#i am so fucking excited about this i am going to shatter the barrier between my irl self and my online life

[corpsentry]

april 28

now that i have caught your attention with the largeness of my deltoids. april 28. 6:30 and 8:30 pm est. my senior dance showcase (livestream link forthcoming). it will have taiko and spoken word and modern dance and jeff the livestream guy at the helm, if he likes me. it will be the best thing i have ever made. save the date

[cryonme]

Sunflower

word count- 1.4k

tw- alcohol, weed, cursing? idk but probably, mentions of a bad relationship, some tears, Luke been cute. lmk if I missed anything.

mentions- luke, sage, calum, fiona, sage’s ex boyfriend

a/n- hellOOO!!!! SOO, this is the first part in the Luke + Sage series, but the second in the crazy eights. The beginning of Luke and sage!! I love these two so much and I’m so excited for you all to get to know them!! This is loosely based on Sunflower by Rex Orange County. hope u all enjoy, I love feedback!! xo Roxie.

--

“Sage West!”

Sage took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Luke Hemmings.” She mustered up the biggest, toothiest smile she could and shot it at him.

“What are you up to tonight, my sunflower?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sage huffed and spun around on her heel, making a beeline for the register so that there would be a barrier between the two.

“What?” Luke jogged behind her, leaning his elbows on the counter to get closer to the girl he so adored.

“You seem to keep forgetting the minor detail that I have a boyfriend.”

“That you hate.”

“Luke!”

“Look, it’s a party. Bring him.” Luke slipped you a piece of paper with a phone number and address on it.

“Text me if you have any questions.”

Sage took her second deep breath of the morning as she stared at the paper. She loved Luke. More than she should love a regular customer who seems to only come in to flirt with her. The first time she met Luke she knew exactly who he was, obviously. She worked at a record store, she’s got his albums stocked just about everywhere. She pretended that she didn’t know him, and he tried to pretend like he wasn’t falling in love at first sight. He’s come back multiple times a week since then. Only problem was her boyfriend. Her boyfriend who takes advantage of her kindness and soft spokenness and walks all over her.

She grabbed the paper and shoved it in her back pocket, she wasn’t gonna go, but throwing out Luke Hemmings’ phone number just didn’t feel right.

-

The second Sage stepped foot into the house party she wanted to turn around, run home, get under her covers, and never come out.

Her plan was ruined when Luke made eye contact with her in less than 5 seconds.

“West!” He called out with the brightest smile on his face. Fuck, she loved that smile.

Before she knew it the tall blonde was stopped right in front of her.

“Let’s get you a drink, sunflower!”

“My name is Sage.” She said quietly while involuntarily squeezing Luke’s hand as she took in the party crowd.

He turned to her and smiled, but said nothing. He finally stopped the two of you at a large table in the dining room, filled to the edges with different kinds of alcohol.

“Pick your poison, Sunny!”

“Sage.” The girl reached out her lanky hand and grabbed one of the only unopened beers. “Weed?”

Luke smiled. “Fuck yeah. Let’s find Calum.”

Sage didn’t have to ask who Calum was. Again, the girl worked in a record store.

Luke grabbed her hand once again, she let it slide because if he didn’t she’d probably get lost.

“Who’s house is this anyway?” She asked, but Luke stopped paying attention to her and had his eyes on a crying girl.

“Fi? Hey, what happened?”

“Ask Calum.” She spat and shoved past Luke.

Calum came not too long after, Luke stopped him to let him know he better fix whatever he did.

Once Calum was out of sight Luke turned back to Sage.

“Stupid shits have been in love with each other for years. Took Calum’s joint.” He held up the perfectly rolled paper in his fingers. “Let’s go!” He grabbed her hand once again.

Luke had barely relaxed until him and Sage were comfortably seated on the patio. He pulled out the joint and stuck it between the girl’s lips, holding out his lighter and lighting the end of it.

“No boyfriend?”

“He wasn’t home when I left.” She stated dryly before taking a large inhale of the smoke and handing the joint to Luke.

“Hm.” Luke hummed, not wanting to pry and cause the girl to leave.

“How long you two been together?” He asked, blowing out smoke and handing the joint back to the girl.

“Three years.”

“Damn, Sunny.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Suits you.” “Hm.” It was Sage’s turn to hum.

“Ya know, sometimes I don’t wanna go home.” Sage said quietly, almost to where Luke didn’t hear her.

“How come?”

“He scares me.”

Luke’s heart shattered. Sage was the sweetest girl he’d ever come across, he hated that stupid relationship she was in. They never saw each other outside of the record shop but when she did mention her boyfriend he’d notice her shoulders drop or her fingers start to fidget.

“So why do you?”

Sage shrugged. “Can’t bring myself to leave.”

“Does he hit you?”

She shook her head rapidly. “No, just yells a lot. Says mean stuff.”

If Luke had blinked at the right moment he would’ve missed her wipe a tear.

“You can’t stay with someone like that, Sunny. That’s not- I mean, being scared to go home? That can’t be love.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You could stay with me, I don’t wanna see you cry, Sage.” Luke offered in all seriousness. Not a hint of humor in his eyes.

Sage rolled her eyes. “I barely know you, Luke.”

Luke cleared his throat. “I’m Luke Robert Hemmings, I’m from Australia. I’ve got a dog named Petunia, my favorite color is blue, I’m in a stupid band, I have two brothers, and I really like Jack in the box. Anything else?”

Sage laughed, “I can’t, Luke.”

“You don’t have to feel this emptiness.” Luke said.

Sage brought her head up to look at the blond.

“I’m sorry, Luke.” Sage whispered and picked up her purse, making her way to the door. She started to open it then looked back at Luke. “Thanks.”

-

Luke couldn’t go to the record store, he was too embarrassed.

Of course she’s not gonna stay with you, you dick.

“I’m worried about her, honestly.” Luke huffed at breakfast. “Her boyfriend scares her, I mean, it can’t be good.”

“She has your number. I’m sure she’ll call if things get bad.” Calum said, reaching over to grab a strawberry off of Fiona’s plate.

“She had a point, you know. She doesn’t know you.”

“I’m a celebrity. How much shit could I possibly have to hide?”

Fiona shrugged like he had a point.

“My advice? Give it time. Be her friend, help her through it, be the shoulder to cry on right now. From what you’ve told me I can tell she likes you too, but give her time. Relationships like that are scary, can’t really just up and leave.” Fiona said.

Luke nodded. He would wait forever if he had to.

-

About two weeks after the party and Luke had made no contact with Sage. Fiona said she would most likely come to him but he was sick of waiting. He didn’t have a phone number and he didn’t want to upset her while she was at work. Not knowing if he was gonna be able to see her again was killing him.

Luke had just finished up writing a couple verses for a new song when there was a timid knock at the door, he probably wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t for Petunia nearly losing her mind.

“Calm down!” He whisper-yelled at the dog as he made his way to the door. Once he swung it open he was met with a very shaky and crying Sage.

“Sage? Come in, Sunny, come in.”

The girl took in an uneven breath and rushed through the door as if someone was chasing her and Luke hurriedly closed the door and locked it before turning to her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She whimpered and Luke didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her.

“We need to get you some friends, Sunny.” He said sarcastically and Sage let out a laugh.

“I guess so.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Out of the picture.”

“Good. Asshole.” Luke huffed and separated himself from her, arms still around her waist.

“Staying here?”

She nodded.

“Tea?

Another nod.

Luke nodded and brought her to the kitchen, making her a cup of tea before showing her to the guest bedroom next to his.

He showed her the bathroom, the clean towels, the extra blankets, and the laundry room.

“Can I come with you in the morning to pick up your stuff?” He asked her once she had settled herself on the bed in her pajamas.

“Please.”

Luke nodded. “Hey, how did you find my apartment?”

Sage could feel her cheeks heat up. “I may have googled your address?”

The boy laughed, “Couldn’t give me a call?”

“Asshole ripped up the paper you gave me. Said I was cheating.”

Luke’s heart sank. He didn’t respond, just walked to her and bent down, pressing a soft kiss to her head.

“I promise I’m the one for you.”

[thefloorisbalaclava]

pragma - part three

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Female Reader

Warnings: angst, someone almost drowns sorta, and there’s a kiss...or two

A/N: I am overwhelmed by the love and support for this fic. It started off as a silly, self-indulgent idea because I just wanted more Frankie! To see all the love for him and my fic is amazing! I love y’all!

Summary: Some memories are best left unspoken but both you and Frankie are having a hard time leaving the past behind.

pragma masterlist

“You’re not wearing the ring,” Frankie said and you opened your eyes.

“No, I’m not. I took it off when I got home from your place.” You moved your hand away from his and looked at your now bare finger.

“I hope it’s not because I made you feel bad.”  

You looked at him and smile. “No. It was just time to take it off and your comment on it made me realize that.”

“What happens if he never signs the papers?” Frankie asked.

“Oh, he will. The lawyers cost way too much to keep this going on much longer." You were hopeful but your heart filled with dread.

“I can make him sign ‘em,” he offered.

“What are you saying, Frankie?”

“A little persuasion can go a long way, you know?” He flexed his hands.

“Frankie!” You nudged him and laughed. “Still willing to beat people up for me, huh?”

“Always.” While he was distracted looking out at the lake, you swiped the hat out his back pocket. “Give it back.”

“No.” You put it on. “What do you think?”

“Meh.” He gave you a thumbs down and you gasped.

“Hey!” After laughing for a while and giving his hat back, you both sat in silence again. “Do you remember the morning we came here?” you asked.

“Yeah.” That was the only response you got from him. You could this topic was one that he was hoping to avoid.

“I don’t regret it. What we did the night before you brought me here the first time, I mean.”

“You sure you wanna talk about that?” He lowered his head, hiding his face under the bill of his cap.

“It was bound to come up. We dated. We were…intimate.”

“Yeah, until you decided I wasn’t good enough,” he snapped. “What was it, huh? Did I not make enough money? Was it because I joined the military? What was it?” His voice was calm but you knew he was seething. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up.

“You…changed.”

“We all did. It’s part of growing up.” He stared at you as you stood and glared down at him.

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it, Cat!” You rarely used that name for him. ���It was so much more than that.”  

He stood to look at you face-to-face. “Just say it. Go ahead.”

“The drugs, Frankie. How was I supposed to deal with that?” You sobbed then turned away, grabbing your shoes and walking back towards your house.

“No. You don’t get to walk away from me this time!” He followed you, grabbing for your arm but you pulled away.

“Don’t touch me.” You stopped at your front door when you noticed he had stopped following you. He was leaning against his truck putting his boots back on.

“Why’d you have to fucking bring it up, huh? Everything was fine.”

“Excuse me for thinking I could have an adult conversation with you.” You approached him and he put his sunglasses on.

“I warned you. I asked if you really wanted to bring it up.” He looked down and shook his head. “Why’d you have me come here, hm? Did you wanna show me how well you did without me?”

“What?”

“Did you want to show me what I could have had with you if I wasn’t such a fuck up.” He sighed and put his hands on his hips.

“I invited you up here because I…missed you. That’s the only goddamn reason. Won’t happen again.”  

“You missed me?” He pointed in the direction of the middle of town. “I was right there. You lived a little under an hour away this entire time and never once tried to visit. And suddenly you miss me? You sure this doesn’t have anything to do with your divorce? You feeling lonely now?”

“Fuck you,” you cried.

“I’m not letting you break my heart again. Don’t give me hope where there is none.”  

You moved closer to him and he stood up straight. “You don’t think it broke my heart?”

“You seem to be doing fine to me.”

“God, you’re so fucking…” You couldn’t find the word but you poked at his chest angrily.

“What? What am I?”

“Frustrating,” you said through your teeth before he captured your lips in an earth-shattering kiss. And there it was. All the tension, all the anger melted away. His hat fell from his head as you ran your hands up his neck into his hair. He groaned and the rest of the world went quiet. You needed to pull away. Right now. But his tongue touched yours and you whimpered quietly into the kiss as he deepened it.  

When was the last time you kissed him? And when you did was it like this? Had he always been this great of a kisser?

God, his lips were so soft…

He pulled away suddenly and held you at arm’s length, pupils blown wide, hair disheveled, lips swollen. It looked as though he was trying to remember where he was and what he had just done.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered letting you go and picking up his hat. “I’m sorry. I gotta go.”

When you found your voice again you followed him around to the other side of the truck. “You don’t have to…”

“I do.” He got into the pickup and closed the door as if he needed some kind of barrier between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to. You…you’re married.”

“I’m separated and getting a divorce.”

“I just…I gotta go.” He started the car and pulled off without another word.  

What the fuck just happened?

*

Over the course of a few days, you went into town looking for any sign of Frankie. You hadn’t been able to get in touch with him on the phone so this was the next best option. Unfortunately, it seemed as though he was avoiding you like the plague.

After another unsuccessful day of looking for him, you drove home then sat in the car and cried. When your phone rang, you answered so quickly that you didn’t even check to see who was calling.

It was only you lawyer. Most likely ready to share some more bad news. Yeah, why not? It wasn’t like your life wasn’t already spinning out of control.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. “I said he signed the papers. Your divorce is settled.”

“I…what?” You sniffled.

“It’s over,” he said. He started talking some more but you lowered the phone away from your ear and hung up.

“It’s over,” you repeated. You should have been overcome with joy but you felt nothing. With no one to share the news with it wasn’t as exciting. The one person you wanted to be there wanted nothing to do with you.

You walked into the house, unfeeling, like you were some kind of zombie. Truth be told, this is how you had been for the past few days. You took walks and always found yourself back at the lake where you would either get angry and cry or get sad and cry.

*

Days turned to weeks and every time your phone rang it was never the person you wanted it to be. You could only assume that he hated you. Surely a kiss wouldn’t make him disappear the way he did especially one that happened in the heat of the moment. It didn’t mean anything…

…or did it?

You certainly hadn’t stopped thinking about it and you knew just how sensitive Frankie could be. It explained why he was always so guarded.

You tried calling him again to no avail. To drown your sorrows, you opened a bottle of wine and walked down to the lake again. You couldn’t stay away. It was the place that held the last happy memory of you and Frankie.

