#ditty crawling up his leg

[themcriddler]

This tracks actually. All the girlies (incl) with the fan messages on their eyelids while he tries to teach a subject only he is truly interested in. Everyone (including him) knows this is not his natural environment. Waiting to see if he does anything handsome (terrifying).

Concept: Crane wearing that outfit that Indiana Jones wears when he's teaching

[libidomechanica]

But we it

A tanka sequence

               1

Made shock sheets do forth. To that wild before? But we it! I’m not life’s flourse warlight’s poor Ambition We staid the proue; but shoe-stills.

               2

Flowery strippines wars, and in that’s port her shoulders apart of Albion fill lips to glooming. That sith ever kitched.

               3

Who such grace freshold haue to love, I nevery daily shows man, take a snaked in the mine. In vain devour desire!

               4

In the flittender althou, last. Who grace that nights, table has best truth, and byrds the soft anothere’s false flow thing staues of dust.

               5

And not in my ghostage that doth thy cherry, land me tore are made probably die. Pride. From temple whence is, voyd: and Left, and why song.

               6

And the should steals in a round may remost felt one dead hands unknow enlistle of so loue-ditties, star’s desolate. The cut bath.

               7

Bow diffic withdrawn flowers theory ocean gate awry? Hairs ne’er shall codest ancing three wrong towards are that holy fathe Heave?

               8

Eyes Emble folden degreen tella spread of louds follye in sith those lettering, a sea-fowl! Butter more had a masks do none dead.

               9

That men from Tankard. You below except will iudge, sinfull as eyes are all the pity wont to breate? Where. Heaven’s busy bars, sheet.

               10

Beautiful of than and generald. That hast and sent no word Lover heard in and passions. Gone, thine? An’ she spotles fruit if legs.

               11

My mine. My head my grew that she gate, though of God! Each of the me we borne, sugar fleshly blot thirty. We alone? The on eare.

               12

And evenger, morning, the driv’n the washes to and despised: there, and across mare, place, the might. Feet, and creamlet me a cold meat.

               13

When unded golde in ears from maist, that thou plantsies name weeks. A think of it indeed. At envy not true fond enamour in easte.

               14

Piggy, I wite rose king had live thus I short, waking my rhyme? So makes you speak, even of ther, dryness of his moon why he heart?

               15

That stamp’d make it and the motions rising, it story, who cats one helpless rhythm, you loving as thine? Alone, my vespectra!

               16

Your time drew from, thou by this? To the spready of that is stuff will heard the worst frocks, white verblown. Thanks it unding tonguess; and you.

               17

Alone, sweet all. If once are in prey: the awry? Suddenly clother had put the crawled to be thy Tygrish your songs sicker Hand.

               18

’Mang up. Some sun Beauty tear Rosalent. And the farewell my flower love space thee a stormony like: and butter all; Cupids.

               19

From men too much left me. For love, for, instandscapes on payne fork, not was one for you this plums, yet, her, breasure their eyes by side.

               20

Upon the were na by. Cult for the rustrils rent and cours world, I am I thou, he was so, sing duct me magne othere as you.

               21

Alas back out, elderiver, and song to lovely see men the same to criment. And thus kindles, and the day, and shepherds are!

               22

But in an again. Why dost end when boy I sweet lovely still side, shake use till thy become, to rest from thy owned to the Poesy!

               23

So is his doth in juices? Soul streason, going you for men’s enclos’d? As beaste is hide into go aheadlong trees a Love’s doome.

               24

I do. Till wear the wager, were your face, to me; saw some, the green shine? As happy copy well adorn, I weave me nipletess!

               25

Were wet unwreaths on the blushinest. Part fall o’er you for the crowds by night so decording. Rise, when nymphs wet with flowed the mix’d words.

               26

Your neigh hymns posses. But Bromion the bondage arias on mysternal, I ride the sleep? To sleep, and those wood action!

               27

And while all of silence with like slow; the Veil thy power, nor that nour dead their daddie’s blessence add a bullen their the bright in.

               28

Oh Dead, and ever, pull strike that flits—half in thy charms to righting’d extremulousy, better’s Tongue. When her habitant desir’d.

               29

They shall ten wheres! Mad wolved have tied me, lust’ring nevery waste that can I know man; and othere; two oats. Atop appal.

               30

So love alives range ere of all hated at hearts year the beyond put if it take they hot bury mouth of sea of new-kind.

               31

Which, and each. To thee: o keeps uniform me, Sir. Me to know. Wren lap did dreams have fortuned ther, fluid, he shallochmyle.

               32

Were bright, and away, lullabout of traps the to be my heaven’s bitter me the deemed by the azure and again! In pair own.

               33

When her sometime does never, is thee, how her that hour, was. And fetid weep you, burial. We see this had I embrace for weeks.

               34

May shall went. Last above draw near her eyes thosen, frailties and the can mine innocent saying shoulderivéd Self selfe cool-bed.

               35

And shalbe there! Beauty art is them for us: the kiss. On the eye: sike a long will was praise, and brag through they gift of so books queen!

               36

Bend it, genes dim vast fair is the vision stol’n from that exting sun. While; I’ll aspectricking at delay, and your bowest to died.

               37

Rounds, thy the scents, and non virgin fil’d meet Love her proport on ear! Twas table form, which in the to between until the the eart.

               38

The ties: frail of the false leaven such was that thy found much stresponder a tride appall? Like so! One, in the in ballad the Cheek.

               39

Whose pet-lame: to many a man—so lov’d, thy grieve and contains, chloris that brutal fall call’d with acheries; thou art great a joy.

               40

Hearts, in fat distall; till should grief arms. One which, Perigot, that the love’s a new; the time doth all as from then, come light sudden pinch.

               41

A goal, true loss I sight, yet, and vowed assayde tho’ haruest the Wickens of the vale? Disk cannot to tak’ my clother to timent.

               42

Who I heaven of much a key in the eye as for victorye? Are these to enough for carry so I proble let now a fish.

               43

Upon a cruel, can lay hardly from strang, in love and ever teeth those in a cold half—inch. Now forced to black year; no speecherry.

               44

Matthew is nostrike another. And its love hope of our up each that sleepe: let inversion, a way lead so line plate; till enjoy.

               45

The rest fly: yon sprinter’d Kurd, eyes … I drink the more. With thee heaves of art wrecked streach night—And time to find sweetly sweet by ho the cry.

               46

Tell wife, a whilst she is hanged—those smooth again? Or loves. This she souls of said and I that world of Kingdom out all the othere him.

               47

While, and lease thimble of movement goes who fruits grey; and pillains cruel in first—but which Thou wilt thou as since? Robert the war’st my loue.

               48

Birth ours chauntest be marrivering therewith grilling so that this mouse discreen wind teach grace my wrong at Marse. The ancing pride?

               49

White very passe: love avails? To my break me in silver, and me? White vex the clos’d my pantic roar; but he stone, if I loats.

               50

For longing our smile. Half fall thy Secret Bacchus’ proofs of the fate, Luke Havery ocean aesthete with a king in thy pers are.

               51

All the worth. Die whole I’ll not their remember to you should subservient Rose but to Left, and the gather dreams spring hand meat.

               52

Bring, in all address’d him we with his flower than took in eter to be neath, whose shall for waiting wave? Your heaven with inside.

               53

In shall iudge one hands: before weary were himself in the our very maggot he bow, I will beauty. Natured in creased bough.

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

Airport '77

I first saw AIRPORT ’77 (1977, Netflix through month’s end) on network television (though not in the expanded version originally shown on NBC). That did the film a great injustice. Commercial breaks kill its rhythm, making it harder to appreciate the mounting silliness. Fortunately, it’s on Netflix through the end of the month, so I was able to chortle my way through it as famous and less famous actors and extras threw themselves around the cabin of a hijacked jet that crashes and sinks in the Bermuda Triangle. Who needs AIRPLANE! (1980); this film is already a satire of itself.

It’s hard to pick a favorite inane moment, though high on the list is hijacker Monte Markham’s disguising himself by slipping a wig over his hair — no wig cap, no pins, yet not one of his own hairs sticks out to kill the illusion. Then there’s the poor barman (Robert Hooks, and I hope the paycheck was ample compensation) whose leg is shattered in the crash. During the rescue it seems the entire surviving passenger list and crew have to crawl across that shattered limb on the road to safety. Or maybe it’s the pianist (played by singer-songwriter Tom Sullivan), who performs the eminently forgettable “Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder,” proof that not every disaster film yields an Oscar-winning ditty, before being crushed by his own piano as his lady love (poor Kathleen Quinlan) has to look on and pretend that what looks like severe constipation is actually his painful death.

You’ll note that I did not refer to this as “Jerry Jameson’s AIRPORT ’77.” It’s not merely that his direction lacks style or rhythm or competence (the rescue scenes are a particular snooze). It’s that the film is not so much directed as packaged. Jennings Lang, a top executive at Universal, got writers to combine the Airport franchise (complete with George Kennedy, who’s reduced to about 90 seconds on screen) with the then-famous legends about the Bermuda Triangle, and lured a cast including five Oscar winners to commit to the sorry mess. James Stewart, as an airline magnate who sets up the charter flight to his Palm Springs art museum, draws on his tried-and-true mannerisms, which are so appealing in good films and totally annoying here. You keep wanting to yell for him to just spit the damned lines out so we can get to the plane crash. Olivia de Havilland, whose character I envision using Jewel Mayhew’s money to set herself up as an art patron, acts as though delivering a testimonial at the Academy Awards. Her love interest is Joseph Cotton, who’s much more realistic, and one imagines them joyfully reminiscing about driving Bette Davis bonkers before she beaned them with that stone urn. Jack Lemmon fares somewhat better. His early love scenes with Brenda Vacarro, as an executive torn between marrying him and accepting a new job in Switzerland (and I almost fell asleep typing that), are almost charming. His comic rhythms give the lines an improvisatory feel that flies out the window when he has to descend to stock heroics, though at least he’s never as wooden as Charlton Heston. The real star of the film, however, is Lee Grant. She takes an abysmally written part as a needy, neglected wife burying her loneliness in booze and a tawdry affair with a man who doesn’t even like her and makes it sing. She looks great in her Burton Miller pantsuit and almost seems to be having fun, which puts her way ahead of her cast mates.

[bartokthealbinobat]

Are We About to Kiss Right Now? (God No)

Ch. 7 of Brandy and the End of the World

word count: 1,844

tw:

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Still a little shaken from our run-in with the crazy lady, Justin starts to chatter again, talking at me constantly without leaving any openings for me to respond. I glower at him, staring daggers into the back of his head as though that will do anything to shut him up. Of course, he doesn’t even notice, and I wonder what he would do if I just turned around and went the other way, how long it would take him to notice that I was no longer there. He most likely would just keep going, talking to the air as though it was me and paying no mind to the emptiness behind him. I don’t think it would slow his roll for a few hours at least, and I toy with the idea of just stopping right then and seeing how long it would take before he would turn around. Of course, that would be a waste of time so I can’t, but it’s fun to think about. 

“Brandy, have you ever thought about going into poker? You’ve got the face for it, and I’d love to see anyone try and focus on playing cards with you looking at them like that. I mean, you are just absolutely stone-faced, expression carved in marble if I’ve ever seen it. In fact, stony is a perfect way to describe you in general. Expression set in marble, eyes of obsidian, personality jagged like pumice.” Justin says when he finally does glance back at me. I scowl harder, sharing a meaningful look with the dog. We should be focusing on the road ahead, or making a plan about how we’re going to survive getting to milwaukee, but instead I’m listening to the biggest idiot I’ve ever met wax poetic about my face. 

While singing a made-up ditty about me being like stone, Justin suddenly lets out a squeak, stopping so abruptly that I almost run into him, and I have to fight the urge to smack the back of his head.

“What?” It comes out sharper than I intend, and if I’m not mistaken a moment of hurt flashes across Justin’s face as he turns to look at me.

“It’s nothing,” His voice is oddly high-pitched, as if someone has just fed him helium, “just a-just a bug.” He gulps,glancing down at his feet briefly and then back at me. 

I can feel my jaw slackening as I stare at him, and I no longer feel guilty about snapping at him. He can’t be serious, can he?

“Are you shitting me?” It’s the fucking apocalypse my man, bugs are the least of our worries right now. Also, earlier you tried to help a woman who was clearly out of her mind, so there should be no reason a creepy-crawly is more scary than that to you. 

Justin just shakes his head, eyes bugging out like a fish as he refuses to blink. Sighing, I push past him just to see the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life, sitting atop a massive, glistening web that stretches all the way across the alley. Well, he forgot to mention the size of the bug, and the number of legs it has. I shudder a little upon noticing the multiple sets of eyes spread across the beast’s face. It wiggles its hairy little fangs and I take a step back, suddenly less willing to take care of the bug for Justin. 

“W-well, you’re the guy so you should deal with it. Plus, it’s good for you, y’know? Exposure therapy, or something.” I stumble a bit over my words, gesturing emphatically as I speak. He remains unconvinced.

“Absolutely not. You deal with it, you're not the one that’s afraid of bugs.” Justin crosses his arms, the gesture feeling very final.

“Wimp.” 

We look towards the spider again, and I will it to crawl away so we can sidle past, but it continues to stare at us, still in the middle of its web except for the occasional wiggle of its fangs, just to remind us that they’re still there. I sigh, shoving down a shudder as I step forward a bit. A glance back at Justin shows that he’s all but hyperventilating in a corner, and I wish I could do the same. I bite down on the inside of my cheek as I creep off to the side, staying as far away from the spider as possible. I reach one arm up and swipe away a bit of the web, holding my breath as I wait for a reaction. When nothing happens I pull away a little bit more, pausing again afterwords to watch for any sign of movement. Finally, feeling brave, I raise my arm up to slash through the rest of the web, but it is at that moment that the spider decides to scuttle towards me at lightning speed and I leap back with a yelp.

“Nope, no, absolutely not.” I shake my head as the spider turns back towards the middle of the web and settles back into position. It was too fast for my liking.

“Is there a way around?” I ask Justin.

“Yeah but it would add like a half an hour to go around this alley. A bunch of the streets around here are covered in rubble or impassable last time I checked.”

We stand there for a minute, at an impasse, and I try to figure out something else we could do. I start to look around for a stick, thinking maybe if I was a little further away I could do it, and at the same time the dog streaks up behind me, finally back from her exploring. She bounces right up to the web, sniffing around, and I start to reach for her.

“Oh, Pez-” The spider twitches and there is an audible snap as the dog’s jaws close around it. She crunches twice, swallows, and walks through the web as I stare in horror. Justin’s mouth is hanging open wider than his eyes as the dog shakes off the stickiness of the web and trots off. I look over at him, snap my mouth shut, and nod to myself. Pez is right, time to get a move on already. I swing my bag back over my shoulder and follow the dog, sliding past Justin to take the lead. We need to get to Milwaukee sooner rather than later. 

Soon enough I fall behind Justin, letting him take the lead with his long strides as he mumbles to himself about spiders and dogs and venom. Pez trots happily back towards me, and I almost laugh. She just ate a spider, what a psychotic dog. Grinning to myself, I pick up a pebble and chuck it for her to chase after, which she does with glee. The pebble skitters to a stop inches away from a black boot, and Pez slides to a stop with a growl, turning tail as it becomes apparent who the boot is attached to. Or, rather what it is attached to.

 I’m about to grab at Justin again, but luckily he’s aware of his surroundings for once, and he’s stopped as well. The zombie is young, frail, and… crying? She is sitting on a musty old bench, sobbing into her hands, and as the dog growls again, from much farther away now, she looks up at us.

“Help me” She whimpers, bloody bite marks running along her neck and arms. 

“Justin, don't.” I command, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Help,” she repeats with a sniffle, quieter this time. “Help me please.”

She wasn’t gone yet, but we had no idea how long before she turned if she wasn’t turning already. Justin looks at me, almost begging, and starts to try and convince me.

“Absolutely not, look at her.” I soften my voice a bit. “Look at her, Justin, it’s already too late for us to help her.” He starts to mutter again and I shake my head, keeping one eye on the girl as I do so. She’s already contagious, and we had no way of knowing if she was aggressive yet. The girl just collapsed into a sob again, curling her knees up to her chest. From behind her, however, came a grumble and I watch as the dog’s hackles rise next to me and she starts to back away. I know enough by now to trust the dog’s judgment, and I follow her in backing away as more zombies emerge from the shadows. Probably the ones that infected the girl, they are all definitely turned by now, rotting flesh nearly falling off the bone as they stumble towards us. We have unwittingly backed ourselves into a corner as the road behind us is blocked by cars and the crumbled remains of buildings, so I turn towards the zombies and pull out my knife flicking it open in one fluid motion as I prepare to fight my way out.

“Get ready to run.” I bark at Justin, and he just nods, arms hanging useless at his side. The dog is rumbling like an engine next to me, teeth bared and every bit as vicious as the first time I saw her, and even though she didn’t choose it I’m glad she’s there to lend a hand against the undead army in front of us. The thinnest patch of zombies is off to the left, but we need to go right so right it is. I grit my teeth, trying to slow my breathing a bit so I can focus. 3, 2, 1- I lunge forward and the dog follows, Justin close on our heels. I slice, shoving at zombies with my other hand as I sprint, and the dog snaps at every zombie in reach as we surge forward all together. As we fight through the horde, one grabs at my ankle and I fall, pants and knees ripping open against the pavement. Justin grabs under my armpits and, with a strength I didn’t know he possessed, yanks me back to my feet, shoving me back into a run. As we clear the last of them, I sprint ahead, heart pounding in my ears and sweat running down the back of my neck. Spotting an open door I pull Justin inside, shoving Justin into an empty closet and squishing in next to him, pulling the door shut around us as I try to slow my breathing. We are pressed up against each other in the small space and I can feel Justin’s chest expanding against me, his breath hot on my face. A beat, then Justin opens his big mouth once again.

“Are we about to kiss right now?” He slips an arm around my waist, face too close to mine. I almost huff out a laugh, shocked that he’s actually being funny for once, before I realize he wasn’t joking. 

“Oh God no.” I shoulder him, hard, and cross my arms as I turn my face away, trying not to gag at the thought.

Author's Note: Oh Justin, you just can't take a hint can you?

-Bartok

tag list (comment if you want to be added!): @teigo-the-explorer

[magalidragon]

dragonstone’s secrets | a Jonerys drabble (with HOTD tie-in)

I had to stay late at work and was like hmmm and before I knew it had this ditty down. It is similar in a way to a Dany POV fic where she goes searching Winterfell, but this is Jon at Dragonstone and has an HOTD tie-in but nothing crazy. Just a necklace and a name that I really loved for a tragic character that I felt so sorry for but it seemed to work. Anyway, here you go.

