#gets tested and stretched ... its exquisite stuff.

[usertoxicyaoi]

“Go ahead and eat it. If you hate me, you’ll have energy to kill me later.” KinnPorsche (2022) : Episode 14.

[piracytheorist]

Small Signs (1/1)

Fandom: Resident Evil 7

Summary: Ethan wakes up, thinking of his wife, who has been missing for three years. Little does he know today will be the first news of her he'll get since she disappeared.

Word count: 1.4k AO3

~

Another dull day.

Another day Ethan wakes up and the other side of the bed is cold.

One would think that he would get used to it, after all this time. But no. Some days he still finds himself waking up and instinctively reaching to hold her.

She always responded to his touch, no matter how deep her sleep. She would sigh and move her body closer to him, then nestle there until she actually woke. He would wait for her to wake up, work honestly be damned, he'd think sometimes.

He stretches his arm, laying it where she would've been, hand on the pillow, fingers running softly over the fabric. He would’ve been mad to think that her scent could have stayed on it after three years.

He sighs. Three years of confusion.

Work be damned, he used to think, but it's the only thing that has managed to keep his mind occupied. His co-workers realized quickly that he was dealing with Mia's disappearance on his own way and time, and they left him alone about all the "You should move on" stuff as soon as they started.

Not that he doesn't appreciate their sympathy. But they’re not in the know.

Even their friends feel distanced to him now. They’ve mourned Mia already, and he’s now the odd one out. He still enjoys their company, but despite the remarks on how it isn't too early to start going out again being rare, sometimes it feels like they can’t get it.

He just wishes he had any fucking way to explain to them the very last message he got from Mia.

"Stay away. Forget that you ever knew me. Have a good life."

It still sends shivers down his spine to think of it. He remembers the moment he watched it the first time clear as ever. How he'd stayed frozen, almost shivering from shock, in front of his computer, for who knows how long after the video had ended. The sirens blaring in the background. Mia's distraught, tired, dirty face. Her telling him to forget her. Completely. As if she never existed.

A part of him – a small one, but a part nonetheless – was almost angry at her request. She'd lied to him – and admitted so – and after all those years of being together, she just expected him to forget all about it? Their love? Her admittance? Her guilt?

Her?

He groans in frustration. Despite anything else, he feels guilty for being even that little angry at her. And for the life of him, he can’t believe she didn’t love him. She couldn’t have just left him… there must have been another reason.

Maybe he should do as she said and have a good life. Maybe he should really move on. Maybe he should just do as their friends want to tell him but won't.

But still... If they had known...

The police had instructed him to not tell anyone about Mia's last video. Even if they hadn't, he still had no idea how to even start that conversation.

"Yeah, first she sent me that sweet message, with the promise of coming back soon, and that same night she sent me this one and it scared the shit out of me. And then she disappeared without a trace. Can you see now why I can't really move on?"

If only he knew what happened. Without a body found, he believes he'll spend eternity hoping he'll get news of her. Not that a body is difficult to get lost and destroyed to the point of no recognition, that fucking voice he hasn’t been able to mute even three years later, says again.

If only he could just know what happened. How, or why she disappeared. If she died, at least if it was quick and painless. At this point he's gotten used to the jab inside his chest at the thought of her actually being dead. It still hurts as much as first, but the pain comes less often and more anticipated.

He wants answers. What was with the creepy video, why she lied to him, what she hid from him.

Who is he kidding? Most of all, he wants her.

It isn't like that every day. He gets up with his alarm clock and loses himself in the morning prep routine, focuses on work, goes back home and finds ways to spend the day by either cleaning, tidying up, maybe distracting himself with a beer with friends and then goes to sleep, hoping the next day will provide opportunities for distractions again.

He's given up on the piano. He was pretty mediocre at it already, so it's not like he has any memories of himself playing exquisite sonatas and Mia sitting next to him, being entranced by his fingers dancing across the keys. But he's supposed to be happy for it. He's supposed to give heart to it.

He doesn't feel like he has much of a heart left. Sad thought, he's aware. But it's also true.

The alarm clock on his phone finally rings. He silences it and gets up.

That one small difference, waking up a few minutes before the alarm, stains his entire day. When he opens the cupboard to take the coffee jar, his eyes fall on the sugar jar and he remembers how Mia took her coffee with sugar, and how that jar has barely seen any use in the past three years. When he washes his now empty coffee mug, the lack of a second cup to wash brings a feeling of emptiness in him. When he brushes his teeth, Mia’s old toothbrush is almost taunting him. He didn’t throw it away at first, because, well, she could have returned at any time, right? After the designated three months since she’d first used it passed, he felt as if throwing it away would send out a sign of resignation to the universe, or something. So there it stays and haunts him.

He’s almost managed to forget about that and ignore its existence. But today, being such a day, when he opens the towel cupboard to take out a new one, it catches his eye. An unopened pregnancy test box, probably expired by now.

The last pregnancy test Mia’d had was negative. “When I come back, we’ll try again. It will be positive, then. I know it,” she’d said.

He just had to change the towels today of all days, didn’t he?

He thinks that getting out of the apartment will make him feel better, with some – relatively – clean air in his lungs. Instead, it makes him feel emptier. No goodbye kiss, no see you later, her house keys still and always missing.

Even with work he can't get his mind off. Especially when an old man calls him for help with his computer and starts talking about how it was a gift from his lovely wife.

Is it too much, that he once dreamed – and sometimes, his traitorous mind still dreams – of himself and Mia growing into an adorable old couple like them? Is it because he was so damn happy, that the universe decided a different path for him?

Ethan feels thankful, albeit reluctant, when Jim invites him out for drinks that night.

Had he been asked, he'd never believe that his sullen mood that day would be a sign. A sign that, while Jim would be talking about a particularly demanding and annoying customer, Ethan's phone would ring with a notification. That he'd turn it on and in a shocked state he'd see that he got an email. From Mia.

Dulvey, Louisiana. Baker Farm. Come get me.

It's her account, he knows it. He even knows the password; he had logged in a few times over the past three years in the frail hope it would somehow bring her to him. Last time was one and a half month ago, on their anniversary.

He doesn't even stop to think. Louisiana, fuck, that's nearly across the country.

Well, no time to waste then. He starts picking up his stuff.

"You okay?" Jim asks.

"Yeah. I- I gotta go."

"Something wrong?"

"No, I just- I gotta go."

"Ethan, what the hell?"

What the hell indeed.

He nearly runs to the exit, not looking back at his friend.

Mia is out there, calling out to him, and he's going to get her back.

~

A/N: Boi has no single clue what nightmare he's getting himself into XD

Anyway, I headcanon that Ethan plays a bit of piano. There are enough appearances of pianos both in RE7 and RE8 (and even a puzzle with one) so I'm going with that. I feel that it's just a hobby to him, so practicing everyday is not his priority, and after Mia disappeared it would just feel wrong to him. Boi's sentimental af.

I looked all over the game's credits, and I couldn't find if the dude Ethan calls at the begining of the game has a name (or even who voices him, lol), so I gave him one myself. I just thought it'd be cool to tie it in that way.

Also, hey, this is the first time I write for this fandom. Yay me! Here's to probably writing more fic!

[cowboyified]

Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them. 

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest. 

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’. 

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places. 

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep. 

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge. 

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door. 

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room. 

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life. 

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday? 

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with. 

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun. 

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass. 

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why. 

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault. 

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years. 

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.” 

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist. 

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all. 

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field. 

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring. 

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore. 

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace. 

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him. 

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar. 

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that. 

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic. 

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway. 

“Am I to be forgiven?” 

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind. 

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails. 

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest. 

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

[pengiesama]

A Log, Carved for Two (Fic, TOZ, Sorey/Mikleo)

Title: A Log, Carved for Two Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Sorey/Mikleo

Summary:

Sorey and Mikleo (and the gang) visit an old inn, with a legendary log. In the process, they learn about life, love, and a certain appreciation for their luck in both.

--

Part of the Sormik Advent Calendar 2020's Secret Santa challenge! I got @applegelstore's prompt:

"I'm terrible with prompts so how about hot springs but it's a 1000 year old log serving as bathtub (if that irritates you please watch Abroad in Japan, Escape to Mt. Fuji)"

(...well, you'll get what you ask for...)

@sormikadventcalendar / sormikadvent (Twitter)

--

Link: AO3

Read on Tumblr!

It had, of course, always been Sorey’s dream to see a world where seraphim and humans could live side by side. And it was a dream that he had achieved, through sacrifice and pain and determination. Humans and seraphim now lived in one world, laughing together, arguing together…

…but, well, Sorey seemed to have slept through the beginning years of this glorious new world. Consequently, he didn’t get to see the wonder, experience the discovery, attend any of the cool parties, et cetera. He awoke in a world where it was just a Thing. It was the norm. Seraphim? Of course, there’s one that runs the bakery down the street, and one that lives in the pond out back; perfectly good neighbor, he is, he never makes a ruckus and keeps the mosquito population down in the summers.

(“Mosquitos Steve,” Mikleo managed to comment, through his discomfort, as he and Sorey walked to the bakery as the man they were speaking to had given them directions. “Yes. We all know about Mosquitos Steve.”)

Still, it was more than Sorey could’ve ever dreamed of. This sense of normalcy was a hit of comfort and nostalgia for his days in Elysia, in a time when the rest of the world had marched on so far without him. And, moreover, it was really interesting reading all the literature on the intervening period, and then grilling seraphim who’d lived through those periods to check for accuracies and contrasting viewpoints. And, moreover, it was a pleasure beyond words doing it with Mikleo by his side, with all of eternity stretching out in front of them.

This merging of worlds is what led to the subject of the day’s outing: a cozy little inn near the town (now city) of Lastonbell, tucked away from the city’s lights and avant-garde art installations, and tucked away from the Shepherdsmas bustle and the cold winter winds. Known for its history, and its hot springs, it was owned and managed by a merged human-seraphim family. That would’ve been enough to pique Sorey’s interest, but add in the prospect of great food and a soak in the hot springs with a hot babe…

“…And as for the hot springs,” Mikleo continued to explain to the group as they walked up the lengthy stone steps to the inn’s entrance. “You could, of course, just go to the back and soak in the ordinary springs.”

“Which I will,” Edna quipped. She’d grown weary of climbing steps and was forcing Zaveid to carry her on his back; she was bound to him with vines, seated in a comfortable chair of flowers, while Zaveid huffed and puffed.

“But did you know that there’s a thousand-year-old log that the resident seraphim have enchanted to serve as a private spring?” Mikleo tried to steer the conversation back.

“Wow,” Edna said drily. “An old log.”

“Wow…” Sorey breathed, voice breathless with awe. “An old log…”

“A thousand-year-old log!” Mikleo reiterated, voice brimming with excitement. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means that we’ll get to enjoy the hot springs without having to watch you two canoodle,” Edna said, and gave Zaveid a whack with a vine before he could make any sort of lewd followup. “Giddyap.”

“I’m afraid I’ll also have to take a rain check on the, ah, alternate bathing arrangement,” Lailah said. “I’ll leave you two boys to it, but please fetch me from the sauna when everyone’s finished up, woodn’t you?”

Everyone fell into a pained and eerie silence. Lailah’s eyes darted around, and she cleared her throat.

“Fetch me from the sauna, woodn’t you? When you boys are done with your log?”

As the silence stretched ever onward, Zaveid sighed tragically.

“Guys, I’m gonna have to save my own skin on this one. Have fun with the log and don’t get splinters where the sun don’t shine.”

With that, he summoned the power of the wind and dashed up the remaining steps in the blink of an eye, trailing swirling snowflakes and flowers from Edna’s perch as he went.

Lailah stared at Mikleo and Sorey, expectantly.

“…haha,” Sorey offered a weak laugh. “A-anyway, with the log being that old, it means that this inn predated us by a long shot. And could mean that the seraphim and humans running this place could’ve been doing the same thing back then, too…”

“With much less tourist traffic, but yes,” Mikleo agreed. “It’s something I’d love to ask the owners, after we’re done with dinner and our bath.”

Sorey’s ears perked up, hopefully. Mikleo gave a knowing smile.

“The private suite that has the log isn’t easy to get,” Mikleo said, his tone brimming with pride. “But of course, I pulled some strings.”

Great food, and a soak in a really old log with a hot babe. Sorey was the luckiest man alive.

 --

 Sorey’s jaw was slack with awe as he saw it. As he saw The Log.

“Wow…” Sorey marveled.

He and Mikleo both crept up to it as if it was a rare animal, as beautiful as it was dangerous, as if it was ready to roll away and into the winter’s night if spooked. It was exquisitely-carved and preserved, and the growth rings exposed at each end coyly insinuated at it being even older than anticipated. There were no plumbing elements installed to spoil its perfection; it was simply pure wood, pure Log. Truly a marvel worth the long trip, the long stair climb, and the painful sting of Lailah’s puns.

“Would our guests care to have their bath, or should this one leave them to admire it for a while longer?”

Mikleo and Sorey were startled out of their reverie by a low, serene voice. It was one of the inn staff, standing so still and so quiet in the corner of the elegant bathing room that they hadn’t even noticed them in the presence of the magnificent log specimen. Dressed in a modest but striking blue-and-black kimono and wooden sandals, the staffperson slowly glided over to the tub-side, regarding Mikleo and Sorey with an unknowable expression. With a wave of their hand, they summoned hot water to fill the tub.

