghost, he can feel it… The snake’s fangs are digging in, grating against the scales, threatening to cut off the tail for good.

[Read on Ao3] | <next>

Blood stains streaked over the walls and floor. Half the furniture sat toppled, scattering the remains of a small apartment. Two corpses could be seen; one by the dilapidated sofa and the other by the broken dining set.

Just another night in Gotham. Another crime scene for Batman to investigate. Another murder to solve.

Or it would have been, if the corpses weren’t so obviously mannequins.

Bruce heard broken glass crunch softly under his boot as he made his way towards the table. A rat scurried away, leaving crumbs behind on the wooden cutting board. The smell of roquefort cheese and stone-ground mustard was notable, even though the local rodents had clearly eaten what looked like ninety-percent of the charcuterie board.

The blood was fake, just a shade or two too red now that he looked closer under the dim lamp light. The face of the ‘corpse’ had a silly frown drawn on it, along with ‘x’s over the eyes. What looked like a heart monitor tag peeked out from the opening in the blouse. The sort they used on crash-test dummies.

There came a tiny fwhum like when an old television set turned on, and Bruce turned to look at the messy makeshift living room.

The dim black screen flickered to a face he knew all too well.

“Wellity-wellity-well - look at what the bat dragged in!” Joker grinned from the dark. “Hiya, sweetums! You’re a little later than I thought. Don’t tell me:  I already know, courtesy of our dear, omniscient Oracle. So many crimes, so little time! Well, don’t worry,” he leaned back in his chair, the painted scales on his green vest gleaming in the shift of light. “You have pleeenty of time to investigate my little murder scene. I did make it for you, after all.”

Bruce shot a look at the glass he’d stepped on. He switched his cowl’s vision mode - sure enough, a thin red beam of light shot across the floor at too high a height for a rat to scurry over. 

An infrared trip wire. Common security tactic. He should have thought to look first.

“Neat, right? I’m thinking about putting one around my little closet. Tiff’ almost opened it when we were hanging out the other day. And I reeeally don’t want to scar her for life. Ha, well, you know - again.”

Bruce stared at the fake scene in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he should really ask the gently-nagging question at the back of his head, but it came out anyway: “Why are you doing this?”

Joker’s grin faltered and shrunk into a disappointed pout. “Oh, Batsy - I know you read my card. It’s why you’re even here!” He flourished with a gesture at where Bruce was standing before the camera. “You know, we really don’t spend enough time together like this,” he added, leaning his cheek into his hand with a flirty little smile, “all…mano e mano. But don’t wait around on my account - I’m sure something else in here caught your undivided attention.”

Bruce took the hint and turned away from the television to look at the table. With Joker unable to see him, he took the opportunity to look at the picture he’d snapped of the card he’d received in the office mail, now displayed on his gauntlet.

It was one of the sample invitations the latest wedding planner had shown Bruce a little over a week ago, but with the lavender envelope unceremoniously stuffed with heart-shaped confetti and the location in the invite written as coordinates. Underneath the embossed cursive of ‘Join us for a very special day…’, scrawled in John’s unmistakable handwriting, was “Life’s a game, so let’s play! ♡ Love, Your Joker”. 

He glanced at the ‘body’ slumped at the table. The joke was not lost on him.

He didn’t entirely understand why John was doing this, but the phrase mano e mano felt appropriate. He’d clearly have to play this one-versus-one game with Joker to get an answer.

The faux-bodies weren’t dressed in anything familiar. Just two very old and tired suits. Bruce had a nagging suspicion Joker had fished them out of the garbage. Probably along with the mannequins.

The nearest sat at the table, with chipped painted eyelashes and lipstick, sporting red paint dripping down from the neck into a once white collar and a fork stuck in one polished hand. Closer inspection showed many little dents and spots of red, like someone had stabbed it six times. Bruce set the miniature drone from his belt to scan the whole room for reference.

The other hand was tied tightly to the chair with a zip-tie, a gold line painted on the ring finger. A glance at the feet (only one of which wore a red stiletto heel) showed both tied in the same manner.

“Don’t keep your thoughts to yourself, detective,” Joker told him, “Go ahead, walk me through what you’re deducing.”

Impatient as always, Bruce thought to himself. “Clearly, this would-be-victim was tortured for information before they were ultimately killed,” Bruce answered. Bruce used the BatComputer connection on his gauntlet to scan the heart-monitor tag. “The ‘heart’ stopped at 12:15AM two days ago.”

“Ooh, very good, Batsy,” John said with a little round of applause. “Now you know what I was doing when I slipped away on patrol the other night, ha ha ha!”

For a moment, Bruce thought about asking just how he set the whole thing up. But the question died on his tongue before he had the chance to ask; the truth was that he didn’t really want to know. And he doubted John – Joker persona or no – would actually tell him. That was part of the game.

Bruce took one last look at the table setting. Both dinner knives were missing, as well as the other fork. The napkin by the empty seat was proper linen, still folded to show off an “S” embroidered in the corner. The wine glass was half-filled with white wine, which had a sweeter bouquet reminiscent of Moscato.

He cast his attention to the living room area, catching Joker’s eye on the television set. That red grin of his widened a bit more, too-green eyes lit up in the way they often did when Batman had one of his more violent cases. Or when he opposed him on the gym mat, ready to dodge and lunge and mirror his moves like they were dancing instead of practicing fighting.

Bruce tore his gaze away from him, heart thumping and trying not to think about the last time he’d pinned John to the vinyl, where sweat and primal urges had overtaken their senses.

He honed in on the second ‘body’, lying on the couch with a dinner knife stuck in the torso, where it would’ve gouged the lung but missed the heart outright. A matching line of gold was painted on the left hand, just like on the other ‘victim’. Purple and blue spots were painted on the face to show bruising; Bruce lifted the dress shirt to see more on the torso, indicating a fight had taken place.

The wine bottle was broken on the floor further away, a sticky stain gleaming on the carpet. The other utensils littered the floor, all likely thrown by the married partner at the table in an attempt to hit the ‘killer’.

The use of the dinner knife in place of a gunshot or one of Joker’s other knives indicated that the would-be-killer didn’t come there to kill him…

“Bat in your belfry?” Joker asked from the television.

“The stabbed victim must have known the killer,” he answered, “His place at the table was undisturbed, meaning he got up to answer the door; a fight broke out. The partner tried to save the victim by hurling the dinnerware and the wine – the victim was stabbed with the dinner knife, and bled out on the couch while the killer turned towards the partner and proceeded to try and torture the information out of them.”

“Bra-vo!” Joker clapped earnestly. “I didn’t make it too easy, did I? Hah, of course not – you don’t know the why yet.”

Bruce shifted through the dummy’s pockets. No wallet (of course), but there was a key hidden in his ticket pocket. The key to his heart, Bruce surmised, seeing the Joker-esque pun in the placement. Having learned to pick locks at the age of twelve, he knew the shape and size of the key indicated a simple locker. Like that of a gym or an indoor pool. Some place John would be able to walk into without a care…if he didn’t get someone else to do it for him, anyway.

So the makeshift crime was hiding something in a public locker, the location of which was kept secret from the partner tied to the table, or else the key would’ve been discovered. But they must have divulged something, or else there would be more wounds on the ‘body’ at the table…

The floor rocked underneath Bruce’s boots with the familiar crackling boom of an explosion somewhere underneath.

“Okay, before you ask, that wasn’t me,” Joker said in mock-defensiveness.