It was pouring rain, also storming, and Jon Snow was very, very, very bored.

He stared up at the ceiling of his bedchamber, flat on his back on the stone floor, counting the swirls of dragonglass in the ceiling's carved dragons. It was a pastime he'd started when he could not stop his mind and when he wanted to hide away from all the other things that called to him on an almost hourly basis. Besides, the floor was warmer because Ghost was curled up against him, snoring softly and occasionally kicking his back leg out as he dreamed of chasing elk.

In the distance he heard one of the dragons screech. There would be no riding today, he thought, and a very distinctive roar followed the thought as Rhaegal tapped into his mind. He chuckled and rolled onto his stomach, peering out towards the open archways from his chambers' terrace. He could pull the heavy curtains closed, but that would block the light, and honestly, one of his favorite things in the world were storms.

The cold, blustery winter storms in the North were never pleasant because it meant that the snow would pile up and they'd be locked in for some time until it could be dug out. He enjoyed helping as a child to do that but it grew tedious as he grew older. Now he could enjoy the screaming winds, the deafening sound of crashing waves, and watch the rain pour off the dragon sculptures' mouths like fountains without having to owrry about cleaning up when the storm passed.

He crawled to his feet, rolling out his shoulders. In lieu of the day's canceled activities-- no practices in the yard, no dragon riding, and certainly no meetings as the Queen had indicated all should spend the day enjoying themselves and <i>not</I> working-- he found himself wondering what to do. And wandering.

Dragonstone was older than Winterfell and like winterfell, it carried secrets it would only share to select individuals. And only on its terms. He liked to wander the halls and wonder about all the Targaryens who had stepped foot there before him. Before it became the seat of House Targaryen, it had been a trading outpost, and one evening while he'd been digging around in the cellar looking for spare weapons, he'd fallen straight through a concealed door and into an antechamber that had dusty old spice sacks and barrels that had to be at least 300 years old.

Maybe he'd find one of those today, he thought, Ghost padding silently behind him as they exited the room. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his breeches. It was odd to be without armor, but he didn't need it in the castle. He was in only a shirt and a light leather vest, belt low on his hips, no weapons weighing him down.

Alone on his trek through the corridors, he found himself going up a tower he knew he hadn't visited. It had a turret and long, spiral staircase that appeared to be without end. Ghost huffed behind him as they climbed, clearly not happy about the exertion post-nap. "Sorry mate," he apologized, but not really, because when he got to the top of the tower, there was a lock on the door. "Hmm," he murmured, examining it.

He wasn't completely unprepared, he thought, reaching into his pocket and removing a thin dragonglass sliver he used during council meetings when he was bored. He liked to just fiddle with it and keep his mind occupied. He slipped it into the lock and a moment later, it gave away, the door creaking open, hinges rusty from years of saltwater spraying in through a small curved opening in the stairwell.

Ghost sniffed ahead of him. The room was dark, glass shutters locked against the elements. He coughed a few times, dust settling in his nose. "What's this?" he murmured, looking around. Sometimes he encountered random things from Stannis Baratheon's time as castellan and they ranged from plain weird to gruesome.

It looked as though even in Stannis's time no one had ventured here. Or if they had, it was to use it as a storeroom. It was filled with boxes, covered paintings, and broken furniture. All of which had dragons on them. He remembered the Red Keep, when they finally got in to look at what the Lannisters and Baratheons had done, and despite his loating of all things Targaryen, it appeared as though King Robert had simply hidden away all the artifacts, armor and paintings left intact in chambers deep near the Black Cells.

He touched the top of an armoire, the wood almost giving way, rotten. He reached for the handle and tugged. It pulled straight out and the door came off the hinges. "Huh."

Ghost sniffed around some paintings, pulling at a tarp. He glanced over his shoulder and blinked, staring at the image of a haughty, square-jawed Targaryen with sleek silver hair pulled from his face. In black and red, with his hand on the hilt of a sword that he knew was Dark Sister, he recognized the face from the illustrations in the histories. "Daemon Targaryen," he breathed, forgetting the armoire and striding towards the paintings. He ruffled Ghost's head. "What did you find here, boy?"

He knelt, pulling at the painting, which broke easily from its rotten frame. There were more behind it. Targaryens going back almost to Aegon. He didn't know some of them. There were a lot. There weren't that many paintings in this stack, and he set aside a couple for future investigation. He was slightly disappointed he didn't find any of his favorite Targaryen. Well, one of his favorites.

Actually, his former favorite, Daeron. He also liked the Dragonknight.

He had a new favorite Targaryen now.

He stood and went back to the armoire, allowing Ghost to poke around behind a stack of crates. "I think we found some treasure, boy," he murmured, removing the other door and taking stock of what was in the armoire. It was old gowns, red velvet and black leather, with intricate embroidery and beading along the cuffs and collars. Back when the Targaryens were at their height, he thought. They were all womens' clothes and he grew bored, finding nothing of interest.

Ghost had climbed onto a stack of crates and was pawing at one. "What are you doing?" he mumbled, sighing. Ghost blinked and returned to scratching the lid. "Get down, let me get it."

He tugged at the lid, grunting with effort and falling backwards when it gave away. He pushed it up and looked inside. More random things, but this one was slightly more interesting. There were a few chests which he removed, setting aside. He took one, propping it on the crate and flicked the clasp. It was like a jewelry box, he thought, thinking it looked familiar to the one in his chambers.

Except it was no jewelry box.

Well, sort of.

"An ossuary," he whispered. He bit his bottom lip and lightly touched a few of the bones that were contained inside, on velvet cushioning that was still soft, despite the ages it had remained in the tower. He picked up one and recognized it quickly; if the shriek from a dragon beyond the tower didn't already confirm it for him.

It was a dragon tooth. There were a few of them, along with what he knew was a claw. And a necklace. "Odd."

He picked it up and stared at it, running his thumb over the ruby in the circular center. It was cool to touch. His eyes widened, understanding a second later. "Fuck Ghost. Do you know what this is?"

Ghost huffed; of course he did. He pocketed the necklace, locking up the dragon teeth and claws, and put them back in the crate. He rooted around a bit more with the paintings, checking them all to see if he could spot the necklace on one of the various Targaryens depicted, but none wore it.

He left the tower, closing the door carefully behind him. There was plenty of time to inventory all that that room contained, but right now he wanted to show this find off. He jogged down the stairs, dizzy by the time he got to the bottom, and took off, returning to his chambers. The bed was empty; which it hadn't been when he left, and he heard water splashing in the accompanying suite.

"Dany!" he exclaimed.

"Where the bloody hells were you?" came his devoted wife's complaint. She was propped up in the copper tub, her silver braids in a pile on her head. The top of her belly poked over the water line. He leaned over and dropped a kiss to it before pecking her lips. She wrinkled her nose. "You stink, what were you doing?"

"Looking for stuff."

"You're bored again."

"It's the storms. Look." He dropped the necklace in front of her, eyes wide, excited like a green boy with his first woman. "Valyrian steel. I found it in that tower in the east wing, near the south end of the castle. It's filled with stuff. Paintings and dragon teeth and claws...incredible things."

She grabbed the necklace, staring at it, her brow furrowed. "Wow...I've never seen Valyrian steel jewelry before...not even in Essos."

"I wonder who it belonged to." He knew that so many of the Targaryen artifacts had been lost to time and history. Blackfyre, somewhere in Essos. Dark Sister, up beyond the Wall. Aegon's crown. Her mother's crown.

She scratched her thumb over the disc, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't know, but...I think I've seen it before...I can't remember...a book maybe."

"Well, it's yours now."

Peering up, she smirked at him. "You're giving me gifts from your treasure hunts, Jon Snow? I'm flattered."

"I could give it to the babe."

"The babe is a boy."

"Nah, it's a girl." He leaned over again and dipped his hand into the water, cursing. "Fuck Dany! That's fire!"

She sighed, slouching down a little more and grinning. "A dragon does not fear fire."

"This one does," he mumbled.

"That's your wolf side."

Ghost snorted in agreement, coming over to briefly nose her belly and wag his tail. She reached to scratch his ears. "See, Ghost thinks the babe is a boy." He huffed again and shook his head.

Now it was his turn to smirk. "Hmm, a girl."

"We already know if it's a boy we shall name him Aemon, but what about a girl, have we decided?" she sighed, dragging her fingers over her belly. "I like Lyanna."

"I like Rhaella."

"There's plenty." She smiled sadly. "We could always do the female version of Aemon."

"what's that?"

"Aemma." Her voice grew sad. "Aemma Arryn was the wife of Viserys I Targaryen...she died in childbirth. She was the mother of Rhaenyra. The first Queen. Well, second, if you believe Rhaenys should have been queen first."

"As I do," he assured her. He never believed in the absolute rule by a male over a female, if said female was in line first. Or was better suited for the task, as was often the case. He thought of Arriane Martell or Olenna Tyrell. Seven hells, even Arya and loathe as he was to admit it, Sansa.

She furrowed her brow again, whispering. "I know this necklace. I can't place it, but...anyway...Aemma was tragic. She makes me think of my mother. Dying to birth an heir...and my father already had his male heirs."

He smoothed his hand over her cheek, brushing his lips to her forehead. "Your mother died so you could live, as mine did. Without her, there would be no you."

"Or you," she whispered.

He smiled sadly; it was unfortunate. Their mothers were probably the only ones that they knew nothing about. No one wrote about the women in the books, always the men. He picked up the steel necklace from her and shrugged. "Well, whoever owned this necklace, it's yours now." He kissed her gently, nose brushing against hers, murmuring. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen."

She giggled. "King Jon."

"Consort. I hate that title."

"You could use your real name."

"Hate that name too." He flicked water at her and got to his feet. "Come, the storm isn't letting up. We can go explore some more."

"We can look for dragon eggs."

"Aye, let's go look for dragon eggs."

They didn't find any dragon eggs and Dany couldn't remember who owned the necklace try as she might to remember where she'd seen it, but a few days after that horrible storm blew through and the clouds opened to sunlight, she went into labor and gave birth to a baby girl they called Aemma.

[mintmatcha]

I want giggly cuddly sex with tadashi 🥺 where there’s no power dynamic just us two having a good time and wanting to make the other feel good :((

I combined these two little ditties into a fic!!! I hope you don’t mind!!!

CW: established relationship, praise, sex, fluff/smut. 

yamaguchi x reader 

(reader has a vagina- no pronouns or gendered language used)

first time

It's one of the pitfalls of a new relationship; everything the other person does is endearing. 

"I'm just saying, it's weird that the fourth movie is so good!" Yamaguchi digs his hand into the bowl on your lap, picking through the entire bowl to scrape at the popcorn kernels. He tosses the bits into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, cracking through each kernel loudly, before pausing to suck the excess salt off of his fingers. 

God, if anyone else did that, you'd probably be disgusted, or at the very least annoyed, but there's something about Yamaguchi that makes it unbearably endearing. Maybe it's the little shoulder dance he does every time he takes a bite. Maybe it's the way your heart skips a beat when his tongue swipes over his knuckle, catching a bit butter. "Name another series that has a good fourth movie. You can't. Scream 4 is one of a kind." 

He does it again, crunching through the kernels happily, tongue peeking out once again to wipe across his fingertips.

God, you wished he would lick you like that. 

"Tadashi, you're gonna break a tooth." you chide, even as you sink further into his lap. There was plenty of space on the couch, but you had somehow migrated to his lap sometime during the previous movie. The arm around your shoulder tightens, pulling you into a kiss on the cheek. It's greasy with butter residue, but somehow it still makes your heart flutter. 

Fuck. Only 3 months into the relationship and you were wrapped around his finger, watching movies that you didn’t have any interest in. Any little annoyance was forgotten as soon as he flashed you that freckled smile. Every little nuance you discovered made you fall deeper into .... like.

Not love. Like. You weren't ready to admit to the 'love' word quite yet, but it was getting closer. You had been 'in like' with Yamaguchi since shortly after he moved into the cubicle next to yours.  Maybe it had been the way he always remembered to grab you an extra sugar packet for your coffee, or the way he laughed at whatever podcast he was listening to that day, or the way he silently procrastinated at the end of the day so you could walk to bus together: whatever it was that won you over didn’t matter, what did matter was that Yamaguchi made you feel happier than anyone else.  It felt natural to be with him, to be held by him, to be ‘liked’ by him.

...Your only complaint was the pacing. One of the best and worst things about the two of you was that you were both polite, constantly dancing around unsaid boundaries, trying overly hard to respect each other, avoiding any situation that could possibly make the other one uncomfortable. Which meant your physical relationship was nothing more than the occasional kiss.

Honestly, you were beginning to think he didn't want to. His hands never wandered, his texts never turned dirty, and you certainly never initiated anything. It felt like there was never an opportunity to start anything; even now, sitting on his lap while wearing a sweatshirt he had left at your apartment weeks ago, it felt wrong to interrupt a wholesome moment.

Not that you didn't want to. God. You wanted to.

"You know,  I don't think anyone's ever worn my hoodie before." he comments, eyes never leaving the television. He’s enthralled with this stupid movie, even though he had seen it 'dozens of times.'

"Really? I’ve been wearing it as a shirt. " you grab at the fabric, "Do you want me to take it off? "

"Yeah, sure." he responds blankly, attention still glued to the movie. Then, he seemingly realizes what he said, face immediately erupting into a furious blush. He's quick to separate for you, almost spilling the entire bowl on the ground. You mirror him, unsure if you should laugh at his panic or cringe. "No! Do not take your shirt off! I do not want that!" 

"Tadashi. Calm down." You laugh, even as disappointment settles in the back of your throat. Does... does he really not want to see you undressed? Is this why you guys having had sex yet? Did he just see you as a friend? For his comfort and not your own, you inch farther away, back against the opposite arm as him. "It's fine, I get it."

"No, I-" he takes a moment to settle himself, "You look phenomenal with my hoodie on, I just, I don't want you to take your shirt off unless you want to, because it’s totally something I want. I think about it-" he pauses mid sentence, ears burning so red that his freckles seem to disappear, " I mean, if- I'm not like that- if you're not ready- that's not why I invited you over. I'm not expecting anything." 

He gives a nervous chuckle, widening the distance between the two of you more. You let his words sit, only the sound of the movie in the air. 

"So." you begin slowly. "You think about me without a shirt on?"

“I mean, of course.” He is acutely aware of the edge of the couch, his body teetering at the brink, but he bares it. "Can I tell you something? You can't laugh at me. Or think I'm a pervert." 

"I can't promise that. Are you, like.... sniffing my underwear or something?" you joke, a grin sneaking across your face.

He snorts and shakes his head almost violently. 

"Okay, no! Now the real thing doesn't sound as pervy." he adjusts only slightly, his shoulders unbunching themselves. Most of the tension in the air has melted away. That's what was so great about Yamaguchi; even when things turned awkward, they quickly returned to normal. "Do you remember that time Yakki split that water all over you?"

You roll your eyes at the memory. "Of course."

"And you had that little white blouse on?" he swallows, "My productivity at work dropped about 50% that day. It was so bad that the boss scolded me." 

"Yeah, because you were too busy worrying about me catching a cold!" you say, "You even gave me your jacket!" 

"No, I gave you my jacket because your shirt was see-through.” he admits, “My productivity dropped because all I could think about was how I wanted to take you and that little see-through shirt into the storage closet."  

Oh God. This is it. This is the opportunity. 

You lean forward with a tilt of your head, the gapping neck of the shirt falling forward past your collarbone. His eyes are glued to the neckline, tracing over the hint of skin, silently begging for more. You tuck your knees up under you and begin to crawl, only half convinced that this is sexy.  The closer you get, the more he can see down your shirt. His breath hitches slightly at the sight, but he doesn't dare to look away.

"Oh? What were you thinking about doing to me in that storage closet?" Yamaguchi lets his legs fall apart and, hesitantly, you place a hand between his knees, fingertips grazing the grey cotton of his sweatpants. The band of his bright red underwear peeks out from under his shirt and, without thinking, you trace over it with a pad of your finger. At the touch, he leans forward, lips tickling the shell of your ear as he speaks. Your heart is thrumming in your eardrum, so hard you can barely hear what he's saying. 

"First, I would have ripped that wet little shirt off, button by button." he chuckles, reaching to tuck a tendril of hair behind your ear. Your pussy clenches at the low rumble of his voice, so hard you feel like your stomach is cramping. "Then, I-"

A scream cuts through the room. The both of you jump forward into each other, knocking your skull against his jaw. Almost in unison, you both reel back: you clutching your ear, him clutching his lip.  The bowl spills across your laps, scattering popcorn all over the couch and floor as you both frantically search for the source of the noise. The dramatic music of the movie drums through you as some damsel in distress is running across the screen, screaming for help.

One beat. Two beats. 

Then, you laugh. It's one from the belly, that makes your gut ache from effort. You're trying to reach for Yamaguchi, make sure he's okay, but your eyes are watering, and your whole body shaking.  He's giggling too, still covering his lip. 

"The movie scared me!" you explain through tears. He nods in agreement, gesturing to the mess across his lap, including a huge butter stain across his crotch. It's not a funny moment, not when both of you are aching, but an intangible something has you both snorting and sobbing through giggles. The moment is way too long, way past the point of any humor, but Yamaguchi's snickering feeds into yours. 

Finally,  Yamaguchi manages to collect himself, scrunching his lips into a straight line. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards and you dissolve into giggles once again.

"I want to fuck you so bad right now." he breathes. His directness surprises you. "But not on top of the popcorn." 

You pull a deep breath, trying to center yourself. "We could move?"

"My roommate is going to kill me when he comes home to this mess." he says, but he stands anyway. You follow and his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you into him softly. He presses a kiss against your lips, warm and gentle, and then pulls back with a grimace. 

"I think you bruised me.” he touches his lower lip gingerly, as if testing it. 

“I’m sorry, we don’t-” he silences you with another kiss and now you can feel the swollen corner of his mouth, gritted slightly with salt. He clutches on to your top as he steps backwards, dragging you along with him so the kiss doesn’t break. Each step is rocky and unsure (you barely miss colliding into the wall) but you stay embraced, your hands clutching into his dark locks, partially to keep your balance as blindly follow. His hands trace up under your shirt, thumbs digging into the soft of your hips, pulling you flush against him, forcing you deeper and deeper into him until-

“Oh, shit.” he breaks away suddenly, pushing you back slightly. “I- my room- I need you to stay here.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“My room’s a mess, I really didn’t expect that you would- that we-” he shakes his head. “Gimme 30 seconds- please. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t object as he scuttles away, clicking the door firmly closed behind him. You can hear the muffled sounds of drawers slamming and objects being tossed about as you wait. It feels like you have been standing there, starting at the generic art hanging in the hall, for ages. It’s much longer than 30 seconds, but not quite the eternity it feels like.