“Well, at least we’ve found someone to chat with about the inn’s history,” Sorey thought.

The fragrance of an ancient forest filled the cool winter air, and the stream from the bath wafted to the open-air balcony to join the dancing snowflakes outside. The staffperson lowered a hand to touch the surface of the water; ostensibly testing the temperature for their guests. The effortless way they’d woven their artes made Sorey suspect that the gesture was more for guests’ ease of mind, rather than any uncertainty on the staffperson’s part.

“Our guests shall find towels and refreshments laid out for them,” the staffperson said. “Please do not hesitate to summon me as needed.”

With that, they bowed, and turned to fold themselves back into the shadows (or the staff corridors) from whence they came. Sorey managed to shake himself free of the enchanting log in time to call out.

“Wait! Can we ask you a few questions about this place?”

The staffperson slanted a look over their shoulder. Their white-blue hair was tied up into a severe bun that was quite at odds with their youthful features, and their ice-blue eyes showed an ancient weariness.

Sorey scratched at his head, mussing its newly-long (and blond) length even further.

“First, um, I’m Sorey, and this is Mikleo…”

“Yes,” the staffperson said, simply. “Of course, this one knows the names of such famous guests. We hope that you find our inn to your liking thus far.”

“It’s great!” Sorey assured. “We just really wanted to know more about its history. Is it okay if we ask you some stuff? I mean, if you have the time. We’ll share our snacks with you? What’s your name?”

The staffperson paused for a long moment.

“Lithia,” they stated, finally. “Please, ask this one anything you care to know.”

 --

 Lithia was not only a font of knowledge, answering any question Sorey or Mikleo threw at them – they were also, as a matter of fact, one of the original founders of the inn.

(“No,” they had to clarify, at Sorey and Mikleo’s insistent questions, they were not the ones to chop down the log.)

It was through Lithia that the inn’s history was told, in full.

One thousand and twenty years ago, a seraph and a human fell in love, but they lived in a world that was not meant for them.

One thousand and twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen years ago, the seraph became weaker and weaker, more and more ill, suffering under the malevolence of the townsfolk and their cruelty towards their beloved human. It was different, back then. Humans fear what they don’t understand. Seraphim, also. Surely, our esteemed guests understand this too well.

One thousand and fifteen years ago, the human left human civilization behind, carrying the seraphim on his back, questing to find a place for the seraphim to recover in peace, a place to call their own.

There was, of course, no such place. Living as hermits in the woods would have to do instead.

They lived quite happily, the two of them. They enjoyed the beauty of nature, and the pleasure of each other’s company, for many years. The human eventually felled a tree and carved it into a lovely bath. The seraph used their artes to make it into a log hot spring. How whimsical, how unique; in another time, the two of them could have opened a lovely inn, and become known across the continent for their hospitality.

But of course, the human eventually aged and died, as humans do.

The seraph was left with the home they’d built together, and their silly little log bath.

The seraph was left like this for many, many years.

Eventually, humans began to see seraphim again. They began to live side-by-side. The seraph watched this from their forest house, with their silly log bath that they’d kept preserved all these years. The seraph was bitter for a while; angry, even. How dare they sort things out now, centuries too late?

The seraph was angry for years, with their house and their log bath. The seraph remembered their human so well, even after all this time. They remembered his voice, his face, his laughter. There was no one else to do so. There was no one left to remember him.

The human had always wanted to have an inn of his own, to host guests (which they could never have, without endangering the seraph) and hear stories from across the globe (which they could never explore, without endangering the seraph). The human had died without seeing this dream fulfilled. Even through the seraph’s anger, they remembered this, too well.

It was not a quick process. Lithia was known as being standoffish, even among the few other seraphim that had settled around their forest territory. It took years, and many meetings and partings. The young human attacked by forest beasts, who left offerings for Lithia for the rest of his life after they – in a sudden fit that even they could not explain ��� saved him, healed his wounds, and sent him on his way after his recovery. The travelling earth seraph with their team of human workers, who fixed up Lithia’s home after an earthquake finally brought down one of the ancient walls that could no longer be patched. The fire seraph, wandering through the woods, with the light in their eyes extinguished after losing their human family to disease.

It was not a quick process. But by and by, Lithia’s anger subsided, and eventually, they opened this inn.

“The two of you enjoy a rare gift,” Lithia stated. “It is not common for the love between a human and a seraph to end happily. I ask only that you treasure the opportunity you have been given.”

Mikleo’s hand had already found Sorey’s. Sorey’s hand squeezed back.

“Of course,” Sorey said quietly.

“And,” Lithia added. “Please refrain from having relations in the log.”

Mikleo and Sorey simply stared, wordless. Lithia tilted their head.

“Um,” Sorey said eventually. “I don’t think. That’ll. Be a problem.”

Lithia made a small noise. “Oh. I was not aware that the former Shepherd suffered such an affliction. I can brew a medicinal tea, should he wish to have the urge fall upon him.”

“We’re good! We’re good!” Sorey hastily clarified. “Um, it’s no problem, we promise. Thank you so much for opening your home to us, and letting us use something so dear to you…”

Lithia gave a small nod. “I only allow guests in this suite that I have personally approved. Ones that I personally judge worthy of it. The rest…”

Through the night air, there came the distinct sound of a vine whip against bare ass skin, and then Zaveid’s pained howling.

“The rest can bathe outside,” Lithia finished curtly. “Please, guests, enjoy your stay. I must take my leave to ensure no blood has entered the waters, lest I add the cleaning tab to your companion’s bill.”

“I think you should probably do it regardless,” Mikleo mumbled wearily. “Lords only know where Zaveid’s been.”

[sunlitneon]

Brenda Ridgewell and the Contemporariness of Moveable Space

Introduction

"Jewellery has a which means of its personal. Whether it's far tribal jewellery manufactured from bones and shells or exquisitely crafted jewel-encrusted crown, jewelry depicts memories and transcends messages. The author elaborately places big meanings in all jewellery pieces which includes its detail and comprehensive concept. The meanings are as though spiritual dimensions which the network can without difficulty and profoundly understand...Like silent however resonant sound," stated Brenda Ridgewell, Australian famend jewellery artist whose paintings in jewellery artwork is diagnosed within the worldwide platform.

In July 2007, Brenda Ridgewell general the invitation of the Department of Jewellery Design, Faculty of Decorative Arts, Silpakorn University to be an exchange visitor lecturer and maintain a joint exhibition with the 4th year students (Graduates-to-be this year), allowing us as art aficionados to look the connection of time from the past, present and future, in addition to locations of various cultural origins thru a classy aspect of a cloth attached on human frame. This fabric echoes the voice of identification, representing its foundation.

During the communication with the writer, Ridgewell shared her point of view to modern-day jewellers and/or students who were approximately to graduate and serve the network that it is the obligation of artists or jewelry designers to test material potentials, layout tactics, manufacturing methods, art additives, and many others as a way to master gear so that it will reflect the society of their times Remodelling jewellery. Besides, they need to take into their attention different factors that can give idea to people of the brand new century through this aesthetic means and with severe dedication. Her paintings: Moveable Space

Brenda Ridgewell's work portrays perfect combination of concepts and related art additives proven thru the interaction of shapes that move interactively. Ridgewell is interested in area and the search on human body to locate area which embodies and embraces the connection like intimate area. For instance, a number of her jewellery pieces explore the gap normally reserved for a lover or formative years since this day this type of space is hard to be set aside to preserve our experiential secrets and techniques. Thus, we should shield and keep this area.

Jewellery is therefore the exceptional medium to articulate these ideas because it extends past the frame floor and needs to be seen from the close distance within the intimate area. It is as although we need to input the wearer' personal space in order that this personal space thing created will reveal tales. The area is just like the wearer's cage affirming her goal. Although this area: dependent jewellery is robust, the shape can exchange to help the twist following the strain. We can listen the sound of this flexible space whilst it movements. The tender sound reminds us of the significance of this space in our lives. Even if the motion association can evoke chaotic trembling of the shape for the reason that each detail can move freely from the others, the connected shape can deliver the piece back to order with the aid of shaking, twisting or transforming it.

The elaborate neckpiece comprising coiled silver and stainless reasons movement feeling. Each of the wearer's motion creates new possibilities starting up new area in the authentic geometric design. Likewise, the linked structured piece is like high-rise towers constantly jostling around each other, bringing approximately new relationship and releasing itself from constant geometric shape.

These jewelry portions are created to be worn and constitute area which showcases aspectual possibilities and courting after they move and engage on the frame. The rectangle bracelet linked across the wrist creates various diamond areas each in open and near manners, like drawing photos in an empty space. Its extending coloration make the item stand out, developing larger visual and real space.

Though the distance created may appear empty, it does incorporate memories due to the fact it is designed to acquire intimacy, stretching the air of opportunities which are ready to be grasped or saved thru the open twine. In the identical way, existence experiences are kept and connected in intimate space. They have an effect on human thoughts, recollections and goals which we bear in mind within the forms of imagination and fable via aesthetic approach. Therefore, Ridgewell's space is a traceability device, a memory reminder, and serves to protect and preserve the core of humans.

For Ridgewell, every other crucial detail of human beings is our potential as a race of favor items. We are searching for substances to meet the pleasure of creation and revel in the designed products as well as the jewellery manufacturing procedures along with steel alloy techniques, melting, casting uncooked materials and other techniques. Raw materials should be carefully selected. Ridgewell specifically employs sterling silver and stainless due to the colors and strength. Another cloth used is cubic zirconia, which is finished on the twine give up and may be magically visible most effective while one appears cautiously. Dazzling gold incorporated in lots of portions enhances heat smooth glow. The preciseness and details of each joint, the jewellery form crafted from inspiration, all of those elements affirm the importance of the overall structure. These new systems emerge from complex thoughts, abilities and reports as in advance stated, visualizing the artist's abstract thoughts.

Her production innovation, for example the advent of technical additives and such innovative concepts, has put Ridgewell and her colleagues within the global highlight. Ridgewell advised the author that her decision to paintings out of doors metropolis metropolitans like Melbourne and Sydney or London and New York has resulted in her independence. She needed to search for the ability of life-style which developed into characteristics of particular visions regardless of residing in a much less opportunistic vicinity in terms of presenting herself and her paintings. Optimistically, selecting to live in a faraway vicinity is much less restrained and gives more possibilities of factors. Meanwhile the artist remains able to seize up with new stuffs that take place within the international. With this and her problem fixing has encouraged folks that guide her work and lots of neighborhood artists who've fewer possibilities to emerge at the forefront of the global cutting-edge jewelry platform.

Ridgewell's work is widely identified in the global stage, even more famend in London than West Australia. However, the Artist and the author mainly agreed that any jewelry portions need to be supplied and first usual among local target market who proportion the identical culture. It is an extremely good evidence that we and neighborhood target audience who percentage the equal origins recognize, consider, appreciate and may connect to this cultural size of communications thoroughly. This is the toughest element and yet it is greater proud than being supported in lands of different identities considering that to carry out in a specific area, the work is already greater distinct.

Conclusion

The creator chose to offer and examine the paintings of Brenda Ridgewell, of all due recognize, in hope that this newsletter can function creative givings to all college students who are approximately to graduate, not handiest college students inside the Department of Jewellery Design on the grounds that art isn't any distinctive to westerners or easterners. All folks can understand the essence of creations profoundly, irrespective of what paperwork or functions, due to the fact all of them come from the equal roots. Furthermore, the discipline of conceptualization which calls for relentless research, analysis, synthesis and hassle solving will be the absolute statement in its own and this ray of natural information shall be unfold and extended to others. By this matter, the spiritual development via collective aestheticism will get up correctly.

Thus, we, representatives of today and the future cannot overlook to relieve pains of Thai folks that be afflicted by bodily crisis, weak minds or desolate spirits when they come across loneliness. Even although humans claim that the sector has end up smaller, the cyber society has precipitated us to lose this human interplay. The globalization, the politics whether or not it is the unfaithful democracy or capitalism have lessened space of the poor, etc. Through the continuation of inventive substance or the efficiency of design, with sturdy creative production and the consistency in presenting conceptual essences, we will maintain and reinforce Thai ways of existence, outlooks and focus to the next era. Ultimately, inventive objects have the cost to uplift bodily and spiritually, beyond being merely wearables, in particular in Thailand, which has its roots in religions, arts and cultures because the vintage days.

[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2019, Part III

Part I is here. Part II is here.

PRETTY GOOD MOVIES

80. Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story by Martin Scorsese (Martin Scorsese)- Can one put a star rating on Bob Dylan, with renewed purpose, belting out "Isis" in a head and shoulders close-up to New Hampshire teens? What about a naked moment when he and Joan Baez simultaneously realize they should have married each other, and he, for maybe the first time, has nothing to say? As a Dylanologist, I'm glad that this footage from an under-reported period saw the light of day. You can start to think about stars when Martin Scorsese, my other dad, does everything he can to complicate and ultimately undermine that footage with his contributions. I appreciate that he uses his documentaries to experiment and chart his passions, and I think that I get what he's doing with his present-day chicanery, but it does not work for me. Shout-out to when Bob Dylan claims, of one of Scorsese's fake people, "He seemed to need enemies. Even when there weren't any." I felt that. 