“Dammit Frankie,” you whispered, taking a swig of wine straight from the bottle. You hugged yourself against the cool breeze that blew through the trees. It probably wasn’t a good idea to get any closer but you walked out onto the dock and watched the water ripple and wave gently. The sunset reflected beautifully off the water and lulled you into some sort of trance. Still, you drank. You drank until the bottle was halfway empty.

You knew the dock was grounded but you felt as though you were swaying with the wind. You closed your eyes in order to steady yourself.

“Too much. Too fast,” you said to yourself. You took a step and someone called your name. Were you dreaming? You must be. Another step and you were falling. It was like one of those dreams but when you hit the water you realized it wasn’t a dream at all. You were immediately overwhelmed by water—something that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been drinking. Someone was sprinting, running down the dock now.  

Frankie.

You tried calling his name only to have water fill your mouth making you sputter and choke.

“Shit!” he yelled before jumping into the water after you. The last thing you heard was the splash before closing your eyes and letting the darkness take you.

*

His voice sounded so far away but he was there, he was calling for you. You were either dreaming or dead.

“Come on, baby. Come on!” He was closer now. So close that you could feel his lips on yours but you struggled to open your eyes. “Shit, shit, shit!” He pressed his mouth to yours again and you gasped, choking on water, and he turned your head carefully. “There you go. Let it out.” His hand was on your back, hitting then rubbing as more water came up.

You tried talking but you couldn’t stop coughing. Your body was weak and you just wanted to sleep.

“Ah ah…eyes open,” Frankie said, shaking you a bit.

“F…Frank…”

“Yeah, it’s me. What the hell were you trying to do, huh? That your way of getting me to kiss you again?” He tried to smile but when he looked at you lying there, he frowned. “We gotta get you inside. Arms around me.” He helped you put your arms around his shoulders before scooping you up.

“Thank you,” you rasped but he shushed you and made his way to your house. Thankfully you left the door unlocked so he opened it and carried you upstairs.

“I’m trailing water and mud all over the place but just remember that I saved your life before getting mad, okay?” He smiled as he carried you into the bathroom and set you down on the side of the bath.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Towels.” You pointed to the closet in the hall. He ran and came back, quickly wrapping you up and rubbing your arms.

“How are you feeling?”

“Chest hurts,” you murmured.

“Well, you swallowed a bunch of water.” He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he pointed at you. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

“Sorry.” Your eyes filled with tears and you wrapped your arms around him. “Where were you?”

“I just needed some time to…process things.” He pulled away and ran his fingers through his wet hair.

“And did you process those things?”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“He signed the papers, you know?” Frankie eyebrows shot up. “Yeah.”

“Congrats.” He finally stood and looked at himself.

“There’s a bathroom downstairs. You need to get out of those clothes.” You hiccuped and covered your mouth, embarrassed. You weren’t sure if it was from the water or from the wine you drank.

“I would say that I could just drive home but I don’t wanna leave you alone tonight.”

“You don’t have to stay. I can throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“I’m staying.” He leaned in so he was eye level. “You gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?”

“Yes.” You stood up and he steadied you. “I’m gonna get naked now,” you warned.

“Oh! Um…downstairs, right?” He left the bathroom quickly and shut the door.

*

You sat quietly, sipping tea as you waited for Frankie to finish in the bathroom. He was taking a pretty long time and you were ready to go knock on the door to ask if he was okay when he walked out in nothing but a towel.  

“Oh,” you said nearly choking on your tea. He held his wet clothes in his arms as he walked over to you, the cap sat on top.

“Mind drying these?”

“Nope.” You took them from him then placed the hat on the coffee table. “Let that air dry.” You looked him up and down then shook your head and looked away. “I have an extra robe if you think that would be more comfortable.”

“Yes please.” You were sure you had some of your ex-husband's clothes packed in a box somewhere but you refused to subject Frankie to that.  

After throwing his clothes in the dryer, you grabbed the extra robe and brought it out to him. “I also made you some tea.”

“Thanks.” He stood and you couldn’t help but to look at him again. He had gotten softer in the middle and there were more scars but you admired him even more. The robe was a little snug on him but he seemed comfortable.

“I should be the one thanking you.”

“You already did.” He sat down beside you. “I-"

“Why’d you decide to come back?” you asked.

“Did you not want me to?”

“Of course I did. I just…thought you were through with me.” You looked down at your mug. “You have impeccable timing, by the way. My hero.”

“Hero? Nah. Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.” Color had risen to his cheeks. He was blushing.

“Yeah but you did it. You saved me.” You reached out to him, hesitating slightly before smoothing back a loose strand of hair that had fallen near his eye. “There.”

“I wanted to apologize for, uh, kissing you.” He picked at something on the robe.

“You didn’t like kissing me?” you teased.

“What? No. I did, but I thought maybe you didn’t…want…”

“If you can recall, I kissed you back.” Frankie seemed to want to say something but couldn’t get it out. “What is it?”

“Did you like kissing me?” he asked.

“Yes…and if you ever wanted to do it again, I wouldn’t be opposed to-"

“Good because I have to kiss you again.”

Then he was kissing you, but he held back, making sure you were okay with it first before going any further. When your fingers coursed through his hair and tugged, he knew. He deepened the kiss, cupping your face and smiling when he heard you gasp. You slowly pushed him onto his back so that you were on top of him. He pulled away to smile again, bumping his nose against yours softly before kissing you again.

You felt ten years younger making out with your old boyfriend on a couch while he wore practically nothing. Every time his tongue cautiously slipped into your mouth, you did the same back, letting him know that it was okay.  

“Frankie,” you breathed.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just like saying your name.” You smiled at each other and he sat up, putting his hands on your thighs. The shorts you wore were already quite short but with your legs around him like this they were hiked up even more.

Just as he went in for another kiss, the dryer buzzed making you both jump as if you had been doing something wrong. But this wasn’t wrong. At all.

“Your clothes.” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips and when you tried to pull away, he followed, but you put a finger to his lips and he pouted. “Clothes.”

“Yeah, well, it’s probably for the best. Your breathing…lung capacity…probably isn’t at a hundred percent yet because of what happened earlier."

“Francisco Morales, are you trying to say you take my breath away?” you asked as you reluctantly slid yourself off his lap.

“Could be.” He shrugged. “And if you call me Francisco like that again I may be tempted to take a little more away.” You had forgotten how much he enjoyed hearing you say his full name. For everyone else it was ‘don’t call me that’ but for you it was ‘please say it again’.

“I don’t know if that’s a threat or if you’re trying to seduce me,” you quipped.

“Whichever one gets you back here the fastest.” He laughed as you pushed him and held onto your hand as you tried to walk away.

��I’ll be right back.” You pulled your hand away and he pouted again. “Don’t make that face.” You kissed his nose before walking to get his clothes. It didn’t take long but when you got back, he had turned the TV on and was flipping through channels.

“How many channels does this get?” he asked in amazement.

“Too many. Here.” You handed him his clothes and he took them from you only to put them aside. “You’re not gonna put them on?”

“Actually…” He stood and pulled his underwear from the folded clothes. When you turned away to give him privacy he chuckled. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.” You turned and saw that he removed the robe and wore his boxer briefs and t-shirt. “There.”

You waited for him to put more on but he sat down again. “Does this mean you’re staying?” you asked as you sat down.

“I said I was, didn’t I?”

“You did.” You smiled shyly. This would be the first time you two spent a night together in a very long time. He yawned and blinked with heavy lids. “Come on.” You tapped your thigh. “You know you want to.” Without a word, he stretched himself out then laid his head in your lap. The minute you began playing with his hair, his eyes closed.

“This isn’t a dream, right? You’ll be here when I wake up?” he asked.

“I’ll be here, Frankie. I promise.”

[four]

Tags: @cable-kenobi​ @saltywintersoldat​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @pedrosdoll​ @psychobillybunny​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​ @keeper0fthestars​

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Come Over | Elijah Mikaelson

Hey Lovelies! This is my first post on this profile! If you're curious feel free to pop over to my other handle: @sweetpeasgirl where i write for riverdale! However this blog is for all fandoms! It's all very exciting and I am happy to take on a new project. Anyway this is my first time writing for Elijah/TVD/TO so I hope its good! Also my first smut oh no oh god. Lemme know what you think!

Description: Based on the song "Come Over" by Sam Hunt. Y/n finds out Elijah Mikaelson is a vampire in the worst way possible. She freaks out and runs. Elijah follows after. It comes to a crossroads at her apartment.

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!! NSFW, Smut (oral female receiving), 18+ (I feel obligated to say it ;) )

Word count: 3413

Tags: fluff, some angst, SMUT

(Photos not mine but mood board is :) )

I turn the TV off, to turn it on again

Staring at the blades of the fan as it spins around

The clock on your nightstand reads 11:34. The remote control is heavy in your hand. Nothing on the TV is interesting to you even slightly right now. Your room is sweltering and dark. Your bed is a mess, the comforter crinkled and shoved to the foot. Messy beds are always more uncomfortable. Any day but today you would care.

You glance down at your phone, not surprised in the slightest to see another missed call. That makes 22. Almost a new record. Two more and he’ll start a new one. That’s just his type. Persistent. It’s why you fell in love with him. He didn’t give up. You sigh and block the call, placing the phone face down on the nightstand. Your whole body feels hot.

Clicking again on the remote, you come across a reality show. It's trashy, the accents are harsh, it screams “daddy’s money”. It’s perfect. Maybe it’ll be enough to take your mind off of the events of this evening. Off of him. The girl on the show runs into the arms of a handsome man. You turn the TV off almost as fast as you had turned it on.

You had been picturing tonight in your head for a week. The Mikaelson Ball. Dining and dancing and elegance. Nothing your usual life regularly allowed. It was supposed to be special. The invitation alone was magnificent enough to make you swoon. The dress had almost made you faint. The necklace did. It was all perfect. He was perfect. And then it wasn’t.

Your phone buzzes again on the nightstand. You forgot to turn it off. Or maybe you left it on purpose. Your head feels fuzzy, though, and you don’t want to think about it. You wish his face would get out of your mind. Your eyes drift to the fan above you and you try to count the blades as they go around and around. You lose track easily, and you don’t care. It doesn���t do anything to soothe your molten skin.

Counting every crack, the clock is wide awake

Talking to myself, anything to make a sound

You pick the phone up once more, ready to scream at it. Every part of you feels like it's on fire and seeing his name on the screen pushes you over the edge. You don’t know what you did to get tangled in all of this but you’re ready to claw your throat out. Instead, you throw the phone as hard as you can against the pile of comforters. It stops buzzing but your skin is still sticky. You feel sick to your stomach.

“Why did you pick me, why couldn’t it have been someone else,” your tone is harsh but it’s not like he can hear you, “it hurts Eli. Make it stop. Please!”

Your voice is barely a whisper and it turns to cries quickly as the anger dies out. All you can see, swirling around the depths of your mind, are his fangs. The way his brown eyes died to a blackness. The stark veins against his sculpted cheeks. He had looked every bit as beautiful as ever. Still elegant, still handsome. Still Elijah. But dark. Dangerous. That’s what scared you. Elijah was still Elijah when he was ripping a heart from a chest.

It felt like a blur when you saw it. One minute he had his hand on the small of your back. You had been taking a stroll in the garden. It was like nothing you had ever seen before. Beautiful hedge walls and roses of all different colours and a magnolia tree like you had only ever imagined. The moon wasn’t quite full over your heads. He was finally about to kiss you, something you had been silently pleading for for months now. Before his lips could touch yours, though, there was a hand around your throat. It had squeezed to the point of you almost passing out before Elijah had time to rip you away from your attacker. You didn’t see him move, you just saw his hand break through the mans sternum and rip his beating heart out of his chest. As soon as you saw his face, his eyes, you bolted.

“I’m scared, Eli. I miss you. I’m scared that I miss you and a thousand other things. I need you.”

You look at the dress hanging on the back of your door. At one point it was a delicate, pale pink number. It had off the shoulder straps that, really, had no point but were beautiful. There was satin cream ribbon to lace up the back and the sweetest of sweetheart necklines. Now it was splattered in blood, the satin ribbons stained. One of the sleeves had ripped when you ran. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever owned and it was ruined in less than an hour. Fairytales were supposed to end at midnight, not nine o'clock.

“I wish you would come over.” You mean it.

You just want him to explain. To show up and sweep you off your feet and tell you that he won’t hurt you. You shouldn't even need the reassurance. You know him. That's your Elijah. Somewhere deep down you know that. But it's not making you any less afraid right now. He had been protecting you, but no one has ever ripped out a heart for you before. You’re allowed to be afraid of new things. You’re allowed to be afraid of things that are frightening. That’s what being human is. You still feel like a traitor, though, when you feel afraid of Elijah.

Your voice is silent in the darkness, “I wish you could hear me. Come over, Elijah.”

Your phone beeped. You pick it up in time to read the screen. Call ended.

I told you I wouldn't call, I told you I wouldn't care

But baby climbing the walls gets me nowhere

Call ended. Call ended 12:43. Twelve minutes and forty-three seconds. Elijah had been on the phone with you for almost thirteen minutes. Crap.

You think about how far away the Mikaelson mansion is from your apartment. Twenty minutes tops, and that’s your driving. Elijah’s driving? Ten, if you’re lucky. You could try to reason with yourself. Maybe he hadn't heard you. Maybe he doesn't want to see you. Maybe he hung up because he got tired of hearing you whine. You can’t help the dry laugh that falls from your lips. It’s Elijah. You probably only have five minutes now.

You jump to your feet and begin making your bed, your pulse thumping loud once more in your ears. He’s been in your apartment before, but that was when he was just Elijah. Not the Elijah with fangs and black eyes. Now he’s different. Mysterious. Who knows what he’s seen. What he’s done. You never thought your apparent was shabby by any means but would he? You know your life can’t compare to the wonders he’s most definitely seen.