Bruce glimpsed the plume of smoke rising outside the window. Judging by the height of the smoke and the sound earlier, it was likely two floors underneath him. Something powerful enough to rattle the floor but not enough to break through more than one floor. He slid the pane open and leaned out - exactly as he thought. “I have -”

“- to go!” Joker quickly finished for him, “Yeah, obviously! Just fill me in later!”

Bruce grabbed his smoke-filtering mask from the back of his belt, clicked it into place with the rest of his helmet, and stuck the end of his grappling hook firmly to the window ledge before swinging himself out and down to the third floor.

The broken window led into what was once a used office now set ablaze. Bruce could feel the searing heat hit his face as if he’d walked into an oven.

Scorch marks stemmed from what was left of the cheap metal filing cabinet in the corner with the remains of a homemade explosive in the very center. Several feet away lied a very real corpse amongst burnt scraps of paper, the charred remains of an old laptop, and a broken whiskey bottle.

The face was too burnt from the intense heat of the explosion to tell him much. Male Caucasian, mid-thirties maybe, if not a little younger if the build and clothes were anything to go by. The digital clock face of the bomb timer, now fairly melted, lay near his head.

The old sprinkler system kicked on just as Bruce bent over the body to pick out the wallet from the man’s back pocket. Droplets rolled down the clear plastic of the ID showing the once-bushy eyebrows of one Mr. Rocky Hopper . 

The door to the small office was still closed, the old letters someone had once painted on reading “Hartright Detective Agency”.

Bruce knew that name. Richard Hartright was once with the GCPD, going private about five years ago. And more importantly, up until her ‘disappearance’, he was one of Vicki Vale’s primary sources. 

Bruce stared at the smoking body on the floor. The easiest explanation was that someone wanted to destroy Detective Hartright and his files and just mis-wired the bomb.

But as he was so often reminded, things in Gotham were never easy. 

He re-enabled the earpiece in his cowl. “Oracle, I need information on Rocky Hopper.” 

“On it,” Iman’s voice crackled through the comm-link. Bruce cast a look down at the body. “And send a cadaver alert to Gordon.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Notes: We're here at last, my friends!!! SEASON FIIIIVVVEEEE!

It only took, like, two extra years to get here. But with a very good reason. Some of which I will divulge at a later, less spoilery date. But the short, short version is that a certain character I thought to include kept messing up everything so I couldn't write. So I pulled the lever, their chair dipped back, and they fell down a pit and died. It was for the best, really.

But that's okay. We're here to have fun. And boy oh boy, is it gonna be great! Hope you're looking forward to it!

Fun fact: By hilarious coincidence, one of the earliest detective novels, "The Woman in White" features a protagonist named Walter Hartright. Walter is credited as showing a lot of modern PI/detective techniques, despite not being a detective.

I have never read the story, much less hear of it until I decided to look up the surname while editing months ago just in case it linked to someone unsavory. (Season 4's title is unfortunately like that of a disgustingly racist film. At least now the phrase is linked to a gay murder mystery with two POC women in hero roles... But I didn't want to make the same mistake twice.) When I need to write a name, I either pick the first thing that pops in my head, or I put a place-marker like "XXX" and highlight it in red so I can't miss it during a reread. In this case, the name popped into my head - it sounds like a good detective name, right? I was delightfully weirded out that it worked so well.

[ourstoriedinsight]

Audio Drama Sunday IV

Alright! Back again! Skipped last week as I went on a binge of Non-fiction history podcasts as is my occasional habit. This week however I resumed my audio fiction engagements with a fervor.

Edge of my seat week to week listens wise this was another win for @innbetween where I have to be a bit sneaky about spoilers since most y'all won't have access yet. This one gave me some chills as Max's character brought to mind some bosses I worked for in the past whom I am glad I am not working for now. Whereas previous adventuring parties were faster to making solid friendships of fate and circumstance this bunch remains first and foremost co-worker relationships which has opened the door wonderfully to working with themes of different types of ableism. I come from a decently cut throat industry myself and that whole "What good are you if you can't..." is a huge thing we need to talk more about as a society. Having party members we feel a little more gray about is a neat shift of dynamic too which I wholeheartedly approve of which has left me hoping either the arc carries everyone to a better wiser place ... or delivers some much needed kicks to the gems for bad behavior by way of catharsis.

My binge listen continues to be Spirit Box Radio where I have hit season 3 at last! The Host/ Creator/ Voice Actor of the show seems to be going through a testosterone based transition which I got to admit I am enjoying vicariously more than I probably should. My circumstances have taken a T transition off the table for me personally so when I encounter someone going through one I get fairly excited myself noting the changes. How deep Sam's voice will be by the end of the series is like an added bit of delightful mystery. On it's more narrative based merits however Spirit Box Radio continues to delight. There's an evolving ruminative quality to the story with leaps and bounds of development just when the slow drip of progress in the mystery starts to stretch the tension to the breaking point. Big changes in the status quo that then must be weighed and understood and considered starting the cycle anew. Pacing wise it's the cautious and moderate person's approach to danger which feels fairly true to life. It's something that works best in podcast format which makes it feel more fresh than the more common arc of act/react. Things must be digested in their own time and lately particularly I have been finding that slower pace is a welcome change from instant gratification.

Editing log of the week is fairy empty as I have finished the second draft of the season Finale and am taking a breather before doing the finalizing process. After this I get a nice two month vacay from all things audio to sharpen up my resolve for the next season and start making our backlog for the airing of season 2. I'm so close to relaxing I can feel it!

[chanoyu-to-wa]

An Update (4/7).

Dear Followers and Readers,

And so the first ever complete translation and commentary on the Nampō Roku has come to its end. There still remain the two books of secret teachings that were compiled by the Enkaku-ji scholars to translate, but the relevant portions of those collections have already been discussed in the footnotes, or included as appendices, during the translation of the Nampō Roku itself. As a result, I feel a little justified in taking a break from this work...in the interests of publishing a revised version of a text that I wrote in 2010, looking at the verses known as the Hundred Poems -- because I feel that it would be good to make this information available to the readers of this Blog (which goes far beyond the skeletal versions of the poems that were published as the first topic of this Blog, back in 2012).

I finished the indices that were published just before this update on Saturday morning, and immediately started work on creating the array of drafts for the next series of posts, which will be a comparative study of the different extant collections of the poems that are popularly (but inaccurately) known as the Rikyū hyaku-shu [利休百首]. A number of these have been commercially published -- though several are still circulating privately (as handwritten compendiums) -- with the result that, while Jōō's original collection consisted of 88 poems (Jōō's original manuscript survived, at least into the early 20th century, in the archives of the Matsuya family; and this version of the Hundred Poems was reviewed and preserved by Suzuki Keiichi in his Sen no Rikyū zen-shū [千利休全集]), an analysis of the current versions yields a total of 121 distinct verses (many of the additional verses seem to have been created by Rikyū, mostly by changing the wording of Jōō's originals; Rikyū was also the principal disseminator of the poems, since he seems to have produced copies, from memory, for many of his disciples, and this is why his name is associated with them today). Two of the blank drafts were published erroneously (and deleted immediately), for which I want to apologize in case they showed up in the RSS feed for this blog.

The next series will consist of a total of 123 posts, with one post dedicated to each poem (plus an index and conclusion). I am not able to confirm the number of posts per week until I actually begin work, but am hoping to make at least three posts every week (I am thinking of publishing each installment as it is finished, rather than adhering to a fixed publishing schedule as heretofore). It will probably take me a week or so to figure out how best to format these posts (because the original word processor files on which the work was created are on the "MyBook" hard drive that I have not yet been able to access, I will have to work from the set of .jpg scans that I made from a printed version of the document: perhaps I can crop some of the charts from these files, but the text and formatting of the posts will have to be created anew), so I ask for your patience.