79. Serenity (Steven Knight) Djimon Honsou: Lawful Good Jeremy Strong as "The Rules": Lawful Neutral Anne Hathaway: Lawful Evil Diane Lane: Chaotic Good The Kid: Chaotic Neutral Jason Clarke: Chaotic Evil The Bartender: Lawful Neutral Matthew McConaughey: True Neutral Me, Believing Almost Sincerely That This Is a Good Movie: Chaotic Neutral

78. Atlantics (Mati Diop)- It's plenty effective as a window into a patriarchal society I wasn't familiar with, but Atlantics doesn't ever match the heights of its exquisite opening. At the risk of getting banned from this website--and I do realize what I'm implying here...not enough happens.

77. Birds of Passage (Ciro Guerra and Cristina Gallego)- After enjoying the formal invention of Embrace of the Serpent, I was interested to see Guerra and Gallego's spin on a well-worn genre like crime. So I was surprised to see how conventional Birds of Passage was. The indigenous Colombian rituals provide some color and grandeur, but otherwise this is a rise and fall that I've seen before, complete with a hothead character that threatens the whole operation. Perhaps my favorite part of crime movies, the alluring sinful fun that ropes the viewer in and makes him complicit, is nowhere to be found.

76. The Last Black Man in San Francisco (Joe Talbot)- I admire Joe Talbot's debut more than I like it. It's straightforward in its ideas of African-American and masculine performance, and it boils its essence down into a really effective scene near the end (on the bus). It does get tedious though. The protagonists' goals keep changing in a way that makes it seem like the film is overcompensating for how simple it actually is. 

75. Running with Beto (David Modigliani)- Beto O'Rourke is both inspiring and goofy, able to get me to look to the stars and roll my eyes within the same breath. This movie is pretty standard for its genre, but its greatest strength is getting us to see that all people present those contradictions on an individual level, while most people, if we're talking about blue and red states, are the same collectively. 

74. Gemini Man (Ang Lee)- Ang Lee treats Gemini Man like a test reel for 3D high-frame rate presentation, and I think I would have liked the film much less if I hadn't enjoyed the bells and whistles. (Find me in the club and ask me about the HDR--I can go deep.) You could read the film as a comment on Will Smith's Movie Stardom: We're the product of our experiences, and up-and-comers lack some of the character/baggage that Smith brings even if those imitators can approximate his bluster. (The fact that the film is a commercial failure adds another layer. Perhaps the cultural bridge that Smith created is no longer necessary.) 

But you'll notice that none of that stuff is dealing with the text, which rarely does the unexpected, especially when it comes to the mustache-twirling Clive Owen character. The film pointedly avoids a romance between Smith and Mary Elizabeth Winstead, and that's another absence that I'm pretending is a plus.

73. The Hummingbird Project (Kim Nguyen)- At first, the film has trouble selling itself, almost underplaying how quixotic the characters' plan to beat the stock market is. Once it settles in after a few false starts, it expands into a story about how precious time is in general, an idea that Jesse Eisenberg sells in his sympathetic performance. The other characters don't fare as well. Skarsgard's foil is comparatively static and dull, and a dialed-up Salma Hayek makes this a more external, obvious picture than it should have been. But there are long stretches that I like. 72. Escape Room (Adam Robitel)- I was exhausted in a good way as the movie rocketed through its setup, showing us the backstory of half of its characters while bypassing the rest. I was exhausted in a bad way by its fourth ending. Basically though, this movie does its job. And I'm glad that some of these thrillers are still envelope-pushing PG-13's. 71. Late Night (Nisha Ganatra)- There's a preposterous scene swinging into the third act that I just cannot accept or get behind, and it introduces a wave of Serious Scenes of People Getting Real with Each Other. But I haven't seen such a distilled juxtaposition of second-wave feminism and third-wave feminism before, let alone in a comedy. Some solid jokes. And John Lithgow playing piano while feeling bad about himself! 70. Non-Fiction (Olivier Assayas)- Non-Fiction is a sign that Assayas, always prolific, is entering the Woody Allen Zone. That is, he, a filmmaker capable of great formal beauty, has left behind formal rigor for a moderately funny tale about pseudo-intellectuals having conversations that would have been provocative five or ten years ago. 90% of the film depicts infidelity, but it isn't really about infidelity. Just as every latter-day Allen picture has two or three immaculate jokes or inward moments, Non-Fiction, despite its lack of ambition, has some perfect Assayas inter-textual flourishes. The Selena character bemoans the disposable nature of the TV show she works on, but Assayas drops us into one of the show's wintry, over-exposed shoot-outs as if to capture a genre he'll never fully pursue. He also writes a joke in which Selena, played by Juliette Binoche, claims that she'll try to talk Juliette Binoche into recording an audio book.

69. Crawl (Alexandre Aja)- I guess you could say something negative about this movie, but you would also have to mention that ol' girl lets off a full clip from inside the gator while it is chomping her arm off. So it pretty much has that Academy Awards category sewn up. 68. Long Day’s Journey Into Night (Bi Gan)- as Chinese Jerry Seinfeld once said, "Why don't they make the whole movie out of the hour-long unbroken 3D take?"

67. The Art of Self-Defense (Riley Stearns)- The Art of Self-Defense is a film of two halves--in a way that, actually, Riley Stearns's previous film Faults was. For me, those two halves, one being slow and pre-ordained, the other being wild and unpredictable, are too extreme on either end. The vagueness of the setting is a weapon that goes a long way in unifying those parts though. Even if I couldn't get down with the silliness, The Art of Self-Defense is worth checking out for Alessandro Nivola's career-best performance. The movie is about performative masculinity, so he has the challenge of playing a sort of confident monolith while also being totally specific. He's everything you would imagine a karate instructor to be, but he also takes his glasses out of their case in a way I've never seen before.

66. Dolemite Is My Name (Craig Brewer)- Keep in mind that I couldn't make it all the way through Dolemite proper, so I'm not the intended audience for this film's "let's put on a show" awe. The structure is notable: It starts with Rudy Ray Moore as a failure who has tried everything, crests past the shooting of his movie, and uses that completion as a plot point, only to focus on the distribution for the third act. That is, the screenplay breathes new life into the plot right when it needs it. Eddie Murphy's best performances always seem like regretful commentaries on his own relationship with the audience, (I'm picturing the final speech of The Nutty Professor.) and he follows suit here. Even better is an effete Wesley Snipes as the too-cool-for-school D'Urville. Despite all of the talent involved, however, the thing just isn't funny, and it's least funny in the comedy club scenes that are supposed to sell us on Rudy Ray Moore's genius. If it's not supposed to be funny, then why populate the movie with five comedic supporting actors?

65. Harriet (Kasi Lemmons)- History classes could do a lot worse. Like a history class, the film has so much ground to cover that it has to make choices for pacing, and even then it still feels like a greatest hits. It does have a surprising, brazen edge though, and it's more spiritually curious than I was expecting. Kasi Lemmons leans in to the mystical side of the story, using Tubman's spells as conversations with God that give her the confidence that she needs. The device is a double-edged sword though: What distinguishes and others Tubman, what makes her the chosen one, is also kind of passive and out of her control. Speaking of out of control, Joe Alwyn plays the slaveholder who ain't gonna be as nice as his pappy was. "Seems to me things have gotten a little too easy 'round these parts." 64. Motherless Brooklyn (Edward Norton)- Like Edward Norton, Motherless Brooklyn is sincere and smart and shows its work. Also like Edward Norton, it sort of tires you out after a while with how hard it's trying. I respect the ambition--the film tangles itself in race and jazz and urban planning and makeshift families--but by the third or fourth time that the hero blacks out while getting roughed up, the film reveals that it can't quite thread the needle between noir pastiche and noir cliche. It's satisfying enough as a mystery in general.

63. The Two Popes (Fernando Meirelles)- I'm the target audience for 21st century papal fan-fic, and even I started to zone out during the flashbacks. Jonathan Pryce sort of disappears, but I think this is the first Netflix prestige project being judged on a curve.

[charyzard]

Jaal x Ryder, 1900 words. Fluff fic with very minor NSFW, based on a prompt for a massage. Should be spoiler free! Read it on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10857699

Fiona Ryder realized something was wrong when she tried to put her pajamas on and was met with a piercing pain in her shoulders. After a moment of wincing and cussing, she prodded the sore muscles with a gentle hand, only to find that she was tenser than she’d ever been. Her back felt like solid rock, and she knew that couldn’t be healthy.

“SAM, is Lexi awake?” Fiona asked, slowly bending to put her sleep shorts on.

“Yes, she is in the midst of an autopsy report on the most recent kett Ascendant we have killed,” her AI replied. “I do not think she would enjoy being disturbed.”

Fiona sighed- he was probably right. She needed a back rub desperately, something to work the knots out of her shoulders and the pinching feeling from her lower back. Lexi was probably the most qualified, though any of the humans on the crew were probably familiar enough to do a good job. Still, she really wanted Jaal to do it. After their last private encounter, Fiona was eager to spend more time with him.

“And,” she mused, “He’ll want to learn more about human anatomy. Win win!” Fiona pinged the tech lab with her omnitool, getting an answer within a few seconds.

“Darling one, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Jaal’s voice was low and warm, and Fiona blushed.

“I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Well, I’ve been really tense lately, and my back is hurting. Are you familiar with massages?” She crossed her fingers, hoping that they did.

On his end, Jaal hesitated. Angara did know about massages- in fact, they were something shared between family and life-partners on a fairly regular basis. What gave him pause, however, was how much contact they’d be sharing. Yes, they’d kissed, spent long hours tangled up with each other filled with kisses and wandering hands, but that was in the dark, and they’d yet to… to take anything off. All the same, the thought excited him.

“Of course, tavetann. Do you mind if I bring something to help?” He glanced at his lotions- there was one that helped with muscle pain, and it would likely do the same for her. At least, he hoped it would.

“Um, yeah, whatever you thing would work!” Fiona was nervous about that- what was he talking about?

“Good. I will be there shortly.” Jaal ended the connection, rising from his bed. He tightened his sleeping robe and grabbed the bottle of lotion, heading out of the tech lab and down to the pathfinder’s quarters. Tann was sitting pensively at her door, his little gray paws gently clawing at the metal- he’d have to tell Gil that his cat-door protocol wasn’t working.

In Fiona’s room, she was scrambling to look alright. She made her bed quickly, ran a brush through her hair, made sure her teeth were clean. No matter how many times she saw Jaal, she still wanted to look her best around him.

“Pathfinder, Jaal is outside of your door. Tann the cat is accompanying him,” SAM announced, and Fiona acknowledged. The metal door slid open with a small hiss, revealing Jaal in his dark blue robe, Tann in one arm, a bottle of lotion in the other.

“Hello,” He greeted, distracted by Tann struggling for freedom. “Down you go,” he said quietly, letting Tann free gently. The cat ran into Fiona’s room, heading straight for his scratching post. Fiona laughed, bringing a smile to Jaal’s face. He loved her laugh, even more so when he was the one to cause it.

“You look comfortable,” Fiona commented as Jaal walked over to the bed, sitting down next to her. He gently kissed her in reply, one hand settling on her waist, the other cupping her head gently.

“But you are not. What wrong with your back?” He was concerned, running one of his large hands across her shoulders. He squeezed softly, his expression changing as Fiona reacted to the pressure. “I assume you are supposed to be softer there. Not like a rock.”

“No,” she sighed, leaning into him, “Humans are supposed to be softer there. And down here.” Fiona guided his hand down to her lower back, pressing his fingers into the knots.

“Fiona, how long have you been like this? You can’t fight well with your muscles in this state. Come here.” He pulled her into an embrace, folding her into his arms. Fiona loved it when he did that, pulling her in and making her feel… sheltered. Small. It felt good, after being forced into the role of pathfinder, to know that someone could still do that for her.

“I have been looking over Dr. T’Perro’s files on human anatomy, and I will do my best to avoid sensitive areas. You will have to guide me, though,” Jaal stated, and Fiona could feel his voice vibrating in his chest. She pulled back, grinning, and nodded.

“Of course, but only if you tell me what you have in that bottle of yours.” She gestured to the lotion he’d placed on the nightstand, and Jaal lit up with a smile.

“This is a muscle relaxing lotion. It will help, if I massage it into your skin. I think. I am not sure how it will react to human physiology. We should test it first.” Jaal reached for the bottle and put a small dab onto his hand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He gently brushed it along the top of Fiona’s hand, and she raised her eyebrows.

“It tingles, is that, like, normal?”

“Does it burn or itch?” He was watching her skin closely for a reaction.

“No, just a little tingly. Like menthol.”

“Menthol?”

“It’s a chemical compound that makes things tingly. Pretty ‘cool’ stuff,” Fiona explained, snickering at her pun, and Jaal nodded.

“It sounds similar. Now- ah- your shirt…” Jaal trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His hands were clasped nervously, but a small smile crossed Fiona’s face and she rolled her eyes.

“So bashful, Jaal. You’re not even the one stripping,” she teased, then pulled her shirt over her head.

Jaal’s breath caught in his throat. As her arms extended, tossing the shirt to some corner of her room, Fiona looked like a sculpture.

“Stop, for a moment,” Jaal requested, and Fiona paused her action, arms still in the air. “You look like art, tavetann.”