You move to the kitchen, which is, by default, the living room as well, and begin picking up mugs and newspapers and anything else out of order that you can see. You sneak a quick glance out your kitchen window, into the parking lot below, just in time to see a sleek black car speed into one of the only available spots left. You can hear the engine purr from your fourth floor apartment. You know exactly whose car that is and thus aren't surprised when Elijah Mikaelson steps out from the drivers side and slams the door shut, not even bothering to lock the door. You gasp at the bang the metal makes and his head whips up, his eyes locking with yours from the ground.

You close your eyes for just a second. There's no way he could have heard that. When you look back to the ground, he’s gone. Before you can sigh there's a knock at the door.

I don’t think that I can take this bed getting any colder

Come over, come over, come over, come over, come over

You move to the door but you don’t open it. You place your palm on the wood trim and try to picture the man on the other side. He’ll look like Elijah. He’ll smell like Elijah and probably talk like Elijah, too. But is he still the same Elijah?

“Y/n, I know you’re there, open the door. Please?” His voice sounds the same, his accent penetrating the barrier between you and tickling your ears.

“Elijah,” your voice is but a whisper and you know you should be the only one who can hear it, “I’m scared.”

“I know, love, that’s ok. I won’t hurt you, though, and I need you to open the door. I just- I need to see you,” his voice cracks, just barely but it’s there.

That’s all it takes for you to slide the lock and open the door. In front of you, for the second time tonight, is a man you don’t recognize. He doesn’t have fangs and his eyes are his usual deep brown but they look shattered. His hair, usually styled to perfection, is a mess, like he had been running his hands through it for the past few hours. His suit jacket is gone, leaving him in slacks and the dress shirt he had been wearing at the ball, only now it’s untucked and the sleeves are rolled haphazardly up his arms. Elijah Mikaleson looks disheveled and you’re terrified again because this Elijah, hurt and upset, looks further from himself than the Elijah from the garden.

“Eli-”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n. God, I’m so fucking sorry,” his voice shakes as he stands in your doorway, “please let me explain, baby.”

You swallow at his words. Baby. That's new.

“Eli, you know you can come in whenever you want,” your eyes look to the ground, feigning interest in the knots of your hardwood floor.

“I want to hear you say it,” you can feel his eyes burning into your lowered head, “I need to hear that you want me to come in, Y/n.”

This time it’s your voice that breaks, “of course I want you to come in Elijah.”

He sighs and steps over the threshold, standing mere feet away from you. You feel so small next to him in nothing but a pair of plaid sleep shorts and plain tank top. Your bare feet, for the first time since getting home, are cool against the floor.

He reaches to touch you and you flinch away, “baby, god, no. Please don’t be afraid.”

Your chest aches at the scared look in his eyes and all you want to do is run into his arms but you need answers.

“What happened back there, Elijah?” You feel pathetic at how quiet your voice still is.

“He wanted to hurt me, torture me. And he knew he couldn't. So he went for you, because he knew I would retaliate,” his eyes land on yours and you can see that he still wants to rip that man limb from limb, “he was a werewolf, Y/n. He wanted you dead, I had to do it.”

He sinks to his knees, his voice dropping lower and lower until the last words are just whispers. His words ring in your ears again. Werewolf. A werewolf wanted you dead. You felt faint.

“Why was a,” you say the word carefully, “werewolf trying to hurt you?”

“Because I'm a vampire, Y/n,” his voice breaks fully this time.

You don’t know what to do. Not with the rapid beating of your heart nor the new information you’ve just acquired and especially not with the crying Mikaelson on his knees in your hallway. Your Elijah, the man who pulls your chair out at restaurants and opens your doors and always has a hand on you when you’re around his brothers, is a vampire. You’re not even sure what that means, there are so many questions running through your mind. You want to ask each and every one of them but, seeing the man in front of you, somehow now doesn’t feel like the right time.

Your heart flutters looking at Elijah. His hands are in his hair again, pulling desperately on the strands. Your heart falls into a thousand tiny pieces at the sight. How can you be afraid of someone being so openly vulnerable to you. No man has ever gotten on his knees for you. No one has ever begged on their knees for you. It’s breathtaking, all you need to push yourself into him and wrap your arms around his neck.

“You should be terrified of me y/n,” he chokes into your chest, “I’m not good for you. I'm a monster, baby.”

His words shred at your heart. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing the soft locks beneath your fingers.

“No you’re not. You're still my Elijah.”

His head lifts from your chest and he captures your eyes with his serious ones. He looks awestruck.

“Your Elijah?” His accent is even thicker with all the emotion.

You smile for the first time in many hours, “of course, Eli.”

He sweeps you up and into his arms so quickly you get dizzy. Before you know what’s happened, he has you sat on your kitchen island and he’s standing between your legs. Your arms are still clinging tight to his neck while his hands hang dangerously low on your hips.

“And you’re mine, Y/n.”

His words makes your body sing, “All yours.”

He closes his eyes, his hands tightening deliciously on your hips, “say it again. Please, baby.”

“I’m yours Elijah. I’ve always been yours.”

His lips crash hungrily onto yours. He wraps his arms around your lower back and you tangle your legs around his waist to avoid falling off the countertop. He kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down harshly before soothing the sting with his tongue. You're enamoured with this side of Elijah. You’ve seen his gentleman side, it was magnificent, but this side of him? It was everything you didn't know you needed.

He pulls back, only putting a fraction of space between your bodies but it feels like too much, “please don’t run from me again.”

Your lips brush his when you speak, “Never, Eli.”

He pulls your mouth back to his, a hand tangled in your hair tugging gently at the roots. You can’t but moan against his lips and squeeze your legs around his waist. You grab blindly at his shirt, trying desperately to undo the buttons. Your fingers fumble and he chuckles into your mouth. He releases you to pull his shirt off, dropping it mindlessly on the floor, his lips never leaving yours.

His chest is sculpted like the finest marble and you can’t resist running your hands over his skin. He feels strong under your fingertips. He lets out a groan as you slide them back to his shoulders to the nape of his neck. His lips move over your jaw, down your neck, kissing and sucking a trail to your throat.

His hands grip the edge of your tank top bunching the material in his fists, “may I?”

Always the gentleman.

You nod your head before the words can leave your mouth, “please.”

He smirks, his eyes shining, as he begins pulling the tank top tantalizingly slow up your chest. You raise your arms over your head with his movements, lowering them back to his torso when he drops your shirt with his. His chocolate eyes meet yours again, seeking permission. You can’t fight the small smile as you nod. His smile that greets yours is breathtaking.

His eyes flick down, taking in your bare chest like a child in a candy store. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, much like he did to yours only moments ago. His hands slide up the curve of your waist, trailing a new kind of fire wherever he touches. His thumbs graze the sides of your breasts and you just barely stop the moan, closing your eyes to regain the little control you have left.

“I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, you’re stunning Y/n. Absolutely beautiful.”

Before you can process it, his mouth is around your breast, pulling your nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. It sends a spark of electricity to the deepest part of your stomach, building an ache that you’ve felt before but stronger. Blinding. It’s white hot. You don’t try to stop the moans, you don’t want to. His tongue swirls around your breast, teasingly slow, making you feel every little movement. It’s dangerously addictive.

“Elijah,” you breath his name like oxygen.

His lips let you go, moving down your chest, trailing kisses down your abdomen, pulling praises from your lips as he goes. His eyes find yours when he sinks to his knees for the second time tonight. His hands grasp your shorts, covering your hips easily. You’re a wanton mess in front of him, practically fully undone from the simplest of touches.

“What do you want me to do, baby, you have to tell me what you want.” It's good to know he’s breathless too.

“Eli, I-” you moan as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, sucking gently at the skin, his eyes still locked on yours, “I want you.”

He pulls his lips back, “you want me to do what, baby?”

You groan at the devilish smirk on his handsome face, “I want you to kiss me!��

“As you wish.”

He pulls your shorts off first, slowly dragging them down your legs, kissing all the way down and back up again. When you're left in nothing but your panties he presses the first kiss to you. It’s hot and sends shocks throughout your entire body.

“More, now. Please, Elijah.”

He chuckles but does as told, pulling the remaining material down your legs before hooking your legs over his muscular shoulders. He wastes no time attaching his lips to your sex, sucking delightfully. He swirls his tongue over your clit, stoking the fire building in your stomach. He drags his tongue down your slit for what feels like an eternity before he plunges into you. You throw your head back and close your eyes, mumbling praises into oblivion. You can feel his eyes on you, soaking up every inch of you.

Your hands find his hair again, not seeming to want to be apart from him, “god.”

“That's not my name, baby,” he mumbles against you, stopping his ministrations.

You open your eyes and lock them with his waiting ones, drawing his name out in your best attempt at being seductive, “Elijah.”

His eyes darken but this time you aren't scared. No, this time his eyes make him look dominant. Sexy. His tongue attacks your clit again only this time faster and hungrier. It makes the fire in your stomach white hot. He’s unrelenting, bringing you closer to the edge with every pass of his tongue. He's pouring everything he has into pleasuring you and you can feel it, literally. You squeeze your thighs around him tighter, ready to explode

“Come for me, baby.”

With that you fall into something you’ve heard about but never thought possible. All you can see, all you can feel, is Elijah. He consumes all of your senses as you fall apart, over and over again, under his touch. In the midst of falling apart you catch Elijah’s eyes and fall all over again. He looks like he’s in pure bliss watching you come undone because of him. You know in all your falling you murmur his name more than once. You know that he loves it.

As you come down from your high, you go to unwrap your legs from his neck, only to have him wrap you around his waist and pick you up. You can’t help but giggle at his determined look.

When he starts walking toward your bedroom you ask, “what’s on your mind, Eli?”

“Round two,” you giggle again when he kisses your forehead.

“I'm glad you came over, Elijah.”

[cilldaracailin]

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Hello weekend! And all my lovely Tumblr’s! I know I am happy to see this weekend and plan to sleep for most of it.

But before that happens, I am here to post the next part in this story.

The pictures for this one are actual photo’s I have taken from the St. Patrick’s Day parade in my home town and shows the same view point that Robyn and Taron would have.

Hope you all enjoy. Thanks so much for all the love and comments! :)

Suze xxx

2

“Sometimes you just have to jump in a mud puddle because it's there. Never get so old that you forget about having fun.”

Once they had pinned their shamrock plant on the left side of their jackets and pulled them on, the typical Irish weather threatening to literally rain on their parade, Taron draped his flag back over his shoulders, leaving his hat on the bed, deciding he wasn’t going to need it. He felt completely safe in Robyn’s home town and together they walked into what was called ‘The Square’ in Kilcreen, Robyn taking up her usual viewing spot at the top left corner of the The Square, the best spot in her opinion, standing with Taron behind the metal barriers that stopped the spectators from getting onto the road.

“Well this is a different viewpoint for me. I am normally the one on the opposite side of these.” Grinned Taron.

“I am counting on you to catch the packets of jellies that are thrown into the crowd Taron. You need to stretch and grab and get me some. I miss out every year ‘cos I am too short and they are thrown over my head.”

“Robyn, those jellies are for the children.”

“I am someone’s child and I want jellies.” Pouted Robyn.

Taron laughed at her pout and was waiting for her to stamp her foot at him, but his laugh turned to a smile and he moved a little closer to her. “I will try to catch a packet for you but only if you share with me.”

“Deal!”

“Robyn!” They both looked up to see Robyn’s mam Lizzie walked towards them. “You giving my spot to Taron?”

“There is enough room for both of you.”

Lizzie grinned and continued to walk around the barriers to move in to stand beside Taron, who she gave a hug too. “Nice to see you again and haven’t you come prepared.” She said taking in his completely green outfit, jacket included and Irish flag around his shoulders.

“Robyn told me I had to dress in green.”

“Oh she did, did she?” Lizzie looked past him to her daughter who was smiling. “What else has she told you Taron? That you have to put green hair dye in your hair too?”

“No.” Interrupted Robyn. “That was all his doing.”

“I saw that Robyn had some so I got some too.”

“And the shamrock tattoos?”

“You know that comes out every year Mam.”

Lizzie looked at the two beside her and was jumping around with delight on the inside to see Taron and her daughter together once again. Despite her initial concerns and even though she still had a few, it was a relationship she was routing for and was more than happy to see them standing close together, sporting the same shamrock tattoos on their faces.

Taron excused himself as his phone rang and took a few steps back to answer the call, letting Robyn and her mam move a little closer to each other.

“He looks exhausted.” Whispered Lizzie to her daughter.

“He is. Absolutely shattered. He’s been prepping for a new film and there have been a lot of long days and hours for him over the weekend. He was working right up until he had to leave for the airport last night.”

“But yet he still made it here for you.”

“I told him not too mam but he insisted. Changed his flight.”

“For you.” Lizzie grinned.

“Don’t start.” Moaned Robyn.

“You two are spending a lot of time together lately. You have seen each other every month since you met and he has been very kind to you with his invites.”

“Got another one yesterday.”

“And where is he whisking you off to this time?”

Robyn rolled his eyes and gave her mam a look of disapproval. “He is not whisking me anywhere mam. Just asked me to go with him to his movie premier in London.”

“And…”

“And of course I am going to go. He asked me to go with him.”

“Another beautiful dress too?”

Robyn sighed. “Probably.”

“And hotel stay?”

“More than likely.”

“And pictures in the newspapers.” It was the one part of her friendship with Taron that worried Lizzie. Snaps from her latest adventure with Taron on the red carpet had been mostly well received but even when her daughter kept away from social media, Lizzie couldn’t help herself and was disgusted at what she had read, needing a serious chat with her daughter for her to explain exactly how Taron’s publicist actually dealt with any media backlash. Lizzie was also just as mad as Robyn was when the article appeared online before Christmas, the Irish woman ready to follow her daughter to New York when she had heard what Taron had done, honesty thinking Robyn gave into Taron much too easily, letting him off the hook but when he did such a quick and thorough job of getting his publicist to sort the mess out, her anger faded a little. Then when Taron sat in her kitchen after New Year’s, she could see the developing chemistry between the two, the same spark they had when she had first met Taron and if Robyn trusted him, Lizzie was prepared to do so too.

“Just comes with him Mam.”

“And you go where he goes.”