Since I will be revising the contents of this series in light of the whole collection of translations that have been published in this blog, it will not be a simple case of typing practice, so, again, I hope I will be able to rely on your patience if the posts come at irregular intervals, especially at first. At the same time, I am also intending to read through all of those earlier translations -- the Three Hundred Lines (Chanoyu san-byak'ka jō [茶湯三百箇條]), Rikyū densho [利休傳書], etc. -- and make whatever changes seem appropriate to bring the translations in line with the thrust of this cycle of teachings. As will always be the case with every individual who attempts to produce a translation of works such as these, I have had to approach each translation armed only with the information available to me, primarily based on my own past experiences (since most of these documents have come into my hands either with little or no commentary -- and what there is has usually been manipulated by one of the modern schools in order to align the classical document with their preferred interpretation). As my body of experience has continued to evolve, as a direct result of delving deeply into the language of the different collections of teachings, I have come to feel that it is more and more important -- indeed, necessary, in the interests of accuracy -- that I go back and fine-tune the earlier translations in light of the rest. When I find that changes or edits are necessary (most importantly, in the Nambō-ate no densho [南坊宛の傳書], where I will have to ignore Suzuki's format and divide the document into the three separate densho from which it was made, and the Sōga-ate no roji-hairi no densho [宗瓦宗露地入りの傳書], where the drawings will all have to be redone in light of later evidence that the "inner roji" was a small, fully enclosed space that lead into the chaseki through a pair of shōji via a small veranda-bench of some sort), I will mention these things in future updates (along with the URLs of the modified posts).

Once these things are done, I will return to the books of secret teachings, and other supporting documents, that were created by the Enkaku-ji scholars in the decades after Tachibana Jitsuzan's death -- and which generally reflect contemporaneous (mid-to-late Edo period) developments in the interpretation of the Nampō Roku (mostly according to the perspective of the Sen family; these modified interpretations are what eventually precipitated the publication of Tanaka's genpon [原本] edition, which frequently deviates significantly from Jitsuzan's original, almost always in the direction that the Sen family schools were taking at that time). This is another reason why I felt it might be better to temporally separate the translation of the secret books from the Nampō Roku itself, since the deviation is in line with what we saw in the last entries in Book Seven -- meaning that many of the arguments and lines of speculation diverge farther and farther from Rikyū and his chanoyu. As I said, most of the sections that are supportive or interpretative (in a useful way) of entries in the Nampō Roku have already been translated in, or incorporated into my commentary on, the Nampō Roku itself.

As I prepared the just-published indices, it was necessary for me to scroll through the entire translation of the Nampō Roku, and I was surprised and (frankly) amazed at the amount of information contained therein. I hope you will all treasure it. But as for myself, my surprise was probably occasioned by the fact that, having protected and preserved these teachings in my heart for so many decades, now that they have been written down, I find that I am rapidly forgetting; that i am coming to realize the meaning behind Lord Kujō's poem (and the interpretation of what it means given in entry 82 of Book Seven of the Nampō Roku) --

omowaji to omou mo mono wo omou nari, omowaji to da ni omowaji ya kimi [思わじと思ふも物を思ふなり、 思わじとだに思わじや君].

There is much work that yet needs to be done. If you find this helpful and important, please consider contributing to the financial support of this Blog. Because it is only with your support that I will be able to continue.

Thank you all for your time, and for your interest in this Blog. Please have a good week....

Sincerely yours,

Daniel M. Burkus daniel_burkus@yahoo.com

Donations: https://paypal.me/chanoyutowa

[astragreenwoode]

The Spitfire Curse - Chapter One

Next: Chapter Two • Masterlist • AO3 Version

Rating: Explicit(18+ ONLY)

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem!OC(Endgame), Billy Hargrove x Fem!OC, Steve Harrington x Fem!OC, Robin Buckley x Fem!OC, Chrissy Cunningham x Fem!OC,

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Non-specified Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Drug Use, Hypersexuality, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Genre: Adventure, Thriller, Horror, Slow-Burn Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. Smut, Fluff, Slight Canon-Divergence, Fix-it fic

And a special thanks to my beta-reader @take-everything-you-can! Thank you so much for all your feedback and ideas, love!

Chapter One: Someone Who Loves You Wouldn't Do This.

Word Count: 7681

Chapter Warnings: Recreational Drug Use, Divorce, Implied Trauma, Language, Slight Smut, Domestic Arguments, Implied Mental Illness(not specified what kind)

Chapter Summary: Maeven looks back on the day her life took a turn, leading to her and her family down a painful path, and her life being relocated to the middle of nowhere, Indiana.

I used to make a joke that I was cursed. I was blissfully unaware as the clock stroke midnight and I welcomed 1983 with my friends and family the hard turn things would take. My life would go through a painful metamorphosis that wouldn’t stop for a while. Eventually, I learned that life was chaos and the best way to cope with existing was to be the calming breeze in the middle of the storm. Unfortunately, the best lessons are taught the hard way; through pain and suffering. It took becoming too acquainted with facing death and pushing through a secret dimension that is the closest thing to hell ever seen by human eyes.

For the longest time, it seemed that my life went in a loop. Too often, my livelihood would be torn apart, leaving me to struggle as I licked my wounds and tried to move on. And just when it seemed safe enough to get comfortable and happy, another knot in the chain of rot, ruin, and pain would be added. The cycle would start anew, leaving me to spiral down like blood in water circling the drain of the shower.

But despite all the bullshit I was put through, I wouldn’t trade my life in Hawkins, Indiana for the world.

. . .

February 1983

The year started off like any other. We spent those first few months in quiet anticipation of the new goals we had set for ourselves. My Dad made a vow to not work overtime at the University of San Diego as much so he could be home for dinner and kiss us goodnight. My Mom made a vow to work hard and earn a promotion in her job at the bank. Max made a vow to compete in a local skate contest and wanted me to join her. I made a vow with my friends that we’d collaborate for the Newport High Arts Festival.

None of those resolutions ended up being met. Max and I were too occupied by whatever pulled our parents apart to accomplish them.

That February, a week after I won a prize in the science fair and two weeks after Max’s twelfth birthday, we left the house for school with a deafening silence between us. My little sister and I fast walked toward the bus stop gripping each other’s sweaty hands like a vice. I clenched my knuckles tightly around the shoelaces of my skates slung over my shoulder as Max nervously tapped her nails on her skateboard clutched in her other hand. Normally, we’d have skate-offs to see who could reach the bus stop first. It wasn’t one of those days; Max needed her sister, and I needed mine.

Dad was supposed to drive us that morning. He even promised he’d get up early so he could make breakfast and watch the morning news with us and Mom. These things used to make up our regular morning routine, but Dad hadn’t been able to join us and be present the way he did before for at least the past six months. I couldn’t tell anymore, and I couldn’t remember exactly the last time I saw him awake before school. He would either be too tired after getting home from work or passed out from drinking too much. 

I was looking forward to it so much that the excitement caused me to wake up before my alarm clock went off. But when Max and I came downstairs all packed for school and eager for breakfast, we found him passed out on the couch with the T.V. still on and a cluster of beer bottles on the table.