Fiona blushed, slowly setting her hands down in her lap. “Well, that’s got to be one of the nicer compliments anyone’s given me.” Fiona was loathe to admit it, but most of the people she slept with were a lot less emotionally invested.

Jaal stared at her intently, focusing on how her skin curved and sloped across her delicate bone structure. He could tell where her ribs were, the slight definition of her abdominal muscles- she looked a lot like the diagrams Lexi sent- just more real, more wonderful. Eventually he settled on her chest, curious about her breasts. Humans demonstrated greater sexual dimorphism than angara, and Jaal was struck by a sudden urge to feel if she was as soft beneath her clothes as she was on her normally exposed skin.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Fiona snorted, and Jaal blinked.

“You wouldn’t mind?” He rather wanted a picture of her to keep with him, and with her skin bare, she was even prettier.

“No- I- It’s an expression. But I mean, I guess I wouldn’t.” She blushed, and he shook his head.

“I will settle for seeing you in person. Now, lay down, let’s see what we can do to help you,” Jaal said softly, watching her carefully. Fiona stretched and laid face down on her bed, arms resting beneath her pillow. She had goosebumps, less from cold and more from anticipation. Jaal settled across her thighs, straddling them carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her. Fiona shifted slightly, and eventually they found a comfortable position.

Jaal squeezed a small amount of lotion between his hands, holding it between his palms to warm it. The concoction would heat up on its own, but there was no reason for the first part to be unpleasant. He gently placed his hands flat against her shoulder blades, rubbing the lotion over her shoulders and working his thumbs into the very obvious knots. Fiona moaned under his touch, and Jaal’s reaction went straight to his core. He swallowed nervously, but carried on, drawing little sighs and soft breaths from his partner. He loved how she moved under him, her muscles softening the more he worked them. He loved the soft slope of her lower back, how it dipped and rose at her hips, how he could trace her spine with the slightest pressure. And her tattoo, the star at the nape of her neck, he wanted to kiss it. Jaal wanted to kiss all of her skin, taste the sweetness of her, lavish her with all of the attention he could give.

“I will never know,” Jaal rumbled, his fingers dancing up the sides of her breasts, “How you found me. How lucky I am that you crossed a galaxy to come into my life, you exquisite creature.”

Fiona gasped, arching her back into the bed. His words were as erotic as his touch, and Fiona had to suppress the sudden urge to roll over and kiss him. Instead, she groaned into her pillow and rose up onto her elbows, simultaneously frustrated and overjoyed that Jaal was… wandering. He used the opportunity to slide his hands onto her chest, both hands cupping her breasts. She was soft, and as he applied pressure, Fiona whimpered.

“Jaal, do you- ah- do you know what you’re doing?” Fiona asked with a shaky voice, leaning up to press into his strong body. Jaal grinned, gently kissing her neck, and tweaked one of her nipples with his thumb.

“Obviously,” he hummed, then elaborated. “I have discussed human anatomy with Dr. T’Perro at length. But tonight isn’t about this, no matter how delectable you feel. Tonight is about relaxing, and you need to rest.” Jaal pulled back, leaving Fiona huffing in frustration.

“You can’t just tease me like that,” she whined, turning over to look at him. His arms were pillared on either side of her, and the smirk on his face was his answer. “You’re rude.”

He quirked a brow-ridge up, a habit he’d learned from Fiona. “Rude? Really?”

“Absolutely. Now cuddle with me.” Fiona reached up and wrapped her arms around him, pulling Jaal down with more force than he expected. Jaal obliged happily, settling into the bed with her. Fiona fluffed the blankets over them and tucked herself close into Jaal’s arms as the little spoon. Jaal took the opportunity to bury his face in her hair, the soft strands one of his favorite things about her. It always smelled like foreign flowers and her gentle scent; it filled his heart with something that might have been love. They held each other in silence, SAM taking the liberty of turning off the lights and dimming the large window that looked out onto the expanse of space.

“Jaal?”

“Yes, darling one?”

“Thank you. Not just for the massage, but for everything. For being here for me.” She sniffed, blinking away an errant tear- the emotions coursing through her were unexpected.

“I will always be there for you, Fiona. Wherever you go.” Jaal squeezed her tighter, kissing the top of her head. Fiona smiled, and for once, she believed that she’d found love.

[olivereliott]

Road tested: Gear from Aether, Pagnol and Vaktare

We’re always trying to unearth motorcycling’s latest and greatest apparel around here. So we cast a pretty wide net, and whittle our catch down to the finest of gear. But every now and then, kit from lesser-known, independent makers gets dragged in with the haul.

These indie gear gurus don’t have corporate bean counters to appease, so they can take chances the big names won’t. New and interesting styles are developed, different fabrics are experimented with, and some exquisite protective pieces are created. Here are three of the best indie brands I’ve found lately.

Aether Moto Gloves I’m an unapologetic fanboy of Aether Apparel: their gear consistently nails that balance between aesthetics and functionality, and everything is built to last. Company founders (and avid riders) Jonah Smith and Palmer West not only scrutinize every product to receive their stealthy logo, but also put their products to the test themselves. That means rider-specific features that some big names miss during the design process are caught and created.

The latest piece of gear to survive Jonah and Palmer’s riding rigors is the Moto Glove, an all-leather, short cuff mitt that has quickly become my go-to this summer.

I’m picky when it comes gloves. I want my hand protection to feel almost non-existent on the controls, but beefy enough to save my skin if I take a tumble. And the fit needs to be spot on. To that end, the Moto Glove delivers the goods with soft, pliable leather for the fingers that’s all-day comfortable, plus an attractive diamond-stitched, secondary layer of protection at the palm.

The party piece, though, is an elasticized panel that runs along the fleshy part of the thumb. It delivers a fit that few gloves can match, and allows the thumb to flex properly whenever your fingers aren’t curled around a grip. It’s that little bit of ingenuity, a simple solution that makes all the difference in the world.

There are additional leather runners atop each finger and a thin, flexible layer of armor sits beneath the continued pattern of diamond-stitched detailing. A large Velcro closure flap resides at the cuff and two more elasticized panels, both top and bottom, keep things sealed at the wrist.

The Aether Moto Gloves retail for $150, which isn’t exactly chump change. But if you subscribe to the buy once, cry once philosophy—and don’t need a full-blown technical gauntlet—they’re a stellar piece of kit. And should last for years to come. The Aether Moto Gloves are available in both black and tan and are backed by Aether’s lifetime guarantee. [Buy]

Vaktare Bomber jacket Vaktare owner and lead designer Estefan Duarte wasn’t impressed with the cookie cutter products in his local shops. So he started making his own. Designed and manufactured in Los Angeles, California, Vaktare (pronounced ‘Victory’) Motorwear Company is a small upstart that’s taken a unique approach to riding gear.

I was first introduced to their products just over a year ago when they launched a protective Peacoat named the Draugr. It was a decidedly fresh take on a riding jacket that broke all molds of convention by being a fashionable coat, made from wool, but designed with riding in mind.

The Bomber model that I’ve been riding with lately is actually the jacket that started it all for the Vaktare crew. I had my doubts as to how versatile a white wool jacket would be, especially when it came time to swing a leg over a bike. It didn’t seem like the most practical choice for the summer riding season…

On the aesthetic side of things I can honestly say the Bomber has grown on me. At its core it’s a jacket with a tried and true design that stays true to its aviator roots. I dig the inclusion of epaulettes, and the contrasting brown touches at the pockets, cuffs and stitching add some subtle sophistication. Be warned though, this jacket will grab attention. You need to be prepared to answer questions at stoplights and when you get to your destination, because it doesn’t look like anything else on the road. The only thing you need ask yourself, stylistically, is whether a white coat is something you can pull off or not.

If you can, know that the fit is similar to a tailored trucker jacket. On my 6-foot, 200-pound frame, that means a size 42 delivers a touch more room in the shoulders to allow movement in the saddle and hugs comfortably at the waist. The sleeves are cut to fall just beneath my cuff, so they sit pretty both on the bike and off, provided the bars on your bike sit low.

With a high bar, the extended reach causes the jacket to rise, devouring your neck, resulting in an ill fit and boxy look. I spoke with Estefan after wearing the Bomber for a bit and let him know about my issues. My guess is a stretch panel between the shoulders or a more articulated, radial sleeve style would help, but I’ve left that in his capable hands. Also, if you like to layer, jump up a size from your normal suit jacket choice as the fit runs slim.

In terms of protection the Melton wool outer is of the 14 oz. variety. That means the fibers that hit the road first are a bit tougher than an equally thick denim jacket, but the true protection of all Vaktare products actually lies beneath. A layer of 1000D Cordura lines the entirety of the jacket, which handles abrasion in a fashion similar to Kevlar but doesn’t offer the same level of heat resistance. On top of that, there are pockets integrated into the silky smooth Bemberg liner at the shoulders, elbows and back. The only downside here is that Vaktare do not supply armor, so you’ll either have to swap some out from another jacket or pick up an extra set. I slotted in my own D30 bits and there was little disruption to the fit.

In the elements, the Bomber again performs reliably well. On the Scout Bobber launch I was seriously concerned about how well the wool would breathe: temps in Minneapolis were boiling the mercury to the mid-nineties. To my surprise, the jacket actually ran cooler that I imagined. Did I sweat? Sure, but everybody was dripping on that ride, regardless of what layers they were sporting. Back home in Toronto I’ve had the Bomber out in a range of temperatures and the wool regulates things nicely. It even stands up to the odd downpour here and there, although it won’t replace my Aerostich for torrential rides.

Outside of my concerns about the sleeves, and pleas for the inclusion of armor, there’s little I would change here. The Bomber is a unique piece of kit that delivers on its promise of style and substance. That being said, a white, wool riding jacket isn’t going to appeal to everyone. And at the price point it occupies, $599, it’s definitely a stretch to add to your closet if you see it as a once-in-a-while piece. But if you’re looking for an everyday jacket that will raise eyebrows and start conversations, whether you’re riding or not, the Bomber has you covered. [Buy]

Pagnol M3 Pants Paulo Rosas has an undying passion for motorcycles. He has a history of involvement in the motorcycle industry and regularly rubs elbows with Southern California’s most celebrated builders. He also has roots in fashion and design. So it should come as no surprise that his line of products, produced under the Pagnol Motor banner, tick every box for performance and style.

Rosas’ work first grabbed my attention when the M1 Moto Jacket was featured on this very site . Needless to say, I had to have one and I’ve kept a keen eye on every piece of Pagnol gear that’s has come out since.

Leather pants are a tough sell. Unless your name is Jim Morrison, the thought of plunking down on bovine strides probably hasn’t crossed your mind. But as a rider, the abrasion protection afforded by leather is superlative, so maybe it should. So, in the name of science, I decided to give the M3 pants a try, to see if they’d channel my inner Lizard King—or have me ending up like Ross on Friends.

First things first: anybody concerned about access and egress issues should know that the M3 comes equipped with a ventilated lining. (Trust me when I say this is a good thing, especially after the 90-degree ride through the Land of Lakes). It maintains airflow and works as a wicking layer, doing a great job of preventing you and your pants from becoming one.

The M3 has ‘accordion’ paneling at the knees to allow for flex in the saddle, and has interior pockets at the hips, tailbone and knees, designed for slim fitting armor. Pagnol recommends SAS-TEC stuff but, again, D30 products slide in without any worries. The leather itself is 1.2mm tumble-aged cowhide that has a robust yet buttery smooth feel to it.

It’s the styling of the M3 that makes them a standout item, though. If you have memories of the racers of yore, you’ll spot the inspiration: it’s a classic style that wouldn’t look out of place on Mike Hailwood on the Isle, and it lends itself to the current trends in riding gear. Added features not common to retro-racers include functional pockets both front and rear—which are zippered for stowage and belt loops to customize fit.

Outside of my racing onesies, the M3 is the only leather legwear I currently own, so comparing it to anything similar is kind of tough. In terms of fit, these pants are as comfortable as a well worked-in pair of jeans, and sizing is true. I wear a 34 in Levis and the same works here. They do have a slim fit though, so if you want extra room, sizing up is a good idea.

Incidentally, my wife told me that the M3 “hugs tight in all the right places,” and paired with a white V-neck and a pair of boots off the bike, the look is “badass.”

As for negatives, the only thing I can see stopping anyone from loving the M3 is a stance on leather pants. They’re the kind of item that either suit you or don’t. If they do, know that supplies are currently limited. But the good news is that a new crop will be hitting shelves in the coming months. Right after Paulo finishes prototyping his new riding boots… [Buy]

Model images: Barry Hathaway (Indian Bobber) and Carolyn Merey.

[thecloudlight-blog]

New Post has been published on Cloudlight

New Post has been published on https://cloudlight.biz/blackberry-keyone-review/

BLACKBERRY KEYONE REVIEW

BlackBerry and TCL generated plenty of intrigues once they announced the KeyOne at Mobile International Congress in February. It’s continually clean to peer options to the traditional all-screen telephone design, and not many phones in this fee variety are still inclined to provide a physical keyboard. There’s, in reality, a marketplace of humans yearning for physical keyboards, even supposing it’s small, and the Android-powered KeyOne is a fantastic desire.