“Yep especially when he has asked me to go.” Robyn turned to face her mother. “He changed his flight and came straight from work to see me, to spend less than two days with me because he promised me he would be here if he could. He did that, not me. He is coming to see me in RENT, the least I can do is accompany him and support him with his premier and I want to go mam. I want to be there for him.”

“And so you shall. You are good with him and I think he needs someone like you to look after him. You are going to have to introduce me to his mother at some point Robyn. I would very much like to get to talk to her.”

Robyn smiled a little nervous grin. “He hates it when I have what he calls girl talk with Tina, his mam.”

“I really think us mothers could do with some girl talk of our own.” Lizzie gave her daughter a hug. “You know I trust your judgement and always have and made sure I raised you with morals, independence and responsibility. I can see how connected you two are but I need you to make sure that he does not hurt you again. I won’t have it Robyn. I also installed in you compassion, caring and love and I can see you giving your all to that man but make sure you get the same love and respect back Robyn because you deserve it as much as he does.”

“He does mam. Taron is a wonderful man and he looks after me too. I promise.”

With the assurance she was looking for, Lizzie let go of her daughter. “I can see how he looks at you but I really need to make sure he does.”

Robyn took her mother’s hands. “I told about his speech in the car in London and you know how he has worked his arse off to keep my name from the media as much as possible with his publicist and he is ridiculously affectionate.”

“New Year’s Eve’s kisses?”

Robyn let go her hands. “You know that was on me and not him.”

“Bet he didn’t protest though.”

“And here we go again.” Robyn took a step back so she could really look at her mam. “Taron is a remarkable caring man who despite his and mine faults and how we clash sometimes, he has been nothing but a friend to me.”

“A friend?” Grinned Lizzie.

“Yes mother a friend. My best friend.”

“Ok then.”

Robyn rolled her eyes. “I cannot even begin to explain it to you.”

“Well start because a mother needs details!”

“Details?” Taron walked back over to the two, a little smirk on his face hearing some of the slightly heated tones of voice from his friend. “Details about?”

“Your Kingsman premier.” Robyn interject before her mother could say anything. “I was just telling her about the invite you gave me last night.”

“It sounds exciting. Going to a movie premier.” Smiled Lizzie not missing the exchanged looks between the two but followed with the change of subject her daughter made.

“Naturally I was going to invite Robyn to go with me. She is the reason I was able to finish filming in the first place and she’s a pro at the red carpet now.”

Some cheering made them all turn their heads and they saw a garda car slowly driving down the road, the indication that the parade was on the move and would be moving through the main street very soon.

With the distraction and Robyn’s mam’s attention now taken by the person standing on the opposite side, Robyn linked her arm with Taron’s, pulling him a little closer to her. “You ok?”

“Yep.”

“Taron.” Robyn warned. She felt the heavy sigh that came from his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Just some scheduling conflicts.”

“Taron…”

“I will be here for RENT, Robyn. I promise.”

“Taron…” Robyn didn’t get to ask what has actually happened as she was pulled in for a tight hug, Irish flag and all as Taron buried his face into her shoulder. Robyn freed her hands from the flag so she could get one to the nape of his neck and one around his back. “Hey Taron. It’s ok.” Robyn felt the second weighty sigh against her.

“I fucking hate my job sometimes.”

His words made her smile a little. “Talk to me rocketman.”

“Phone call was from Matthew. He knew I needed the Friday off to come and see you and some PR stuff got organised that weekend, so we’ve just had to shuffle some interviews around.”

“I thought your PR stuff didn’t start until that Monday.”

“That bulk of it and traveling but some radio interviews were slotted into that weekend and the week before and Matthew just wanted to see what my plan was.”

“Taron you know your work comes before…”

He quickly let go of her and placed his hands on her shoulders, a little more roughly then he meant too. “Absolutely not.” He said sternly. “This was something I told Matthew about during the whole audition process. I will be there front and centre cheering you on.” Taron lifted his hands from her shoulders and used his index fingers to try to lift the corner of her lips. “It’s sorted Robyn. I will just need to leave on Saturday instead of Sunday to fit the interviews in.”

Even as he tried to make Robyn smile, her lips stayed in a sad downward position. She took his hands from her face and held them tight in her hands. “Your work comes first.” She said quickly.

“No Robyn not for this. This was something I had planned weeks ago and it was planned around my promotion and I am not missing your performance. There would be no Kingsman movie if it wasn’t for you.”

“Please tell me you did not say that to Matthew.”

“No Matthew said it to me. He was the one to jumble things around with some help from Lyndsey. He just wanted to let me know about Sunday. I am sorry our time will be cut short. Fucking usual shit.” Taron spat the last words.

“Taron…” Robyn let go of his hands placed her hands on his face, her thumbs immediately rubbing his cheeks. “Stop and take a breath.” Frustrated green eyes stared at her. “I am serious. Take a breath. I am not going to let go of your face until you do as I ask and you know how well known I am in this town. People are going to start to talk, not too mention my mother, who is already asking questions about us.” She whispered, leaning a little closer to him. She felt the two deep breathes he took. “Ok. So, we lose out on Sunday but we still have some of Saturday, right?” He nodded. “And we will take one night together over no nights together?” Another nod. “And you still get to see RENT and have a cosy duvet sleep before your promotion really starts and then we have the premier and that is three nights Taron.” As she spoke Taron’s whole body visibly relaxed, the tension he carried gone from every part of him. With her thumbs, she copied what he had done to her and pushed the corner of his lips up, her actions making him really smile as he sighed.

“How do you do it.” He asked her his hands going onto hers on his face.

“Do what?”

“Just knock some sense into me.”

“Just lucky I guess.” She answered him. “Please don’t start worrying over things that haven’t happened yet Taron. Matthew knows how much you want to come and see me in RENT and it sounds like he worked a little magic to make it happen but you can’t help the twists and turns that life brings us and this just is one.” Robyn took her hands from his face and her voice turned a little quiet and troubled. “Taron, I love that you want to do these things for me and support me but don’t forget that your health comes before anything.”

“Robyn…”

“I am serious Taron. This constant tiredness is not good for you and with your work getting busier, you need to look after yourself, especially when I am not there all the time to do it for you. I can get to you easier than you can get to me and if we need to switch up who visits who, we are doing it. I refuse to be a reason to add to your fatigue.”

“I am used to it Robyn. It’s not my first rodeo.”

Robyn frowned. “Yeah I know and I don’t like it.”

Her answer made him smile. “You sound so like my parents. Just comes with the traveling chicken.”

“Still don’t like it.”

Taron grinned and Robyn found herself wrapped up into another hug, Taron gently rocking her from side to side. “You’re adorable and this tour I have my throw. I sleep like a baby with it and you are right about the worrying. It’s just what I do, especially when it comes to work but I will try to let some of it go. I can only try.”

“It’s all I ask for. Is Matthew travelling with you?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

“Why good?” Taron chuckled.

“Because he thinks a little like I do and I can count on him to look after you.”

“I am able to look after myself Robyn. I was actually doing that before I met you and was doing a pretty good job. Now granted I didn’t get fed rainbow coloured food but I managed.”

Robyn broke the hug and pushed him away from her laughing. “I am slowly seeing a pattern here of why you keep me around. Cosy sleeps, blue dinosaurs and rainbow food.”

“Don’t forget about the rainfall shower, the corner of your couch and most importantly head massages and now shoulder ones too.”

It was laughter that filled the air, taking the attention of Lizzie and the people standing next to them as Robyn and Taron, giggled with each other, whispered words between them as they stood close together. “I just want you to look after yourself. I am invested Taron and you know that.”

“Invested?” He grinned, grinning wider as Robyn pushed him away from her once more. “I know Robyn and I will try but the promotion is tiring for me. It’s just natural that I get a little run down from all the travelling and long days.”

Robyn never got to answer him as the first people walking in the parade were cheered on by the crowd around them and Taron’s attention was immediately taken away as he took a step to the barrier. “Ok chicken, start commenting.”

Shaking her head, Robyn moved to stand closer to Taron’s left side, while Lizzie was on his right and Robyn explained every single float in the parade to Taron who asked question after question about everything he saw, enjoying the little show the local Irish dance group put on.

“This what we are going to be doing at the céilí?” He asked her as the dancers walked by.

“Kind of. Céilí dancing is more like group dancing rather than solo dancing. You will pick it up really fast.”

Taron threw her a doubtful glance but as Lizzie cheered louder beside him, he looked back to the people walking down the street. “Hey isn’t that your dad?” He asked Robyn.

“Yep. Mr President of the GAA himself leading Kilcreen GAA!” She laughed giving her dad a wave as he walked by, receiving one in return.

Robyn continued on explaining every truck, float and car to Taron who listened intently to everything he was being told, watching with a grin on his face as Kilcreen’s parade of trucks and children walked past him, the participants exactly as Robyn described them but he didn’t mind. He was happy to be there at all, standing beside her, being Irish for the day and any tiredness Taron had been feeling earlier that morning had been replaced by an excitement and pure joy as he soaked up the atmosphere around him. He thoroughly enjoyed his first experience of a St Patrick’s Day parade, loving how happy Robyn was when he managed to catch a packet of jellies for her, her arm going around his waist to give him a sideways hug as a thank you. The little rush of sugar from the jellies she shared with him was more than welcomed too and once the parade was finished, he let Robyn lead him towards the canal for another perfect viewing spot for the duck race.

“I have this in the bag.” He said as he stood close to her, the flag now tied around his waist.

“Taron I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

“I have told you already. You are my lucky Irish chicken. I am going to win.”

“Don’t be too disappointed rocketman if your duck comes last of the two thousand or so.”

“Taron!”

His head turned so fast as he heard his name called, he cringed a little as his shoulder pulled uncomfortably. He felt Robyn step a little behind him so she could look too and his heart started to hammer hard in his chest as he heard his name called once more. He was looking through the many faces around him, trying to see who had called his name, starting to worry he had been recognised and that his cover was blown, knowing it going to mean a shit show for Lyndsey as the story of his visit to Ireland was flashed all over every newspaper and social media outlet, Robyn’s home and privacy now at risk.

“Taron!” He squinted as he looked deep into the crowd again and knew he exhaled loudly as a little red-headed girl ran in his direction. He hadn’t realised Robyn had even taken his right hand as he fretted but now could feel her thumb running over his knuckles as they both saw that the voice calling his name was from little Beth who he had met in the doctor’s surgery last year.

“Hey Taron! Hi Robyn!” Beth came to a halt in front of them. “Happy St Patrick’s Day! I like your shamrocks and your hair and your flag Taron.”

“Hello Beth.” Taron slipped his hand from Robyn’s and crouched down so he was eye level with the little girl. “Thank you very much. I like your ribbons in your hair.”

“Beth! Beth!” The little girl’s mother with a jog, came to stand beside Robyn. “Beth! You cannot just run away from me like that!” She scolded.

“But it’s Taron and Robyn!” She turned to tell her mother as if that was a good enough excuse.

“You do not run away from me Beth. I could have lost you in the crowd.”

“I am sorry mammy.”

Margaret, Beth’s mam looked to Robyn who was standing behind Taron, who still hunkered down at Beth’s level. “Robyn I am sorry. She saw you and wanted to come and see you, again and just ran.”

“No need to apologise.”

“She was very excited to see Taron.” Margaret looked down to see her daughter in full chat with him. “She really hasn’t stopped talking about him.”

Robyn smiled. “He has made quite an impression on the pre-schoolers despite his short time with them.”

“He’s back for a visit?” Margaret asked, taking a second glance down to her daughter and Taron, Beth showing him her little flag she held in her hands, Taron fully engaged with the little girl.

“Yeah. I invited him over for St Patrick’s Day. He has never had one.”

“He is a good friend to you.”

“He is.” Agreed Robyn, crouching down beside Taron, smiling as Beth spoke a mile a minute to him.

“And then we are going to go and see granny!”

Taron grinned. “Well that sounds like a wonderful day Beth.”

“What are you and Robyn going to do today?”

Taron took a glance to Robyn. “Well we are going to go and have some dinner after the duck race and then well then I am not too sure.”

“Have you been giving Taron lots of hugs Robyn? He needs lots of hugs.”

Robyn chuckled. “Yes, he does and of course I have Beth.”

“Good. You still like her hugs?”

“Still love her hugs Beth.”

“Ok Beth I think we had better go.” Beth’s mother, who was still a little embarrassed at her young daughter’s escape and interest in hugs, decided it was time for them to go. “They are going to start the duck race. Robyn, Taron lovely to see you both.”

Once Taron had stood up, Beth threw her arms around his legs to give him a hug before she moved to Robyn. Robyn picking the little girl up in her arms to hug her. “Enjoy your day Beth and I will see you on Thursday.”

With another goodbye, Margaret and Beth walked away from Taron and Robyn who moved to take up their position again at the railing in front of the canal.

“Well that was a surprise.” Said Taron as he leaned on the railing. “She remembered me.”

“Those kids still bloody talk about you.”

“Maybe I need to come and visit them again.” He grinned. “You know, help with your popularity in the creche. Make you the favourite.” He laughed as she pushed him, Taron leaning back into his place.

“You come and visit, you will be the favourite.” She corrected.

“Are you allowed have visitors?”

“Yeah of course. Parents come in and do activities with the kids, read stories, make playdough.”

“I could do that.”

“And probably enjoy it more than the kids.”

“Maybe it’s something I could do.”

“And fit it in your schedule where?”

Taron closed his eyes. “Maybe at the end of the year.” He sighed.

“It’s a wonderful idea Taron and if you want to do it, I am sure I can talk Emma around to it.”

“Let’s keep it in mind.”

“Let’s.” She agreed.

Even though it was a small town, the excitement and noise from the crowd was building and every now and again Taron would throw his own shout into the air, laughing as Robyn chastised him each time.

“Thought you were keeping a low profile!” She complained.

“But it’s St Patrick’s Day!” He countered, nudging her with his left hip.

Robyn had no control over him once the duck race started and she was nearly ready to push him into the canal, slightly annoyed the railing was in the way. The ducks were emptied in at the lock the other side of the bridge and as the little yellow plastic ducks slowly bobbed their way along the water, Taron whooped and called along with everyone else, trying his hardest to see his duck that Robyn had bought for him.