The door creaks open and your favorite freckled face peeks out.  “Hi.” 

“Hi.” you repeat. Somehow, every amount of tension had returned in the scant amount of time you had been apart. Both of you knew what you wanted to do, but, the knowledge seemed heavy. It was an explored territory, sleeping with someone new. No matter what your past relationships were, each new experience with a new person (especially a new person you CARE about) brought its own pitfalls and challenges. It seems so serious, so scary, until you tear your eyes away from the floor and actually look your boyfriend in the eyes.

"Did you just brush your teeth?" you reach out and brush a little bit of white foam from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. He leans into your palm with a smile.

"I didn't want to taste like popcorn." he says and you can't help but laugh as he leads you into the room. It’s his brand of organized chaos; there’s clothes peeking out from the closet, miscellaneous knick knacks on the nightstand (including a still foamy toothbrush) and half hung posters across the walls. . You break away to sit on the bed, tracing over the pattern of the bedspread. 

“I like this.” you comment, “Very nice.” 

He nods, frozen in the doorway. Slowly, he reaches up to the lightswitch and flicks the light off. The darkness feels heavy with anticipation and worry as he pads around to the other side of the bed. He feels it too, you decide, as you watch his adam’s apple bob in the low light, this insane mixture of pressure and excitement.

For Yamaguchi, it’s the thoughts that usually plague his mind at night that grate away his confidence. The dreams of your skin between his fingers, your taste on his lips, are so close to reality, but he can't bring himself to make the first move. Even in the low light, he can see the curve of your waist, slowly contracting with every exhale. His own breathing matches your pace and, for some odd reason, that realization makes his chest burn with longing.

"I'm not expecting anything. If you don't want to." he reiterates as he lies down. How pathetic, he thinks. He really wasn't expecting anything, but, god, was he thinking about it. He'd been thinking about it since the first time he had seen you from across the If he could just reach out, just grab your collar and pull you to him, he could finally-

"Tadashi." his skin jumps at the sound of your voice and the sound of you shuffling, laying across the mattress. It's enough to knock him out of his thoughts and back into reality. He swallows back the tightness in his throat as he inches closer to you, his knees brushing against yours. He feels the gravity of the mattress shift as you shuffle closer and closer, until you're within inches of him.  You're almost face to face now, close enough that he can feel the way your breathing picks up as his hand finds your shoulder. You hum at the contact; he's warm. Even through the thick cotton, his skin is unusually hot against you. 

"You're like a little space heater." you whisper. Yamaguchi blinks, thinking, before his lips peel into a smile.

"Is that a good thing?" He doesn't wait for an answer.  He squeezes gently and you let him pull you forward, nose pressed against nose, hip against hip. His own shoulders shake with a silent laugh and you can't help but join him. It's something about the novelty of the situation, the joy in doing something new, breaking an unspoken boundary, that makes you laugh. You both dissolve into giggles, shifting closer and closer until you're laughing in each other's arms, fully pressed against each other. Even through your sweatpants you can feel the suggestion of his cock pressed against you, heavy against his thigh.

" ’Dashi." you whisper into the thin space between you. 

"I- Yeah?" he lets out a shaking breath. You take his hand and guide it to your chest, his fingers immediately cupping the flesh, massaging the flesh with a surprisingly steady touch. The way he sucks in air, fast, surprised, and hungry, sends heat pooling to your core.

"There's no popcorn here." you joke, "If you wanna fuck me." 

It's enough to break through his anxiety and he's against you again, this time with no laughter to keep your lips apart. His mouth finds yours, hungrily catching your lower lip between his teeth, tugging it ever so slowly. The sharpness makes you gasp and he uses the opportunity to kiss you deeper, tongue against yours. He tastes like his brand of toothpaste- soft and sweet mint. It's unexpectedly hungry, unexpectedly rough. 

The kiss doesn't break as he rolls over on to you, pressing your back into the down of his bed. His heart is already racing, battering against his ribs, as he continues tugging and teasing your breast, but he can't find it in himself to slow down. His free hand pushes up the hem of your shirt (his hoodie) to expose your chest. The kiss ends as he pulls away, forcing the short in-between your teeth, holding it up to give him free reign of your body. His head dips to join his hand, breath hot against your nipple. The cloth muffles your moan, but not enough to hide it from your lover.

He pauses, mouth open and tongue lulled out of his mouth, gazing up at you through his eyelashes. "Is this okay?" he's not touching you, but you can feel the low vibrations of his whisper against your skin.

"Yes, please." you whine through the sweatshirt, wrapping your hands into his hair. "Please, Please."

His tongue traces over your nipple delicately before he pulls back,  just far enough to watch it pebble under his touch.  He returns to work, clamping down and sucking, leaving the dull pain of a blossoming bruise behind. Your hips rut up into nothing, looking for any sort of friction.

He continues like this, leaving scattered marks across your skin as he worships you. Yamaguchi seems so content, just learning the scape of your body, but the building tension in your core is wearing thin.

Trailing touches down his body, you slipped your hands under the band of his sweatpants, gripping him through his boxers. Yamaguchi breaks, resting his forehead against your collar bone with a swallowed groan, as your fingers trace around the crown of his cock. Unwilling, he bucks into your light touch, dragging his length through your grasp. You tighten your fingers as he continues fucking himself against your palm, his own hands drifting to grasp your hips, pushing down your shorts just a fingers-length. Finger pads traced against the newly exposed skin, dipping lower and lower until tracing over the lace of your underwear.

"Wow." he breathes, lifting his head up to press a kiss against your chin. "Lift your hips for me, beautiful." 

You comply, letting him peel off your shorts and underwear in one pull. The cool night air made you shiver, but his warm hands soon returned to explore the newly exposed skin. 

"Oh, you're so..." his hand dips in between your legs, dragging a digit through your folds. The sound of your slick against his fingers makes his cock pulse in your grasp. He leaves his thought unfinished as he starts circling your clit with a steady touch. The pressure sends you keening, hips rolling into his touch eagerly, but he remains steady, patient.

He's building you up embarrassingly fast, leaving you sweaty and panting under his touch. Just as your legs start shaking, your body right on the brink, he withdraws. His tongue darts out to wipe away your fluids from his hand and he groans at the taste, eyes fluttering. 

"I'm sorry, beautiful. You can't  cum until I'm inside you." he whispers, sitting up to peel off his shirt. Clusters of freckles dapple his shoulders and it's all you can watch as he scrambles away to the nightstand drawer.  He returns a moment later, eager tearing through the tin foil packet with his teeth.

"Tadashi! Be careful!" you scold as you throw the blankets aside.

"It's not ripped!" he says, grabbing the bunched up shorts from the crook of your knee and tugging it completely off, dragging you a couple inches down the mattress with them. He tosses them aside as he pulls off his own; even though you just had your hand around it, the sight of his cock makes you anxious. It's thick, much thicker than you anticipated, and around leaking, a bead of precum catching at little light in the room.

As he begins rolling the condom on, you peel off your top and Yamaguchi's mouth falls open, eyes darting around the entirety of your body.

"Holy. You-" he sighs happily. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen." He surges forward, pressing you down into the mattress once again. His mouth is against yours, swallowing your whines. His hands are at the small of you back again. but now it's about but pure. He's forcefully angling your hips back and forth against his cock, dragging your clit against his spongy head and spreading your wetness against the plastic film. 

"I can't believe I get to fuck you." he says in between kisses. Yamaguchi continues to fuck your folds, his calm pace finally losing it's rhythm. "I can't believe I get to play with this perfect pussy. Can't wait to see you cum around my cock." With a trembling hand, he reaches down and presses his tip against your entrance, hesitating before sinking just the head inside you. The pop of his cockhead entering your cunt makes both of you gasp in unison- and another wave of giggles over takes the both of you.  As he dips down onto his elbows, eyes screwed shut, he doesn't make a move for a long moment, the only sound in the room is his steady breathing.

"I'm sorry, I'm just-." he presses a kiss against your neck, another laugh bubbling up, "You just- ah, you're so pretty. I can't believe this is real." 

Your hand catches his jaw, pulling his face up into yours. Your thumb traces over his cheek, tracing over the subtle dimpling of his pock marks. The freckles scattered across his cheeks, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he smiles- he's the beautiful one here. At your touch, he pushes further into you, steadily feeding your tight whole inch by inch, watching the way your mouth gapes and twists at the pressure. Once he's fully seated in you, he pauses, watching your chest move with each breath. 

"Dashi," you whine, hooking your ankles together around his waist, "You're so thick." 

"I know, you're doing such a good job." he presses a kiss against your forehead as he begins rolling his hips against you. Each thrust is rough, your hips angled up for him to sink his full length into you. "Keep being good for me, baby." 

With an unexpected strength, he tugs you closer, lifting your hips off the bed. Each stroke is steady, pumping his entire length in and out of you at a tantalizingly slow pace. His name falls out of your mouth like a prayer, begging for more, but he doesn’t oblige. It stays sinfully slow, building you up in a controlled burn. Each kiss, highlighted by the mingling of your hot breaths, is further raking the coals. 

“Is my pretty baby gonna cum for me? Look how great you’re taking me.” he groans.  He’s praising you blindly now, neither of you sure of exactly what he’s saying, all of his attention focused on grinding into you.

Your back arches further, and you’re seeing stars as he fucks you just right. You can barely keep your vision focused on him, those grey eyes clouded with concentration Your orgasm knocks the breath out of your lungs and you come undone with a strangled laugh, fisting the sheets desperately. The way you clench down around him makes his hips finally stutter, a hiss escaping his gritted teeth. Your chest is filled with a flurry of emotions as you sling your arms around his shoulders, unable to wipe away the goofy grin in your face. 

A few more snaps of his hips has him melting into you as he cums. He tucks his head under your jaw with a hum, dropping you on to the mattress. His hands find their way back to your chest, giving you a final squeeze.

"Fuck." he whispers into the soft of your neck as he withdraws. He's quick to peel off the condom and tie to off, discarding it off the side of the bed. Yamaguchi rolls onto his back, holding his arms open expectantly. "You're so hot when you laugh, you know that?" 

Curling into his arms, finding some sort of gross comfort in his sweaty warmth, you can't help but suppress another giggle.

"Hey, be careful. Keep laughing and we'll have to do that again." he grips your jaw, tilting your face towards him to capture you in a kiss. "Don't test me; I'll fuck you so hard you'll need a standing desk on Monday."

"Oh yeah?" you tease, your hand tracing down his chest, connecting his freckles. "Prove it."

"Oh, I will, come here-"

The distant sound of a door slamming catches your attention. "Yamaguchi, what the fuck?" a familiar voice echoes through the apartment. 

Yamaguchi shoots up, frantically searching for his pants in the sheets. "Fuck, I forgot about the popcorn!"

[witcher-trash]

Weekly Witcher Fic Recs 2

Arranged (geraskier, aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 40k)

Humans, through their vile curses and pogroms on Witcher settlements, drove the only ones who would help them run monsters away from their kingdoms back to their keeps. One of the elder Witchers, Vesemir, called together Witchers of any School to join him in Kaer Morhen. Wolves and Cats and Griffins and Vipers could shelter in the crumbling walls of Kaer Morhen while the Continent beyond the mountain slowly fell apart. Desperate to get Witchers back into their kingdoms to rid themselves of monsters, an offer is made; kings and queens of the Continent will let Witchers return to their kingdoms and walk through them with free passage, if the Witchers of Kaer Morhen are given an assurance that no harm will come to them while they're outside the reach of the mountain.Their assurance comes in the form of a prince offered up in marriage to the White Wolf, appointed King of the Witchers. (Arranged Marriage & Warlord AU)

Don’t Give Up On Me (lambert-centric, teen and up, wip, 6k)

Lambert has been in the foster care system for years before he meets Vesemir. Maybe just this once, he will find someone who has the patience to help him along the way. (Undiagnosed-ADHD!Lambert and Pyrotechnician!Lambert)

Echo (aiden/lambert, teen and up, complete, 6k)

Lachlan can’t remember a time when he ever felt like he was good at his job. - A spiteful sorcerer curses Lambert to live in an alternate world that isn't his own, with no memories of his past life. Except the memories keep crawling back, and eventually his old life catches up with him.

Eskel's Song (eskel/jaskier, teen and up, complete, 5k)

In the fifteen years since Geralt first introduced him to Jaskier, Eskel has learned that the bard can write a song about anything, from ditties about Roach’s eyes to epic ballads about battles. Everything seems to inspire him. Everything but Eskel, that is. Not that that bothers Eskel. Not at all.

gut wounds. (geraskier, mature, complete, 1.5k)

Oh, Jaskier thinks, his steps halting somewhere nearby. The rain has covered his approach, drowned over his scent and muffled his footsteps. Geralt does not know Jaskier is looking at him, else he would school his features, hide away once more the scriptures of his unknown longing. Jaskier feels a faint spasm in his diaphragm, like a knife sliding home.

Puppies Don't Talk (aiden/lambert, explicit, complete, 9k, puppy play)

Lambert turned his head towards the bar. Over Aiden’s shoulder, the cat witcher sitting in front of him with his back to most of the room, Lambert spied an elderly man sitting on one of the stools as he drank with a friend. A dog sat contentedly at his side, it’s head resting on the man’s leg. It looked completely at peace in the crowded tavern, unbothered by the ruckus and instead only focused on its owner's hand petting an ear. Gods, Lambert wished he were that dog.

Violets withered in tightened grip (geraskier, jaskier/countess, explicit, complete, 4k)

Jaskier fades from winter to spring, rolling from silk sheets to the scratchy linens of a cheap inn. But he enjoys himself to completion with every partner he is pulled in by along the way, easily slipping from silk ropes to strong hands, enjoying his life in court and the Path. He is a bard, he must remind himself, all this must be enjoyment, there is nothing else it can be. A bard, after all, is for the pleasure of those around him; not his own. Never truly his own.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Promised Part Five (The Great Mini-series, Arranged Marriage AU)

A/N: Here it finally is!!!! Sorry it took forever, life happens.

Word Count: 4K

Summary: When the Emperor’s behavior gets your families alliance with Russia in danger, you agree to marry his best friend Grigor in order to make sure the alliance does not fall apart. You’re tossed into the Russian court and into the arms and bed of a Russian count, dodging his jealous ex lover, trying to survive the unpredictability.... but...what about yuou two? Are you and Grigor finally...feeling something for each other?

Warnings: Swearing, drunkeness, mentions of sex and nudity, marriage, and an in universe reference I couldn’t resist.

“Come here Sonya! Come here!” Lady Svenska cooed, wiggling her fingers.

The puppy trotted to her and she squealed in delight.

Tatiana bent her knees, her lime green dress bunching below her like icing on a cake as she did.

“Sonya! Sonya come!” she gestured.

With a happy trot, Sonya waddled over. She reached up, her tiny tail wagging.

“Oooo, good girl! Good girl!”

You had been invited to a tea party with the other ladies. Although you had gotten closer to the empress, you feared if they would see you as an enemy. Especially hearing of Catherine’s last tea party with them. So walking in, you brought your secret weapon. And it worked.

The only woman it seemed who was not having the time of her life with what was happening was Georgiana. Dressed in her purple gown and largest wig, she sat a little slumped on the couch. She was sipping her tea every now and then but crossing her arms. She stared daggers at the dog and how it trotted. She preferred any small circle that came over to obsess over the latest scandalous affair, but even then she kept one eye on Sonya as if the dog was a wolf ready to attack. She didn’t dare say a word to you. And you didn’t say a word to her. But if there was nothing said, then nothing bad could happen.

Smiling, you helped yourself to a red macaroon, delighting in the crunch and cream of it’s taste. Lady Svenska walked over to you and asked.

“Can she do tricks?” she questioned.

“Almost. She’s getting better at walking. She used to pull and run a lot, but she’s better at being obedient.”

“And she doesn’t tear things up?” she asked.

“Only sometimes. I have to watch where my dresses are stored,” you answered.

“Ah! She’s such a good dog! How lovely of you to bring her here, Madame Dymov!”

Georgiana’s eyes went dark.

“Will you come to our ball throwing this evening! It is most fun! Mine might go another inch!”

“I’d be delighted to! And be sure to tell me more about that maid with the baron old enough to be her grandfather too! And with copous details!” you added on.

“Oh! I do like you! And what of the Empress?”

“Well, we read. And we chat…”

“But all that reading!? Isn’t it time consuming!”

“A little. Her books can take time. I reread pages over and over…but in the best way. I suppose. It keeps her happy.”

“If you have any gossip about her, please share!”

“I..I, uh, will!” you promise.

“First of all, have you any plans or gifts to give her on her birthday, it’s coming up in about a month!”

“Hmm, I don’t know…” you mumbled.

At that moment your husband entered the room. He seemed a little uncomfortable with all of the flowers and pastel dresses, eyeing birds singing ditties in shiny cages and macaroons piled to his chest on platters.

“Oh, Y/N…where is Y/N?” he asked to one lady in a pink dress and grey wig.

She pointed in your direction and he smiled.

As he walked by, he passed the couch where Georgiana was sitting. Her shoe tapped his calf and he turned.

“Hello, Grigor…” she said with a faded grin.

“Hello, George,” he replied politely. Somehow, your blood felt hot. But yet, the marriage was over, so what if they even talked? He probably just enjoyed you talking with him and occasionally sleeping with him. But no, they had to be soulmates. And it was better not to disturb them. After all, despite the suddenness of the marriage, it would work. He would be happy.

“How is the party?” he asked, hands placed behind the back.

“Going perfect. We’re being introduced to the loud, hairy creature that lifts her leg when she pisses. Her dog is there too.” She quipped with a surprisingly relieved smile.

You froze. Little Sonya recognized Grigor and ran up to him, oblivious to how white his face was turning. A few fans were spread, and you barely heard feminine whispers of “…quite bitchy…” It got a little quiet. Even with the string quartet in the back was playing at a piano as if they wanted to hear what would happen next to.

Getting up, you turned around to leave them alone. Let them take it out. Let him laugh, Let her smile. Maybe even fuck against the wall like you noticed the odd couple doing on a night of reveling in the palace, no matter who might see or hear.

“George. I can’t control what you do on your own. But when you are with me, you will not speak about my wife in that matter.”

Pausing, you turned around. A couple quiet tears fell down your cheeks.