TCL is production the telephone, however, BlackBerry is at a price of software and updates — it’s all part of the organization’s new Cell approach. If you’re involved, don’t be — the KeyOne has all of the characteristics of conventional BlackBerry phones, which includes exquisite battery life, and a concern for security. However the key selling factor here is the keyboard, due to the fact, there’s no other cause to shop for the KeyOne with its $550 fee tag.

Let’s take a closer appearance.

BRICK-LIKE Construct, Precise layout

The BlackBerry KeyOne runs against the modern grain of wafer-thin phones with oversized screens. It’s thick, cumbersome, and has a smaller 4.five-inch show. We wouldn’t call it unpleasant, But the pinnacle aspect that houses the front-facing camera and LED indicator appears a touch dated, the backlit keyboard is simply too glossy for our tastes, and the two-tone front isn’t to our taste. nevertheless, the phone is without a doubt designed for enterprise, and it just seems as though it’s meant to be a productiveness workhorse. TCL has completed a valid job in preserving the acquainted appearance of preceding BlackBerry-made flagships.

nonetheless, it’s something specific. We adore how the top is flat with sharp corners, But the bottom is extra rounded. We haven’t seen a design like this earlier than in a cellphone. The again is minimum, elegant, and the rubbery texture gives more grip whilst dealing with the phone. You’ll find the electricity button on the pinnacle left fringe of the KeyOne and the volume rocker at the proper. Underneath the extent rocker, a Convenience Key acts like an on hand cause for your favored app or shortcut. We want Samsung might allow us to use the Galaxy S8’s useless Bixby button like this.

A USB Kind-C port on the lowest is surrounded by two speakers reduce outs, however, you wouldn’t recognize there’s multiple. Sound excellent is simplest Good enough, and it doesn’t get loud sufficient for blasting music.

Google Should Buy Blackberry Before The Bidding War Starts

If you had been riding down the road and you noticed a bike cross via with only one wheel and the motive force compensating for it with the aid of popping a wheelie, you would understand that sooner or later, they’re going to crash. Blackberry has been that one wheeled rider for years, and we’ve been essential to them before, specifically inside the e-book Virtual or Dying, but things are starting to trade.

Blackberry has finally thrown in the towel on its proprietary past and found out they’re now not going so that it will compete inside the real cellphone market on my own. Due to the fact, nobody cares sufficiently to build them apps. Sure, there are a few apps available, however, Blackberry users don’t get the absolutely top stuff. There was news final yr that Blackberry customers were capable of access Android apps, but on February 19th, 2015 it became introduced that a first-rate software program update could permit the whole suite of Blackberry 10 gadgets to get admission to Android apps. It changed into also introduced on February 25th, 2015 that Blackberry is running with Google without delay on securing devices ready with Android for work. This was no ordinary statement.

All of us realize that Blackberry has a few very wise human beings, progressive again

Cease answers, and some very valuable patents, but what they don’t have is incredible design innovation. They’re trying to enter a design contest with a Yugo that has a dual faster V-12. Which means… A heck of loads under the hood, however, you truly do not want to force it round, because it’s unsightly and no a laugh Due to the fact the rest of the car cannot really make use of all that electricity. Blackberry wishes a player like Google to accumulate them and make them a pressure again, and quite frankly, attractive.

It additionally makes the experience for Google, and in fact, perfect feel. Google is attempting to raid Microsoft’s fortress inside the office and productiveness surroundings, and if Google can crank up their safety and tool management, they begin making it clear for I.T. Directors to make the leap and move the whole lot to Google’s commercial enterprise platform. For all of you that do not realize, Google’s business platform is beginning to make some serious profits. Fee Waterhouse Coopers has migrated a chunk in their 185,000 personnel to Google’s business platform and while the advisory human beings take the plunge for his or her own needs, it’s likely time to begin listening. they’re no longer the simplest ones. Groups like Fuji, Jaguar, Roche, Salesforce.Com, Virgin The united states, and a lot of other giants are shifting to Google as nicely.

Google is riding Microsoft’s fort inside the workplace area and can simply pull it off with Blackberry’s help.

BlackBerry’s KEYone is an exciting return to form

Ith a built-in launch with built integrated works and the hopes of diehards at an all-time high, the stress integrated built-into integrated on BlackBerry and TCL to deliver on all that Mercury hype. We can not render a legit verdict but, however, my gut tells me they’re onto built-in. Say what’s up to the BlackBerry KEYone. Yes, “Mercury” became a higher call, and Sure, the capitalization is weird integrated me out too. Regardless of Notwithstandbuiltintegrated the character of its advent, the KEYone looks like a quite effective return to shape for an emblem integrated need of a boost.

The hardware hasn’t changed built-ins built integrated cell phone first broke cowl at CES

But we now realize what makes it tick. Internal is one of Qualcomm’s octa-center Snapdragon 625 chipsets, with an Adreno 506 GPU, 3GB of RAM and 32GB of storage. (Fortunately, you can toss integrated a microSD card as huge as 2TB, simply to be secure.) At the same time as it really is virtually now not the quickest piece of silicon obtabuiltintegrated, BlackBerry Mobile says it selected the processor “very built-in particular” to paintings built-in tandem with the three,505mAh battery to supply battery lifestyles that could stretch integrated two complete days — another traditional BlackBerry trait the KEYone tries to channel.

I wouldn’t fear a whole lot about performance, via the way. We’ve got visible that actual load-out before integrated gadgets like the Moto Z Play, and While it might not always blow you away, I used to be greater than pleased with how short this little built-in built-integrated. In spite of a non-integrated version of Android 7.1 Nougat onboard, navigatintegratedg via menus and frenzied multi-task built-ins were no problem — just what you’d want built-in a device built-intended built integrated to get integrated accomplished. Up front is that 4.5-integratedch display built-in at a slightly built-binary 3:2 built-in ratio. The whole Th built integrated on that 1,620 x 1,080 display screen seems crisp, even though it takes a bit being used to.

How a Medical Review Officer Can Help You

A clinical evaluation Officer has the potential to help you in an expansion of approaches. Their services will assist you to hand off as little or as lots of the drug testing software as your preference. This may make it less complicated in order to recognition on different elements of strolling your commercial enterprise.

Behavior Drug trying out

A medical assessment officer can be capable of Conduct all of the drug take a look at the review on your behalf. The principle advantage to that is that you will have a 3rd-celebration handling everything. It guarantees which you aren’t tampering with any of the effects if you want to make yourself (or your personnel) look better than they are.

You furthermore may produce other activities with your time. You don’t have the time Conduct drug testing on all your employees, particularly if you have a large payroll. Via working with an MRO, they will Behavior the whole thing in your behalf. they may sincerely offer you with the results so that you can take the necessary motion.

Look at consequences

In some times, an employee will take a look at advantageous for tablets and actually, be drug-free. this is when you need a medical overview officer to research the outcomes. This might contain interviewing the worker to find out what has been happening with them. It can be that they have been prescribed medicine from the medical doctor and one of the active components became robust sufficient to trigger a wonderful end result.

The significance of investigating is that you need to be fair to all employees. Mainly when a person says that they may be no longer on tablets, you want to give them the advantage of the doubt. You furthermore might do not want to lose proper personnel clearly due to the fact you didn’t bother to research the effects of a fine drug check. Because you need to be an impartial birthday party, having a 3rd-birthday party will assist you to stay compliant.

[anavoliselenu]

Grounded chapter 7

I sighed. “You don’t understand Selena at all. She would never do that. She’d never work against us. That would be too much like working against me, and she doesn’t have that in her. She is on my side without reserve, and she respects my judgement. If I tell her that I’m with you, that will just be it. She has my back, no exceptions. We’ve been partners through too much bad stuff for it to work any other way.”

“I hope you’re right…,” he said.

I bit the tendon between his neck and shoulder hard enough to make him moan. “What were you saying?” I asked him with a smile.

“I forget,” he breathed.

I got to work peeling off his clothes from behind. My smile grew wicked. “That’s what I thought…”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mr. Perfect

SELENA

Justin rose, striding to the closet. He came back out in a pair of boxers. “Don’t move,” he told me. “I need to get something from the entryway real fast.”

I didn’t say anything, and he looked at me. He pointed, the twist to his mouth almost playful now. “I mean it. Don’t move.” With that, he strode out.

“Crazy bastard,” I muttered loud enough for him to hear, but I didn’t move. I heard him laugh as he walked down the hallway.

I let out my own laugh when he strode back into the room. He had the soft beige scarf from the photo shoot wrapped around his neck. He grinned a wicked kind of grin. I felt myself grow wet just from that look.

He was out of his boxers and back on the bed in a flash of nak*d golden skin. I couldn’t look away.

He straddled me, unwrapping the long scarf from his neck slowly, teasingly. It took forever the thing was so long.

I watched him, captivated. I felt like I was getting an X-rated strip tease from a glorious God. “You’re the most beautiful thing on the planet, Justin,” I told him.

At the bottom of my vision I saw his erection twitch, and he closed his eyes for a long moment. There was no denying that he was susceptible to flattery, but that wasn’t why I’d said it. I’d said it because I couldn’t look directly at the sun and not remark that it was blinding and brilliant.

Once the scarf was free, he covered my eyes with it, wrapping it twice around my head. He raised my arms above my head, stretching them taut, his hard length rubbing along my torso as he did so. His c*ck pushed hard into my sternum as he wrapped the scarf around my arms. I gasped.

He wrapped that soft length from my wrists to my elbows. It was a firm hold but not tight. When that was secure, he wrapped it over my collarbone, lining it even with my underarms. He barely jostled me as he wrapped it around me twice there before moving down to my br**sts and then ribs. He wrapped it around and around with smooth sure motions, somehow managing to get it under my body while barely moving me. He wound it around my waist next, bringing it back up to wrap around both my eyes and arms, binding them together.

He had me well and truly caught when he pulled back, straddling my hips.

He said one word before he set to work on my body with his mouth. “Struggle.”

I tested my restraints rather hesitantly at first, not imagining that the scarf would pose any real challenge. It was so soft, so stretchy, but the man knew what he was doing. Always.

I gasped as he licked a path down my navel to my inner thighs. He sucked at a tender spot while I worked against the scarf, making no progress, just moving the wicked thing against my body deliciously while he did even more delicious things down below. He worked that clever mouth from my groin to that sensitive spot behind my knee and back again. I struggled hard, because it felt good, because I couldn’t believe that the ridiculous scarf could hold me so securely, and because I wanted my hands free to push that teasing mouth where I needed it to be.

I only succeeded in trapping myself more securely, and Justin took his sweet time moving that tongue just where I craved it.

I stopped struggling when he finally buried his face between my legs, thrusting his tongue inside of me before licking up to my clit.

He lifted his head as I stilled. “Keep struggling,” he told me.

I couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear the wicked smile in his voice.

He plunged two hard fingers inside of me, once, twice, and I came on a dime. He was kissing up my body, nudging aside the material where it covered a nipple. He sucked hard on my nipple as he plunged inside of me. I gasped and struggled harder against the soft bindings.

He was dragging his c*ck out of me, hitting every perfect nerve, when he uncovered my eyes. The rest he left imprisoned as he dug his elbows into the mattress on the sides of my br**sts and drove into me again and again. His eyes showed me that the tender-lover was driving for this ride, though the warm smile in his voice as he tormented me had given me fair warning.

“Say it, Selena,” he said, his voice more tender than demanding. Still, I knew it was an order.

“I’m yours, Justin,” I told him softly.

His eyelids fluttered briefly as he started to come inside of me. He bottomed out in me with the sexiest little moan, and I came.

“Cashmere f**king,” he told me with a smile as we caught our breath.

I laughed. “So that’s what that was called. Good to know.”

He unwrapped me from the long scarf slowly, rubbing it along my body as he did so. I rubbed against him, always craving his touch, even as my eyes drifted closed and I fell into a hard sleep.

I had the dream again and woke up scrambling out of bed in the dark, disoriented and scared. Hard familiar arms caught me almost immediately, lifting me from behind, and carrying me into the bathroom. I had to shut my eyes tight as light flooded the room.

We were already nak*d so he just stepped into the tub, never letting me go as he turned on the water and leaned back against the edge of the huge tub. I turned into him, wrapping my arms around his neck, clinging as hard as I could. Soothing arms stroked my back, washing and comforting, soft whispers telling me everything would be fine.

“I can’t stand it. I know it’s a dream, but it feels so real,” I whispered. I didn’t break down, didn’t cry this time, though the dream had shaken me as badly as before. More so.

“Shhh, Love. Just breathe. The memories will fade. Nightmare memories always do.”

He said it like someone well acquainted with nightmares. I wasn’t surprised.

I lifted my head to look at him. He stroked my hair, meeting my eyes squarely. He could communicate so much to me with just those exquisite, tarnished eyes of his.

I swallowed hard. Residual fear from the dream still haunted me. The thought of losing him made me desperate and empty and filled me with despair darker than anything I’d ever known, and I was hardly a stranger to dark thoughts.

I pulled back enough to move up his body, straddling his h*ps in the rising water. I traced a finger over that smooth brow, the hollow in his cheek, that perfectly straight nose, those pretty lips, and then across that hard jaw.

I cupped his face in my hands, watching him steadily. He pressed his own hands over mine, giving me such a loving look that I melted.

“The thought of losing you makes me desperate,” I said, shifting our faces closer. My eyes were steady on his when I took the leap. “I love you, Justin,” I said, my voice just a whisper. “So much.”