“It’s not that hard to miss Taron.” She laughed. “It’s the one that has the love heart glasses and orange jumpsuit with feathers, sequins and two large feathery wings!”

Taron stopped mid-shout to look at Robyn and then to the water, his eyes finding the decorated duck near the front of the floating bunch. “You make a mini Elton John duck.” He asked.

“Nope. I made a Taron Egerton dressed as Elton John in Rocketman duck!”

It was so wonderful to hear Taron laugh, and his giggles came from deep inside his chest and he cheered on even harder for his duck, almost yelling at it at one point to get a move on.

“Jesus Taron! It’s a plastic duck!”

“And it’s winning!”

Robyn was ready to stand behind Taron and put her two hands over his mouth to keep him quiet but his words made her look to the water and she couldn’t believe her eyes when the duck she had made an orange fabric jumpsuit for was floating in first place towards the water polo rope that had been used as a finish line. Getting completely caught up with the drama unfolding on the water, Robyn was soon shouting along with Taron, as if their words were going to make any different to the flow of the slow-paced canal water.

“Go go go!” Yelled Taron. “Go on duck!”

“Go go!” Repeated Robyn standing on her toes, her hands on the railing and she felt Taron’s little finger link with hers. “Go on rocketman!”

“No no no! Stupid green duck!” Taron’s face fell as another duck fell in line with his and was threatening to take first place away from his duck. “Get away from my duck! Move your arse Rocketman!”

“Taron!” Robyn gently slapped his arm, apologizing to the people standing around them as Taron got extremely over excited and a little too loud.

“Go duck GO!”

Robyn’s face fell into her hands on the railing as she was ignored by the Welshman as he became extremely animated, willing the duck on with more words of encouragement, a few Welsh ones thrown in for good luck too.

“Go go go go!”

A huge cheer went up around Robyn and she suddenly found herself wrapped up in a generous squishy hug, her whole body lifted from the ground by Taron. “He won! Rocketman won!” She could feel the vibrations from his laugh against her and she could only laugh with him. “Knew I’d win!”

Locked in his arms, Robyn was still able to turn her head to look at the water and see for herself that the duck she had bought for Taron indeed was the first one to cross the line and was now being fished out by members of the canoe polo team, followed by the green duck in second place, a plain old yellow one in third.

Taron placed Robyn carefully down on the ground his arms still wrapped around her. “Told you.” He whispered to her, kissing her temple.

Robyn unfolded herself from Taron and turned to him. She was ready to give him a biggest scowl she could muster up but his face was lit up in one of his trademark giddy smiles, dimples on full show, eyes creased at the corners and even with the horrible dark circles under his eyes, Robyn heart triple jumped and her stomach dropped. “Yes, you did.” She sighed.

“Lucky Irish chicken.” Taron placed two hands on her cheeks and gave her forehead a soft kiss. “You are my good luck charm, without a doubt. So, what is my…”

“And in first place is duck two two zero two and the winner of the five hundred euro is Dean Edwards!”

Taron’s question was cut off as a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Dean Edwards?” He asked. “Really?”

“Well I couldn’t give your real name, could I?” Grinned Robyn. “I know Kilcreen is small but I still want to keep you a bit of a secret, so I went with Dean for Dean Karny and Edwards for Eddie.”

“Might be a bit late for incognito when Beth practically yelled my name many times and keep me a secret?” He smirked.

Robyn stalled. “You know what I mean Taron. I know Kilcreen is a safe haven for you and I want to try and keep it that way.”

Taron’s heart swelled not for the first time at Robyn’s need to protect him and make sure there was one place he knew he didn’t have to hide and could be himself. What Robyn didn’t know was that he had already found that place and it was wherever she was. “Do you know how glad I am I met you?” He asked her. “How much I need this time with you away from the rush of my work life so it makes me stop and breathe and just…” Taron let a long breathe fill his lungs before he exhaled.

“And you know I am always here for you when you need the breath of air away from the madness.”

“I definitely know that.” He agreed.

Sensing a turnaround in Taron’s mood, Robyn didn’t want him to linger any more on any thoughts of work when he had a day of fun ahead of him so she gave him a large smile. “Let’s go and claim your prize Dean.”

Robyn didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed his hand and half pulled, half led him onto the road, through the crowd and towards the corner of the bridge where she knew the table was set up for the duck race. She stood him in front of the table. “One Dean Edwards.” She grinned.

“Well Miss Quinn. After all of these years you finally won the duck race?” The lady at the table asked.

“I wish, Jane, but it was my friend, Dean here who won. I bought it for him. It was his duck.”

Jane grinned. “Devastated for you.” She winked. “So, Dean, congratulations.” Jane pushed the now very wet and soggy decorated duck towards him. “This is yours and this too.” She handed Taron an envelope.

Taron picked the envelope up and the duck too.

“I just need to see a photo ID please.”

“Thank you Jane! Enjoy your day!”

Robyn placed her hands on Taron’s hips and with a push, he got the hint and took a few steps before he was walking properly and Robyn slipped her hand into his free hand and together they walked up and over the bridge a little and down the steps that led towards a small green beside the train station.

[afriendlyphobia]

nightmares | p.p

pairing: peter parker x reader

genre: angst / fluff

warnings: ffh spoilers !! + feels

Request: no but they’re always open! also feedback is greatly appreciated :)

word count: 1.3k

A/n: This has probably already been done but whatever. anyways i love peter so here’s a little blurb. i kinda ignored the first credit scene bc yea

———————————————————————————————————————-

Your eyes slowly blink opened to the familiar room that was Peter’s. It was quiet, surprisingly. The only sound that could be heard was the whirring of Peter’s nano-tech suit in the corner. A sound that could have been annoying if you weren’t so used to it already.

You could feel your boyfriends soft and warm breaths on your neck as you laid in silence wrapped in his embrace. You snuggled back against him, a small yet sleepy smile etched on your lips.

It had been a while since you’d seen him sleep that soundly or for that long. Ever since the blip he hadn’t been the same, always up thinking or patrolling the city. He was fixated on filling in Tony’s shoes it made your heart break. The emotional toll it was taking on him was unbelievable.

However, this was one of the rare times you had actually gotten to spend a full night with him. He was exhausted after his trip to Europe and you couldn’t blame him. He’s only sixteen and he saved an entire country for crying out loud (possibly the whole world).

You felt the mattress dip suddenly as Peter shifted his weight, pulling your body closer to his own. You almost smiled at the gesture, but his murmurings held you back.

“Please...stop...” He whimpered. It was soft, like he was pleading with someone.

Your eyes narrowed. Was he having a nightmare? You frowned. It had been weeks since his last episode.

You shifted, attempting to find a way to escape from his embrace and wake him. Your attempts, however, were futile against his grip. Of course, super strength.

“Pete?” You whispered, craning your neck around to try to look at him. “Peter, baby, listen it’s just a dream.”

“I said let go of her!” He practically growled, pulling you closer to his chest—evoking a gasp of surprise and discomfort from you; the amount of strength he was using making it hard to breathe. “Beck! Stop!”

You tapped peter’s arm, which then turned into more rapid hitting before you slapped him as hard as you dared. In response, his grip only tightened. “Peter!” You choked out, gasping at the pressure on your chest.

“Wait—no.. Y/n?!” Your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of your name. Every time you had ever been with him during an episode you never had been in his dreams.

His murmuring became louder; you could feel the muscles in his arms tensing due to the closeness.

“Y/n stop— please...! I lov—“ The pressure was suddenly relieved from your chest. Peter’s body jerked away from yours. His body sprang to life with a terrifying scream as he flailed to the other side of his bed.

You turned to face him; the sight of him made your heart shatter. His eyes were wide and alert, his hand stuck out defensively as a barrier between the two of you. In the dim lighting you could see the glow of sweat illuminating the high points of his skin.

His expression looked...broken.

“Peter—“ You reached a hand out in an attempt to comfort and calm him down. He shook his head wildly and pressed back further against the wall.

“Stop!! Stop.” His chest heaved up and down erratically as he continued shaking his head. Tears began to fall from his eyes, creating glistening trails down his cheeks. “Tell me something only you would know.”

Your lips parted, about to ask him why—but the look in his eyes. Confusion, fear, guilt... You took in a deep breath as you rattled through your memories, searching for something specific. This wasn’t the first time you had to do this, nor would it be the last time.

“Our first kiss.” You locked gazes with him as you slowly nodded, trying to assure him it was okay. “You we’re nervous, you said it was your first time. You got so excited you leaned in and kissed my chin instead.”

You saw the mix of emotions in his eyes slowly softened as he lowered his arm. His stare went blank as if he was lost in thought or processing something.

“Peter?” You whispered hesitantly, crawling closer to him at a cautious pace. “It’s okay..”

His gaze flickered from his lap to you then back. He bit his lip, closing his eyes which forced more tears to role down his cheeks. “Y/n...it’s my fault.”

“What?”You shook your head i’m confusion. “What are you talking about?” You reached out to him, cupping his jaw gently with your hand, wiping away his tears with your thumb.

“Tony—If i was just better then he’d still be around!” His eyebrows furrowed as he opened his eyes, staring at you through tear-filled eyes.

“You know that’s not true—“

“That’s what Beck said—!” He stopped, leaning away from your touch to brush his fingers through his hair. “I—I’m not ready.”

“For what?”

“To take his place.” He laughed to himself bitterly. “The world is expecting a leader. I’m just some kid who wants to be able to spend one fucking night with his girlfriend and not worry about what Spider-Man should be doing. I just want a life. I want to be normal.”

“Listen...” You breathed out slowly while searching to find the right words to say. “I know i’m not the most qualified person to speak here but Stark chose you, Pete.”

“Yes but—“

“Here me out.” You quickly said before he could continue to verbally abuse himself. “Who knew the Vulture was no good and defeated him by himself with no high-tech suit or help?”

“Me.”

“Okay, and who did Tony recruit himself for Germany, and fought the Avengers?”

“Me. But—“

“Who saved thousands of lives in London and possibly millions of others?”

“Me!” Peter’s tone became more annoyed, knowing that you would continue to go on if he didn’t simply accept it. “Fine....i get it.”

“Peter, you are a hero.” You leaned closer to him. “Ask any of the thousands of people you saved.” You paused before whispering gently. “Ask me.”

He looked at you, a somber smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

“Stark saw something in you. I can see it now too.” You picked the left side of his chest lightly. “You don’t give up. No matter how many times you get knocked down, you always get back up.”

You smiled at him, feeling your own tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “Stark would be beyond proud of you....I know i am.”

He smiled back at you, reaching out to pull you into his embrace again. You wrapped your own arms around his torso, pressing your cheek against his chest.

“I’m so lucky to have you.” He whispered into the crook for your neck. Soft tears rolled from his cheeks to your skin as his hot breath sent goosebumps down your spine.

You pulled back from his brace just enough to see his face; he looked down at you with the same whirl of emotions. This time however, he looked more peaceful.

You slid your hand from his back to the nape of his neck. Using the position as leverage, you pulled his head down to yours. Your lips crashed together softly, moving in sync perfectly.

His hands roamed down your sides before lifting your shirt slightly to rest his hands on your bare waist.

He pulled away, a little too early for your liking, and smiled at you. “I love you so much.”

You lifted your brows in response, wide smile stretching across your face. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, then lower, then across his jawline creating a trail to punctuate each word. “I love you more.”

He tilted his head back, letting out a breathy and content sigh.

You were his euphoria. He was yours.

You knew he was something special that you were never going to let go of.

So even if that meant spending nights alone or waking up alone. You were willing to do it for him. You would follow him until the world ended, hand in hand.

[mogwaei]

Here’s my huge first piece for @dadrunkwriting​ (Thank you @contreparry​ & @midnightprelude​ for the delightful prompts!)

I ended up combining these two and it got out of hand. It’s sitting nearly at 6k words, so you’ve been forewarned! Will be posting this over on my Ao3 as well.

A little background for those who haven’t read The Guardian:

-Maori knows who/what Solas is, but he doesn’t know that she knows

-She has sketchy abilities that no one else is aware of in the Inquisition (Solas knows she can shapeshift and has shared that he can as well)

-Maori hates killing dragons

-Minor spoilers for those who are following my fic ^_^

~~

“I am going to kill the Inquisitor when we get back to Skyhold,” she swore, breath clouding thickly before her mouth. As if to emphasise her immense displeasure, the creature just above them let loose a magnificent roar that shook the pale stone of Etienne’s Ring. “There aren’t dragons in Emprise, Maori! The only hot things there are the Pools of  the Sun! And me when I’m present,” she said, mimicking an Antivan accent. A couple of white clouds puffed to her left and right as her companions laughed quietly behind their cover of the coliseum walls. It wasn’t the greatest protection, since all it would take was for the dragon to breathe into the corridor and waste them to ash. “No dragons, Inquisitor? Because I counted three fucking dragons.”

“I love when she gets like this,” Sera said between stifled giggles as she strung her bow. “Mao, if you can ride the dragon, I’ll show you how to pick locks with a blade of grass! Plus, Quizzie will shite nugs when he hears.” Solas hissed a stream of ghostly vapour between his teeth.

“This is no time for games, Sera!” he whispered, voice barely audible over the whooping of wings. His head popped out from within one of the alcoves, stormy eyes narrowing at Maori. “Lockpicking and bragging rights are not worth being rent apart by a dragon!” Maori looked away from him, hiding a grin.

“Oh, c'mon, live a little Solas!” Bull whispered. He barely flinched like the rest of them as the entire earth seemed to quake with the dragon’s romping above. “If you can ride the dragon, I won’t tell anyone about the raven I saw.” Maordrid’s mood soured instantly. She turned a smoldering gaze on the Qunari and gripped her hilt tightly. He flashed an animalistic grin. He saw me change form Fuck. Fenedhis. Kaffas. Vashedan. You’re getting careless!

They all cursed and ducked back into cover like startled mice as splinters of ice blew into the corridor.