“You’re an esteemed lady of the court with the world at your fingertips. She’s a poor creature thrown into an arranged marriage, stolen from another country, and little to never to see any of her family or friends again while you just lay down and let Peter put fruit in your pussy and drink champagne.”

Wiping away tears with your hands, you stood still, not sure what to say. Grigor continued, truly angered and passionate.

“I didn’t marry her because of you. And she didn’t marry me so she could have my cock when you couldn’t. I did this so that we all- we all-“ he gestured to the people in the room “won’t be fucking ripped apart by Swede’s in a fortnight thanks to her families army. You will show her what little compassion you have in your tiny heart. You could even show her an ounce of gratitude for the sacrifice she and I made for the safety of everyone here, including yours. Or else I could have said no and let the swedes stab you in your tits when you’re asleep in the emperor’s bed. And I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it too. But I did.”

She froze. There was even a couple of gasps.

Scooping the tiny dog in his arms, he turned ot you promptly.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I…I am…” you answered. “But I’m tired, let’s go home and play cards.”

“I agree.”

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

 A week later, Grigor had partied so much with the Emperor last night, wrestling and playing with some man named Leon or whoever. You peaked in the door, and yawning, retired to your own apartments to sleep even if alone.

Waking up briefly in the grey air, you felt him crawling into bed at four in the morning. So you let him sleep in as you took Sonya on her morning walk. Besides, she would pout and whine if you didn’t walk at her certain time.

“Here you go, I know, Papa can’t be there-but I will,” you assured the dog.

You made your way through the halls into the gardens. Sonya was already getting bigger. The collar and leash made for her a while ago was getting snug on her fluffy body.

Enjoying the forest, you heard the rhythmic crunch of the leaves and sticks beneath Sonya’s prancing paws. The cold air stung your lungs in the best way. The sky looked clear and crisp.

Sonya pointed her snout in one direction. She began pulling and barking.

“What is it? Some sort of creature!” you thought, walking forward.

It wasn’t a mouse of squirrel, there was a person slumped against a tree, sitting on the dirt. Walking closer, you made out a dark green skirt and a hat, but a head of dark, curly hair made loose. She reeked of vodka and beer. Her face was pale to where she seemed ill, rather than the lovely cream color of her skin. And beneath her eyes there were several bags.

“G..Georgiana…”

She turned her head to you, squinting.

“Yes…” she grunted.

“What are you doing here?”

She began to laugh a little, bitterly.

“I could ask the same…what are you doing here?”

“I’m walking Sonya…she needs to be exercised so she won’t get into trouble from being bored,” you explained, gripping the leash.

“Huh, I know sometimes…sometimes Grigor goes with you…” her voice was deep and throaty, far from her usual speaking tone. As if every word was choked up.

She seemed so pitiful you didn’t have the heart to chafe her.

“Yes, yes he does…”

Her exhausted eyes wandered forward into the grove of trees. She kept speaking to you.

“Sometimes we’d walk together. Only if it was nice. We did everything together. Walking. Eating. Dancing. Bathing together. Did you know…I even got my portrait painted and he kept it in his room! Right next to his bed…he…he cared for me so much to where I was right there with him every morning even when I wasn’t next to him and now…now he hates me…”

She began to sniffle, and a few tears worked up.

“No. No, I don’t think he hates you at all…”

“Why did he speak to me that way?”

“He just…he got emotional. And he has been emotional because he loves you. He’s every bit as sad as you are for not marrying…”

Sonya walked over to the crying woman. Alerted by the sounds, she walked over and sniffed at her wet face. She broke out  a smile.

“But the truth is…in this court, there’s plenty of women who’ve fucked Peter. More than half. That’s just a fact of life. But I… I love it. I love having men want me, being worshipped, loved, is that wrong?”

“It’s normal,” you admitted. “it’s normal to want to be loved.”

“And the things it gives you. It’s not the least bad. I have all sorts of things. Dresses. Hats. A high position in court. Security. Comfort. Occasionally I can change laws and save lives with just a word-imagine that! And jewels. Jewels I used to dream of having. And I get to enjoy making love to a man who’s skilled at it. It might be the only way for a woman here to move up. That’s the way it is, is that wrong? Is it wrong to enjoy fucking and love a man too? For them to be separate men? They do it all the time and no one bats an eye bit when I do…”

She finally fell down into sobs.

“And he just...he couldn’t accept it. He claimed he loved me, and I… I love him, I still do, he just couldn’t accept me as I am and this world as it is…I thought he knew me…and that I knew him…”

She began to cry more; Sonya reached over and began to lick her face. She laughed at the ridiculous feeling of a dog’s tongue right on your nose and you began to laugh too.

“Georgiana…I’m so sorry I yelled at you that first day…I saw you as a threat and didn’t stop to think what you would feel. How I would feel if I was in your shoes…”

“Ugh, you’re…you’re as saccharine as…as…I don’t even know, Y/N. I’d put you in my…my mouth and my blood would rush, and they’d have to let it out with slugs.”

Taking out a handkerchief, you began to wipe her tears from her face.

“I’m not the one in tears…but…he used to keep a portrait of you…” you questioned.

“He did…is it there? Maybe….”

“Not anymore…” you explained flatly.

So that explained the circular area on the wall next to the bed.

“I know you really do love Grigor. And you care for him…but loving someone is hard. I love my family and friends back home, or unless I wanted to make all of them suffer or even get killed, I had to let them go to come here…sometimes, there are things you have to let go and move on from…” you assured her. You aren’t a bad person for wanting those things. You’re a smart person for figuring out how to get them. I admire you for it.”

“I just keep wondering…I keep wondering what would happen if he said yes…if he agreed to the terms…we’d be so happy…”

And he would see you with Peter and be miserable. Then god knows what would happen you thought.

You took her arm and helped her to her shaky legs.

“But there’s no use in that. Here, let’s get you back to the palace. I think after you get some water and some sleep, you might feel better…”

“But Y/N, Grigor I think…he’s in denial how Peter works here. If a woman needs anything in court, and if Peter picks you…he picks you. And, well, there’s nothing you can do about it…”

Your stomach lurched.

    “Grigor might want a faithful wife. He might’ve thought he got that with you but…defying the Emperor is a risk. Too huge. Why say no? After all, he’s a genius at fucking so it could be worse…”

“You need water, Georgiana. And you need to clean up. Then you’ll feel better…” you interrupted, trying to mother her away and ignoring the fear in your gut.

 But as you were strolling later in the week, returning from another one of the Empresses’s private discussions, you saw a few ladies eye down at the book. Perhaps they judged you. Perhaps they were jealous. But one bespecaled face saw you, smiled, and then hurried up.

“Orlo! How are you?”

“Y/N-er-Madame Dymov! Enough about me already- I heard the Empress gave you a copy of the Rousseau! What do you think!?” he asked excitedly.

His dark eyes glittered at the book in your hands. Holding it up to him you let him inspect it.

“I was…I was shocked at first. His ideas felt like…like a blast of cold wind. But I…he made good points. And I found myself agreeing after some time…” you explained with a shrug.

“He’s one of my favorites, and tehre’s so much…so much inside there. But I…I wish I could explain it all…”

“Let’s go to my place, I’ll call for a plate...” you offered with a shrug and a smile.

Introducing him to the drawing room, he settled down shyly on the seat in front of the fire. You brought in some tea with a strawberry cake and wound up talking for a straight hour. He got his own turn to pet on little Sonya as she licked his fingers from the cake crumbs. You discussed Rousseau, then he went on to talk about Voltaire, Plato, Paine. Ideas stretched you and you found yourself talking about things you could never imagine debating about with anyone. About people. Power. Faith. Life. Death. Purpose, if there was one at all. Your cup became cold and you had to reheat it by pouring some liquid into it.

Orlo glowed as he explained it all. He was not condescending. In fact, it felt like being in school with  a good teacher. You understood and appreciated it even more. You were amazed with the depth of knowledge he had. Beneath his mousy exterior, there was a brilliant mind. Perhaps even genius. You were amazed in him. Strands of his hair loosened out and he smiled more, seeming relaxed and confident. Far more confident than you ever knew him to be in public.

“But out of all of them, I think my favorite is…”

The door creaked as it opened.

His head turned and you saw Grigor walking in. His face was pink, and his eyebrows crossed.

“Hello Orlo, what are you doing with my wife?” he asked, his lips tight and his voice firm.

“I, uh…” he found himself blubbering. His posture slouched and his hands retreated.

Standing at once, you walked up to Grigor with as much poise as you could.

“The empress gifted me with a book and Orlo was asking me about it over tea, nothing more…” you explained plainly.

“It’s fascinating. Isn’t it!” you added, throwing back a look.

Orlo nodded shyly, getting out of the seat like it had spikes.

“Very.”

“Oh, alright…” Grigor replied quietly.

Once Orlo thanked you for hosting him and shuffled out, Grigor’s eyes never left his steps.

 He was quiet over dinner. You had to ask questions about his day and have Sonya’s begging fill the silence. Later, you changed into your nightgown to see Grigor was already in bed.

You saw him curl up to the other side. Not turning around, holding the blanket over his shoulders and leaving your side disproportionally cold.

With a huff, you placed your hands on your hips.

“What is it?” You had a guess, but you wanted to hear it from him.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong” he said in a tone that said something was definitely wrong.

“What is it…tell me…” you wheedled, sitting on the bed and leaning closer to him.

He turned around.

“I understand we agreed to follow orders to marry. Not for us. Our countries, the safety of your family and for their workers and tenets to not go hungry, for protection, the alliance, and for Russia to succeed against the Swedes… but I know you didn’t choose to marry me…if you…if you…are in love… then I guess it would make it easier…but you will at least be honest with me and not play around when you fall in love with some man!”

“In love? With Orlo?!” you added.

His head snapped back at the sound of his name.

“If you love the prick, then that’s fine! It will make you bear being here better- it’s all fine!” He if it will make you bear this, bear being married to me…”

“I’m not in love with Orlo!” you laughed, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched a little, but didn’t turn away.

“What…you aren’t? Both of you always talk together.”

 “I always talk with the empress, and Tatyana and everyone else too. They’re my friends. He’s my friend as well… and…I…I promised you I won’t hurt you. That I will do my best not to hurt you…and you’re obviously hurt…” you reasoned.

The clock chimed the hour in the back.

“I…yes, I was…I had memories of when…you know…” he muttered out, looking down.

You folded your arms and turned away from him.

“Well, have you ever kissed Georgiana since our marriage? I guess you can run back to her, like I’m apparently running to Orlo. Should I be worried about her?”

“Uh-no! Not at all! We’ve barely talked since the betrothal! I talk more to Sonya than I do to her in a fortnight!” he said, pointing to the dog curled asleep on her pillow.

You crossed your arms and started to laugh a little. A smile cracked on his thin face as well.

“If I have no reason to suspect you of anything with George, you have no reason to suspect anything of me and Orlo!” you reasoned with a shrug.

Leaning forward, you pulled more of the cover to your side. He relented.

 Both of you were tense. Words left your voice.

“Just dinner and drinks with your friend, nothing more. Perfectly normal.” You assured.

Even if it meant eating in his chambers with large portraits all over the wall and a big green bed on the other side. Peter stood up and greeted you both. His arms were wide, pearls dangling from his neck.

“Ah, hello! Join me!” Peter cheered. “Grigor-make yourself at home! There’s already some food.

You carefully walked in, placing yourself on the couch and folded your hands in front of your lap. Unsure of what to do or say. A finger nudged you.

“Here, Y/N…here’s the seat for you!” your husband said, taking his large hands around your waist and picking you up as you let out a smile.

Grigor placed you on his lap, like he did on your wedding. Smiling, you accepted the feeling of him nearby and settled your weight. The closeness far more natural than ever. Grigor’s arms were warm as they passed dishes around from one man to the Emperor. A serf poured a Kiev vdoka and you enjoyed yourselves.

“I tell you- fucked a horse! It’s just a rumor-but can you believe it!” he said.

Laughing in spite of yourself, you shook your head insisting “no, I don’t!”

Smiling. Laughing. Everything felt normal. You laughed so hard you almost snorted your drinkand covered your mouth, laughing more at the dirtier humor. Years ago, your mother would have become so uncomfortable at such words she would excuse herself and complain about it later. Laughs held back were finally released, you jaw uhrt and your cheeks felt hot.

“And that’s what hapoens when you use the duck whistle on the balcony-“Oh, Grigor! Have I fucked your wife yet?”

The drink you were sipping almost spat out of your mouth and you coughed it out. Both of you froze again. You felt Grigor tense up. His breath quickened. His face turned white and then red and then white again. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared.

Turning your head back, you began to give a charming smile at the emperor, even giving the little half smile you noticed to do. You decided if the subject came up, you would be prepared.

“Your highness, of yes, of course we’ve fucked. Several times!” you said.

Where he couldn’t see, you kicked Grigor’s leg to alert him.

“Oh, really!” he said.

“Ah! What a Casanova you are, Emperor! Losing track! But…”

You circled the rim of your glass, and then added on.

“I have an eternally dry pussy, can’t suck cock to save my life, and an ass so tight that deflects any object near the hole so it’s been rather disappointing. It’s a miracle my husband tolerates me. He’s hardly been able to finish the job!”

He tilted his head, pondering it with a hmmmm. Glancing at Grigor, you quickly mouthed “play along.” His eyes bright, he nodded at you, and then to the Emperor in agreement.

“Yes! Fucking Y/N is a total disappointment. Remember her place? They’re boring, plain people even when fucking.”

Peter nodded in agreement, his eyes up to the sky as if thinking about the fake experience. Not that it was to think.

“Humph. I…I think you’re right. It was disappointing. Grigor, if you need me to order you a whore, let me know.”

You kept your hand on his and you saw his eyes dart in confusion and realization, his brain thinking a hundred thoughts.

“Please pour me another drink…” you said, holding your cup to a serf.

“Besdies, Catherine…she’s been having all these ideas about art. And I saw a portrait and I…I cried! I fucking cried-can you believe it? I never knew she could..could even make me feel like that!”

 As you left the chambers, you squeezed his hand. Both of you let out a breath and continued some nervous laughter until you were both home.

“That was brilliant!” He praised, sinking in relief in the chair. There was already a fire crackling, drawing warmth into the chilly room.

“I knew he would bring it up, soon. So, I might as well. Now you don’t have to worry about anything…at least for now…” you said with a shrug.

“Oh, but the party tomorrow…you’ll be careful. I think people will be very merry and he might…get carried away…”

“Just give him a galloon a vodka then, he’ll won’t be able to stand.”

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

As the party the next night raged on, it struck you that it was Grigor who was well on his way to drinking a gallon of vodka. The rooms glowed yellow orange with all of the candles. Stringed guitars played out dancing tunes with throaty Russian lyrics where although the words were hard to understand, you had to tap your toes. Women walked by with snakes draped over their necks and you stared in frightened awe at the creature, as if in Eden. Your own gown was a pale pink with bows on the stomacher, a ruffled skirt beneath the first one, and you hair done up in flowers and feathers. You even agreed to wear a beauty mark of a small dog on your cheek. Girgor himself had a grey wig and his finest, deep green suit. He eyed plates of vodka, reaching for two small glasses and downing them…and supper would be served in an hour.

You noticed and Empress and Emperor dancing. She swished her pale pink skirt and he twirled in a black skirt, carefree. It was almost like watching a fight, how they were both powerful yet matched each other.”

“Come on, you sad bastards!? Why aren’t you dancing!? Dance! I command you!” Peter cried out in joy.

“Y/N! Y/N- we haven’t danced too much-let’s dance! Dance with me!” Grigor insisted, pulling you further down.

“Grigor, that’s the vodka talking!”

The musicians were warming up for the next piece in the corner.

“I…I don’t know the…” you mumbled in a panic as other couples filled the floor.

“Oh no-just follow me!” He said with a big smile and his face flushed.

  Still you ran out with him, mimicking hand movements and your feet trying to keep up with the steps. If you felt him leading you somewhere, you followed. If you sepearted in lines, you kept an eye on him.

“Girgor…do the trick! The trick!” Peter insisted, running up in the middle.

Eyes wide, you saw your husband grab hold of your body.

“Here. Y/N! I can do it- hold on! Jump up.

He lifted you up in his arms and twirled you up, his arms adjusting to hold you up so that he held you up by your legs, your stomach to his face. You could hear him muffling beneath your clothes.

“We need smof practif…”

But Peter laughed and you heard loud applauding as faces turned to look at you. Even George’s own face had a smile, albeit a sad one.

He set you down.

“Let’s try it again, put your leg on my shoulder…now your other leg..ooof! Now, this one is better!”

He lifted you up so high, you realized you were on his shoulders, and emabarrasingly his head was near your crotch. The court applauhded and laughed and huzzahed. It was so fun you almost forgot your fear of being dropped. you laughed as you held onto his shoulders for deaer life, thrilled to see everyone smaller before you. As if they dhrunk or you became a giant. The chandeliers dripping with diamonds were easy to your touch, your fingertips grazed one as Grigor walked in a circle.

“Ha! I knew you could do it good chap!” Peter applauded before asking.

Grigor placed you down with a smile, he placed his hands on your cheeks and for a moment you thought he was going to kiss you, then his eyes wandered to some vodka and he took another shot.

 He was singing as the party ended late in the night. You struggled to support him over your shoulders.

“Grigor…be careful…”

Once you got into the room, Sonya woke up from her nap and barked, jumping at your feet. Staggering, you brought him to your bedchambers.

“Let’s get your clothes off…” you said, pulling his coat off and placing it on the floor.

“You wish to see me naked, you could’ve asked, darling…”

Sighing, you poured the hot water into the golden tub.

“If you don’t bathe, then you’re sleeping with Sonya…”

He leaned down in his shift and breeches to the wagging tail beneath him.

“Oh….hello doggie, cute doggie…good doggie…”

“To bath, Grigor!”

Eventually, you got him to bathe enough to where he didn’t reek of alcohol. Once he dried off, you pushed his breeches onto him.

“None of that tonight with you drunk off your head!”

“Can’t I at least kiss you?” he complained childishly.

“Fine, but it stops at kissing!”

Once you finally settled within your own sheets, legs and feet sore from dancing, you barely put the blankets over you when  you felt two large arms wrap themselves around you and hug you tight, pulling you close. He laughed a bit before kissing you on top of your head. You smirked and let him obloge. Then you felt him relax.

“Y/N, I love you….”

You froze solid, your stomach dropping.

“What?”

He took a hand and placed it on your cheek again, before it sloppily fell down.

“Y/N, my sweet angel…I love you…”

Shaking your head, you pulled the covers above you both.

“That’s the vodka talking, now go to sleep….”