His eyes closed for just an instant, and he took a deep breath. When he opened them again there was such a raw relief there that it made me shake.

“Thank you,” he said roughly. “I’ve been waiting for that, and wanting that, for so long.”

He stroked his hands over my hair, watching me, his eyes going to that soft loving place that I’d come to crave and depend on so quickly.

He was silent for so long, just watching me and touching me, that I lost our silent standoff.

“Do you…love me?” I asked him, my chest hurting.

“That’s a silly question,” he said, stroking my cheek. “An unnecessary question. I’ve never made a secret of my feelings, Selena. I know you’re a skeptic, but you must have realized that I fell for you right away.”

I leaned my cheek into his hand. “Why haven’t you ever said the words, then?”

He bit his lip.

I watched that vulnerable action with rapt attention.

“I wanted you to say it first. Not for pride, and not for my ego, but for my heart. I haven’t said those words to anyone since my parents died, and I didn’t want the first time to be met with a rejection. I was afraid you would get spooked and run again. I preferred to give you time rather than break my own heart. Can you understand that?”

I nodded, feeling crushed under the weight of my own skepticism. I hated what my baggage had done to him, what it might do in the future, all of the pain it had caused him, because there was no cure-all for my issues. One big one was rearing its ugly head even as I had the thought.

“But why?” I asked him, my voice much smaller than I liked it to be. “That’s what I don’t understand.

His brows shot up, and he gave me a genuinely baffled look. “Why?”

“Why do you love me?”

His eyes got so soft, changed in an instant from confused and into that impossibly tender look that got me every time. “You want me to break it down for you?” he asked succinctly.

I nodded.

He traced a finger across my brow. “I can do that. I’d enjoy that actually. You’re my favorite subject, Love. I’ll start with your eyes. I fell in love with those first. One look was like a punch to the gut. You have these ageless eyes on such a young face. I just knew that you had seen bad things, lived bad things, and from the start, I knew that you could understand pain. Understand loneliness and despair. Understand feeling hopeless and helpless and alone. I fell in love with your eyes first because I looked into their depths and saw the other half of my soul.”

That got to me, and my eyes filled with those humiliating tears that I couldn’t seem to avoid lately.

He traced a tear down my face, giving me his fondest smile. “I freely admit that was enough to catch me, and you’re going to tell me I’m crazy, but I’ve been around the block too many times to count, and I was experienced enough to know, right from that first meeting, that I was falling for you. I didn’t understand it until after our first time together, wouldn’t have given it that name, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was lost from then on. But let’s get back to my favorite subject.”

He reached across the tub, turning the water off. He plunged that hand back into my hair to cup the back of my head.

“Next, I fell for that hard-won composure of yours, that steely self-control. When I got you to smile at me, or even to acknowledge my presence, it felt like an accomplishment. I’ve never needed the chase, never wanted it, really, but I relished it with you, even knowing that it was trouble for me, that you were trouble.”

“Next, hmm, let’s see, that’s harder to pin down, because that was a lot of things at once. I’ll lump it all together and say that I fell for your reaction to me next. Your submission. I’ve never felt anything like this kind of chemistry before. The way you trembled at my touch, that innocent response that you couldn’t hide, and that I couldn’t doubt. And then we made love. After that, I couldn’t call what I felt for you anything but love, not to myself, even knowing that you didn’t feel the same, at least not like I did—not yet.”

There was such an adoring sort of understanding in his eyes that I felt something raw heal inside of me. Yes, my natural skepticism had hurt him, but at least he seemed to get why I was this way. He seemed to get me.

He wasn’t done.

“And then there were your paintings. Those dreams in your eyes. The world cannot have been a beautiful place for you, but it becomes so beautiful through those paintings of yours. You put your soul into those paintings, and nothing in this world is more beautiful to me than that soul of yours.”

I had always been uncomfortable with praise, any kind of praise, and his outpouring was in a league of its own, as far as compliments that moved me went. I felt so overwhelmed that it was hard to keep looking directly at him, deep into those tarnished turquoise depths, but I managed it through sheer force of will, my whole body trembling with the effort.

He continued relentlessly. “And then there’s the fact that you’re stunningly beautiful, and you couldn’t care less about it. Your beauty devastates me, Selena, yet you put less value on that beauty than any woman I’ve ever met. Even if you realized just how stunning you are, which I know you don’t, it wouldn’t matter to you, wouldn’t make any difference at all, and I find that so charming about you.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve made a muddle of it all,” he continued. “Like all I do is screw up, but I swear to you that I’m trying my best. I’m only terrible at this relationship thing because I’ve never done it before, but I promise I’ll keep working until I get it right. I’m nothing if not determined.”

The thought floored me. I spoke without thinking. “Now that’s a depressing thought, Justin, because if you’re terrible at this, there isn’t even a word to describe how much I suck at it.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and my mouth moved into a smile automatically. He brought his laughing lips close to mine. “Not true, Love. You’re doing perfect, as far as I’m concerned.”

His mouth was a whisper away from mine when I spoke. “You haven’t made a muddle of it, Justin. You couldn’t be terrible at anything, even if you tried. I think you’re perfect.”

He kissed me, a kiss that started out soft but as always our unquenchable hunger for each other quickly took it further. He was gripping my hair and plundering my mouth within hot, drugging moments. I rubbed my wet chest against his.

We made love slowly, leisurely, lovingly. I lay my cheek against his wet chest when we finished, kissing my crimson name on his pounding heart.

He stroked my hair for long minutes, still buried inside of me. He seemed in no hurry to pull out.

“I love you, Selena,” he said very quietly. “There isn’t a thing about you that I don’t adore. Even the things that have made it hard for you to let me in hold a special place in my heart. I never thought I’d meet a woman that I couldn’t doubt, a person that I could so easily give my trust to, but I know your soul, and it is so pure and clear to me that I feel like I can see right into it.”

I didn’t know how he could say that. I felt so cynical sometimes. But I soaked up his words, loving the way they made me feel. I didn’t have to agree with the words to be touched by them.

“I love you,” I told him simply.

We were silent for long minutes, communicating only through stroking touches and soft kisses. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled slowly out of me, pulling me flush against him right away.

“Can I tell you about my parents?” he asked finally.

“Of course,” I said quickly, surprised that he thought he had to ask. “I would love to hear about them. I love to learn about you.”

“You would have liked my mother. She was so passionate, so opinionated, but also kind. She didn’t come from my father’s world, but she didn’t put up with any of the nonsense that the high society set tried to throw her way. She hated luncheons and teas, hell, she hated all of the insufferable social functions that weren’t directly helping a charity, and the term ‘socialite’ made her see red.”

His words brought me a staggering sense of relief. If he had expected me to do what Jackie suggested and devote my life to a pointless string of unenjoyable social functions just for the sake of keeping up appearances, I would have been troubled, because that just wasn’t for me.

“She kept a few close friends very close, and devoted her time to her family and to her charities. She was so beautiful.”

He paused, stroking my cheek.

“My father was a reserved man, but he was loving. I do remember that. He worked a lot, but when he didn’t, he devoted his time to my mother and me. He worshipped the ground she walked on.” He stroked my hair when he said it, his eyes loving.

“They had a good marriage. I was young, but even I could see how devoted they were to each other. They would share these looks… Even as I child I knew that they had something special.”

“As I got older, long after they’d passed, I didn’t imagine I could ever find something similar for myself, that I could ever feel something like what they had. I honestly didn’t think I was capable of it…Until I met you, I didn’t know I had those kinds of feelings inside of me. Now I see clearly that with the right person, it’s so simple. Those feelings aren’t something one can force, and they aren’t something I could deny once I felt them. It still just floors me that I felt them so fast and so deep with you.”

“My father liked to claim that he fell in love with my mother at first sight. Even back then, I thought he was just waxing poetic, but I believe him now. I did exactly the same thing.”

I looked up at him. “You’re insane,” I told him. The idea of love at first sight was just so far-fetched, especially since it was me he was talking about. “But undeniably, terribly romantic,” I allowed.

He just smiled. “I know. But I’m honest, and that’s just how it was for me.”

I rubbed my cheek against his chest, feeling like this was all a dream. He was just too perfect to be real.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Dubious

We slept in late the next morning. I was pleasantly surprised that Justin had taken the morning off so we could spend the morning together before I had to fly out. I would only be gone for the day, arriving back in New York early in the morning the next day, but it still felt like such a treat to get more time with him.

We lingered in bed, which was hardly surprising, since I woke up as he was pushing himself inside of me. He must have been at it for a while because I was wet enough that my body accepted him easily. He held my legs so far apart that the stretch bordered on painful, and pounded into me mercilessly, his eyes snapping at me all the while.

“Say it, Selena,” he said roughly.

I wasn’t actually sure which ‘it’ he meant, after our confessions from the night before, so I went with my instincts. He was f**king me like he wanted to own me, so I said what came to mind. “I’m yours, Mr. Cavendish. Only yours.”

I found out that my instincts were right on as he came inside of me, shouting my name roughly.

I was right there with him, watching him with fascination and love as my body clenched deliciously around him in a perfect orgasm.

He was tender afterwards, but it was a possessive sort of tender. We showered, and he took over completely, washing my body and hair, as was his custom. I was beyond questioning it. Letting him care for me like that fulfilled a need in both of us, and now I only cherished it, as he cherished me.

He dressed me, placing soft kisses all over my body right before he covered each spot with clothes. I ran hungry hands through his wet hair as he tended to me. He dressed me in a dark T-shirt and boxers, because I would have to get dressed again in work clothes in just a few hours.

We went downstairs for breakfast. It would have been tempting to have breakfast in bed that morning, but I was dying to see Stephan. I needed to make sure he was okay, so we headed to the dining room to eat. Justin didn’t even ask me. He seemed to always understand how Stephan and I worked. I didn’t know if he was just that observant, or if Stephan had explained it to him in even more detail than what I’d imparted. The how didn’t matter, though, because it was only his understanding that was crucial.

I felt my whole body get a little limp with relief when I heard laughter coming from the dining room as we approached. I recognized Javier’s laugh first, and the one that joined it was one that was more familiar to me than my own laugh. And more welcome.

I smiled at the sound, my step quickening to reach them. Justin was a silent presence at my back.

Stephan stood when he saw me, grinning ear to ear.

He was across the room and enfolding me into his arms in a flash. I burrowed into that familiar chest.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

He squeezed me. “I’m great.”

“I take it you guys worked it out,” I said wryly.

“We did.” No hesitation.

I nodded against him and after a moment, he let me go to get back to his breakfast.

I didn’t need to know any more than that. He’d made up his mind, and I could only hope that Javier, who was giving me very cautious glances, wouldn’t hurt him again.

Justin pulled my chair out for me, acting the gentleman. “Egg white omelet okay with you?” he asked me, heading into the kitchen.

I nodded, wondering what about me had attracted what seemed to be the last two gentlemen left on the planet.

I noticed that Stephan and Javier were eating crepes covered in syrup, whipped cream, and chocolate chips. I was surprised that Justin even kept the ingredients for that in his house.

Justin returned quickly, carrying a very English tea service. He served us all tea, acting the epitome of the well-mannered English host. I told him so.

He smiled. “I get it from my father. English from head to toe. Every cup of English tea that I drink makes me think of him.”

I thought that was a sweet thing for him to share and I gave him a sweet smile.

He winked at me.

I was startled at the response it caused in me. It was a pretty innocent gesture, considering the things he said and did to me on a daily basis, but it still had me turned on in a heartbeat. The man was hot.

We were almost through with our breakfast when I noticed Justin checking his phone, his expression growing carefully blank from one second to the next.

“Excuse me,” he said curtly.

He rose from the table and strode from the room.

I hadn’t realized how polite he usually was about taking calls during our time together simply because he didn’t do it. Which made me even more curious about what had gotten his attention, and what had put that look on his face. I was on instant alert.

A rare streak of uncontrollable curiosity had me following him within seconds. I wanted to see what had troubled him so badly with just a few words.

I caught him with his back to me in one of the sitting rooms. The door wasn’t completely closed, but he was speaking very quietly into the phone.

“Then offer them more. I mean it when I say I don’t have a limit to what I will pay to keep this from getting out.” He paused. “I don’t give a f**k if it’s a smart business decision, Roger. This isn’t about business. This is about keeping my life intact, the way I need for it to be, and I don’t give a f**k if it takes my fortune to accomplish that. Do you understand?” Another long pause. “I am not a fourteen-year-old that you are managing, Roger. I don’t need time to think. I need you to do what I’m asking you to. Take care of this.”

Fear froze me in my tracks, and I stood in the doorway, listening. His tone was so panicked, so desperate. I did not want to know what had put that fear in him.

I didn’t move from the doorway as he ended the call and turned. I had been eavesdropping on him, and I’d just as soon have him know it. Perhaps he would tell me what had happened, and it wouldn’t be as bad as the dread coursing through me was telling me it was.

He flinched when he saw me standing there, and that was so not good for my peace of mind. We suffered through a very long, awkward silence while he rubbed his temples and I watched him.

“Everything okay?” I finally asked him.

He grimaced. “It will be,” he said. That was all.

“Who is Roger?” I asked. Being with Justin seemed to have added nosy quite firmly to my list of character flaws.

“An old family friend. A sort of mentor to me. And my lawyer.”