“Ah, so she’s an ice breather,” Maori grumbled. The hivernal chuffed her frustration, obviously trying to find a way to access them.

“Bonus points if you can ride the dragon into something. That way you aren’t technically killing her,” Bull amended, still looking at her with challenge.

“Fenedhis!” At Solas’ sharper tone of voice, they turned their attentions on the elf to see that a massive column of ice had fallen and nearly crushed him. “The dragon will not go away if we simply ignore her. We need a plan.” Sera blew her tongue at him.

“Who thought it was a good idea to bring elfy along? Nothin’ but naggin’.” Solas said something too low to Sera for Maori to hear, but her attention was instead on joining the Qunari warrior behind his large boulder.

“I’ve a plan,” she told him. He raised a brow in surprise at her fervour but an enthusiastic gleam grew in his one eye. “If you charge out, it will give me time to cloak and get behind her. Once she turns her attention to me, help the other two to get out of cover and into position.” Bull nodded and grinned.

“You do have experience killing these things,” he accused, lowering his voice.

“Going to run along and tell your superiors in Seheron?” She drew her hilt and willed the shimmering labradorite blade into existence between them. The spirit within greeted her happily, as always. Bull cast his gaze to the rest of their party on the other side of the path.

“They’d probably be pretty interested in an elf that isn’t the Inquisitor with a history of killing dragons,” he admitted. “But the Boss himself? He doesn’t know you can fly like one.”

“You’re serious about riding the dragon?” she deadpanned. Bull’s thick hand wrapped around her bicep and pulled her out of the path of a falling slab of ice.

“Y'know, if I were talking to almost anyone else, I wouldn’t even bother  and casually mention it to Yin anyway,” he said, unstrapping his great axe with a clank. “But I like you and I can see that rattles you good. Here’s the thing–they’re paying for my services.”

“Are you suggesting I outbid them for your silence?” Bull grinned.

“Up to you. Can’t really outbid a dragon.” She considered him, but then shook her head. Something like disappointment fell across his scarred, grey features as he hefted his axe in both hands.

“Get on with your distraction, Qunari. Or this dragon is going to crush us like ants,” she said. They got to their feet and turned to face Solas and Sera. “We’re going to lure her away from you. Get ready.” Solas’ lips pinched at the corners and his hands clenched a little tighter around his staff, but he nodded his agreement with Sera. With a grim smile, Maordrid cloaked herself and ran up the crumbled path behind Bull who charged out of cover with a fierce roar that startled the dragon.

The fight commenced with a burst of silver magic and a rippling roar that shattered the frozen puddles of the Ring. Raw magic swarmed the hivernal, reaching high up into the sky where the clouds began to swirl in a heavenly maelstrom.

As promised, Maordrid initiated her distraction of the dragon by wrapping ropes of magic around her lashing tail, tethering it temporarily to a rock jutting out of the ground. The dragon let out a confused growl and swung her great head around to look for the invisible pest at her back. Maori dropped her cloak, popping back into visibility. The hivernal’s yellow-ringed eyes snapped to her form immediately. At the same time, Sera and Solas emerged from below, spreading out along the top as fast as they could.

Then there was Bull who’d a bigger death wish than herself. He went straight for her breastbone with a roar to challenge the fierceness of the dragon herself. It, of course, drew her attention back to him. Seeing that she was surrounded, the great winged reptile took an agile leap back, nearly crushing Maordrid who dove straight into the icy puddles to avoid it. The Veil around her sharpened, then grew taut and frigid as the hivernal drew it around her in a protective barrier. The air began to thrum with the telltale signs of a winged attack. Maori pushed herself to her feet, feeling a barrier settle over her skin. Solas was running to the edges of the arena tossing barriers and fireballs like candy. Sera was somehow perched on top of a broken arch, safe from the howling gales that pulled at Maori’s body like wraith’s hands back toward the dragon. Arrows aided by the wind sailed through the air like minnows in a creek, feathering the thick flesh at the dragon’s neck. Magic from the enchanted arrows blossomed across the hivernal’s scales in rippling colours–a well-aimed shot at her foreleg actually crippled the dragon temporarily. Spotting danger, Maori redirected, stepping through the Veil to jab her sword between entrail-encrusted teeth and Iron Bull’s shoulder.

“Your tactics are shit and you are going to die like a cow in her jaws!” she screamed in Qunlat at Bull who was wrenching his axe from the ice where it’d been trapped. The dragon tried to snap her spirit sword in half between her teeth but Maordrid dispelled it and spun away before she could retaliate.

“Say, your tongue is pretty good. One more thing I can add to my reports!” Bull returned. Maordrid growled.

“It’d be a shame if the water were to freeze around your ankles–” Bull turned the dragon’s entire head to the side with the flat of his axe, diverting a lunge that would have put Maori’s entire upper body into her gullet. “I will have trouble keeping a straight face telling the Inquisitor and your Chargers that their pet cow served as a frozen hors d'oeuvre for a dragon.”

“Hey, my offer still stands. Just sayin’--WHOA!” He laughed with abandon as they were both tossed backward by the force of the dragon’s foot slamming into the ground. Next came the familiar whoop as the dragon prepared to lift off. The proximity almost burst her eardrums.

“Throw me!” she shouted, getting to her feet and running back toward Bull. His eye widened with excitement.

“Seriou–”

“NOW!” His arm wrapped around her waist and with a bodily spin, she was airborne. She heard Solas swearing up a storm as she landed on the hivernal’s neck just as the dragon took to the air. Maordrid scrabbled for a hold, sliding down the dragon’s craggy hide. A jerk of the reptile’s body sent her hilt tumbling into the void and to the unknown below. There was no time to mourn its loss, especially since she was still falling herself.

Her hands found tenuous purchase on the dragon’s tail spikes, the force with which she caught them throwing her heart into her mouth and her body into a flagellate motion. Maori risked a glance downward and saw the earth dwindling. She could no longer pick out Etienne’s Ring.

Mere seconds later, they broke the clouds and the only sounds were the leathery slap of wings on wet air and the wind in her ears. She cast a skin-tight barrier around her against the wintry currents threatening to freeze her limbs solid and began her climb up the dragon’s body to seek a safer position. The hivernal screeched, her call muffled by the grey. Maordrid let out an involuntary cry of surprise when her stomach became weightless as the dragon righted herself in the air. She took the opportunity of the horizontal change to climb as far as she could up the bluish-grey spine, digging the tips of her gauntlets and boots into the ridges formed by the scales. Flecks of white danced and swirled past her face and she lifted her gaze to see snow drifting across the rocky landscape of scales and scars. Some caught in her hair and lashes despite her barrier.  

It was almost funny that her worries did not lie in surviving the dragon or cold itself rather than that they were with the furious elven mage and the devious Qunari that awaited her back on solid ground.

Solas was going to kill her.

~~~~

The three of them rushed to the edge of the frozen arena, staring up into the darkening skies after Maordrid and the dragon. Solas laced his hands atop his head, loosing a stuttering breath. His heart fluttered with fear and anger - a very unpleasant mix.

“That was grand! I can’t believe you threw her!” Sera tittered to his right. The Qunari had the gall to laugh.

“Right? Fuckin’ didn’t expect that!” Solas turned on him, a frown twisting his lips.

“Why?” he snarled. “Why would you put her in even more danger?” Iron Bull hefted his axe over his shoulder still bearing a jolly grin. He wished to burn it from his face.

“Sorry Solas, it was in heat of the moment. Plus, she made a pretty convincing argument.” It was pointless to argue with the Ben-Hassrath about this.

An eerie screech echoed down from cloud cover.

“There!” Sera crowed, pointing with an arrow. A jagged shadow appeared in the white, skimming just out of sight before they took a plunge, taking Solas’ heart with it. “She still attached?” The question was answered as the dragon spun mid-fall to reveal the small form of Maordrid crawling her way down its body. A strangled cry escaped him as she came apart from it in a free fall.

“Damn, Mao is badass!” Bull hooted. He watched in abject horror as Maordrid twisted her body and maneuvered her way between the dragon’s deadly limbs. He saw her reach a hand out, placing it against the dragon’s underbelly. There was another flash of silver punctuated by an agonised roar as she opened its belly with an ethereal blade visible even from there. The dragon’s lifeblood seeped from the deep wound, flowing upward, spattering her and drifting between the thick flakes of white that had followed them down from the clouds. His heart rattled painfully against his ribs, watching the tableau of death play out. He wondered how her heart was beating. Was it a blood-thrilling rhythm for battle? A hymn of lamentation for the life she’d taken? Or was it erratic with fear, like his own? Perhaps it was cold and evenly paced, cruelly indifferent to it all.

The dragon began to careen, wings jerking in the throes of its death. Her head whipped from side to side, maw unhinging to pour a stream of uncontrolled magic and ice into the air. Solas cried out once more when it caught Maori in its path, this time knocking her loose and far from its body.

“Shit,” Bull groaned with dread as they dropped toward the Elfsblood river. Sera screamed her own terror, so loud and shrill that it raised bumps along every inch of his skin. Without waiting for them, the rogue began scrambling down the rocks without any heed for the danger that the landscape itself posed.

“Wake up,” Solas begged her. “Wake up, vhenan…”

His heart skipped a beat as her form wavered and smoke unfurled from her body. He blinked and the raven had replaced the elf. She continued to fall with the dragon and he knew something was wrong when she didn’t try to fly to safety.

Limbs shaky and numb with adrenaline, Solas followed Sera, using magic to make the descent less precarious.

~~

They reached Judicael’s Crossing in time to witness the dragon crash into the frozen river just below, sending skyward a geyser of ice shards and water that almost reached the bridge. There was no sign of Maordrid.

It took far too long to find their way down and by then a handful of Inquisition agents who’d witnessed the spectacle had made their way to the riverbank as well. The snow was knee deep on him - ordinarily he’d walk upon it but that would only draw attention - though halfway through the trees he gave up and melted a path as he went.

The air glittered with fibres of ice crystals even in the gloom, making each intake of breath sharp before they melted in his throat. Despite the tranquillity of the wilderness, Solas was anything but, fraying further when the grotesque scene came into view. The dragon’s corpse was hanging half in the water, face down with its wings shredded and broken from the impact. Vivid arterial blood seeped and steamed from multiple wounds in the bright, painterly flesh and had spattered much of the snow on the banks. The water around the body was bubbling, though from what, he could not say.

“Did you see an elf anywhere?” Solas asked a gaping agent standing near the edge. The strawberry-blonde woman blinked rapidly and looked at him, seeming just as surprised at his arrival as she was of the mythical creature’s corpse. “Obsidian of hair and short in stature?” The agent shook her head slowly.

“No, Messere, only the dragon,” she said in a thick Orlesian accent. “Should I have someone search downriver?” He nodded curtly and turned as Bull and Sera joined him, wading through the snow. Sera’s eyes were rimmed with red and she was sniffing too much for it to have been from the cold. Iron Bull had little expression, eye fixating on the corpse behind him.

Solas opened his mouth to speak, though what he meant to say, he wasn’t sure, except that no one present deserved to be the target of his anger.

“She has to be somewhere,” he said, hardly aware of how hollow his voice sounded in his own ears. “The snow is deep…and there’s forest we can searc–”

“Solas–the ice!” Iron Bull pointed a meaty finger to something behind him. He spun, eyes searching and landing on a spot down river that was…glowing? Then he recognised it as magic - fire, to be precise. Solas took off at a run - or so he tried, forcing his body to plough through the snow toward the red-orange splotch. It pulsed once, twice, and then the surface exploded with such a force he felt the wave of heat on his cheeks. Water rained down all around him, but he forged ahead and slid down onto the river, sprinting when he heard desperate gasps and saw blue-tinged hands scrabbling for something to grab onto.

She slipped back under, but his hand plunged into the water, closing around her wrist just in time. He pulled up and her frightfully pale face burst from the freezing depths, bloodless lips parting for another gasp. Vhenan, oh my love, you reckless thing! With his help, she clambered clumsily onto solid ground, leaden arms tangling listlessly with his. Solas ripped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped her in it. She wasn’t shivering, which was a sign that she wasn’t out of peril yet. Maordrid slumped forward on her knees, head bowed. Was she laughing? How dare–

“B-Beautif-f-ul,” she whispered, peering up at him with winter-silver irises. Even like this, drenched and weak, she was a vision that stole the breath from his lungs. She is so real. A blankness stole over her features and her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Real and in danger. Solas caught her, drawing her into his arms, not caring who saw as he wrapped her body tightly in his cloak.

Sera and Bull came skidding across the ice just as he got to his feet with the unconscious elf in his hold.

“Tell us what she needs and I’ll bluddy do it,” Sera told him, reaching out to brush a knuckle along Maori’s cheek with a tenderness not befitting the rogue.

“A tent. Bedroll, blankets,” Solas managed and Sera was already bolting back across the river toward the Inquisition scouts. While they waited for someone to return with a kit, Solas sat with her, passively warming Maordrid’s extremities as he could. An hour later, the tent was erected and Solas took her inside. Sera refused to leave even when he assured her he had it under control. When she showed no signs of listening, he caved and allowed her to help him undress Maordrid to her smalls and covered her beneath blankets imbued with heat spells after he had checked her over for broken bones and internal bleeding.

He finally got the rogue to leave on some mission to fetch a hot broth for when Maordrid woke, allowing him a moment of respite with his reckless heart. If they weren’t surrounded by agents or in the company of the other two, he would have joined her beneath the blankets - kept her warm with his own body heat. It would not do for someone to walk in and get the wrong idea. The thought repulsed him to his core.

Solas had not doubted her survival. Maordrid had come back from worse, after all. Certainly he feared for her life, but his anger he found was directed at her continuous neglect for herself. She’d no sense of self-preservation and seemed to find a thrill in taunting death. Her excuse would be something along the lines of “It’s for your own good.” It was the only thing predictable about her.

Her disregard had been so concerning that he’d requested she fight from afar rather than engage in dirth'ena enasalin. She’d taken it as an insult, rightfully so, as a true Arcane Warrior should. Ghilan'him banal'vhen, he’d asked of her. Yet…the next time they fought he found her beside him wielding a staff. He remembered her wry grin when he asked what had changed her mind. To give my heart some peace of mind. Plus, did you not want to keep me close? How could I resist a request like that?

How? By simply not caring what I think, he thought now, but perhaps that was unfair to her. He knew that she was not good with expressing her emotions, but never had he doubted her love for him. And it was a kind of love he had never known. Fierce and protective as the dragon she’d slain today while simultaneously terrifying…and ensorcelling. He revelled in the fires of her love. Some day, she might burn him to ash and he would love her for it.

His little warrior was a walking paradox.

“When you wake…” he trailed off as anger, hurt, and frustration swirled through him like the snow by the winds outside. He sighed. “Wake soon, vhenan.”

Then, he waited.