That morning, our Mom and Dad had their earliest and most intense argument that we’d yet seen. The last thing we heard as I pulled Max along with me out the door was my mother yelling “Sometimes, I wonder if you even care about us at all!”

Up until now, they had usually been in the next room or so over trying to muffle their yelling between the walls. This was the first time they knowingly fought in front of us. I was in such a hurry to get us out of there that I didn’t turn the doorknob three times before locking it like I always do.

We started walking slower as soon as we couldn’t hear the screams anymore and loosened our grip on our things and each other.

“Sooooo. . .what classes do you have today?”

I laughed at her timing and felt relief at the break in the tension that hung heavy in the air like a storm cloud. But as soon as I noticed Max’s lack of sarcasm in her tone and that she wasn’t laughing with me, the weight on my shoulders returned.

I didn't blame her for not wanting to talk about it. But we had to do it eventually. The elephant in the room was growing unruly and anxious. It threatened to tear the house apart.

“Are we seriously not gonna talk about what just happened?”

“You tell me," Max grumbled, staring at the ground as we continued walking. "You haven’t said shit this last month or so.”

I wasn't blameless in ignoring the situation. But up until this morning, I didn't think the tension between our parents would lead to this.

“It’s not like I don’t want to, Max. I’m still trying to process what Mom yelled back there.”

“Yeah. . ." she scoffed. "She’s sure one to talk, huh? It’s not like she’s never been passed out drunk on the couch instead of paying attention to her family, right?”

“You’re not wrong," I wheezed out at her.

Before getting her job as a bank teller, Mom had been working as a nurse at the busiest hospital in San Diego since before she married my Dad and had me. But the E.R. got busier and busier. The HIV crisis turned it grim. Mom and Dad ended up losing a few of their close friends from back in the 60s. It hit both of them hard, but Mom was the one who had to witness the disease rotting people from the inside out first-hand.

At first, her drinking wasn't anything serious; just one bottle every night at dinner to help take the edge off. But then, my uncle tested positive, and it was all suddenly so personal. He went so quickly before we even really got a grasp that it was happening. It tore Mom apart, losing her baby brother so brutally.

“Dad was there for her through her crap. Why can’t she do the same?” Max let go of my hand and wiped the sweat off her palms before gripping her skateboard in her arms. I wiped my palm, too.

“Hey. Be nice. She’s trying. It definitely wasn’t always easy for Dad to keep his shit together for her," I pointed out, lifting her chin gently to meet her ocean-blue eyes, a shade or two lighter than my own.

Mom was able to get sober with our and Dad's help, but she couldn't be a nurse anymore. The whole situation made the mention of the word "hospital" leave her sick with melancholy.

“Okay, fine. I guess you’re right. But it’s not just her, y’know? Ever since Dad came back, he’s been. . .different.”

As things were just getting back to normal, Dad was called back by the Army to help fight in the cold war. He was an engineer who helped fight in the Vietnam War and was absent for the first year and a half of Max’s life. After he played his part and came back home, he was different in the best way. Throughout our childhoods, he no longer took like for granted and spent his days making up for the time he wasn’t here with us.

 He didn’t go back to fight in the Cold War for too long, but that short time made a big difference in his personality. I didn't know much about what happened to him during his time fighting overseas. All I knew was that he was awarded a lot of medals for his service. Too often, Max and I would look at them and ask him what they were for. Max didn’t understand what all of them exactly meant, which Dad was grateful for. He wanted us to stay kids for as long as we could. But he couldn’t stop me from theorizing what orders he had to follow for him to earn those medals. My favorite was his Purple Heart.

He was even able to bring back his partner home to us; a retired military dog named Bullet. He got along nicely with Lucy, our other dog, and Nutmeg, our cat. They were immediately the best of friends. I could tell Bullet's presence kept Dad calmer.

“Yeah. He’s quieter," I said. But Max wasn't satisfied with me boiling it all down to that word.

“Quiet? Try distant," she snapped, the vibes in the February air turning sour. "I’m pretty sure he forgot it was my birthday this month."

My stomach sank. I remember when Mom was once too drunk to remember my birthday. It broke my heart. But Dad wasn't like that. He was different, right?

“He did not. He got your new board, didn’t he?”

“I heard them talking a week before my party. Mom had to remind him.”

If it was possible, my broken heart then shattered for my baby sister. I was angry. I couldn't believe Dad would get so bad that he forgot the day he had to coach my mom through childbirth in his parent's house. But that didn't necessarily change anything. He still kisses the picture of our family in his wallet three times a day for good luck. That had to count for something.

“You don’t believe it right?”

“Believe what?”

“What Mom said before we left the house," I reminded her. I was still trying to process the fact that those words came out of my Mother's mouth. They were laced with hatred, and I was angry at her for letting us leave the house knowing they echoed in our heads.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” As soon as Max's broken voice said that, my shattered heart burned up and the ashes blew in the wind.

“Hey. Don’t talk like that." I pulled her arm and stopped us a block before her bus stop. I crouched down slightly to be at her level, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Dad didn’t stop loving us, okay? And he never will.”

“You don’t know that.” Max started choking up a little, fighting to hold back the tears.

“Yes I do,” I told her, reaching my hand up to cup her cheek. But before our skin could touch, she smacked my hand away.

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending him, Max. I just think there's something else going on," I said, pulling her along to reach her block. I felt her pull me back before I had the chance to look both ways before crossing the street.

“What, Maevey? What else could possibly be going on that he’d rather drink than come home on time to eat dinner with us?”

“We didn’t see him for months before he came back to us. I don’t know exactly all that happened when he was overseas, but I can’t imagine all of it was pleasant for him."

I was starting to lose my patience as I debated picking her up before crossing the street. But her friends were gathered at the bus stop. They didn't need to hear this.

“How are we supposed to know what happened if he won’t talk about it?”

“There's probably a reason he isn’t talking about it, Max. I don't think who he was forced to kill and the brutal war crimes he may have witnessed are ideal conversation topics."

Her face went from mad to concerned, and I could breathe easier knowing she understood a little more than before.

". . .I didn't think about that."

"It's okay, Squirt. C'mere." I pulled Max into a hug. Her embrace squeezed my ribs, but I didn't care. I wasn't too tall, but I was tall enough that her head was tucked comfortably under my chin.

"If they get divorced, do you think they'll split us up, too?" She mumbled into my coat. My heart was now completely gone from my chest. I looked both ways before eagerly pulling her along to cross the street and turned to face her again as soon as we were safe on the other side. She pulled me to the side behind the bushes, so the other kids at the bus stop couldn’t see or interrupt our conversation.

"They're not gonna get divorced, Max. Okay? And they sure as hell aren’t splitting us up. They've gone through rough patches before. This one isn't any different from the last ones," I explained, reaching out to hug her again. She pushed back a little too aggressively, but I couldn't bring myself to care. She needed to feel her feelings and I didn’t blame her for not wanting to be touched.

"Don't do that! Don't act like you know everything's gonna be fine!” Max yelled. “You don't know that, Maevey! You can't know that!"

Her breathing started to quicken as she began to hyperventilate. Like I had done a thousand times before, I put my hand on her shoulder and coached her

"Hey, don't yell. Just calm down, Max. Look at me, okay? Breathe. In. Out. Thats it.” As soon as her breathing was stable again, she pulled me back into the hug she denied herself before.

She was right. I didn’t know what was gonna happen. I couldn’t tell the future. I may read tarot cards all the time, but it wasn’t an exact science. I couldn’t guarantee what would happen to Mom and Dad. But I could guarantee that no matter where this whole fiasco would go, I’d have her back; we’d have each other.