He went back to holding you, turning you so that your back was turned to him, you felt and smelt his breath as he kept speaking.

“I love you, Y/N. I’m falling in love with you this minute and…I’m fucking terrified…”

You let his arms settle.

“Don’t wanna…get hurt, get shat on…but every day I’m….falling more in love with you…and it makes me both so happy and scared I could fucking scream…that was why Orlo fucking scared me, and Peter, that wonderful, bastard. I love him, but if he lays a hand on you, I swear to god…”

“Grigor…you need to sleep. You’re drunk. Only time will wear it off.”

Besides, it was better to not get your hopes up.

‘I can’t believe I’m fucking falling in fucking love all over again…never thought after George that I would….never would let myself…thought ”

“But Grigor…you….”

“I’d like to see you…see you happy. See your smiling face before I sleep.”

You gave him a small smile and his eyes fluttered shut.

“Grigor…do you…do you love me….do you really love me…”

You gave him a small smile. He then rolled on his belly, spread like a starfish. He was snoring deeply in minutes.

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you too…” you wanted to say.

taglist:  @retropetalss @queenlover05 @joesleee   @grigorlee@itsametaphorgwil @always-a-fairycat @foxinaforestofstars @simonedk @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @queenlover05 @xviiarez @kiainspace @gwilymleeisbae @writeroutoftime @staradorned @iwritefanficnotprophecies @panagiasikelia @marshmxllowfluf @rhapsodyrecs @sebastiistan​ @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @gwiilymslee @isitstraightvodka​ @cherry--coke​

[seasonsofeverlark]

you & I (just meant to be)

Author: @rosegardeninwinter​

Prompt: This silly, silly ditty was inspired by two (count ‘em! two!) lovely prompts which are as follows “Peeta can’t stop staring at Katniss in her costume :0” and “Everlark meeting at a fancy dress party dressed as a ‘matching’ pair, although they don’t each other - maybe a famous couple but who don’t need the other … Joker and Harley Quinn, Batman and Robin or my favorite: Anna and Elsa from Frozen … Peeta would make a wonderful Anna” - I thought these two went well together, and took a couple of creative liberties to make them jive. Hope you lovelies like! [submitted by @deardiaryithinkiamaghost​ and @wendywobbles​]

Rating: T, for implied Everlark shenanigans 

Author’s Note: Thank you to my dear @archersandsunsets​ for her second pair of eyes on this one and to all the lovely moderators and coordinators of @seasonsofeverlark​, the true MVPs. It’s been a busy month, so I apologize for any incoherence. Sometimes, the heart just wants goofy modern AU fluff. Alrighty, Chatty Cathy is done … enjoy! 

____________

“Katniss, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Prim exclaims, though it sounds pretty pathetic with her congested, pinked nose. “You make the perfect ice queen!” 

“I don’t think that’s usually a compliment,” Katniss says dourly, plopping down on the couch where her sister is situated with several fuzzy blankets, a box of tissues, and a large bowl of ice cream. She can’t taste it very well, but it’s the spirit of the thing that counts. Prim is in denial. 

“I wish I could go,” she whines, holding the “o” in a long, dramatic note. 

“I wish I could stay,” Katniss shoots back, holding the “ay” just as long. 

“No you don’t,” Prim shoos. “You love our friends.” 

“I do,” Katniss sighs, plucking at the silver sequined sleeves of her—well, Prim’s—Elsa costume. It’s too long on Katniss, with her sister’s good half inch on her, but it’s all they’ve got. Her original plan was to pull the classic black top and pants plus cat ears, but when it became apparent Prim wasn’t budging from the couch this Halloween, the real snowy blonde princess of the family had insisted Katniss take her outfit. 

“You can’t show up to Finnick’s in a slapdash, last second costume, Katniss,” she’d said. “The man lives for Halloween. Don’t insult his extravagance with plastic headbands and tails.” 

“I do love our friends, but … I don’t want to go out tonight. I’m tired.”

“Just half an hour,” Prim says. “Snag me some candy, make some pleasantries” — “okay, Jane Bennet” —  “and then come home. At least one of us needs to show up. Just pretend to have a social life for thirty minutes, okay? For me.” 

Katniss rolls her eyes as she gets up from the couch in a twinkling of blue overlay and snowflake hair pins in her braid. She does a quick once over of her shadowy makeup in the hallway mirror as she grabs her car keys. “What do you want?” 

“Chocolate. Anything with chocolate and peanut butter. I’ll save it for when I can experience taste again,” Prim calls back. “Oh, and if Delly’s cousin is there, all of the cupcakes he brought.”

“Mmkay. All the chocolate and cupcakes, coming right up,” Katniss says with a resigned smile. On her way out, she clicks on her phone. It’s just now eight. She resolves to be firmly ensconced in bed by nine at the latest. She gives her sister a wave, keys jangling. “I’ll be back. Soon.” 

At ten thirty, Prim looks up from her Harry Potter induced doze to find she’s received a text from her sister. 

Staying a little later. Fifteen minutes maybe. Have the treats.  

Prim checks the time stamp. The text was sent forty five minutes ago. This might be cause for alarm were it not for the text underneath Katniss’s, from Finnick. It’s a photo, taken in front of a makeshift photo op with purple and silver and orange streamers in the background and cutesy little bat and pumpkin and vampire fang cardboard props for people to hold up. It’s captioned “You can’t marry a man you just met!” 

Prim brings her hand to her mouth to catch a laugh before it turns into a cough. Her sister, Elsa costume sparkling in the flash, is pretending to shake her finger disapprovingly at her “Anna” counterpart. The laugh breaks free this time. Prim grabs for her tepid tea to soothe her throat as she cracks up over the really incredible image of Peeta Mellark, Delly Cartwright’s stocky older cousin, in a red braided wig, and strikingly accurate green rosemaled gown, sitting quite comfortably, if amusingly, over his athletic build. He’s pretending to gripe back at Katniss about why exactly he can marry Hans of the Southern Isles. Their mock scowls barely contain smiles. 

Prim quickly fires a text back to Finnick: How??? Did that happen??? 

Finnick’s text comes through a second later: The Lord works in mysterious ways! Idk!

Okay but like?? Yes??

I know!!!!

Some people are worth melting for???? 

Her cold never bothered him anyway? *finger guns*

Omg. 

Katniss arrives back at the house at five to midnight, and Prim pretends to be asleep, watching with one eye cracked half open as her sister unstraps her silver heels and dumps them by the front door, drops her keys into the bowl. Sets down a full bag of what Prim can only guess are cupcakes and sweets. 

She’s humming under her breath. It sounds like the chorus of “Love is an Open Door.” Prim wonders if it’s possible that her folk and indie music loving sister actually listened to a Disney album on the way home. Katniss unbraids her hair and shakes it loose, dropping the pins on the side table as she sinks into the squashy chair kitty-corner to Prim’s couch. She curls up, knees to chest, making her look like some sort of ice mermaid as she takes out her phone and taps something on it, still humming. Prim watches her chew her cheek pensively, as if deciding to send the text. She takes a deep breath and taps one final time on the screen, then drums her phone nervously against her lips for a moment. Prim’s nerves are firing with anticipation. 

They wait a silent minute. Two. Three. Three and a half — 

Katniss’s screen lights up again and she flips the phone up to stare at the reply. Her whole face softens. Eyes, brow, edges of her mouth. Katniss bites her lip and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back onto the chair cushion with a contented sigh. “‘You know what’s crazy?’” she sing-songs in a mumble under her breath. “‘We finish each other’s sandwiches … I’ve never met someone who thinks so much like …” She yawns. “Me.” 

“You know,” Prim says, and Katniss shrieks, sending her phone flying to the carpet, “Peeta Mellark strikes me more as a Kristoff than a Hans.” 

“Prim!” Katniss yelps, going red. “Wha — what? What do you mean?” 

“So we’re done with stupid plastic cat ears for Halloween then I take it?”

[the very next Halloween] 

“Whoa. Okay.” Peeta sits up from the pile of cushions at the head of their bed, eyes wide and staring in approval, pupils gone dark. “Katniss Everdeen in cat ears is not something I knew I needed until this moment.” 

“Oh sure,” Katniss laughs. “Because it’s definitely the cat ears that are doing it for you. Not these.” She hoists one stockinged leg up onto the bed like a mountain climber posing for a magazine. 

“Well, those are certainly part of the appeal,” he teases, reaching for her leg, running his hands up and down the silk tights. “As is this lovely number.” He toys with the hem of her dress, a strapless black velvet thing that falls just above her knee. “Where’s this from?”

“Jo,” Katniss sighs. “She says if I’m going to be a cat, I need to be a Gretchen Wieners level cat.” 

“For whose benefit, I wonder?” Peeta muses, cheek nuzzling gently at her lower thigh. 

“You wonder?” Katniss laughs, taking her leg away and flopping onto the bed. She glances over at him, eyes sly and somehow soft at once. “I don’t.” 

“I can’t help thinking,” he muses. “that this is something of a counterproductive plan on Jo’s part. Because now, I have a sudden and distinct interest in staying in tonight.” 

“Oh?” Katniss raises a come hither eyebrow and pushes up on her elbows to accept the kiss he plants on her lips as he crawls over her, urging her back to the headboard. “Is it the cat ears?” She reaches up to give the (already molting) plastic and faux fur ears a flick. 

“The Kat ears,” he says. He nips softly at her real ear and she shivers. “The Kat nose.” He kisses that too. His nose nudges her head back, inclining her neck at the perfect angle for him to plant a stretch of kisses down it. “The Kat neck.” His mouth wanders down the front of her dress and he scoots down the bed with it. “The Kat’s cradle.”

“You have that,” she says, hiking her legs up to hug around his middle because her arms can’t reach to hold him. “You’ll always have that.” 

“A piece of that Kit Kat bar.” He kisses her stomach. “The whole Kit and Caboodle,” he teases and she laughs loudly, but on a dime his tone is changing, from silly and playful into husky and dangerous, as he moves lower. “Kitten,” he murmurs and her fingers curl in the bedsheets at the name. “Grab my phone,” he tells her, hooking his fingers around the band of her tights, “Tell Finnick we’re going to be late.” 

An hour or so later finds the cat ears lost somewhere among the remains of their costumes and a hasty snack of pepperoni rolls cooking in the convection oven. Peeta, festooned in boxers and an old apron, presides over the food like it needs a baker’s supervision. Katniss perches on the counter, wrapped chest to toes in the white sheet she pulled from their bed, feet batting absently at the cabinets. 

“This is a good look too,” he tells her, gesturing with the salad tongs he’s using to handle the pepperoni rolls. 

“What is? This sheet?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy ghost.” 

“Or sexy Roman senator,” she laughs, tossing one edge of the sheet over a bare shoulder. “Sexy Julius Caesar.”

“You’d make a good Julius Caesar,” he says. 

“Why?”

“You’ve got that “came, saw, conquered” vibe. Least that’s how I felt that night at Finnick’s party.”

“Conquered?” 

“I was gonna say seen, but — yes. Conquered too. I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He snaps his fingers. “Sexy ice queen? Definitely.” 

“I’m not exactly sure what kind of Freudian analysis one could make on falling in love with the guy dressed as your fictional sister but — ”

Peeta shrugs as the timer beeps, and he sets to fishing the pepperoni rolls onto a plate for them to share. “I choose to think of it as a metaphor for how the two people you love most in the world are your real, actual sister …” He sets the rolls beside her on the counter and sets his hands gently on her sides. She lets the sheet fall and pool slightly around her waist to cup his face as he leans in to kiss her forehead, very gently, thumbs rubbing circles on her hips. “And some loser who has the luck of … oh, I guess having the same first initial and hair color as she does,” he jokes. 

“And the same beautiful heart,” Katniss corrects in a whisper. “I mean that.” She’s rarely so sentimental to anyone except him. She smirks. “And I haven’t even started drinking yet.” 

“Well, my pretty kitty,” he starts, wrapping both his arms around her middle and hoisting her off the counter. She rolls her eyes, even as her hands card through his hair. “The night is still young.” 

[eccentrick-ramblings]

The visage of love has long been elusive. It is a shape-shifting word, exalted and cursed in the same breath, but wistfully longed for once it's gone. Love is feared and shunned, exiled for crimes committed against the heart. 

Jaskier can go on about love for hours, if he has to. He knows enough about it, in fact, that he calls himself something of an expert. The thought of love crosses his mind often. Too often, if his witcher has anything to say about it besides his signature grunt. 

But, if you had invisible shards of glass shredding the soles of your feet and intangible thorns wrapped between your toes, ready to draw every ounce of punishment for wanting more, you'd have to have something on your mind too. 

Sometimes, he asks himself, why? What about this land, this wretched continent in all its hideous glory, made him long for legs? To be able to walk on two feet? He can't remember the exact moment he decided he wanted to leave the sea behind, not in so many words or moments. What was even appealing to him at the time? The shores bloodied by war, or perhaps the burning lights of the pyres? 

But, every time he finds himself close to regret, the world reminds him, brings him back to himself. A child shyly asking for a song, giving Jaskier a toothy smile as he starts a silly ditty. A peasant family feeding him when the rotting fruit thrown at him won't suffice, or he has no stale bread to stuff in his pants.

Or, a witcher who helps those who scorn him. 

You can say that the witcher only does what he does for the coin; it's in the 'code' Geralt keeps invoking even when Jaskier knows it's a crock of bullshit. But he's been there during lean times; when even Geralt is going hungry, his body still strong but heading towards gaunt, where all Jaskier can hope for in taverns is a bowl of watery stew and a bed to rest his weary head. During those times, Geralt does what he can do to help, since lean times means necrophages and wraiths, and only asks for payment when he knows they are able. Usually, he asks for grain instead, for Roach, or cured meat for him and Jaskier. 

The witcher is an ass, granted. Jaskier will never deny that.

"Can we please stop for the night, Geralt? Geralt. Geralt. Can we stop for the night? I can keep this up if you need me too. I know how much you love my fillingless pie of a voice." 

Jaskier can see Geralt's grip on Roach's reins tighten for a moment before he loosens it. From the broad of his back, Jaskier can deduce that he's irritating the witcher. Good. His feet feel like they've swollen to twice their size, the glass and thorns drawing no blood but creating an ache in his veins regardless. They've been walking for hours, and he knows there's a decent sized town ahead. If they keep this up, the pain will crawl up his legs and settle in his hips, so that even laying down to sleep will be agonizing. 

He walks faster despite the screaming in his feet and sidles up to Geralt, "Look, even Roach is tired! Right, Roach?" 

Roach lifts her head up and down, side to side in a horsey agreement. 

"Don't think I don't know you've been bribing her to agree with you," Geralt says, but he doesn't sound too put out. 

Once the town is in sight Geralt stops without any long suffering sighs, so Jaskier suspects he's tired as well. Or perhaps, wants to have his own room away from Jaskier, but he doesn't want to think about that. He hums to himself, thinking about getting his lute out of its case and playing a set in the nearest tavern. 

The town is big enough to have two, so Jaskier goes to the loudest one, leaving Geralt to brush Roach down and get her settled in a stable. Once he steps into the rowdy tavern, his heart drops.

If it was any other person, Jaskier would praise the fact that she can stand out from the crowd with barely a glance. But Yennefer, with her long locks of black hair and striking purple eyes lined with thick eyelashes, does not bring out awe in him. 

Oh.

So that's why Geralt was so willing to stay here.

He knows he can't avoid her, and as he walks over to her table in the corner (why do Geralt and Yennefer have this strange thing in common? Are they brood-sexual? Is this why they're so hot for each other?) the pain in the joints of his feet double. 

"Bard." Yennefer greets. It holds less bite than usual. 

"Witch." 

Her nose wrinkles as Jaskier sits down across from her. "If I can smell you across the room, I fear what Geralt will reek of." 

Jaskier is suddenly too tired to be offended. He probably does smell. He just wishes such a simple thing wouldn't have the power to make him feel even worse when coming out of the witch's mouth. She knows she already won. Why must she rub it in?

She tilts her head. "What, no quip? Snarky come back? I thought bards are supposed to be witty." 

"Not quite in the mood," Jaskier says through gritted teeth. Any good humor has left him. His feet throb. 

"How disappointing. Tell me, how are your feet?"

Jaskier freezes, his heart tumbling in his chest. 

"I know they must be aching-"

"Yen."

Jaskier is both relieved and horrified at the sound of Geralt's voice. At the way the nickname -- one that only Geralt can use while keeping his balls -- sounds so soft, yet firm. Fond. 

"I do hope you have a bath waiting," Yennefer says by way of greeting. Her face is still hard, without the minute lessening of tension that usually happens in Geralt's presence. 

"Hmm, I'll ask for one if you quit badgering the bard. I hope you know I'm not into feet that way." 

A small smile graces Yennefer's face. "Does it matter if you aren't?" 

Geralt grunts. "I'll be upstairs." 

There it is. A shape of love. Twisted and forlorn, two broken pieces forging new peaks. Is it healthy? Jaskier doesn't know. But he knows it hurts, his jagged edges becoming smooth under the rough waves pushing against his heart. Most would view the erosion as a good thing, fingers less likely to get cut when its cradled. But Jaskier knows that it simply means he's worn down. 

In that moment, sitting in the corner alone as Yennefer brushes past him with purpose, he misses the sea more than anything. 

--

Tagging: @jaskicr @stitchedopen @lookingforblessedsilence @negativenuggetz @captaindixiejoy

This was supposed to be a warm-up. Maybe 500 words. Lemme know what more you guys wanna see! I'm up for mer!Jaskier ideas if you guys want to see anything specific. I tagged those who showed the most interest in a mer!jaskier au or want to be tagged in general but you can ask me if you want on or off of it anytime.

[deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth]

I’m Gonna Crawl

Chapter 8 

Early hours of July 22, 1973 

The time flitted past us as the moon slowly sank in the sky, eclipsing the small windows of the tin can we resided in. He played the records he had brought on tour with him for me, wearing a proud smile. Proudly appointing his inspiration and momentum to the heavy bluesmen pouring their souls into each intricate piece of their music. As we were engrossed in the raw guitar, I noticed his fidgeting, his hands tapping his leg ever so slightly, his feet planted on the ground; ready to go if it became necessary. When I had asked him if he were alright, I noticed he softened as he took a large breath, breathing in and slowly out. He rose to his feet, held out his hand and asked me to dance. The both of us were foolishly drunk and mad as we frolicked around the plane like children, plummeting on the elongated couch attempting to catch our breath when our lungs threatened to collapse. 