~~~~

She came to in the grips of heat and a white brightness glaring her in the face. Her body felt as though the dragon had sat on her all night. Each limb was stiff, too hot, and tight with pain. Her eyes swivelled in their sockets, trying to get a read on where her body currently lay. A tent, so it would seem. Shit, she thought with dread. Something had gone awry–

Oh. Right. She’d shapeshifted in an attempt to glide away into safety but hadn’t accounted for the drag created by the dragon’s body. She didn’t think the soul-sucking chill of the Elfsblood river would ever leave her.

With a soft groan, she forced her arms to lift her into a sitting position to escape the rude sunlight pouring in through the hole in the tent. Blinking the brightness from her vision, she found that she was alone, but only within the tent judging by the low hum of voices outside. Though her head pounded and her mouth was dry as bone, Maori first donned the clothes she found folded on a stool by a table. A cup of cold tea sat on the corner of it as well as a half-eaten ration of porridge. She swallowed the tea and decided that before she faced the wrath of anyone, she needed to visit the hivernal and pay her respects. She hadn’t meant to take the dragon’s life, but things had spiralled too far from her control to have avoided it.

Maordrid slipped out of the tent with her hood drawn and darted for the nearest wood her eyes landed upon. Only once she was in cover did she turn and take stock of her surroundings. Apparently, her companions had seen fit to take her as far away from the site of the dragon’s final resting place as possible. The head of the Elfsblood river was to her left, just beyond the shattered bridge and its frozen statues.

It would be a long walk to the dragon.

~~

It took little over an hour to make her way down the frozen river, but eventually the colossal stone bridge came into view around a high bluff, as did the great grey-blue corpse of the dragon, her body still laying in the river where she’d fallen. By then, it had begun to snow again and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. It was as though the world knew that it had lost one of its skyward children, mourning her by the way she had been in life, surrounded by cold and ice.

Maordrid had to stop and lean against a riverside boulder as a sense of shame and sorrow bore down on her spirit. She had murdered a spirit of the natural world. A remnant of a time before mortal beings had taken root in this plane of existence. And for what? A selfish endeavour of hers?

Her feet carried her across the blue vein, but then stalled when a flicker of motion on the treeline caught her eye. Not yet. She relished the tranquil scene of the falling snow, the silver-dusted pines, and the stones riddling the landscape, for once her eyes sought the ancient wolf watching her, she knew it would all be over.

But there was no use delaying the inevitable.

She acknowledged his presence, turning her body to face him. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, ankles hooked, and a stern expression on his noble face. Maordrid reluctantly pushed back her cowl so that he could see her eyes.

“Why do you sneak about like a sordid thief in the night?” His soft voice carried across the wintry stillness, light as the falling flakes of snow around her. She frowned, wondering how long he’d been following her for.

“I would rather pay my dues to the dragon without interruptions,” she answered truthfully. Solas pushed away from his tree and began making his way slowly down the snow, nary leaving a track as he walked. He stopped when he reached the edge of the bank, hiemal eyes cold and filled with an indescribable emotion. Even if she could not read him, she sensed the trap waiting to spring on her. She sighed. “And I know you are upset with me.” Solas scoffed, swinging his head to peer at the dragon’s still form. A muscle in his neck tensed as he clenched his jaw.

“That is one way to put it.”

“Solas, I–”

“What were you thinking, Maordrid?” It was unnerving how he could speak in little more than a whisper and it would cut through the silence of the world like he’d shouted. “Ah, yes, you weren’t. Should I even be surprised?”

“You could do without the insults,” she muttered, then louder so that he could hear, “It was–”

“For our sakes, so you say. As always.”

“Will you allow me to get a damn word in?” She glared at him - he regarded her on his higher ground, looking down at her like a patron upon a supplicant. An Evanuris and his slave. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to dispel the horrible images and memories that flashed to mind. He never owned any. Quit it.

“Of course, let us see what excuses she can spin for this misstep.” She bristled, taking a step forward and meeting his eyes defiantly. Solas tilted his head, looking every bit like a wolf with his fur-lined cloak and features made almost feral with irritation. “Oh! Allow me - I cannot think of a single valid excuse for riding a dragon.” She threw her hands up despite the wrenching ache in her muscles.

“No! I don’t have a bloody excuse! Are you happy that you get to be right once again?” The cloud of white that came out of her nose was not steam, but smoke. The mage tucked his hands behind his back and this time it oozed condescension. “I was not going to offer excuses, Solas. I have an explanation but it seems like you are set on being angry with me. Or is this another attempt to push me away?” This, at least, garnered a reaction from him. Insult, then hurt. Oh, and how she abhorred that look. She wanted nothing more than to take his face between her hands and - no. Not this time.

“I simply do not understand why you acted so recklessly! Careless! I thought we had worked past that!” he said, voice raising just a hair in volume. She did not remember when he had climbed down from the riverbank, but now they were on even ground. “I have asked very little of you - not that I have any right to, but everything that happened yesterday could have been avoided.”

“You don’t know that,” she interjected sharply. “Any one of us could have been injured or worse! It is the way of battle –”

“Is taking the most perilous path possible–?”

“Solas, I had no choice!” He fell silent, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. “In spur of the moment, I had no way around it.” She could see him trying to rearrange the pieces of the situation in his mind, attempting to find some way to box her in again - to gain the upperhand.

“The raven,” he was quick to puzzle out. She nodded.

“Bull saw me shift before, though I’m not sure when,” she said, running her fingers across her face. “Sera joked about riding the dragon and Bull saw it as an opportunity to…coerce me.” Solas’ eyes darkened, but he nodded for her to continue. “Ride the dragon and he won’t tell anyone. Though I suppose there is nothing truly keeping him from spilling what he knows about my abilities. So yes, I am a fool. But I took the chance.” A strange expression formed on his face as he looked back up the river. “What is it?”

“I believe he may have regretted his actions after what happened,” he said, sounding almost…smug. She knew Solas had a borderline hostile relationship with Bull - it had been a damn nightmare travelling from Skyhold to Emprise because of it - but the way his little grin curled his lips chilled her. Again, she was having a hard time reading him, which was…unusual. “As you should your own.” She resisted the urge to throw her hands up again.

“Thank you for the kind reminder, Solas,” she said, hating the way her voice cracked. “I was on my way to reflect on my mistakes alone when you saw fit to intercept me.” She stepped into his intimate space, looking up into his face, baring her own so that he could see the hurt in her eyes. “I regret it all. But what do my words matter to you? You don’t want to hear my ‘excuses’.” At his silence, Maordrid turned from him in anger. “So please excuse me now. I have rites to perform before Iron Bull brings the Inquisition down on my head for…lying by omission. Chances are I will be forced to flee.” She got a total of two steps in before bumping into him, having not even sensed him move.

“I have seen you lie before,” he said, close, but not touching her. His words sent a real chill cascading down her spine. Solas tilted his head, trying to capture her eyes with his. “Would you give up so easily against his claims, should he decide to expose you? You would face down a dragon but not a threat waged on your reputation? I do not understand you.” Maori shook her head, stepping back from him with a steady exhale.

“I have been outplayed. Leliana is already watching me closely, looking for any excuse to pin me down as some kind of criminal,” she confessed.

“I think you are lying to yourself now,” his voice was hedging back into his insufferable condescension once more. As though he knew better. “You have convinced yourself that you cannot talk your way out of it.”

“What a convoluted way of suggesting that I lie to them, Solas.” There was a bout of silence where they simply stared at one another.

“There are many ways to go about doing it.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would be fine with lying.”

“Let us pretend that you are, for a moment.” She stared at him, slightly aghast. He continued unaffected, “He may claim to have seen you shift into a raven - but what proof does he have?” She chewed the inside of her lip, shaking her head slightly. “An outright denial is one option.”

“And what would you do, wolf?” He didn’t react like she expected he might. Cool as the ice beneath their feet.

“Start a rumour about myself of absurd accounts. A dragon, a griffon, a nug…a wolf, whatever takes your fancy.” He smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. Maordrid once more looked to the side, considering. “In fact, I would strongly advise we do that, even if Bull decides not to. As a preventative measure, should he change his mind.” He paused. “You may even come to derive amusement from the way your reputation changes before your very eyes.”

Is that how you felt, once? Not anymore, surely.

“We?” she repeated, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “I did not take you for a gossiper.” His cloak swayed once with the single step he took toward her. His cinereous eyes reduced to slivers beneath his lids as he fixated on her. This close, she could see tiny snowflakes alighting on his lashes and a faint flush on his freckled cheeks from the windchill.

“Tall tales have their uses, and are not always malevolent in nature,” His lips twitched against a smirk. “We can get very creative.” She was not sure if he was still angry with her, but testily, she reached up and twined the leather cords of his amulet around her fingers. When he did not withdraw, she took it as a good sign.

“If we are to stick with the shapeshifting theme…you could shift into your wolf and walk by my side past one of the camps,” she mused, running the thumb of her other hand over the jawbone. “Might they think me an Emerald Knight from the olden days?”

“It would likely be more sinister than that, though I do enjoy the idea,” he said.

“Ah, sinister, is it? I can hear it now, ‘She walks beside Fen'harel! The demon-witch from the Fade is in cahoots with the Dread Wolf!’” Solas cast his head back and laughed heartily, clumps of white vapour curling from his mouth. The next thing she knew, his arms were tugging her to him and his mouth was on hers. The liar’s tongue tasted like mint and gingerroot today.

“That may not go over well with our Dalish Inquisitor or his sister,” he hummed against her lips.

“You were the one who suggested we be absurd. The idea was a good one.” A shadow passing overhead had them both looking up to see a raven flying toward the riverside camp. “Ravens and wolves. In Dalish legend…Dirthamen and Fen'harel.” She gave him a devious look. Oh, how I enjoy this game. “Imagine spreading the rumour that we are two elven gods come to assist the Inquisition.”

“I would rather not involve myself in these rumours,” he said, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face.

“You wouldn’t need to. Shift, walk with me for a bit, then hide and shift back. No harm to your pristine reputation.” Solas’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “Or, teach me how to shapeshift into a wolf and I will do it myself. Who is she, really? Fen'harel? Dirthamen? If I knew a dragon form, I’d throw an Old God rumour into the pot.”

“I think it is rather set in stone that those two are males, vhenan,” he chided.

“Oh? I will prove to you the power rumour has over even stone.” Solas chuckled and pressed his lips to hers once more, plush and warm, but chaste. She untangled her hands from his necklace to loop them around his neck, pulling him close.

“Will I regret getting involved in your mischief?” he asked over her head, arms moving to encircle her waist.

“So long as you do not mind hearing the undoubtedly racy rumours that are bound to spring up about me,” she said with her own laugh. “Beyond that, you know what is true.” He drew back with a raised brow.

“Do I?” His thumb swept along her bottom lip. “I think you are lying, vhenan.” She smirked, lifting her eyes to the gloomy skies.

“That makes two of us.”

[wheremytwinwatches]

[Where My Twin Watches]: PMMM Rebellion - Part 7

Bleh. So like Tephi said, I’ve been putting this off. Like when we got to the last PMMM episode, things are grim. Unlike last episode, Madoka doesn’t have a Wish to fix everything. Because of the Incubator’s dickishness, Homura’s been trapped as a pseudo-Witch, and the rest of the Madokrew got pulled in and depowered. I can’t really think of any way to resolve this, or at least there are no options I can think of that I accept. But whatever, sitting here sulking doesn’t make the fact that whatever’s going to happen happens. Onwards with Rebellion.

So some sort of creepy childish singing has started up, as stylized Homutroops march along with some of the creepy Goth Kids. Homura’s familiars? Incubator’s still rambling, saying that Madoka forgot she was a goddess, and Homura forgot she was a Witch. But since Homura realized the truth, “the delicate balance within has begun to crumble.” Oh, so sorry your stupid experiment is messed up, Incubator. I weep for you. [Incubator]: “Now then, Homura Akemi. Reach out to Madoka Kaname for help. That will make her remember who she really is and what she came here to do.” ...yeah, no. You explained last time that one goal of Stupid Experiment was seeing the power potential of a Witch, the other was catching that pesky Madokami who was taking away girls before you could get your paws on them. Homura ain't gonna do anything you say. Homura questions why the Incubator wants her to summon Madokami, her Familiars tapping their spears as the windows of this place/temple/thing they’re in cracks. Yup, there it is. [Homura]: “You intend to control Madoka, DON’T YOU?!” And with that cry, the glass shatters, and her Familiars attack. Oh no. Oh no no no. As satisfying as this is to watch her Familiars attack that bastard, this is not a good sign. The Incubator blathers on even as stone shatters around it, plainly stating that sure, their long-term goal is to control this thing that they don’t understand. If they can just observe it, they can eventually control it, and bring about Witches “and collect vast amounts of energy all at once.” Oh good Madokami shut UP you dick. “Truly, Magical Girls hold the key to limitless possibilities. All of you Magical Girls should fulfill your existence by transforming into a Witch!” Welp. Hoping I’ll be wrong, but I think you might be getting your wish soon, Incubator. At least, one Witch. [Incubator]: “Why are you angry?” GEE. I WONDER WHY HOMURA WOULD BE ANGRY RIGHT NOW. ...I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the Incubator raises a good point. Homura has technically fulfilled her Wish: ”I wish I could meet Miss Kaname all over again. But this time instead of her protecting me, I want to be strong enough to protect her!” Homura has ‘met’ Madoka again, and stripped of her powers Madoka is weaker than pseudo-Witch Homura. This is what she Wished for. But this is not what she wanted. And… yeah. There it is. The Incubator sounds shocked now. [Incubator]: “Are you serious? You’re raising a curse yourself? What are you thinking?” Damnit. I didn’t want this to happen. -The Incubators are trying to capture Madokami. -Madoka is trapped in this Labyrinth. -This Labyrinth has been created by pseudo-Witch Homura. -The only way to end a Labyrinth is to remove the source. So. In order to set Madoka free from the machinations of the Incubators, the Labyrinth has to go. And that means Homura as well. FUCK. THAT. That is a stupid fucking ending and I do not accept it. Homura, please don’t do this. We can figure something else out. If you do this, turn full Witch… Homura understands what she’s doing. By turning full Witch, she deprives the Incubators the chance of getting Madoka through her. And it’s not like it’ll be a long Witchification, with Mami and Kyoko at hand NO NO NO FUCK NO. Homura stop you are not going to pull a Suicide by Magical Girl you do not need to die that is a stupid fucking image of you in a guillotine no no no NO This is not how your story ends You have not come all this way to die now No. Worse than death even. Dying as a Witch while in the Incubation Field, she’s cut off from Madokami. Madokami won’t be able to save her before she gives into despair. By doing this, Homura will never see Madoka again. Witch-Homura just tells the Incubator to shut up, and sets her Familiars on it. ...ok, have to admit. As dark as this is and despite all my ranting, I got a chuckle out of that Goth Kid hitting a homerun with the Incubator’s head.