"Everything's gonna be fine, okay? We'll get through this. We always do,” I murmured into the top of her head as her bus came into view.

"Promise?"

"Promise,” I said, pressing one last kiss on her head. I momentarily locked our pinkies together like we had done a million times before. She pulled back as we heard the high-pitched sound of the bus hitting its brakes.

 “I'll see you this afternoon, okay? I have Farming Club today after classes,” I explained as I guided her toward the line of children. “. . .so I'll be home at 5 instead of 3. We'll do something fun after dinner."

I could tell she was still worked up over Mom and Dad and annoyed once again by my packed schedule. But she agreed anyway. She needed the distraction. We both did.

". . .okay."

I tussled her hair and gave her one last quick hug. "Alright, Squirt. Gotta go. Love you."

". . .I love you, too. . ."

As I moved on my way to where I usually catch my bus, I heard my sister call back to me one more time.

"And I'm not a squirt, Maevey!" I turned toward Max to see her head poking out of the school-bus window. I let out a laugh. Ever since she could talk, we’d hold our own little competitions to see who could have the last word. We had lost count by now, but we didn’t care about that anymore. We liked the rush in our blood we got from the heat of the race.

"Compared to me you are, Squirt!"

“You’re not even that tall!”

“Bye, Max!”

I wouldn’t know it until later in the day, but when I told my sister everything would be alright, that would be the very first time I ever lied to her.

. . .

Every time I left Farming Club, I left with a little more dirt under my nails and a few more animal scratches. I had many passions; from music to skating to books to art. But I knew I wanted to work with wildlife and the outdoors since I was five years old. That was the day I made friends with a gentle raccoon and brought it inside the house. I named him ‘Oscar,’ because he loved trash. Later that night, my Dad gifted me with a field journal and helped me make my first entry on raccoons.

Mom is the reason Max and I loved the beach so much. She was the reason we loved bright things like the sun and rainbows. I took on her love of arts and crafts. But neither Max nor I was as girly as she would’ve liked us to be. Dad passed his love of science and research onto me. Max adopted his love of comic books and handy skills. We both inherited his stubbornness and rebellious spirit.

But I never thought his rebellion from my Mom’s nagging would end up like this.

That afternoon, I tied my rainbow laces tightly on my light-teal skates on the bus taking me home from club. As the door opened, I held onto the handrails on the steps and jumped from the top step and outside the bus, sliding my hands down on the way to support my weight on my wheels. All the bus drivers I had nagged me to stop that lest I hurt myself. They all eventually gave up. When a Mayfield is determined, good luck trying to dissuade them.

Like I had done in my life routines a million times before, I skated down the road back home. I nailed turning on the hard curves of the neighborhood that Max and I had conquered growing up. Ever since I was little, I loved repeating myself. I thrived on routine and found comfort in everyday repetitions. It took me a while before I became comfortable with accepting changes big and small. I still counted in groups of two or three. The sequences brought me a sense of control and comfort.

No matter how far I had come in going with the flow and controlling only what I am able to, I never wanted my little sister sitting on the curb of our driveway to escape my parents’ screaming match to become a part of my routine. We had spent the last couple of nights eating dinner outside on the back porch, skating until the sun went down, and watching the sunset before the sky filled up with stars. This was the first time during our parents' fighting that I saw Max cry.

She was sitting on the curb next to our mailbox with her board in one hand and the other stroking the top of Lucy’s head as she lay down with her head in her lap. Bullet was standing guard with Nutmeg between his front legs, cleaning her face with her paws. As soon as our pets saw me, they perked up to welcome me back home.

“Hey, guys. Hey.” I gave them each a friendly pat on the head before I skidded my skates to a halt and stood on my toe stops before kneeling down to cup her face in my hands. Max didn’t even seem to notice for a moment until I wiped her tears off her cheek. Before I could say anything, she desperately wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my shoulder.

“Max, what’s going on? What’re you doing out here?”

“They’re fighting again.”

I could hear the muffled yelling coming from our childhood home. Whatever went down in there while I was at club, it wasn’t anything good.

Enough was enough. I wasn’t going to allow my sister or myself to be spectators in the middle of their shitstorm any longer. After I aggressively unlaced my skates and let my backpack carelessly drop on the lawn, I stood up.

“Stay here,” I told Max. Only Nutmeg followed after me. I marched toward the house with anger lit in my veins the same way gas would light when met with a match. The freshly watered grass soaked through my socks and chilled my feet. It helped me keep calm and grounded.

As I reached the front door, I focused my hearing on my parents’ conversation. Nutmeg rubbed on my legs and meowed at me to pick her up.

“You can’t keep doing this, Norman! You can’t keep making promises and breaking them when it’s convenient for you! You can’t keep fucking up and then come crawling back to me like that’s somehow going to fix everything! You need to do better! Be better! You need help!”

My breathing quickened and shallowed as I hugged Nutmeg closer to my chest. She nuzzled her face into my shoulder as she sensed my growing anxiety, but her actions did nothing to stop it from spreading in my lungs and head. I heard my Mom scream before; sometimes she would get frustrated parenting me and Max. But I’d never heard her like this before.

“Do you honestly think that's what I’m doing, Susan?! Do you think I’d rather drink until I black out instead of coming home to you and the girls?! I’m sorry that I’m hurting you, but I’m not going back! I’m not gonna be interrogated by a shrink just so they can punch my crazy card again and throw me in a padded cell!”

I knew very little about my Dad’s mental history. I figured it had something to do with what he saw during his time in the military.

“Maybe you should! Maybe you are crazy, Norm! I feel fucking crazy watching you rot for over a month! I’m not gonna watch you do this to yourself! I don’t deserve to see that, and neither do our girls!”

Maybe Mom was right. Maybe my Dad was crazy, but that didn’t mean it was okay to talk to him like his state of mind made him a bad person. I never saw either of them as bad people, but that was starting to change. Slowly, but surely, my sweaty palms wrapped around the doorknob and I turned it one, two, three times before I opened it.

“Do not bring them into this! Do you realize how hard it is keeping my shit together in front of them?! You should! You did the exact same thing to us! Don’t act like you haven’t! I am trying my best to be better for them! For both of them!”

“Well, your best isn’t enough, Norm!”

“STOP IT!”

They were so caught up in the heat of the moment that they didn’t even notice me open the door until my outburst. Nutmeg jumped out of my arms and pranced up the stairs. I had never seen either of my parents look so broken before, Not even after Mom lost her brother or when Dad had to bury his father. It was scary, to see this side of them.

“Mae-Mae. . .I. . .I didn’t know you were back, yet.”

Mom wiped the tears from her cheeks and stifled her breaking voice.

“Yeah, clearly,” I said, slamming the door and shaking the house around us. Somehow, it felt louder and more intense than when they were yelling.

Mom sat in the chair by the fireplace and turned away to pull herself together. Dad let out a heavy sigh, running his hands through his hair before adjusting his glasses.

“Maevey, I know how this looks. I know I haven’t been. . .present for a while-”

“Yeah, no shit, Dad! Neither of you have!”

“Excuse me?” Mom practically leaped from her chair. “I have been making you dinner, doing your laundry, and driving you to and from all your little clubs! You will not talk to me that way!”

Here we go again; right to the Martyr role.

“Yeah, but when was the last time you’ve actually been here, Mom? Huh? Do you even remember what clubs I’m in? Do you even remember what I won the science fair for last week?”

Both of their eyes widened like this was the first time they were hearing about this.