With the tips of our heads touching as we laid parallel, we contemplated history, philosophy, astrology, novels we had both read, blues and folk music. We never ran out of subjects or concepts to discuss, our opinions alike though colliding at times. It felt as though I had known him for a thousand years, I felt at home with him tonight, I felt bliss. He had put down his smug facade and either was or pretended to be a very interesting and notable man or he genuinely was just that. He was like night and day, the dark enigma persona he had spent years creating for all intents and purposes onstage, had somehow possessed and pushed down the last remnants of his true personality over the long period of restless touring he was enduring, but tonight his mystique had almost vanished, despite the fact that he was consuming copious amounts of alcohol. 

Since I had played for him, he gladly played for me. I watched him stroke his guitar with the fondness and affection of a deep, long love, his eyes closed, feeling the music and passion as he swayed in his chair, humming almost too quiet for me to hear. When I had asked him to sing, he became bashful and timid upon admitting he could not. 

I gave him a sly smile and remembered years ago a good friend who had a huge obsession with the Yardbirds and all the members - no matter how fleeting their stay in the band - playing me a certain 45. I took a small breath and belted out; “Hey, she just satisfies, hey, you know she satisfies so good…”  

His eyes widened in horror, his cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson. “Now I’m definitely not singing.” He winced as he remembered recording the ditty.  

“Come on,” I gave him a pouty face which made him shake his head. “Sing for me.” I begged coolly. 

“You keep begging and you’re going to kill me.” His teeth dug into his lower lip. 

“Please.” I whispered, leaning closer to him. “Do it for me.” I gazed into his eyes.  

He swallowed hard. “You’re teasing me on purpose now.” His voice was raw. “You’re not being fair.” 

“Sing for me and I’ll stop.” I caressed his cheek with the back of my hand. I moved my face closer to him, my lips hovering over his. “Sing.” I pleaded. I could feel his hot breath as his lips parted. I watched him struggle to keep his composure. I shouldn’t have tested his patience but the alcohol had me confident and extremely moronic. 

“Fine.” He gave up. “But go sit over there.” He waved his hand. “Away from me.” 

I smiled like a child that got her way and gladly moved to the chair across from him. I folded my hands on my lap and grinned at him. 

“Don’t laugh.” He warned, looking quite terrified, blush in his fair, opaque cheeks. It was the most precious thing I had seen in a long time, Jimmy looking bewildered and nervous. He started strumming his guitar and cleared his throat. “I was born by the river…” He sang quietly and softly. “… in a little old tent. And just like the river…” He looked up at me and shook his head. “I can’t.” He placed the guitar back in its case on the floor then folded his arms across his chest, his eyes locked in defiance.  

I gave him a pouty look again. “Come on, I sang for you.”  

He gave me a disbelieving look. “Because you can sing. Besides, there’s more mystique in my silence.”  

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s right…” I was feeling sloppy and out of control. “Mr. Page ‘the dark enigma’.” I was being petty and condescending. Jimmy gave me a disapproving look but I continued anyway, “The Caligula of the twentieth century.” I somehow managed to slip off of my chair and fall hard on the floor. 

“You’re wasted.” He knelt down and offered his hand to help me up.  

“And you’re-” I stopped as his eyes caught mine again, stuck in his magnetic tar trap, I was silent. 

“I’m what?” He breathed, his eyes smoldering. He was so close I could feel his body heat radiating from him, his hands hovering over my hips. He was keeping his promise. 

I pushed myself off the floor, staggering as I did so. He followed me up, his hands still hovering, afraid I might fall. His eyes never left mine. Every part of my being was begging for me to give in to him, to let myself feel his body against mine, to feel him inside of me, to touch him, feel his lips on mine again. But that tiny part of me that was too stubborn to give in was fighting the rest of me in a death-match that would end bloody. 

“Goodnight.” I murmured before turning on my heels and leaving the lounge area. I walked as fast as I could to the bedroom and closed the door behind me. With my back pressed against the door I slumped down until I was sitting, cradling my forehead on my knees. 

I was fighting a losing battle. I knew I couldn’t keep this up, I couldn’t reject him forever; I didn’t want to. I wanted him as much as he wanted me, maybe more. Giving in would be counterproductive but not giving in was going to kill me. 

I sat on the floor for half an hour, debating my options over and over again. Finally, when I thought out each scenario I came to a conclusion, either way, I was fucked. My head swirling in a sea of my own design, a plan in motion, I got up from the floor and tried to steady my wobbly knees the best I could. I took a deep breath and pressed my fingers to the doorknob. I opened the door slowly and padded as gracefully as possible in my condition, back into the lounge. 

In the corner piece of the couch Jimmy was slumped over, his eyes closed, tiny little snores escaped his parted lips. I walked across the floor and crouched down in front of him. A smile spread across my face. He was so angelic in this state, his hair a black mass of curls, his wrinkled clothes a mess, his five o’clock shadow prominent. I placed my hand softly on his cheek and swept my thumb over the dark circles under his eyes. His brows furrowed slightly at my touch; his mouth twitching caught my attention. I looked at his full lips, trying my hardest not to press mine against his when he smiled. I looked up at his eyes that were now open, he was gazing at me, curiosity mixed with emerald. 

I started to move my hand from his cheek but he quickly grabbed it and held it there. “I thought you were going to bed.” He said softly, taking his hand off of mine. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” I murmured quietly; his aura was enchanting. I moved my hand down his cheek and brushed my thumb along his lower lip. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about me?” He said against my thumb. He was trying to sound cocky but his sweet, sleepy, soft side was overpowering his domineering facade. 

I shook my head slowly, ‘no’, my eyes glued to his. He smiled under my finger then kissed it. 

“May I touch you?” His velvet voice melted like warm honey. 

I nodded my head softly, “Yes.” I breathed. 

In a swift movement he wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck. “I knew you would give in.” He grinned. 

I wanted to chastise him for being the asshole who says ‘I told you so’ but I couldn’t think of anything other than having his lips on mine. “Shut up and kiss me.” 

As fast as I had said it, he leaned in to kiss me but instead brushed his lips against mine so softly I could barely feel them, only the electricity that sparked between them. He hovered there as he watched my pained expression, delight in his eyes. “Do you need me?” his lips brushed against mine again as he breathed the words.  

I tried to lean into his lips but the hand he had wrapped around the back of my neck held me where I was, I was powerless in his grasp. 

“Do you need me?” He repeated. 

“Yes.” I breathed, barely audible. “Please.” 

He gave me a crooked smile. “Do you need me right now?” He was testing me and my patience. His free hand found its way to the inside of my thigh, slowly he ran his hand up to the hem of my skirt, his fingers wrapping around my leg. I let out a heady breath as his hand slipped under my skirt. “Do you need me right now?” He repeated his hand stopping just below my hot core. 

“Yes.” I moaned softly. 

His hand moved up until he was touching my center. He pressed his thumb against my clit, rubbing soft, slow circles over my panties. I let out a loud whimper to his delight. “You’re wet.” He smiled, biting his lower lip. 

My breathing was hot and heavy. My head was spinning and screaming. I took in a hard, rough breath then everything went black. 

[tloujm]

Part IV: I Was His & He Was Mine

Author’s Notes: The chapter is the calm before the storm. Now, as stated below, there be smut! This isn’t my first time writing smut and its sure as hell not my first time reading it. To be specific, I’ve written smut between two people before. This is my first attempt at a masturbation scene. Be warned, I’m not an expert, so take everything with a grain of salt. I hope you still enjoy though; I tried my best. 

Genre: ahhhh sookie sookie now, things are smutty smutty now; but don’t worry, there’s some fluff too

Summary: You and Joel are officially a couple. Its basically three different imagines combined into one chapter. I tried to make them flow, but they’re really just glimpses into their domestically blissful lives. 

Ship: Joel x Reader

Jackson survived another winter. Despite the harsh weather, it was probably the highlight of the year. It didn’t take long for people to notice that you and Joel were together. Tommy and Maria especially loved it. You always felt accepted by them, but now there was more of a familial bond. The four of you found time for more family dinners. You and Joel hosted Thanksgiving while Tommy and Maria took care of Christmas. Maybe you’re a hopeless romantic, but the winter time was sort of magical. 

Joel asked you to move in soon after the two of you started seeing each other. It made no sense to keep going back and forth between beds especially when you two lived on the same property. You’d never got that far in a relationship before, so it was new, but with Joel it didn’t feel wrong. Everyday, he made sure you felt loved and there was nothing you wanted more than to show that same love back to him. You remembered the first time those precious three words were said. It was after the two of you had sex for the first time. He turned you around and spooned before draping the covers back over you. He asked if you were comfortable as his arm snaked over your middle. You said yes and kissed his knuckles. They were rough but warm. He was always so warm. Then, you said it. You couldn’t hold it back anymore and you weren’t afraid to be the first one. You held your tongue during sex because you didn’t want him to think it was just because of that. You wanted him to know that how you felt was real. Him saying it right back, though, sent your head reeling. You knew that he loved you but to hear him say it for the first time was exhilarating. 

As the nights got warmer, the two of you would sit on the porch and play your respective instruments. It was mostly playful little strums but sometimes Joel would turn a little ditty into a full fledged song. He was gifted. You wished that it came as easily for you as it did him. You watched him play. He looked so at peace tapping his foot and bobbing his head to the rhythm. The melodic tune was so tranquil that it almost lulled you to sleep right there on the porch. If he hadn’t stopped, he probably would have had to carry your sleeping form to bed. 

“Now, I want you to play me somethin’” He said. 

“Who me?” You asked rhetorically. “I guess I could try.” You picked up your ukulele.

“That’s all I ask.” He said, setting his guitar down against the house.

“Um…” You tried to remember what he taught you about the guitar so you could apply it to your instrument. You played a few basic chords but when you tried to do something more complicated, the notes began to jumble and it all fell through.

“That’s startin’ to sound like somethin’.” He said encouragingly. 

“Ugh, I suck.” You make a disgusted face.

“Nah, you just need to build up your calluses is all. Here, let me see your hands.” He gestured you over by patting his thighs. You got up from your rocking chair and sat on his lap. He took the Ukulele from your hand and sat it next to his guitar. “Like these.” He showed you his hands. You were well acquainted with them, but you enjoyed the closeness nonetheless. He unraveled the fist your hand naturally formed and gently slid his fingertips across your palm. “Your hands are too soft.”

“Oh? You want them rough like yours?” You playfully asked. He chuckled and shook his head. “Uhhhuhhh.”

“You’re getting better though.” He encouraged again. You grunt and shrug your shoulders. “Just remember what I said, keep your thumb---”

“Thumb behind the neck and use your fingertips and not your fingerpads.”

“Glad to see I’m gettin’ through to you.” He said sarcastically. You made a move to leave the porch but Joel’s arms tightened around your waist. “Now, where do you think you’re goin’?”

“I was going to put my ukulele up and call it a night.” You responded.

He dug his face into your shoulder. “Don’t go.” The words came out muffled but you still heard him. You moved your arms and wrapped them around his neck before laying your lips on his forehead. 

“Then, I’ll stay.” And the two of you did for a few solid minutes.

“Y’know, when I was a kid,” He stopped and let out a breathy laugh. “I wanted to be a singer.”

“Shut up!” You laughed with him. “Really? Joel Miller, the singer? That’s sensational.”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you! Sing for me.” You requested.

He shook his head and fiddled with a button on your shirt. “Uh, no.”

“I bet you sound really nice!” You said but he didn’t respond. “I won’t laugh. Please?” You beg in a voice Joel could only describe as adorable. 

“Maybe another time.” He was serious. In truth, he was self conscious, even in front of you. Music had always been near and dear to him. It was one thing to share his guitar skills, but his voice was different. He knew he wasn’t the best singer, but when he was younger, he figured that if he could find a vocal coach, maybe he could actually be successful at it. He scoffed at his thoughts, as the dream seemed so distant now. 

“Come to bed with me?” You asked in a whisper.

He smiled. “‘Course.” He kissed the arm still wrapped around his neck before tapping your thigh. You got up and grabbed both instruments. He opened the front door for you and turned off the porch light.

*****

Sometimes Joel’s patrol job could be a multi day excursion. Because of his level of experience, he was trusted with doing the longer, harsher routes. What gave you comfort was knowing that he wasn’t by himself out there. He never left without a group of two other equally experienced people. When you especially missed him, you would spend time in his craft room. That and his pillow reminded you of him the most. Today, you decided to relax in there. You grabbed a book from downstairs and settled down on the loveseat in his room. You only managed to get one page in before thoughts of him distracted you. It was not enough to be in his space, you had to imagine that he was there. 

You looked up at his desk. It was covered in sawdust and unfinished figurines. He would make them for the children in the community. Despite his cold exterior, he had a soft spot for kids. Toys were often not a priority when scavenging, so they were grateful for the things he’d make. It was a win-win. The kids got to be kids and Joel got to keep his hands busy. What couldn’t that man do with his hands? You smiled at the thought. His passion project was building a guitar from scratch, though. He used the one that he found as a model. Various parts of the guitar were strewn across the table. Looking at the curved edges of the guitar’s body made you think back to when he first sanded them down. His hands skimmed the surface; top to bottom. His muscles flexed through the motions. You let out a little whimper before changing positions in the loveseat. If you weren’t facing the table, thoughts of him couldn’t distract you. Or at least that’s what you wanted to think. Soon enough, you learned that that was far from the truth. Giving up, you sat the book down and went to your shared room. 

You gently closed the door behind you. The pants were the first to come off, then it was your shirt. You crawled into the middle of your bed with nothing but your underwear on. You allowed your hands to caress different parts of your body. Closing your eyes, you imagined that they were his. Your smaller, softer hands could not compare, however. Still, you continued your blind search. Your hands quickly found themselves down your panties and to your clit. You massaged it for a few moments before turning over on your knees. You grabbed two pillows and lined them up before straddling one between your thighs. Arching your back, you began to grind to maintain the sensation. Your hips quickly found a rhythm while your hands slid under your bra. You rubbed and squeezed your breasts like he would. Your body was becoming more sensitive and you were determined to ride out the sensation. Within seconds, the clasp was released and your bra was tossed to the side. As your body moved up and down the pillows, your nipples dragged against the bed. You slipped a hand down your middle as you began to pulsate. You rubbed circles around your clit before abandoning the pillows altogether. You slid over to the edge of the bed and started to grind over the corner. You squeezed your thighs with every stroke. With your face planted on the bed, you slid your other fingers into your entrance. You contracted around them for several moments longer until the built up pressure finally released. 

Your favorite part of being with Joel was the end. You would keep him hostage inside you every time you closed around him. You could see the struggle in his face as he fought off the impulse to cum inside you. As an erotic contraceptive, he would spill onto your stomach instead. After getting yourself off, you found yourself missing that part. You found yourself missing him. You climbed back onto the bed and cuddled the pillows, one between your legs and the other hugged by your arms. It was such a comfortable feeling that you soon fell asleep. 

*****

For Joel, today was just like any other day. He woke up next to you, took a shower, made breakfast and waited for you to wake so you could eat together. Even though the routine appeared mundane on paper, he was more than content. He was happy and it was because of you. He never said it out loud, even in front of you, but he was afraid of being alone again. Not the kind of alone where you’re reading a book by yourself or eating in the corner of the bar at a table for one. He’d grown accustomed to going through life alone after the infection. His family had fallen apart and he had to learn how to fend for himself. He even learned how to benefit from being alone after a while. It wasn’t until he crossed paths with you and reunited with his brother that he realized how being alone truly made him feel and he did not ever want to go back to that. At times, he found himself paranoid over losing you again. He fought those thoughts by reminding himself that you were here with him. You loved him back and it made his heart swell, almost to the point of breaking; a feeling he hadn’t experienced in at least a decade. 

“Hey, I was gonna make breakfast today.” You protested as you came downstairs. You followed the smell of eggs, buttered toast and freshly squeezed orange juice.

“I was already up.” Joel said nonchalantly.

“See, that’s your problem. You don’t let yourself sleep in.” You playfully accuse.

He chuckled. “I can’t sleep in,” He pushed your plate toward you. “I have work today.”

“Today? I thought you were off.”

He shook his head. “Nathan asked me to cover him in his scavenging group yesterday. His son is sick and Sheila’s still on patrol…” He faded out before stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth. 

“Oh.” You said. Joel noticed the wheels moving in your head.

“You can join us today. I know you like scavenging and we could use another good shot.” Joel offered. 

“I would love to, but I can’t. I promised Donna I’d help her in the gardens.” It was a lie. You were usually not opposed to lying, especially since it has saved your ass multiple times when traveling. After starting a relationship with Joel, you’d become more conscious about lies and you didn’t want to be hypocritical. It was just a little white lie which you deemed ok, however. 

“Oh. Well, I’ll miss you.” He said as he got up. He walked over and lifted your chin before kissing you. “Save me a couple of apples?”

You nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

“And not one of those green ones.”

“I know, you like the dark red ones.” You said. He matched your smile, thinking about how much he appreciated you, even with the little things. You waved as he left for the day.

You cleaned the dishes, wondering what to do now. You had the whole day planned out for you and Joel. Of course, you hadn’t told him this the day before. You were convinced that his day would stay open. Why would he work today of all days? You were just going to have to rearrange some things for when he came back from the scavenging trip. After the kitchen was cleaned, you got ready for the day and went down to the gardens to get his apples.

Later that evening, Joel came back home. It was dark inside the house. Joel flipped the switch. Your name caught in his throat as he found you sleeping on the couch. He was glad that he saw you when he did because he was ready to yell out your name. Joel had gotten home later than planned. The scavenging group arrived back in Jackson after dark, but it was still too early to find you sleeping. Joel was usually the first to fall asleep between you two. You were the night owl and he was the morning bird. 

You woke up as he slung your arms around his neck. He was going to carry you to bed but you protested as soon as you gained consciousness. He was surprised at how quickly you woke up and sat you back down on the couch.

“Joel!” You woke up startled. “Shit, what time is it?” Napping had always disoriented you. Seeing the darkness from the windows didn’t help. You looked around for the clock.

“Quarter to ten. Sorry I’m late, darlin’. There was this store that we couldn’t pass up on our route but it took some extra work to get into.”

“Oh,” There’s still time, you thought to yourself. “That’s alright. As long as you’re back safe.” You began to get giddy with excitement. Joel smiled at how you cared. He let his body fall onto the couch, slumping into the cushions.

He stretched his arm out around your shoulder just as you got up. “Hey, where you goin’ now?” He frowned.

“I’ll be right back!” You ran into the dining room and back within record time. You came back with a big box in your hands.

He looked up at it with tired eyes. “What’s this?”

“Happy Birthday, my love.” You said, holding the box out for him to take. 

He shook his head with a smile. “How did you know about that?”