I thought that sounded ominous, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask him to. If he didn’t want to share, I couldn’t make him.

He moved to me finally. He ran a hand over my hair, grabbing it firmly at my nape. He used it like a handle to tilt my face up to him. There was trouble in his eyes. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

I studied him, beyond confused. “About what?”

His jaw clenched and he watched me for a long time. “About loving me. I know you were tired and scared from the nightm—“

I couldn’t take it. I interrupted him rudely. “Of course I did! I wouldn’t say something like that just because I was tired.”

“Say it again,” he ordered roughly.

“I love you. Of course I do. You shouldn’t doubt me. I wouldn’t say it unless I meant it.”

“How conditional is that love? How much are you willing to withstand just to stay with me?”

I was starting to get angry. “I don’t like the question. Love in a monogamous relationship has to have some conditions, Justin. If you were unfaithful—“

“I’m not talking about that. I’d never do that. Does your love have other conditions?”

I glared at him, but I shook my head, finding the answer way too quickly. “I don’t think that it does, Justin. But again, I don’t like the question. Do you want to tell me why you’re asking it?”

He was gripping my hair to the point of pain now. “I’m asking it because every time I think that we’re on our way to building a future together, something from the past gets in the way, and I need to know that won’t happen to us again.”

I thought he was being deliberately vague, but I let it go. I was in no mood to open Pandora’s Box. “The past can only hurt us if we let it, if it really is the past that we’re talking about.”

He studied me, then kissed me roughly. He brought his mouth to my ear. “I want to tie you to my bed. Now. I want to keep you there.”

My brain short-circuited for an instant, going to that sublime place that only Justin could take me to. “I need to leave for the airport soon.”

“I know. That’s why I want to do it. So you can’t leave.”

I tried to meet his eyes to give him an exasperated look, but he was kissing me, invading my mouth until I forgot why what he’d said was so outrageous.

He pulled back only when he’d left me breathless and wanting.

“Have you given any thought to your painting career?” he demanded. “When would you like to start planning your first showing?”

I had, in fact, been thinking about it. It was a persistent sort of distraction in my brain. Especially when I considered that Justin currently paid much more to have me followed and protected on flights than I was actually earning on those flights. It seemed so wasteful and senseless.

“I have,” I admitted.

His jaw clenched when I didn’t elaborate. “And what are your thoughts?”

I gave him my little shrug. “I’m mulling it over.”

He gave me a rather pained smile. “Well, you let me know when you’re done mulling,” he bit out. “I would love to know your thoughts on the matter.”

He was obviously upset, but he dropped it after that.

We made our way upstairs. I put on my uniform while he put on his ungodly expensive suit. He was ready first, taking another mysterious phone call. He strode from the room, phone to his ear, while I put on a bit of makeup.

He was quiet and a little distant on the drive to the airport. He kept me close, a hand in my hair and the other on my knee. The distance was all in his eyes and his expression, which had been very carefully blank since that second phone call.

He only came to life briefly when we reached the airport and it was time to say goodbye. He let the guys file out before crushing his mouth against mine, his kiss was hungry and desperate.

We were both breathless and agitated when he pulled back.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

He nodded, but that trouble hadn’t left his eyes.

“Bye,” I told him.

He got out first to hand me out. “I love you, Selena,” he said.

I nodded. “I love you too, Justin,” I said steadily. I didn’t even feel the need to panic or withdraw at the words. They already came easily to my lips. I had it so bad.

Stephan, Javier and I were lucky to get a row of seats together for the flight, since we were flying space available. We all tried to sleep since we’d be working well into the next morning, but I didn’t think any of us got more than a one-hour nap on the four and a half hour flight.

I woke up from my nap as the plane began to descend for landing, the feeling familiar enough to act like an alarm on my body. My head was pillowed against Stephan’s shoulder. I rubbed my cheek against that supple muscle before pulling back to look at him. His arms were crossed over his chest, making his muscles bulge attractively. He was smiling and awake. He looked as happy as I’d ever seen him. It was a good sight for my heart, especially after all of the drama from the night before.

I saw that Javier was still passed out; his head pillowed onto Stephan’s other shoulder.

“Morning, Buttercup,” Stephan said softly.

“Just sitting here smiling while we sleep on you?” I asked him with a smile.

He just flashed a dimple at me, nodding. “Sandwiched by my two favorite people in the world. What’s not to smile about?”

I had to laugh. “So what happened last night?” I asked him. I didn’t want to ruin the mood, but I needed to know. That had been a lot of drama to be squashed so easily.

“Javier said he loves me,” he said with a very soft smile.

I was relieved and confused all at once. “What about before that?”

He grimaced and told me briefly about Vance and the way he’d bullied Javier.

I gripped his hand when he finished. I wasn’t sure what to think about all of it. Javier did have a reputation for loving drama, but on the other hand, I’d met Vance, and that one lived and breathed the stuff. I did know one thing, though. Stephan believed Javier with a certainty, and he would feel horrible for not defending the other man—instead walking away when he was being harassed.

“If that was what really happened, you couldn’t have known.”

He gave me a stern look. “You don’t believe that’s what happened?”

I gave him my little shrug. “You know I’m more cynical than you. I don’t know what to believe, but of course, I have my doubts. That doesn’t matter, though. If you’re together, I support that, because it’s what you want.”

He gave me a sad smile. “You shouldn’t be so cynical. I have no doubts about Javier, Selena.”

I nodded, watching him carefully. “I know. And like I said, that’s enough for me.”

“When are you going to learn that I’m not the only trustworthy person in the world?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one that he wanted to hear. Nothing but time and consistency would make me trust Javier with Stephan’s heart, and the drama of the night before had done nothing but set that time further back, whatever his story was.

“You don’t think he’s good enough for me,” he said, clear reproof in his voice.

I had to smile at that. “I don’t think anyone is good enough for you, myself included.”

He just shook his head.

We’d been over this, and neither of us ever budged.

“I told Justin that I love him,” I told him quietly.

I heard the familiar sound of the wheels coming down from the plane. I was surprised that Javier was still sleeping peacefully.

Stephan beamed at me. “That’s wonderful. Your therapist would be proud.”

I laughed, hardly offended, since he only spoke the truth.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what he said?” I asked him.

He shook his head without hesitation. “He’s been head over heels from the start, Buttercup. I had no doubts. That man worships the ground you walk on.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Callous

We had almost no downtime once we got to Las Vegas. Javier and Stephan said a quick and circumspect goodbye, though I could practically see the heat snapping between them.

We shuttled to our airline’s headquarters, checked in, and prepped for our flight, though that entire process was hardly uneventful.

All of the other crews that we greeted were abuzz with the recent announcement that our airline had filed for Chapter eleven bankruptcy. We were still in business for the moment, but speculation as to what that meant for us was running rampant.

I was mostly in shock about the whole thing. Stephan and I shared a very long look that meant we would talk about it later. The shuttle we took back to the airport was so loud with everyone voicing opinions and fears that we couldn’t have heard each other over the noise if we’d tried.

I texted Justin.

Selena: Did you hear the news about the airline?

Justin: Yes. Can you talk on the phone right now?

Selena: It’s too loud on the bus. I’ll call you from the plane.

I had a few brief minutes to call him once we got on the plane, between prep time and boarding.

He was very much Mr. Cavendish when he answered the phone. “Hello, Selena.”

“Hello, Mr. Cavendish,” I said, because I knew who I was talking to. “What do you think of all this bankruptcy stuff? I don’t know what any of it means. It sounds really bad, but people are saying that we could still stay in business.”

I heard his audible sigh over the line. It didn’t bode well. “If you want my candid professional opinion on the matter, what it means is that the airline will stay in business for around a year before its fleet of aircrafts will be grounded for good. Your CEO has exhausted literally every avenue of funding at his disposal, gone to every connection, large and small, that he has. He refuses to give up control of the airline, and he’s never run one successfully, though he has tried several times. He approached me about funding, which is actually why I was on the flight where I met you, but I had to decline based solely on the fact that it would have been a disastrous business decision for me. He was not willing to make any leadership concessions, and I wasn’t willing to throw a hundred mil away on a man with a clear history of failure.”

[readbookywooks]