“Honey, you were in the science fair?”

“Seriously, guys?!”

They were there; both of them. But I was so caught up with everything else happening that night. I didn’t realize in the midst of everything that Dad was so antisocial that he just stayed on the sidelines and occasionally come to my booth. Mom only came up to my booth once, going around to congratulate the other kids on all of their hard work instead of my own. 

They both took off after I won the blue ribbon, leaving me with a hollow ‘good job, Maeven’ before going back to fighting in the school parking lot. Why couldn’t they put their fighting on hold? Just for one night? They were so preoccupied with their sudden hatred for each other that caring for Max and I had become a chore, rather than a necessity. My parents might’ve been there, but they weren’t there . They weren’t present.

Mom rubbed her hands together, fiddling with her jewelry as she looked for the right words.

“Mae-Mae, we-”

“Don’t you ‘Mae-Mae’ me, Mom!” I pleaded with her, looking up at the ceiling and wondering what it would feel like to spontaneously combust just to escape this conversation.

“Max and I have been putting up with your shit, both of yours, for all our lives! But, this? This takes the cake.”

“Maeven, I know it's been hard seeing us fight, but I promise you, we’re working through it, okay? You and Max don’t have anything to worry about.”

It always came back to this point. We had this conversation many times in the last few months. I was tired of going around in circles. I was tired of them acting like we didn’t need to know what was happening to their marriage. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and neither was Max.

Before I knew it, I combusted. The brutal words mixed with the finger-pointing and dramatic gestures came out without warning. I probably looked like I was having a classic teenage girl tantrum; I didn’t recognize myself. It was as if I was floating outside my body, no longer in control and puppeteered by the past month of built-up frustration.

“Oh, bullshit! This is not ‘working through it, guys! This is chaos! Now will you just fucking fix your marriage or get a divorce all ready so Max and I don’t have to suffer anymore?! Jesus H. Fucking Christ!”

By the time I was given control of myself again, it took me a moment to realize what happened. It was the first time I had blacked out, and it would be far from the last time. I didn’t remember going back outside to sit next to Max. It was a scary sensation, but my body, heart and mind were hyper-focused on other things.

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

At the sound of my sister's voice and the feeling of my hands absentmindedly running through Bullet’s fur, my thoughts suddenly weren’t so loud.

“You kinda spaced out there for a moment,” Max said, her hand joining mine to double Bullet’s reassuring pats. I wasn’t sure whether it was more soothing for us or for him.

“I’m fine,” I murmured, tilting my head back to look at the night sky and letting the soft breeze cool down my heated cheeks. I almost wished Dad would come out and sit with us to look at the stars as if it was just a normal night.

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.”

I mentally slapped myself. Earlier that day, we had preached to each other about how sickened we were to be in the middle of Mom and Dad’s fights. It felt so hypocritical of me; to blow up like that while knowing Max could most likely hear my yelling, too. Until I felt the sudden urge to start breathing again and sniff, I didn’t even feel like I was crying.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have exploded like that, God, . .I’m just like them. . .No, I’m worse.” My voice was broken up. I sounded so pathetic. Max scooched over and leaned her head on my shoulder. I moved my arm around her as she slipped hers along my hip.

“No, you’re not,” she said, still recovering from her own crying fit from before I came home. “They had it coming.”

I breathlessly let out a laugh as ‘Call Block Tango’ crawled its way into my head. Never before had I felt so relieved and yet so angry. It was as if I just finished a long hike in the mountains and finally let my shoulders rest and stretch without a backpack on. But as I packed up my camp the next morning, I was painfully reminded that I still had a long way to go.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that. I just. . .I didn’t know what else to do. . .”

“Do you really want them to get a divorce?”

At this point, I didn’t care what happened to them. I couldn’t picture what I wanted for us in the future. I just wanted all this bullshit to end.

“Yes? No? I don’t know, Max. I just. . .I just want the fighting to stop.”

“Yeah. . .me, too,” she sighed, letting her shoulders fall as she tilted her head up and her eyes met mine.

“Do you still believe her?” I asked.

“What?”

“Do you still believe Mom when she said Dad doesn’t love us?”

Max pondered for a moment, her eyes focusing on the way my evil-eye necklace sparkled in the sunset barely shining over the neighborhood. She had the same look in her eye she got when planning her next move in a family game of Monopoly.

“No. I don’t think I even did before.”

“Good. Mom still loves us, too. Y’know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. . .I mean, God knows she tells us all the damn time.”

As much of a hard-ass our Mom could be, a day never went by where she didn’t tell us how much she loved us. Dad made sure to remind us, too, but had fallen out of practice the more time he spent away from us. He didn’t see us enough to tell us.

“Why don’t they love each other anymore?”

I knew that wasn’t true to a degree. Mom and Dad were no longer fit to be partners, but that didn’t erase the life they built together. Max and I were living proof of that.

“I wish I knew, Squirt.”

People fell out of love all the time. It happened every day. It just wasn’t as preached as much as the ‘happily ever after’ narrative. The divorce rate was currently skyrocketing ever since ‘no-fault divorce’ was legalized in the mid-70s. Until then, domestic violence wasn’t considered a valid reason for divorce. It wasn’t a bad thing that it was finally able to those who really needed it and then some. I just never thought my family would need it, too.

“You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

“Whose fault is it, then?”

Max’s question wasn’t one that could be answered simply. She was just starting puberty, just starting to learn that the world wouldn’t be simple from here on out. People shouldn’t be so romanticized. People were. . .complicated, to say the least. I guess that was why I preferred to find comfort in the study of flora and fauna. Everything else in nature made sense but humans.

“No ones, Max. They didn’t want to hurt each other, it just. . .happened.”

I barely believed my own words. I knew their fighting had nothing to do with us. But I also knew how easy it was to feel like it was your fault when you were stuck in the middle of it all.

“They seem to want to hurt each other right now.”

“Because they’re scared. I don’t blame them. I’m scared, too.”

“Yeah. . .what’s gonna happen to us?”

I was so naive to think everything would always stay the same, to think that my family was untouchable to tragedy. The only thing I was certain of was that I wasn’t going to let the impending divorce break what my sister and I had with each other. All I could do was give her a hug and be as truthful with her as she could handle.

“I. . .I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I did.”

The divorce didn’t break us. Everything that followed afterward did.

. . .

19 Months Later

No matter how difficult it was hauling her entire life across the country, Maeven was probably the only one who saw the move to Indiana as a good thing. Of course, Susan and Neil were the ones who wanted it the most from the beginning. They had a chance to start a whole new life together, far away from the painful troubles and annoying inconveniences in California; far away from Norman Mayfield and the threat he posed to the newly blended family. Neil didn’t like the idea of being challenged that way. And he absolutely loathed the thought of his bride’s ex-husband still having a big influence on his new family

Susan wanted this for her daughters, too. The Mayfield sisters have always had trouble fitting in, of course. They both shared a tendency to not be properly labeled by others. Maeven had so many interests to keep up with, and Max practically danced on the spectrum of being a tomboy on one side and a ‘proper girl’ on the opposite. Susan hoped the move from the big city to small-town America would possibly. . .straighten them out, as she and Neil liked to put it. They all needed a fresh start. Maeven, especially.

The nineteen months that followed her parents’ divorce were a blur of unhealthy coping mechanisms, illegal activities, soul-crushing trauma, and a lot of therapy and pills. Her good clean reputation as an eccentric honors student had mutated into one carved with violence and pain. Repeating her Junior Year at Newport High after everyone witnessed her at her most vulnerable and angry felt like a death sentence. Maeven saw the move to Indiana as a clean slate, a blank canvas; a chance to find peace and start over where nobody had to know of her past sins.