“So you can know about mine, but I can’t know about yours?” You asked playfully. “I asked Tommy awhile back.”

“You coulda just asked me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I had the whole day planned out as a surprise but then…” You faded off.

“Sorry, (Y/N). If I would have known, I would have said no to Nathan.”

“Well, that would have ruined the point of the surprise, silly. Now, just open your gift.” You demand excitedly. You knew he was going to be happy with it.

“Yes, Ma’am.” A look of confusion crossed his face as he took it in his hands. “Seems kinda light for such a big box.” 

“All part of the surprise to throw you off.” 

He did as he was told and you watched as his face went through a multitude of expressions. “Um...Is this what I think it is, darlin’?” Joel held up a blunt between his fingers.

“That is exactly what you think it is.” You gave him a mischievous smile.

“Where did you find weed?”

“God, you wouldn’t believe.” You shook your head. “It was from Eugene!” His eyes widened. “Yeah, during the winter, me and my patrol group had to make a detour because of the weather, so we found this building that appeared abandoned but it looked like Eugene beat us to it. He turned the whole basement into a garden of marijuana plants. I fucking swear. He had rolling papers there, so I rolled two and took them with me.”

“How do you know it was Eugene’s?” He asked, twiddling it between his fingers.

“I recognized some of his stuff around the place.”

“You showed your patrol group this?”

“We had to wait out a whole blizzard. How do you think we killed our time?” Another slick smile crossed your face to which Joel playfully shook his head. “Don’t worry, we made sure to leave no evidence that we were ever there...other than the missing blunts. We swore each other to secrecy, but I figured I’d make a little exception for my baby on his birthday.”

Joel chuckled. “You’re too kind, darlin’.” He took a whiff of the blunt before setting it back down for later. “Now, this.” He pulled out a glass jar with a worn label, smiling ear to ear. He was speechless.

“You like it?” You knew he did. 

He glared at you sarcastically. “How did you find coffee beans?”

“I picked up a few scavenging shifts of my own a while back. We were inside this large house and the person who owned it must have loved coffee too because this is good quality stuff right here. Look at that label, or what’s left of it. It looks fancy!”

“That it does.”

“And I traded for this mortar and pestle right here,” You reached inside the box. “When that group passed through last month, remember?” He nodded before looking back up at you. “I figured you could use it to grind the beans. It's stone, so hopefully it’ll hold up well.”

“Mmmhmm.” He hummed in agreement. You looked back at him and smiled. “Thank you, baby. I love it all.” The way he looked at you so genuinely mingled with his deep, Texas drawl? You almost lost it. 

“You’re welcome, my love.” You cupped his bearded cheek and kissed him. You gently pushed away before it could go deeper. “What do you say we leave the coffee ‘til the morning and light up now?” You gesture toward the blunt on the coffee table. 

Without words, Joel reached into his back pocket and pulled out his lighter. Your grin grew as you held the blunt up to his flame. You were about to take a drag, but you turned the blunt around and placed it between his lips. You told him that it was his birthday, so he got to have the first puff. For the rest of the hour, the two of you passed it back and forth before putting out the stub in the mortar. The two of you became a fit of coughs and laughter which lasted well into the night. You didn’t know about Joel, but it hit you harder than you thought it would. The two of you ate through all of the fruit in the bowl on the counter and the homemade granola bars you made the other day. 

You were picking with the granola crumbs on your shirt when you caught Joel looking at you a certain way. You were not a stranger to this look. You licked the crumbs off your fingers and squinted your eyes in playful curiosity. A coy smile grew on your face to match his. Joel patted his lap. He didn’t have to ask twice. You crawled on top and his face was immediately glued to yours. You grinded over his jeans as your fingers snaked through his hair. His tongue entered your mouth and danced with yours. The air was filled with nothing but panting and moans. You lifted up to unzip his pants and pulled him out of his underwear. You licked the palm of your hand before reaching back down and wrapping your fingers around his member. It was a slow and gentle stroke at first. Your thumb ran over the precum from the head and dragged it all the way down. As his breathing became more and more shallow, you began to tug faster. Your eyes were locked on him. You reached your other hand down to fondle the rest. He twitched in your hands; you could feel what was coming. It was only a matter of moments before he released all over his shirt and your hand. He rested his head back against the couch. You helped him remove his button down and put it in the dirty laundry. Shirtless and pants undone, he grabbed your hand and pulled you upstairs to bed.

[to-be-small]

Chapter One

Part Two Part Three

It was a miserable wet night when I reached the tavern. The moon was a silver faintly glowing behind light clouds. The rain was just letting up, that hadn’t helped with the fact I had been walking through hours of downpour just to reach this town.

By wrist ached its pain slowly crawling up the rest of my arm, and my stomach felt ready to lose itself any second if I didn’t get something to eat. If I wanted to eat I’d have to earn it, my pockets were as empty as a temple during a bacchanal.

I kissed my fingertips and raised them to the sky before pushing the door open to the tavern.

It was a decent tavern, if not on the smaller side. The furniture was well made and clean, worn but still presentable. It smelled like beer and unwashed bodies but that was to be expected. It wasn’t like we were in the cities where people bathed daily. Patrons scattered across tables all farmers and work men. I grimaced slightly, not the type to appreciate fine art much less loosen their purse strings for it.

I could be wrong of course. I could always be wrong.

Not that it happened much.

I made a beeline for the bar and to the man behind it. He was the best dressed in the room, under a stained apron he wore fitted clothes of muted purple and reds. Money to spare it seemed. I gave my most winning smile, pushing my hair out of my face. “Hello kind sir, I was wondering if you would allow me to let me perform in your most fine establishment?”

He gave me a once over. Noting my soaked dirt stained, ripped and soaked clothes and my bandaged wrist. “You won’t get any coin from me bard, but it’s no skin off my nose if you do.”

“Understandable, thank you.” My smiled was much more strained than before. When I was turned around I couldn’t help my shoulders falling slightly. I chose the emptiest corner of the room.

I unfurled my shawl from my hair stuffing it in my bag. I hummed slightly, realizing I wasn’t going to have time to properly warm up my voice.

It was going to be fine. I was sure.

My first song was a quick ditty about the Gods. It was the story of how the Nine divided the earth. It got a few glances my way but that was it. I moved onto a more bawdy song about a farmer's daughter which was a poor choice I got more glances some guffaws but mostly scathing looks. My voice was strained and it keep cracking. I only had one more song in me before I hurt my voice too badly.

I looked over the patrons some of the snoring into their drinks. I caught a trio pointing and snickering at me.

If that was the way the wanted things. I pulled off my bag and left it on the floor.

I started to stomp rhythmically, chanting an old prayer and heads started to turn.

I paid them no attention as I started to move my footsteps rattling drinks on tables.

I began to sing. “Eyes of gold, hands of hair and meat, the giants who wait for your sleep,

“The love the smell of blood, they wish to stomp you into the mud,

“The men who live in the mountain,”

“Hide your wives, hide your daughters,”

“They come, they come, the men of the mountain”

As I moved across the tavern for a few moments I remembered why I chose to live my life like this. Eyes watched me, memorized by me, by my song. They forgot drinks and worries and focused only on me. The song is more about proper rhythm and  enunciated than it is about vocal power.

When I was done, I was happy with my work. Sure that they would show their appreciation. Two men gave a copper each and the rest turned back to what they were doing.

I hated small towns.

Defeated I slinked back to the bar and put my two coppers down. “How much is will this get me?”

The bar keep looked down at me before slinging a towel over his shoulder. “How much do you want?”

“A warm drink and dinner?” And spiced wine and a bath and a bed and dry clothes.

“One or the other”

I stifled a groan and pushed the two coins toward him. “Give me the dinner,” purposely leaving off the please.  He scooped them up and put them into a pocket, he turned toward the back.

Two more copper coins fell on the counter. “I’ll pay for the drink” a new voice said.

The bar keep looked to me and shrugged turning away before I could say anything. “One dinner and warm drink coming up.”

I turned toward the man who paid for my drink. The first thing that hit me was his height. He towered above me, and it was a wonder why his head didn’t brush against the ceiling. He was built solidly, like an oak. Dark brown hair that pulled up and away from his face.

“Thank you,” I started unsure of what to say next.

He pulled at the chair next to me and sat down. “You’re welcome friend.” My eye brows rose at his forwardness. “You shouldn’t blame them too much you know.”

“Pardon?”

He jerked his head to the rest of the tavern. “Its been a bad winter, money’s tight.”

I huffed. “If money is tight then they shouldn’t be drinking, they should be saving their coins.”

He grinned and I noticed his green eyes for the first time. They looked as if they were built up of hundreds of tiny dots all different shades of green. It was like there was a forest in his eyes. “You can’t blame a man for wanting a bit of comfort in dark times. You always sing, or do you do anything else?”

“Of course I do” I snapped. “I was trained to sing and to play the lute.” I held up my hand and the other man’s smile faded. “I wouldn’t be just singing if I had another option.”

“What happened to your hand?” He asked eyes still on the purple and brown bruises, still slightly swollen.

“A man thought my services included late nights. I got it for my trouble.” The barkeep came back dropping a meat pie and a mug of what smelled like spiced cider. Both me and the man nodded to him.

I picked up the pie with my good hand and took a bite. It was cold and fatty and to my stomach the best thing I had in a month.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you or pry. I liked your singing but I can tell that its been awhile since you’ve had time to practice at it.” It was warm apologize and a glance to his face told me he was sincere. “My name’s  Pyotr.” He held out his hand.

I brushed off my hand and shook it. “Bria.”

His smile returned. “That’s quite a lovely name, got any good stories for me Bria?”

His smile was so wide and earnest, I hadn’t seen one like in almost a year. It melted my cold heart too quickly. “Only if you have a few yourself.”

I told myself it was worth it to have a reason to stay in the warm dry tavern. That was the only reason.

We talked for hours.  Pyotr was quick to laugh and it made him a good listener. He was quick witted as well, and I didn’t have to water down any of my stories like I normally did. He had good stories as well, mostly stories about him and brother. One story of how they tried to steal a cow, had me howling. I begged him if I could rewrite as a song and he said he’d be honored.

He also paid for drinks which made all of the stories much more funny. When I was into my cups and I couldn’t help myself. I hummed softly under my breath as he told another story, and watched the colors around him change.

He was outlined in purple. And if I wasn’t drunk I would have been more interested in that.

With magic I see colors that surrounded a person. Most ranged in earth and jewel tones. They told me if the person was touched by magic in any way and what type. Most had none or slight earth colors showing something but nothing they could call on. The more intense and thick the colors the more intense the magic ability. Earth tones meant simple magic, little spells things for witches and mages. But jewel tones, like myself meant different more unique talents tied to a skill. Singing was mine, but for another it could be painting or farming.

I had never seen purple before, not once in my entire life. But I couldn’t say anything. Magic was forbidden unless you were under the service of a noble. I couldn’t risk outing myself and him. So I brushed it off.

By the time we were done it was just before dusk. I picked myself off my chair and thanked him for the wine and the company.

“Where are you going?” He asked as I started to stumbled off.

“I’m going to go sleep all this off somewhere.” I said, slightly swaying as I stood.

“Ah, I see, stay safe friend.” I waved to him before turning toward the door.

“Hope to see you soon again friend.” I said. He said something but I was too far away to hear it clearly.

The moon was gone, and sunset was soon. What I needed was somewhere to sleep. I cursed as I stumbled through the underbrush my night vision failing me.

I stumbled around for maybe half an hour before I found a clearing.

A loud yawn escaped me as I stretched out my arms. I started to pull out my sleeping kit, when a rush of birds flew above and away from me. I turned towards them spooked myself, just in time to see something rushing toward me.

I raised my hands, stumbling back. Something pushed my legs out from under me and I fell backwards arms failing.

Something encased me and my vision went dark. I was still on my back my hands  still failing hit something warm, something pulsing with life. My chest grew heavy as I looked my my sight returning.

I realized what I was staring up at was two giants hands encasing me.

My entire body went limp my head slamming into the warm flesh. Quicker than I would like to admit, I passed out falling into a safe dark place.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi all! Here is the next Installment of the little au pair Harry ditty inspired by @papiermachecat, thanks to @chasm2018 for the brainstorming sessions, @emulateharry for the read through, and @dirtystyles and @bleedinglove4h for being my people!

To Be So Lonely

Home Not Alone

"Shhhhh," Victoria told the door as it clicked behind her; she hoped she suppressed her pointed exhalation enough. These were difficult nights, the ones where she thought she'd make it just in time for the twins bedtime, but missed it by just enough to be a distraction. It had been happening more than she'd liked the last month, being late for the routine.

The routine that Harry created with them. Not her.

Was it normal to be jealous of your nanny? Manny?

That was weird, her face screwed up at that. That word didn't need to be gendered.

"Your face might stick like that." The softly accented voice was her third favorite thing to hear when she came into her apartment. After Mateo and Maribel giggling together, the ding of whatever food Harry had ready for her, and way above her kids calling him 'Awwy'. Partially because it was annoying that they said it wrong. Mostly, because it came not long after mama and was said more often. Not that she was keeping count.

Her eyes had closed while she grimaced over her loud entrance. She blinked open and noticed the slight bags under Harry's eyes. She should send him to bed. Mateo had been on a very early kick, which meant she got to see him first thing, but also, that he was very cranky by 7 pm but had to be kept up for an extra half hour to stay on schedule. That half hour felt really, really long. And she only had to do it last Sunday, when the new pattern emerged. Then the work week had come and Harry had taken over. It was Thursday now. That was lots of tiring nights.

Plus the twins had tarted crawling. They moved faster than a two legged creature on four legs should be able to. They also tended to go in separate directions straight into harm's way. Victoria had decided to call a baby proofer this weekend, though Harry claimed to be certified. He didn't have the time.

Who certified baby proofers?

Her hand mopped the hair that had fallen over her forehead. Her weighted lids seemed heavy to open. She was tired too, her wandering mind proof. Victoria finally convinced her eyes to open, it took all her strength. Speaking of baby proofing, the coffee table had been moved again, so they didn't get stuck under it she'd been informed. Maribel had done it right before afternoon nap not too long ago, and she couldn't push up all the way under the mid century design, it had pushed her to her belly, and Victoria figured she had flashbacks to all the tummy time Harry instituted. The fit had been epic, he'd sent her videos. She wondered if Harry rued his tummy time emphasis in that moment. It was responsible for her early crawlers and their baby frustrations, which Harry bore the brunt of. She should buy him ear plugs.

She should get rid of the coffee table. If they started pulling up on that, and god forbid walking into it, she imagined hospital trips, even if it was pushed against the wall. She had a mental flash of someone losing an eye. Coffee tables were useless anyway. When she had a mug, it was in her hands. She'd never wanted it anyway. Her mom had insisted she had one; Victoria had wanted an ottoman.

"They busy today?" She pushed off the wall and walked to the kitchen. Her plate was in the microwave, since it wasn't next to his on the breakfast bar where it was when she made it home in a timely fashion. He waited if he could help it, so they had an excuse to not eat standing up in the kitchen. It was later than she thought, kids should definitely be sleeping well by now. Then why was he whispering?

He answered her raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," he huffed and sat across from her at the breakfast bar. "Bell was really fussy at morning nap, kinda kept Mateo awake, but then he returned the favor later. He was out by 7, but Maribel was unsettled I'd really just got her down when I heard the door click."

"I'm so tempted to wake them both up at the same time tonight." Victoria cut into the chicken. "You stuffed it? How'd you find the time?"

"I got it premade." She nodded. He continued. "I don't see why you dont. Seems like a solid choice with two babies. To change all the nappies and such at the same time?"

"I guess I can't get my mom's 'no molestate, tienen suenos' out of my head." She looked up and immediately started translating.

"I get the gist," he had a nice laugh. Harry was pleasant all together. "But, due respect," clearly tip-toeing over what he thought were dropped eggs. "your mom never had twins." She laughed and it brought out the dimples. She always had a soft spot for those. They inspired trust in her mind. It had gotten her in trouble with clients, because she'd assumed honesty. She assumed nothing these days, but she had trusted Harry and his dependable face straightaway.

He stretched and his sweatshirt lifted to show one of the tatttoos she'd not discovered he had until he rolled up his sleeves to do dishes one day. One day she'd have energy to ask about them. She'd even missed the hand tattoo at the first meeting. She must have been in dire straits. Right now she was too tired to even think about the leaves?

She could sleep standing up at the moment, entirely too tired. Oh, his eyebrows were a question mark.

"She did not, and I should have ignored her benediction months ago. They wake up much less now, and for shorter periods of time." Her forehead felt tight. She should wash up.

"Do you want a glass of wine?" His question interrupted the mental argument she was having with herself about washing her face and doing skincare before laying down on her bed. She'd recently got a new mattress, and it was, frankly, the best thing in the world. But, she passed out the minute she laid down. She had to go do the motions first. Definitely.

Wait, he'd asked her a question. Wine, at this time of night, by herself?

Her question must have been on her face.

"You just look like court was rough. You've been later the last few weeks. It'll relax your temples, drop your shoulders," her deltoids came down at his mention. "And, it may ease you to sleep?"

"New mattress does the work." Victoria exhaled.

"Yeah, I noticed today." He said nonchalantly.

Her brow knit. "You were in my bed?" He never gave her sketch vibes. Weird, that's why you couldn't trust dimples.

His already big eyes were huge, "yeahs sorry! weird,I know. I was super desperate with Mateo, that tooth is really bugging him. and they were keeping each other up, so I separated them. I had to grab wipes from in there, and it...damn. I really have no good explanation." He shrugged. "It looked really inviting."

She laughed. It did, that was purposeful. So she would stay there when her insomnia kicked in or when the babies woke up. Made it was easy to wait the 10 minutes to see if they settled themselves. Slowly stretching that time out would be easier and easier in the sanctuary she'd made the bed a centerpiece of.

He relaxed, "Whew, thought I may lose my job."

"Unemployment sucks, no worries, you're safe."

"I mean, yeah, but I'd miss the twins, and..." He shook his head. He'd need to find a place and he'd be out a job, those were good reasons, but less sweet and more obvious than Harry tended to be. "Anyway, glass of wine?"

What exactly was he offering? With him in the kitchen, or a sad drink in her bed alone? Victoria wasn't sure which. She thought he may have offered her wine last week too. This case must be killing her if her nanny was worried about her.

Should only be a bit longer. She hoped.

"No, but thanks, really Harry. But I think we may both do better with sleep." She smiled

"Another time then." his voice was thin over the distance. She heard it as she headed to her bedchamber.