Some Days Ashore

STEPPING ASHORE had an exhilarating effect on me. Ned Land tested the soil with his foot, as if he were laying claim to it. Yet it had been only two months since we had become, as Captain Nemo expressed it, "passengers on the Nautilus," in other words, the literal prisoners of its commander. In a few minutes we were a gunshot away from the coast. The soil was almost entirely madreporic, but certain dry stream beds were strewn with granite rubble, proving that this island was of primordial origin. The entire horizon was hidden behind a curtain of wonderful forests. Enormous trees, sometimes as high as 200 feet, were linked to each other by garlands of tropical creepers, genuine natural hammocks that swayed in a mild breeze. There were mimosas, banyan trees, beefwood, teakwood, hibiscus, screw pines, palm trees, all mingling in wild profusion; and beneath the shade of their green canopies, at the feet of their gigantic trunks, there grew orchids, leguminous plants, and ferns. Meanwhile, ignoring all these fine specimens of Papuan flora, the Canadian passed up the decorative in favor of the functional. He spotted a coconut palm, beat down some of its fruit, broke them open, and we drank their milk and ate their meat with a pleasure that was a protest against our standard fare on the Nautilus. "Excellent!" Ned Land said. "Exquisite!" Conseil replied. "And I don't think," the Canadian said, "that your Nemo would object to us stashing a cargo of coconuts aboard his vessel?" "I imagine not," I replied, "but he won't want to sample them." "Too bad for him!" Conseil said. "And plenty good for us!" Ned Land shot back. "There'll be more left over!" "A word of caution, Mr. Land," I told the harpooner, who was about to ravage another coconut palm. "Coconuts are admirable things, but before we stuff the skiff with them, it would be wise to find out whether this island offers other substances just as useful. Some fresh vegetables would be well received in the Nautilus's pantry." "Master is right," Conseil replied, "and I propose that we set aside three places in our longboat: one for fruit, another for vegetables, and a third for venison, of which I still haven't glimpsed the tiniest specimen." "Don't give up so easily, Conseil," the Canadian replied. "So let's continue our excursion," I went on, "but keep a sharp lookout. This island seems uninhabited, but it still might harbor certain individuals who aren't so finicky about the sort of game they eat!" "Hee hee!" Ned put in, with a meaningful movement of his jaws. "Ned! Oh horrors!" Conseil exclaimed. "Ye gods," the Canadian shot back, "I'm starting to appreciate the charms of cannibalism!" "Ned, Ned! Don't say that!" Conseil answered. "You a cannibal? Why, I'll no longer be safe next to you, I who share your cabin! Does this mean I'll wake up half devoured one fine day?" "I'm awfully fond of you, Conseil my friend, but not enough to eat you when there's better food around." "Then I daren't delay," Conseil replied. "The hunt is on! We absolutely must bag some game to placate this man-eater, or one of these mornings master won't find enough pieces of his manservant to serve him." While exchanging this chitchat, we entered beneath the dark canopies of the forest, and for two hours we explored it in every direction. We couldn't have been luckier in our search for edible vegetation, and some of the most useful produce in the tropical zones supplied us with a valuable foodstuff missing on board. I mean the breadfruit tree, which is quite abundant on Gueboroa Island, and there I chiefly noted the seedless variety that in Malaysia is called "rima." This tree is distinguished from other trees by a straight trunk forty feet high. To the naturalist's eye, its gracefully rounded crown, formed of big multilobed leaves, was enough to denote the artocarpus that has been so successfully transplanted to the Mascarene Islands east of Madagascar. From its mass of greenery, huge globular fruit stood out, a decimeter wide and furnished on the outside with creases that assumed a hexangular pattern. It's a handy plant that nature gives to regions lacking in wheat; without needing to be cultivated, it bears fruit eight months out of the year. Ned Land was on familiar terms with this fruit. He had already eaten it on his many voyages and knew how to cook its edible substance. So the very sight of it aroused his appetite, and he couldn't control himself. "Sir," he told me, "I'll die if I don't sample a little breadfruit pasta!" "Sample some, Ned my friend, sample all you like. We're here to conduct experiments, let's conduct them." "It won't take a minute," the Canadian replied. Equipped with a magnifying glass, he lit a fire of deadwood that was soon crackling merrily. Meanwhile Conseil and I selected the finest artocarpus fruit. Some still weren't ripe enough, and their thick skins covered white, slightly fibrous pulps. But a great many others were yellowish and gelatinous, just begging to be picked. This fruit contained no pits. Conseil brought a dozen of them to Ned Land, who cut them into thick slices and placed them over a fire of live coals, all the while repeating: "You'll see, sir, how tasty this bread is!" "Especially since we've gone without baked goods for so long," Conseil said. "It's more than just bread," the Canadian added. "It's a dainty pastry. You've never eaten any, sir?" "No, Ned." "All right, get ready for something downright delectable! If you don't come back for seconds, I'm no longer the King of Harpooners!" After a few minutes, the parts of the fruit exposed to the fire were completely toasted. On the inside there appeared some white pasta, a sort of soft bread center whose flavor reminded me of artichoke. This bread was excellent, I must admit, and I ate it with great pleasure. "Unfortunately," I said, "this pasta won't stay fresh, so it seems pointless to make a supply for on board." "By thunder, sir!" Ned Land exclaimed. "There you go, talking like a naturalist, but meantime I'll be acting like a baker! Conseil, harvest some of this fruit to take with us when we go back." "And how will you prepare it?" I asked the Canadian. "I'll make a fermented batter from its pulp that'll keep indefinitely without spoiling. When I want some, I'll just cook it in the galley on board - it'll have a slightly tart flavor, but you'll find it excellent." "So, Mr. Ned, I see that this bread is all we need - " "Not quite, professor," the Canadian replied. "We need some fruit to go with it, or at least some vegetables." "Then let's look for fruit and vegetables." When our breadfruit harvesting was done, we took to the trail to complete this "dry-land dinner." We didn't search in vain, and near noontime we had an ample supply of bananas. This delicious produce from the Torrid Zones ripens all year round, and Malaysians, who give them the name "pisang," eat them without bothering to cook them. In addition to bananas, we gathered some enormous jackfruit with a very tangy flavor, some tasty mangoes, and some pineapples of unbelievable size. But this foraging took up a good deal of our time, which, even so, we had no cause to regret. Conseil kept Ned under observation. The harpooner walked in the lead, and during his stroll through this forest, he gathered with sure hands some excellent fruit that should have completed his provisions. "So," Conseil asked, "you have everything you need, Ned my friend?" "Humph!" the Canadian put in. "What! You're complaining?" "All this vegetation doesn't make a meal," Ned replied. "Just side dishes, dessert. But where's the soup course? Where's the roast?" "Right," I said. "Ned promised us cutlets, which seems highly questionable to me." "Sir," the Canadian replied, "our hunting not only isn't over, it hasn't even started. Patience! We're sure to end up bumping into some animal with either feathers or fur, if not in this locality, then in another." "And if not today, then tomorrow, because we mustn't wander too far off," Conseil added. "That's why I propose that we return to the skiff." "What! Already!" Ned exclaimed. "We ought to be back before nightfall," I said. "But what hour is it, then?" the Canadian asked. "Two o'clock at least," Conseil replied. "How time flies on solid ground!" exclaimed Mr. Ned Land with a sigh of regret. "Off we go!" Conseil replied. So we returned through the forest, and we completed our harvest by making a clean sweep of some palm cabbages that had to be picked from the crowns of their trees, some small beans that I recognized as the "abrou" of the Malaysians, and some high-quality yams. We were overloaded when we arrived at the skiff. However, Ned Land still found these provisions inadequate. But fortune smiled on him. Just as we were boarding, he spotted several trees twenty-five to thirty feet high, belonging to the palm species. As valuable as the artocarpus, these trees are justly ranked among the most useful produce in Malaysia. They were sago palms, vegetation that grows without being cultivated; like mulberry trees, they reproduce by means of shoots and seeds. Ned Land knew how to handle these trees. Taking his ax and wielding it with great vigor, he soon stretched out on the ground two or three sago palms, whose maturity was revealed by the white dust sprinkled over their palm fronds. I watched him more as a naturalist than as a man in hunger. He began by removing from each trunk an inch-thick strip of bark that covered a network of long, hopelessly tangled fibers that were puttied with a sort of gummy flour. This flour was the starch-like sago, an edible substance chiefly consumed by the Melanesian peoples. For the time being, Ned Land was content to chop these trunks into pieces, as if he were making firewood; later he would extract the flour by sifting it through cloth to separate it from its fibrous ligaments, let it dry out in the sun, and leave it to harden inside molds. Finally, at five o'clock in the afternoon, laden with all our treasures, we left the island beach and half an hour later pulled alongside the Nautilus. Nobody appeared on our arrival. The enormous sheet-iron cylinder seemed deserted. Our provisions loaded on board, I went below to my stateroom. There I found my supper ready. I ate and then fell asleep. The next day, January 6: nothing new on board. Not a sound inside, not a sign of life. The skiff stayed alongside in the same place we had left it. We decided to return to Gueboroa Island. Ned Land hoped for better luck in his hunting than on the day before, and he wanted to visit a different part of the forest. By sunrise we were off. Carried by an inbound current, the longboat reached the island in a matter of moments. We disembarked, and thinking it best to abide by the Canadian's instincts, we followed Ned Land, whose long legs threatened to outpace us. Ned Land went westward up the coast; then, fording some stream beds, he reached open plains that were bordered by wonderful forests. Some kingfishers lurked along the watercourses, but they didn't let us approach. Their cautious behavior proved to me that these winged creatures knew where they stood on bipeds of our species, and I concluded that if this island wasn't inhabited, at least human beings paid it frequent visits. After crossing a pretty lush prairie, we arrived on the outskirts of a small wood, enlivened by the singing and soaring of a large number of birds. "Still, they're merely birds," Conseil said. "But some are edible," the harpooner replied. "Wrong, Ned my friend," Conseil answered, "because I see only ordinary parrots here." "Conseil my friend," Ned replied in all seriousness, "parrots are like pheasant to people with nothing else on their plates." "And I might add," I said, "that when these birds are properly cooked, they're at least worth a stab of the fork." Indeed, under the dense foliage of this wood, a whole host of parrots fluttered from branch to branch, needing only the proper upbringing to speak human dialects. At present they were cackling in chorus with parakeets of every color, with solemn cockatoos that seemed to be pondering some philosophical problem, while bright red lories passed by like pieces of bunting borne on the breeze, in the midst of kalao parrots raucously on the wing, Papuan lories painted the subtlest shades of azure, and a whole variety of delightful winged creatures, none terribly edible. However, one bird unique to these shores, which never passes beyond the boundaries of the Aru and Papuan Islands, was missing from this collection. But I was given a chance to marvel at it soon enough. After crossing through a moderately dense thicket, we again found some plains obstructed by bushes. There I saw some magnificent birds soaring aloft, the arrangement of their long feathers causing them to head into the wind. Their undulating flight, the grace of their aerial curves, and the play of their colors allured and delighted the eye. I had no trouble identifying them. "Birds of paradise!" I exclaimed. "Order Passeriforma, division Clystomora," Conseil replied. "Partridge family?" Ned Land asked. "I doubt it, Mr. Land. Nevertheless, I'm counting on your dexterity to catch me one of these delightful representatives of tropical nature!" "I'll give it a try, professor, though I'm handier with a harpoon than a rifle." Malaysians, who do a booming business in these birds with the Chinese, have various methods for catching them that we couldn't use. Sometimes they set snares on the tops of the tall trees that the bird of paradise prefers to inhabit. At other times they capture it with a tenacious glue that paralyzes its movements. They will even go so far as to poison the springs where these fowl habitually drink. But in our case, all we could do was fire at them on the wing, which left us little chance of getting one. And in truth, we used up a good part of our ammunition in vain. Near eleven o'clock in the morning, we cleared the lower slopes of the mountains that form the island's center, and we still hadn't bagged a thing. Hunger spurred us on. The hunters had counted on consuming the proceeds of their hunting, and they had miscalculated. Luckily, and much to his surprise, Conseil pulled off a right-and-left shot and insured our breakfast. He brought down a white pigeon and a ringdove, which were briskly plucked, hung from a spit, and roasted over a blazing fire of deadwood. While these fascinating animals were cooking, Ned prepared some bread from the artocarpus. Then the pigeon and ringdove were devoured to the bones and declared excellent. Nutmeg, on which these birds habitually gorge themselves, sweetens their flesh and makes it delicious eating. "They taste like chicken stuffed with truffles," Conseil said. "All right, Ned," I asked the Canadian, "now what do you need?" "Game with four paws, Professor Aronnax," Ned Land replied. "All these pigeons are only appetizers, snacks. So till I've bagged an animal with cutlets, I won't be happy!" "Nor I, Ned, until I've caught a bird of paradise." "Then let's keep hunting," Conseil replied, "but while heading back to the sea. We've arrived at the foothills of these mountains, and I think we'll do better if we return to the forest regions." It was good advice and we took it. After an hour's walk we reached a genuine sago palm forest. A few harmless snakes fled underfoot. Birds of paradise stole off at our approach, and I was in real despair of catching one when Conseil, walking in the lead, stooped suddenly, gave a triumphant shout, and came back to me, carrying a magnificent bird of paradise. "Oh bravo, Conseil!" I exclaimed. "Master is too kind," Conseil replied. "Not at all, my boy. That was a stroke of genius, catching one of these live birds with your bare hands!" "If master will examine it closely, he'll see that I deserve no great praise." "And why not, Conseil?" "Because this bird is as drunk as a lord." "Drunk?" "Yes, master, drunk from the nutmegs it was devouring under that nutmeg tree where I caught it. See, Ned my friend, see the monstrous results of intemperance!" "Damnation!" the Canadian shot back. "Considering the amount of gin I've had these past two months, you've got nothing to complain about!" Meanwhile I was examining this unusual bird. Conseil was not mistaken. Tipsy from that potent juice, our bird of paradise had been reduced to helplessness. It was unable to fly. It was barely able to walk. But this didn't alarm me, and I just let it sleep off its nutmeg. This bird belonged to the finest of the eight species credited to Papua and its neighboring islands. It was a "great emerald," one of the rarest birds of paradise. It measured three decimeters long. Its head was comparatively small, and its eyes, placed near the opening of its beak, were also small. But it offered a wonderful mixture of hues: a yellow beak, brown feet and claws, hazel wings with purple tips, pale yellow head and scruff of the neck, emerald throat, the belly and chest maroon to brown. Two strands, made of a horn substance covered with down, rose over its tail, which was lengthened by long, very light feathers of wonderful fineness, and they completed the costume of this marvelous bird that the islanders have poetically named "the sun bird." How I wished I could take this superb bird of paradise back to Paris, to make a gift of it to the zoo at the Botanical Gardens, which doesn't own a single live specimen. "So it must be a rarity or something?" the Canadian asked, in the tone of a hunter who, from the viewpoint of his art, gives the game a pretty low rating. "A great rarity, my gallant comrade, and above all very hard to capture alive. And even after they're dead, there's still a major market for these birds. So the natives have figured out how to create fake ones, like people create fake pearls or diamonds." "What!" Conseil exclaimed. "They make counterfeit birds of paradise?" "Yes, Conseil." "And is master familiar with how the islanders go about it?" "Perfectly familiar. During the easterly monsoon season, birds of paradise lose the magnificent feathers around their tails that naturalists call 'below-the-wing' feathers. These feathers are gathered by the fowl forgers and skillfully fitted onto some poor previously mutilated parakeet. Then they paint over the suture, varnish the bird, and ship the fruits of their unique labors to museums and collectors in Europe." "Good enough!" Ned Land put in. "If it isn't the right bird, it's still the right feathers, and so long as the merchandise isn't meant to be eaten, I see no great harm!" But if my desires were fulfilled by the capture of this bird of paradise, those of our Canadian huntsman remained unsatisfied. Luckily, near two o'clock Ned Land brought down a magnificent wild pig of the type the natives call "bari-outang." This animal came in the nick of time for us to bag some real quadruped meat, and it was warmly welcomed. Ned Land proved himself quite gloriously with his gunshot. Hit by an electric bullet, the pig dropped dead on the spot. The Canadian properly skinned and cleaned it, after removing half a dozen cutlets destined to serve as the grilled meat course of our evening meal. Then the hunt was on again, and once more would be marked by the exploits of Ned and Conseil. In essence, beating the bushes, the two friends flushed a herd of kangaroos that fled by bounding away on their elastic paws. But these animals didn't flee so swiftly that our electric capsules couldn't catch up with them. "Oh, professor!" shouted Ned Land, whose hunting fever had gone to his brain. "What excellent game, especially in a stew! What a supply for the Nautilus! Two, three, five down! And just think how we'll devour all this meat ourselves, while those numbskulls on board won't get a shred!" In his uncontrollable glee, I think the Canadian might have slaughtered the whole horde, if he hadn't been so busy talking! But he was content with a dozen of these fascinating marsupials, which make up the first order of aplacental mammals, as Conseil just had to tell us. These animals were small in stature. They were a species of those "rabbit kangaroos" that usually dwell in the hollows of trees and are tremendously fast; but although of moderate dimensions, they at least furnish a meat that's highly prized. We were thoroughly satisfied with the results of our hunting. A gleeful Ned proposed that we return the next day to this magic island, which he planned to depopulate of its every edible quadruped. But he was reckoning without events. By six o'clock in the evening, we were back on the beach. The skiff was aground in its usual place. The Nautilus, looking like a long reef, emerged from the waves two miles offshore. Without further ado, Ned Land got down to the important business of dinner. He came wonderfully to terms with its entire cooking. Grilling over the coals, those cutlets from the "bari-outang" soon gave off a succulent aroma that perfumed the air. But I catch myself following in the Canadian's footsteps. Look at me - in ecstasy over freshly grilled pork! Please grant me a pardon as I've already granted one to Mr. Land, and on the same grounds! In short, dinner was excellent. Two ringdoves rounded out this extraordinary menu. Sago pasta, bread from the artocarpus, mangoes, half a dozen pineapples, and the fermented liquor from certain coconuts heightened our glee. I suspect that my two fine companions weren't quite as clearheaded as one could wish. "What if we don't return to the Nautilus this evening?" Conseil said. "What if we never return to it?" Ned Land added. Just then a stone whizzed toward us, landed at our feet, and cut short the harpooner's proposition.