Besides, she no longer felt like she belonged in California. There just wasn’t a place for her there, anymore. It was her home for such a long time, but it no longer felt that way. It now felt tainted and ruined, just like she had become. Maeven no longer felt like herself, and was convinced that she had to find herself again no matter where the road took her. All she knew was she wouldn’t find what she was looking for in California. Plus, the increase in population made her want to crawl into a hole like a wild animal and wait or all the chaos to die down.

Of course, Billy and Max objected to the move. Both of them had their own lives to live in California. It wasn’t fair to just uproot them without asking how they’d hypothetically feel first. It wasn’t fair to force them to uproot their lives so their parents could live a fantasy they never wanted a part in. The whole charade gave them another reason to hate each other; something they didn’t want but couldn’t help once Susan and Neil made up their minds. But Maeven? She had nothing that tied her there, apart from her friends, Dad, and pets; all the things Susan and Neil convinced her that she didn’t need in order to be happy.

The newly blended Hargrove/Mayfield family spent the second to last week of September moving east across eight states and directing a team of movers to move furniture and boxes into their new home. The house on Cherry Street was a few miles away from downtown Hawkins; a nice, upper-middle-class neighborhood tucked amidst the trees. Maeven was excited to explore the woods that lay across the street from them and discover the creatures who inhabited it.  She could already picture herself finding a particularly interesting tree, plant, or creature to fill her sketchbook with. The cicadas were still chirping, so they’d probably be the easiest to sketch. If she was quiet and lucky enough, maybe she’d cross paths with an owl or fox.

In between helping with moving boxes and furniture, Maeven and Max skated on their new driveway and around the neighborhood despite their mother’s protests. Billy dropped the sisters off closer to town in his Camaro after Neil practically forced him to. As they explored downtown Hawkins, they managed to find an arcade connected to a video rental place. Seriously. How bad could this place really be if it had an arcade?

Max spent the next two hours working her magic, adding her name to the top of the scoreboards on each game she had already beaten back in California. Maeven snuck around to the alley behind the building to smoke a couple of hits of a joint before going back inside to lose herself amongst the 8-bit shooting noises. She shoved her face with strawberry Fanta and cool-ranch Doritos, buzzed on sugar, carbs, and weed as she hyper-focused on topping the Galaga scoreboard with IRNMVN.

The first week exploring their new home felt like heaven to Maeven. It was really the first time she truly felt at peace in over a year. Despite the abrupt adjustment from city living to small-town America, and the strange vibe she felt from Hawkins, she found her new home comforting and charming.

The last nineteen months of Maeven’s life had been a hazy blur of school scandals, bullying drugs, fighting, and police mixed with pills, mental institutions, isolation, and trauma, just to name a few. It all blended together to make up a cocktail of ups and downs, misery and pleasure. She was once on the honor roll at Newport High School, well on her way to becoming the Valedictorian of her class. Now, Maeven would have to repeat her Junior Year at Hawkins High. Indiana was a chance for her to start over; a place where no one knew of her or her past sins.

She was tired in every sense of the word; physically, mentally, emotionally. All she really wanted was not to be the center of attention like she was before. Maeven just wanted to be normal for a while, even if she wasn’t. At the very least, she wanted to be as normal as she could be. All she had to do was follow a very specific set of rules; put in place to build herself back up.

(1). Don’t be a slut

(2). Act like the smart, athletic girl she was inside

(3). Be herself, but also blend into the crowd. Don’t stand out too much,

(4). Don’t be Weird.

(5). Don’t let them find out what happened to you in California.

The last rule was easier said than done. But Billy would help her just like he always did. He was always there for her.

Maeven and Billy knew each other long before their parents started dating each other. They were classmates since sixth grade but didn’t really talk to each other until High School when Maeven started going through her rebellious phase after her parents got divorced. After all the fighting and verbally humiliating the bullies and jocks, and the snarky attitude she had with both teachers and students during class, Maeven caught Billy’s attention.

He approached her at a party, one of the last weekend ones before the end of sophomore year. She was relaxed in a lounge chair by the pool, smoking a joint and staring up at the stars. Billy unintentionally startled her before asking if he could share with her. She accepted. In between passing the joint to each other, they talked about anything and everything they could until the cops came to shut the party down. They didn’t really have any other choice but to scatter off together.

Amidst all the panic, Maeven climbed inside Billy’s Camaro and they sped off together. They probably should’ve gone home, but somehow ended up going on a long drive to a point on the mountains that looked out over the vastness of San Diego. Although they never told each other, both of them secretly wished the night would never end. The longer they talked, the tighter the tension grew before it turned into a warm tenderness they found in each other’s bodies, hearts, and minds. Billy and Maeven stayed awake together until the sun started peaking over the horizon that early Sunday morning. He made sure to savor the moment, brushing the sweat and weed from her lips to taste her one more time before she walked into her friend’s house.

Up until that night, Maeven had never seen Billy as anything more than an asshole; he was a showoff and a bully, and proud of it, too. But he could also be charming and soft when he wanted to. And for some reason, he felt safe enough to be so around her. The fact that he complimented her sudden new ability to ‘kick ass and take no shit and look super hot at the same time.’ And apparently, her ass looked really good when she skated. Maeven thought she had all the jocks properly pegged, but she noticed how Billy’s baby blue eyes had a dark sadness behind them. He was carrying a pain in his heart and soul all too similar to the one she had just taken on; his parents were divorced, too. Although, the circumstances of his situation were much worse than hers.

His mother abandoned him when he was eleven, not able to deal with her husband’s abuse toward her anymore. Before his dad started raising his fist at her, Billy’s mother was a gorgeous, loving mother to her son. In some odd way, Maeven reminded him of her. Despite the freckles and the wild red hair, she was bright, warm, and full of unconditional love, according to his fond, yet fading memory of her. He ended up being a pleasant surprise.

Of course, Billy wasn’t someone Maeven would’ve normally hung out with. She felt like he got her. They felt like they got each other. He looked at her like she was the only other person in the world. She loved his sun-yellow mullet that reminded her of a lion’s mane and could rarely ever stop herself from weaving her fingers through it. He didn’t mind in the least. Billy didn’t care about Maeven’s quirks and fidgets or cringed at the gap between her teeth as he kissed her. He made her feel safe; a special feeling of safe that she hadn’t felt since her dad moved to San Fransisco.

The fact that he knew the exact right way to make her scream his name as he fucked her hard into the cushions didn’t hurt, either. He was fast and hard-edged like his Camaro; he meant business. Maeven was Billy’s dirty little secret, and he was hers. And they liked it to stay that way. But once they officially became family, things got a whole lot harder.

Max was suspicious from the start of how close they were. Billy didn’t seem like the kind of person Maeven would be friends with. He could be a dick, and she was definitely frightened of him and what he could do. She was already forced to witness him burning a dead cat and berating her on a daily basis, among other things. Maeven had yet to find out that he was the one who broke the arm of one of Max’s best friends in San Diego. Then again, Max wasn’t really certain she wanted her big sister to know. And despite everything, Billy was really growing on her. She liked the idea of having a big brother, even if it might take longer for him to properly fill the role and all it entailed.