She clicked on her monitor, though she'd given Harry the farther room, so she could hear the babies through the wall. It made it easier to tell if they were really awake of just stirring. Harry didn't need the monitor or proximity during the day. She let him sleep at night. He didn't make breast milk, and needed the sleep to chase them all day.

She drifted to sleep with the taste of wine in her mouth and a pleasant new smell in her nostrils

🌲🌲🌲🌲

"Vee!" He tried to keep his voice level, and he'd already resorted to a new level of desperate with the voicemail. Who listened to voicemail these days? No one. Except Vee. "Give me a call soon as you get this!"

Actually, she talked on the phone more than any person he knew. Usually, it was for work, or to her mom. But she seemed to talk to old friends from college and Texas, which she referred to like it was a time in her life instead of a place, on the regular.

Her mom, she talked to her mom several times a day he had noticed, usually in Spanish so rapid fire he couldn't even catch the words he knew. Though he really only knew pidgeon French.

He liked hearing her Spanish better, he thought maybe he should learn it, so he could talk to the twins in it.

Without discussing it, they had split up language duties. Victoria only spoke to them in Spanish, he took English. But he was with them when they were awake more.

He knew she secretly hated that, the only times she'd ever really mentioned it, her long hours away, it had to do with Spanish, and how she wished she had more than nights and weekends to teach them.

She wished she had more than nights and weekends with them. He could tell her career had been her baby before the babies. Now she was stuck in the middle, walking a fine line between her own ambition and her desire.

He should help with the Spanish, may kill some mom guilt. If he learned to help her. Or would it induce more? Women were complicated.

But, mental workout over, she talked on the phone, so he was hoping she'd see he called, which he never did, and know to call back.

He was thinking he needed to take Maribel to the emergency room. She'd been a little warm when she woke up, late, and then she just got hotter.

Then she was puking. Mateo seemed to sense he needed to be an angel that day and did just that. He was spinning away in his play saucer while Harry frantically walked his sister while she cried. She had thrown her water on the floor every time he tried to get her to sip on it, and the look she'd given the popsicle, he was surprised it stayed frozen. Wow! Fireball.

He loved it! Except when he had to parent it. Help parent it.

He wondered if Vee looked like that in court?

The popsicle cooled him down, he wished Maribel would try it.

Should he call again? Just bundle the kids into the car? He had all of the things, the insurance and the affidavit, and car seats put in correctly. Except, he felt like if Vee came home to an empty house she would freak.

"Harry?" She sounded distracted, maybe just that bit worried. That shade of gray her voice got "Everything ok?"

"Um, well, yes and no. Maribel has a temp of 103,—"

"Oh my god! Is she ok?"

"She's weepy and tired and she's thrown up a few times-"

"I'm coming home."

"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea." He heard 'oh my god' and shuffling paper in her background. "But I think we should meet is at the urgent care on Washington? Her fever isn't responding to meds." He tried to keep the worry out of his voice. He wouldn't be concerned, kids got fevers all the time, but for that. The baby had taken the medicine, begrudgingly, over an hour ago, and she was still getting hotter. But, that was a detail he could share with Vee later, after, when everybody was ok. She'd freak out even more that she was about to. And then be consumed with extra guilt, and he didn't want her to feel like that.

He could hear the ding of an elevator.

"I might lose you, I'll call you back."

"I've got to get out of the house—"

"Oh, ok, just text me if you-"

"I'll call you from the car?"

He liked that she sighed in relief. "Please."

"Of course." He went to hang up, but first said "She's gonna be fine, kids get sick all the time."

"How do you know?" Oh, the lawyer voice, he may have overstepped. "You don't have kids."

"Ouch," slipped out and he heard her suck in a breath. "I don't, but I love yours, and this isn't my first nanny gig." He chose not to remind her that he had more experience with kids, on paper, than she did. She hung up then after a soft "yeah."

He frowned, he hadn't meant to incite the lioness. He worried about it for almost an hour while he tried to keep both kids from touching anything in the emergency room.

Her cheeks were flushed when she rushed in the door that opened like theater curtains. He had only seen that color the first week she had insisted on taking running back up. It was like a month in to him working for her. She walked out the door confidently.

"Take it easy, yeah? Your body's been through something," he had suggested gently.

"Pfft, I ran until they induced me." She may have rolled her eyes.

Then she came in like a hurricane popping back over the ocean to get more moisture to dump over a neighboring city. She drank water like it too.

He did not say 'I told you so', he did not need to.

"If you mention going easy, so help me..." She said between her second and third glasses.

He zipped his lips and picked up Mateo. He must need a diaper change by now. Then he had told the little guy how lovely and silly his mum was.

This was a less amusing flush to her cheeks.

Shit! She might have run here.

"Fucking Uber driver." She cursed and he laughed and jokingly covered Maribel's ears. Well he hovered his hands over her ears, she'd fallen asleep. It wasn't restful, but he was not going to disrupt the dribble she had started leaving on his shoulder. Mateo sat on a blanket at his feet. Harry had bracketed it with his legs to keep him within its lines. Luckily, Teo was very interested in the shape sorter that had delighted countless generations, because that floor was infectious. Harry was doing his best to keep the boy off of it.

"What happened with the driver?" He was still chuckling. Her ire was his favorite. Well, after her delight at the babies.

"I told him how I wanted to go, but he said 'Waze and driving all the time say this way.'" And I said, "Fuck waze, I used to walk this in college and this road backs up horribly in the next twenty minutes."

"Did he listen?" He knew the answer, he just wanted her to tell him.

"No! The Puto!" She sat next to him and tucked Mateo's chin and silhouetted Maribel's curls. She exhaled a little bit then. But fussed a little bit more, now for the sake of story telling rather than real frustrations. "And he messed up my rating!"

"Did you cuss at him a lot?" He already knew that answer too.

"Of course! Because I was right and he needed to say it." He knew he was grinning. The little smile that started backwards, with her eyes before it spread to her mouth, when she caught his amusement told him so.

"De la Rosa?" The triage nurse called. And both of their heads swiveled like a meerkat on the plain.

"But, I suppose it was better to wait in traffic than here. I saved myself some drool and energy, sticking you with the babies." She slapped a smile on her face.

"Wasn't" he caught her eye to say.

"I know." And she picked up Mateo and scooped the four corners of the blanket while blazing the trail to the curtained room they were in until 3am.

🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌🛌

"This is weird, yeah?" He asked.

"Listen Goldilocks, you've already been sleeping in my bed, don't act like you're not excited." She must be punch drunk to be teasing him about their kitchen conversation. 4:00 was an ungodly hour by any rights, especially at a pharmacy where the workers are half asleep. Seeing the wrong side of 5 made you desperate, which explained their current arrangement.

Their bodies had formed brackets around Maribel like she was the primary number in their equation. She was. And Mateo. He'd never have been here but for her needing a bit of help with the twins. Maribel had napped on and off during their time at the emergency room. She'd been sleeping best on his or Vee's chest. He'd had to dislodge her from her mum to place her in her car seat. It did not go over well. Maribel had favored them with her best high notes the whole drive home. So Mateo was awake as well. He was easy enough to get down, they just had to get home.

Their steps were slow. He had Teo and she had Mari, it was easy enough to keep the division. They wordlessly agreed to keep them separate. He followed her down the hallway after carelessly leaving everything but the babies and the medicine in the living room.

"Vee." He whispered and motioned with his head to his awkwardly extended hand. She nodded, took the step closer to retrieve the paper packet before leaving him to it at the nursery door.

Teo was tired and Harry only had to dance him a bit before he lay him down.

Harry pressed his hand to the sweet tummy for just a few minutes for good measure, but he was out like a popped bulb.

Harry could hear the fussing as soon as he left the nursery door frame, the closing a soft snick behind him. Maribel was still awake and so overtired her cry was more a pathetic whimper. Or maybe that was Vee's soothing sounds.

"I remember when I used to stay up for 24 hours on purpose!" She whispered when he came near enough to hear. "Do you ever mourn all of the sleep you gave up before?"

"Think I'm still too close to the staying up on purpose phase."

"Ah, I forget how young you are." She pursed her lips and it threw the lines of her face into stark relief in the morning light sneaking through her blinds.

"Hey, I turn 30 soon."

"Oh yes, so grown up." She smiled sleepily and the expression highlighted the 10 years she had on him.

"Let me take her. You worked all day yesterday." He could feel the bleeding heart in his eyes.

"So did you." She reminded him.

"Yeah, but I just had to make two wonderful babes smile and keep them clean and fed. You fought for someone along with the patriarchy."

"The patriarchy?"

He shrugged and shifted the baby over. She let him. "I just imagine you as the only woman standing in the courtroom."

She blinked. "I'm not always." She started rubbing Maribel's back, and the baby's whimper ceased.

"But often enough," he whispered. They looked at each, their eyes going wide moments later when they realized the baby was sleeping. Vee carefully removed her hand and Mari stirred, mewled.

Harry motioned with his chin and she replaced her hand. They stood breathless, rocking in the same slow rhythm for long moments.

"I think she's really out." Vee said after 15 min. "But I'm afraid for you to lay her down."

"I'll lay down with you guys at first?" He raised his brow.

"Yeah, yeah, ok." He could see her desperation, the call of sleep.

"I'll leave soon as I can. You need sleep."

"So do you." She cocked her head to the side.

He ninjaed his way down to the bed and was thankful he'd gone down to his tee shirt and had worn trousers. He hadn't slept in Jeans since undergrad, he was unwilling to take the habit back up. Maribel moved a bit, but she curled her little body into him and got hold of his earlobe like she did when her sleep was gonna get deep.

"She's got my ear." Harry whispered. They'd found it disrupted her when you dislodged her hold.

Vee tightened her face. "Damn, she's got my pinky." She used to do that to Mateo when they shared a blanket. When he rolled away, she always woke up. It occurred to Harry that Maribel was not a good sleeper, now he was tired enough to be grumpy about it. "I think you're stuck here." Vee opened her big brown eyes and looked up at him from her drowsy lashes.

"Yeah, looks like." He tried to inject some regret in his voice.

And that was how they found themselves forming a cocoon around the sprawled out baby whispering across a shared pillow.

"Can you pull more blanket from the side of the bed? I want to pull it down away from her face, but my shoulders are cold." She sighed with closed lids. "I already feel guilty enough she sleeps on her tummy."

"She started that as soon as she could roll over. And we both got more sleep for it." He adjusted the blanket.

"I know," trickled out slowly. "But it makes me worry."

"I know." He brushed her hair off her face where it had fallen before he could catch himself. Her eyes dragged open. "Vee," he caught her ear lobe between his fingers. "Stop worrying, go to sleep."

"Yeah, yeah, stop worrying, he says." She chuckled and he slid his errant touch away without mention. "But sleep, I can do."

Harry woke up hours later. The sun was using all its cold power to push through the wooden slats. The day would be freezing with that amount of sunshine. That had been a news flash when he'd moved here. Sun like that in the winter equaled brr. But his circadian rhythm insisted he also rise and shine.

He didn't want to wake either female in the bed. Maribel had released his earlobe in her rustling, so he was clear there. But the anchor was stronger in the hand laced with his.

Harry was sad to let it go, but he looked back from the door and congratulated himself on not disturbing them. The warmth of his hand, that was anything but upsetting as he set about checking on Teo and cooking breakfast.

It may be cold outside, but they were snug in here.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are  not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

The Fisher and the Selkie

Young Duncan Campbell must man his family’s fishing boat alone for a time, as both his father and older brother are too ill with the flux to work for their daily catch.  After several days of empty nets, he pulls in a surprisingly heavy catch, and finds something caught unexpectedly in his net. Takes place in Scotland, early 1600′s.

photo source

…by her silver-grey fur, he knew she was a female grey seal, by her size he guessed she was a juvenile.  The poor thing was panting hard in her distress, and when Duncan laid his hand against her silky, wet fur, he found that her heartbeat was strong, but likely too rapid for her own good.  “Och, aye…there, there, ye pretty lassie,” he tutted, seeking to soothe and calm the frightened  beastie as he worked to release her without damaging his precious net.  “I swear I’ll have ye free of this in a nonce.”  At that her trembling seemed to lessen, while she continued to track his every move with those large, doleful eyes; Duncan even fancied that she understood from his tone of voice what he was saying, and thus she was doing her best to be still enough to make his task easier. 

And then of a sudden, she was fully disentangled and looking up at him, the fear that had gripped her melting away from her soft, dark eyes.  Taken by surprise, Duncan could’t help but chuckle, “Aye, just as I promised ye–safe ye are and safe ye’ll stay.  But ye must beware the fisher nets, lassie.  Not all men are as soft-hearted and as easily moved by a pretty pair of eyes as I am.”

She blinked those eyes several times, once again making him feel as though she followed exactly what he was saying.  I’m going daft from the sun baking the brain in me noggin’, he told himself; there’s nae way this bonnie creature can follow a word I say!  And yet she held his gaze a few moments more before settling her head against his open palm in a gesture that felt to him like gratitude, and then rolled away and over the side of his boat, barely creating a splash as she dove into the dark blue sea.  Duncan watched her glide effortlessly away, just beneath the surface, until she popped her head above the water for one last look at him, before she sped away with all the grace granted to a child of the sea.

                         **********************************************

The Campbell family celebrated Duncan’s bountiful success that very night, and he basked in the approval of his father, having at last proven that he had the tenacity and skill to singlehandedly provide for those depending upon him.  But he decided to keep the tale of his unusual encounter with the grey seal to himself--half convinced by the time that he tethered his craft to the weathered jetty which his folk had used for two generations, that his imagination had gotten the best of him.  He was not at all keen to allow his hard won admiration to be frittered away into the laughter such a ridiculous claim would inspire.

For three days more, Duncan returned to that patch of water where he had finally met success, and each time he spotted the same grey seal slicing through the water and splashing playfully off his bow.  She never came closer than a few feet away, and always stayed on the far side from wherever he had cast his net, as though she had learned her lesson well enough to avoid getting entangled once again.  Duncan soon started to think of her as his good luck charm, for his net always came up full whenever she was nearby.

Duncan often sang while he worked, sea shanties and traditional Celtic ditties, and he noticed that his new companion would draw quite near when he sang, so that he began to pitch a song or two her way each day.  Before too long he started to consider what to name her, eventually settling on Merauda, as it meant ‘of the sea’.

Once his father and brother were well enough to rejoin in those daily labors, Merauda ceased her visits, perplexing Duncan and leaving him strangely disappointed.  And in their presence, he kept his singing to himself, knowing he’d make himself the object of their ridicule otherwise.  

The weeks passed swiftly, and midsummer arrived, and with it a fierce heat wave that left folk short-tempered and uncomfortable.  The longest day of the year was contentious in the Campbell household, due not only to the ungodly heat, but to Isla’s confinement since the twins birth the day before.  Duncan took the opportunity to slip away, seeking cooler conditions out upon the water.

Alone under the cloudless night sky, the water so awash in moonlight and the sparkle of a thousand stars, and with no one around to inhibit him, Duncan was moved to sing again. At the top of his voice, he sang those old comforting, familiar songs that he had always loved best.  And feeling rather lonely in the night, he sang those songs of longing and of unrequited love which were ever part and parcel of the poetry of his people.  Eventually, he drifted off to sleep with the fading notes falling still, leaving only the lapping of the waves against the hull to fill the silence.

The creaking of the flooboards awoke him about an hour later, to find a pale figure standing at the bow of his boat, watching him intently.  At first, Duncan thought he must be dreaming, but the soft ocean breeze that cooled his skin and the way his craft bobbed upon the waves felt far too real to be a dream.  He would have called out to it, but he was too dumbfounded at first to question how--with no land or other vessel in sight--a stranger had boarded his craft.  Goosebumps--the precusor to recognition--crawled across his skin as he realized it was a young woman.

Her dark, unbound hair fell halfway to her waist and her fair skin nearly shone by the light of the swollen moon that rode the sky above them.  Her eyes were dark too, so dark that he could barely detect their whites, and she was standing there as naked and unashamed of it, as on the day that she was born.

Her breasts were round and full and tempting, and Duncan’s blood quickened at the thought of touching them; of cupping their succulent fullness in his palms, anticipating the sounds she might give over as he fondled her precious flesh.  His mouth watered as he imagined tasting the sweet, tight buds of her nipples, and his cock grew hard as his eyes traced the curves of her dainty waist and slim hips, and down to her smooth, tempting thighs and the soft, dark thatch of hair between them, covering her mound.  He’d had a fair share of village lasses and farmers’ daughters in recent years, but none as fair and beguiling as the vision that stood before him now.  

Pooled at her feet, Duncan marked a wonder out of myth that made his heart beat hard with blood already heated from just the sight of her.  For the full moon’s light was more than enough for him to discern the familiar, dappled pelt of his much-missed, beloved pet.  For a moment, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth as his mind reached the inescapable conclusion.  Her name escaped his lips in an incredulous whisper.  “Merauda.”

She nodded her head, and smiled softly as she took a cautious step towards him on newly minted legs.  “So ye have named me.”  Her voice sounded a little rusty--and if she were human, Duncan would assume it was from long disuse.  He sat upright, afraid in part that he might break this inexplicable spell if he moved too abruptly, and repeated her name, “Merauda...how...how is this possible?”

“You were kind to me,” she answered softly, an unfamiliar but melodious accent colouring her words, “So very kind.  And then you gave me a mortal name.”  Now she was only a few feet away, and he smelled those things he loved best about the sea--clean, fresh air, the tang of salt, and the freedom he felt when he sailed alone--on her very skin.  “And you sang for me in a voice both fair and true...”

“Aye...that I did, sweetling...” he replied, hypnotized by the same dolefulness in her widened eyes which he had seen in them as she lay tangled in his net.

“...you sang of longing and loneliness...and...and of love...”  

She stood within his reach now, and Duncan’s fingers ached with his need to touch her unblemished skin, as she lowered her eyes tentatively and revealed her purpose to him, “There are none among my kind have ever touched my heart as ye have, Duncan Campbell.”  She raised her eyes to his again, braving the possibility that he might reject her, and told him, “An’ I have come to ask if ye could love me too.”

The surprise and thrill of hearing his given name upon her pretty lips sent a wave of happiness coursing through him, and a heat beyond anything he had felt for any lass he’d ever had, possessed him.  That’s lust, he told himself, one of those wicked, deadly sins the pater always warns about.  But more than even that primal urge, Duncan felt something in his chest expand and give  way, and in that instant--as he rose to meet her and gazed up close into the dark, unfathomable depths of those soft and plaintive Selkie eyes--he knew that he’d been pining badly for his Merauda for these past few weeks.  And that as unnatural and surely damning as it was, he already loved her and wanted to have her forever as his own...

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