Maeven took every precaution to make sure Max didn’t know about her relationship with Billy. Her little sister was already dealing with her life being uprooted and relocated away from everything she knew and loved. Finding out her big sister, her idol was fucking their new step-brother would be heartbreaking. She didn’t need more chaos in her life. Once Maeven found out last November the Neil dating her mom was indeed Neil Hargrove, she immediately broke things off with Billy. Obviously, they didn’t stay that way. And after what happened to her last New Year’s Eve, she needed him more than ever.

By the time the movers finished unpacking, the sun had set far west enough so that the sky was both warm and cool at the same time. As Maeven sat next to the woods across the house to smoke, the cicadas’ chirps rang throughout the late summer hair. Susan and Neil were fast asleep by now after an exhausting day of the finishing steps of their moving process. They were way too braindead to throw a tantrum over Maeven smoking to help with her anxiety and sleep disorders. She knew neither Billy nor Max would tattle on her. Neither of them cared. In fact, Maeven made sure to put her blunt out whenever her sister came within six feet of her. They wouldn’t narc on her for a drug ten times less harmless than what she used to use. 

Despite all the painful detoxing that she went through while in recovery, smoking pot had always remained Maeven’s best vice. The very act of it made her feel like she was drifting in a warm ocean, safely guarded by a pod of orcas and whale sharks. Weed was a hell of a lot better than snorting cocaine or popping pills like candy. How bad could it really be for her if it grew from the fucking ground? Besides, she knew better now than to even think about doing drugs that hardcore.

Before she left for Indiana, Maeven’s best friend and former dealer, Madison, gifted her an altoid tin filled with her legendary hand-rolled joints. They were famous around Newport High for how fat they were and how big of a buzz they gave the smoker. The matriarch of her family owned an off-the-grid farm in the heart of the Emerald Triangle. Norman Mayfield was a good friend of theirs and didn’t care if his daughter wanted to self-medicate at his house in California. After ashing her joint with the toe of her boot one, two, three times for good luck, Maeven went back inside. The voices finally managed to quiet down in her head enough for her to feel like she could get to sleep easily. Her stash wouldn’t last forever, though. Even if no one could replace Madison, she would have to investigate and find Hawkins’ resident dealer soon.

Maeven secretly envied everyone else in the house and their bodies' ability to rest without needing any extra help. She couldn’t remember the last time she slept without the assistance of 40mg of melatonin, some tea with honey, and a joint or two before bed. Thoughts of wanting nothing more than eternal sleep always lingered in her mind.

Her new room was barren of any personality save for the muted blueberry floral rug and her quilted bedspread with warm technicolored squares covering her full-sized bed. How soft the mattress was as she threw herself down face-first was all that Maeven had the energy for. She didn’t even bother trying to get under the covers properly. It was too warm that evening to curl up like that, but the breeze blowing softly through the open windows felt so nice on her bare skin.

Not feeling Nutmeg curl up on the bed by her feet or on her side was still strange. Maeven didn’t know if she’d ever get used to that, Nutmeg was with her Dad, along with Bullet and Lucy, back in San Francisco. Of course, Maeven and Max wanted to bring their beloved kitty with them when they moved. But Neil would never allow it. And after the incident with Billy setting fire to a dead cat’s corpse without hesitation, Max convinced her sister that she was safer in California. Maeven could understand the anxiety that moment must’ve given her, but Billy would never kill an animal in cold blood like that. Would he?

She didn’t even realize until the mattress dipped to her right and felt him curl his body to fill against hers that Billy managed to sneak in her room unnoticed. His sudden presence made Maeven flinch, but she melted back into his almost immediately as he ghosted his stubble-kissed lips against the nape of her neck to coax a giggle out of her.

“Hey, Dollface. . .” he whispered into her hair, sending a shiver down her back.

“Hey, yourself, Big Guy. . .” she mumbled, shifting in place to face him through her sleepy, probably bloodshot eyes. Billy pulled her tighter against him, gently gripping her knee to hook her leg around his hip.

“You feeling alright? Can smell the pot on you,” he asked, stroking Maeven’s bare thigh.

“I’m good, Billy, just needed to chill.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” he playfully accused, pressing his lips to hers as if to get a secondhand high off the taste of pot lingering on her mouth. Or maybe just because he trembled at the comforting taste of her body

“I thought you were sleeping. The house was so quiet,” she laughed, burying her hands in his golden-yellow locks. Billy’s hand traveled to her shoulders, tenderly kneading against the knots. Maeven let out a slight hiss.

“You’re so tense, Doll,” Billy whispered, nuzzling his face in the junction between her neck and shoulder, tickling her with his beard.

Maeven already knew where he was hoping this would lead. She knew him too long to not notice his telltale signs of arousal. She could already feel his erection growing as he rutted against the front of her underwear. He knew that smoking weed could make her libido rise quickly, always making sure to try and seize the open opportunity to relieve each others’ stress.

“Yeah, heavy lifting for a week will do that to you,” Maeven innocently answered, but Billy wasn’t one to easily pick up on hints.

“Think you can stay quiet for me, baby?” His hand on her thigh crept upward to squeeze one of her ass-cheeks

“Nuh-uh. Keep those hands to yourself. It’s too hot.”

“Mmm-hmm. . .and we can make things even hotter.”

As delicious as his offer was, she couldn’t. Maeven wanted nothing more than to lean into his sinful touches and let the overwhelming intrusive compulsions win. But she was tired. And even if an orgasm could help her with her insomnia, she had been doing so well compartmentalizing her dark thoughts and compulsions. 

“Sorry, Big Guy. I’m too tired. . .too sore.”

His hands stopped just above the waistband of Maeven’s sleep shorts before profoundly sighing. Billy was the one out of both of them who actually liked to give in to their impulses, but he always stopped when she wanted him to. 

Whenever Maeven blacked out, she had the tendency to obey every intrusive thought that poisoned her mind. She often entered a fight-or-flight state of mind, like a wild animal being hunted. In those moments, she wasn’t a person any longer. She was a monster; the one they always told her she was.

Billy sat up on Maeven’s bed and leaned over to the wooden side table, grabbing something she didn’t see him bring in before.

“Brought ya some water, thought you might be thirsty.”

He offered her now full water bottle that she didn’t even notice was missing from her room. Maeven sat up and took it, not realizing until just now how parched she was. She ended up drinking down half her bottle, just in case Cottonmouth got the better of her later in the night. Ever since she was hospitalized for dehydration, Maeven didn’t mess around when it came to water.

“Ever the gentleman,” she thanked him, closing her bottle before leaning over Billy to put it back on the table. She suddenly felt extraordinarily drowsy and dizzy, closing her eyes to escape it as she leaned on Billy’s torso for support.

“You sure you don’t need a massage, baby?” he asked, tenderly rubbing the small of her back.

She rolled her closed eyes at him, not wanting him to be right and also not fully trusting him to curb his lustful appetite. But Maeven would be able to sleep better without her body being so pent up.

“. . .okay, fine,” she murmured, rolling off of Billy and onto her stomach on the bed next to him so he could get better access to her back. Almost as soon as his hands started loosening the knots in her shoulders, Maeven moaned into her pillow as she felt her mind drifting away.

“That’s it, Dollface. Just let me take care of you,” were the last words she heard from Billy as his hands traveled down her body, sneaking their way across her hips.

When you look at someone you think the world of through rose-colored glasses, all the red flags are practically invisible. But Maeven wasn’t able to see them until it was almost too late for her.

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who showed love on the preview for this chapter! It's uplifting and refreshing knowing that people are actually interested in my work. Let me know what you think about the first chapter, what you like, and what you might wanna see.

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