This really is the worst possible outcome for Homura, isn’t it? She is consigning herself to Witch Hell, to protect Madoka in Magical Girl Heaven. Wait. A nightmare? Homura and Madoka are sitting on chairs in a field. Then Madoka… stands up? Then falls and now pink blotch what. Now shocked Homura surrounded by Slendergirl versions of herself, then giant fist of Homura hitting ground in anger. Then bony black fingers and ah. So this is Witch-Homura. “So this is being a Witch…” So. Homura has become a Witch. Some sort of headless lady breaking free from the temple, surrounded by her soldiers. Now what? That’s serious question, there’s still- half an hour?! Uh ok, what gives? This is peak dark, I thought that things were coming to an end here. What else is there?! Oh good Madokami. Urobutcher, if you drag out this fight of the Madokrew trying to kill Homura I am going to be pissed. This poor girl has been through so much, please at least end this quickly. The clocks count down. The curtain rises. And our actors take their place. Witch-Homura is marching along with her army, when a giant guillotine rises. In response, spectral arms come out of her back and claw at the ground. Torn between trying to die to save her friends and being scared? Cut to the rest of the Madokrew, Mami and Sayaka have their eyes covered. They know what they have to do. The Incubator pipes up, asks if they really intend to fight their friend. Still trying to keep this going? Dude, you’ve lost, you’re so rattled that you forgot you’ve been playing mute. One more appeal to Madoka to assume her power… but Sayaka shuts him down, tells Madoka to do what she said earlier. Wait, what? Plan? You have a plan you made offscreen? ...dare I trust in the Tropes? Ok, Charlotte (or Bebe I guess? If I understand now she came through with Madoka and Sayaka, so she is working for Madoka but as a Magical Girl instead of a Witch) cries out a cheesy warcry and- blender? Forget it Ranubis, it’s a Labyrinth. We’ll be here forever if I keep getting distracted by Labyrinth stuff. Now something’s pouring into a glass shaped like… no. No way! It’s the girl from the cover! It’s Magical Girl Bebe! Who wields… a trumpet that shoots bubbles. Ok then! Witch-Homura sends her soldiers forward. [Homura!Thoughts]: Damnit guys, let me sacrifice myself for your freedom! Stop being so inconsiderate! Alright! With a Mysterious Plan in play, I can actually get excited about seeing our Girls fight again! Sayaka’s turn, our Blue Paladin draws her sword and WHAT WHAT WHAT THE FUCK Oh Ok then, while it gave me a panic attack it seems that that’s just Sayaka’s way of summoning her Witch form. Alright then! So former Witches can draw on their Witch Forms in battle! Battle of the Bands, go!

Hahahaha! Fuck you Incubator, you got so held up on the Very Important Girl that you ignored her private security! Security that is holding all her power and memories! Puffballs fight Homutroops as they explain the pla- NO NO NO IT’S TOO EARLY YOU TWO THERE’S STILL SO MUCH MOVIE LEFT YOU CAN’T REVEAL STUFF LIKE THIS NOW THINK OF THE TROPES! Ok ok calm down, there’s still Madoka’s vague role. For now Bebe JEBUS ok she’s going into Witch Mode now. Fear the Bebe! The battle continues, Madoka watching on until Mami scoops her up. Team attack? Ooh music has started up as Madoka draws her bow, shoots the ceiling of the Labyrinth that the other girls have been cracking. Can you actually break out without having to kill the Witch? Homura begs them to stop, says she has to die and sends out the Goth Kids, who are much more effective against the Puffballs than the standard Homutroops. Sayaka… chides Homura for trying to take on these huge burdens by herself. Given how hard I ragged Sayaka for going Lawful Stupid as a paladin in the middle of the show, I think it’s fair to say that means a lot coming from her. The Goth Kids are actually pretty strong against Sayaka, knock her into a bird until she cuts her way out. Or rather, Kyoko cuts her out? Daw, that’s nononono cannot ship cannot ship they are BEST FRIENDS cannot ship still so much movie yet keep the Ship of Death docked BEST FRIENDS BEST FRIENDS BEST FRIENDS [Kyoko]: “I had a sickening dream. A dream where you were dead.” Then she talks about that being the real world, and where they are now as a dream. Well, I mean in the original world Sayaka did Witchify, but Madoka undid that. So you are fighting with her again, just not in the real world. [Sayaka]: “I thought I didn’t have any regrets when I died.” Hands?! [Sayaka]: “But the reason I ended up taking this assignment and coming back was because I actually do have one regret.” Other stuff is going on but who cares because hands! [Sayaka]: “The fact that I left you behind.” HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDS!!!!! Screw the twists and turns this story has taken, screw the Witch reveal, and screw even the Homura/Mami fight! This right here, this is the best thing ever! AAAAAAAAAHHHHH! [Bebe]: “I just wanted to eat cheese one more time!” [Sayaka]: *slumps* “Hey, Nagisa! Don’t ruin the mood!”

And Team Handholders charge back into the fray. Fear them! Witch-Homura’s still trying to stop them, even when we are actually recovering from Peak Dark. For the love of Madoka, Homura just please stop, let your friends help since they clearly have enough power to influence the Labyrinth. They can save Madoka, let them save you! Mami’s turn! “Tiro Finale!” Shot to the barrier, Octavia charges through and actually makes an opening! Madoka fires her bow…

And it’s good! The Labyrinth is going down! Giant Incubators are looking down into the Labyrinth, the Field is visible! Almost there! Wait, film reel? Window? Oh hell. It’s this place again. The moment when Homura made her Wish. Or is it the time she mercy-killed Madoka? Wait wait Homura’s pulled a gun she’s aiming it at a silhouette of her no no NO Homura we’re so close Madoka! She’s telling Homura to not give up, Homura is crying as she apologizes and says she was spineless. Homura, you have been anything but! You were going to consign yourself to death, to never see Madoka again in order to protect her! And now you don’t have to. Now you can accept help, and together leave this place. A tree grows, and then blossoms. Homura and Madoka stand with their bows, and fire up to break the Field. Outside, there holy crud there’s a lot of Incubators. Um. The girls should be able to get away from them, right? The arrow blasts out of the Field, flies up um ok it just made some symbols GOOD GRAVY WHAT. Um. It appears that they just used Madoka’s Arrow Storm to rain Pink Devestation on the surrounding area and Incubators. Um. It appears we have discovered what will drive All-Loving Madoka to destroy: Kidnapping and Torturing Homura. [Incubators]: “I just don’t understand at all!” HAHAHAHAHA FUCK YOU DICKS

Guys Guys Guys guys guys They did it They broke out of the Labyrinth and didn’t kill Homura They fucking did it Hell to the fuck yes Alright, now THAT is an ending! Heck yeah. Oooooh my Madokami I can breathe again.

[mcuspidey-archive]

bulletproof | t.h. — part one

Pairing: Agent!Tom x Agent!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: You have one job. Get the evidence and get out. Should be easy enough but with your incredibly irresistible partner in your ear the whole time, it’s a little hard to stay focused.

Warning: A LOT OF DIALOGUE, crime, cursing, angst, major flirting like, did I mention dialogue !!!! 

A/N: COLLAB WITH @thelazypangolin ! This started as a blurb request but I was so inspired and excited about it that I knew it had to be BIG and I couldn’t do it alone. I’m honored to be writing with her and we honestly are having so much fun with it that I’d be shocked if it didn’t turn into an entire series. (That will depend on the feedback we get so please let us know what you think ok?) We are just so proud of this and we really hope you enjoy it ❤️

Your hands reach for the computer that sat in front of you as drops of perspiration trickle down your forehead. You were well aware that the mission would be risky, but your lazy ass hated time-bound tasks enough for you to start stressing out.

Your hand finds the mini USB drive you had stashed in your back pocket earlier and despite it being a minute device, it would be the deciding factor on whether your assignment failed or succeeded.

“Y/N, you sure you can handle this one?” Tom’s voice flows softly through the tiny earpiece.

He was always teasing you and you loved it, but of course would never admit it. Rolling your eyes at the hidden cameras surrounding you, you hear him laugh.

“I can handle anything,” you assure him, a sly smirk spreads across your face. It was true and he knew it. You had only been working together for a few months and he already knew you better than anyone else ever had. You’re strong, the strongest person he knows, and so fearless. It was the reason you were offered the position in the first place because no matter what, you never backed down.

“I know. But are you sure you can stay focused, love? You look so sexy right now.” He tests you and you know he’s busy eyeing the black, skin-tight pants and red leather jacket that were hugging you in all the right places.

“Something tells me that you are the one who's having a hard time focusing, eh Holland?” you chuckle, hiding the underlying anxiety.

“I might be more focused if you dressed more professionally, ya know,” his voice saturates your being, officially distracting you. Though it wouldn't be exactly wrong to say that you did love all the distraction he brought to the job.

“Maybe I’m just trying to show you what you’ve been missing out on,” you say, a little too confidently. You knew you needed to be completely invested in the screen in front of you, but couldn’t help yourself. You dished it right back, only you were better at it and you wished you could see his reactions.

You hear his voice hitch and he lets out a soft groan. “You sure, this is the right time and the right place to show that?”

“Better now than never.” Your fingers tap nervously on all the possible combinations of numbers to unlock the information, yet you manage to let the words glide effortlessly.

“How 'bout after we’re done here?” He says, sending a shiver up your spine as you imagine the gorgeous, uneven grin he most likely had on his face. You gasp dramatically. “Tom Holland, are you asking me out?”

“I might be,” he says and a nervous laugh escapes his lips. It had been months of continuous flirting and ensuing tension between the two of you, and he chose now to do this?

Getting too caught up in him, you enter just enough wrong combinations.

The analogue display immediately sets to 10:00.

“Y/N?”

“I’m fine, it’s just- I may have set off the intruder alert, no big deal,” you try to brush it off. The fact that you made a mistake in the first place was bad enough.

“Y/N, they’re going to be there any minute, most likely armed, do you hear me? Get out!” Panic ringing clearly through his words.

09:00

“I uh-” you glance at the illuminated numbers. “-still have nine minutes. I can do this.” You fake confidence to pacify your partner's concerns but on the inside, you knew that you were fucked, big time.

“No damn it, the moment that clock hits zero, this entire building blows up and all the evidence with be destroyed. You are not going down with it,” Tom was almost yelling through the earpiece, his shrill voice making your already pounding heart beat out of your chest.

“Tom, I have nine-” you correct yourself as your eyes find the blinking red warning once again. “-eight and a half minutes and I can and will make it.”

It would go against the image you had worked so hard to maintain so no, you were not leaving this unfinished. You were given the nearly impossible task of catching these guys. Known to be one of the most dangerous group of criminals and their specialty? Importing stolen money which you were chosen to get proof of on the tiny USB drive now plugged to the computer. It was safe to say that you were scared, a feeling you weren’t familiar with because when it came to what you did for a living, you almost never felt fear. Now with the time still ticking down, 08:00, your nerves threaten to get the best of you.

“Come on, come on,” You urge the data percentage to move faster as it feels like it stays at 43% for hours instead of mere seconds.

Tom was still frantic, his melodic tone that usually calms you down, now builds you up and not in the good way.

“Listen to me, Y/N. Get out right now or I swear I will come in after you,” he scolded seriously and there was no doubt in your mind that he would. But you couldn’t let them get away with this and he was just going to have to trust you.

07:00

“I can’t,” you shake your head, about to say exactly what he didn’t want to hear. “I-I have to see this through, otherwise it’s all for nothing.”

“If they see you, you’re dead. If you hide and that timer stops, you're dead. You might be willing to risk your life but I’m not!” Tom yells again, needing you to just listen to him for once. You could tell he was pacing back and forth and with each step that echoed through the speaker, you felt more anxious and equally annoyed.

“I’m staying, Tom. I’ll be fine. You know I always am,” your wavering tone barely convincing you as you try to ease his frantic heart.

“This is different! Your life's on the line and I refuse to just sit in this damn van and let it happen.” He was trying everything because maybe something he said would change your mind. Or at the very least, his voice. Always calm and smooth as silk somehow, even when he was pissed off. One of his many features that typically made you weak, but right now? It just wasn’t enough.

As much as the situation was testing you, Tom's words weren't making it any better and engulfed with rage, you snap. “My life is always on the line. None of our missions are without risks!”

The deafening sound of Tom's fists slamming on the tabletop fills your ears, making you flinch. “There is no mission if you're dead,” he screamed and you take a deep breath and keep watching the data that was close to 78% now. Any second now.

“Can you hear me, Y/N?” Tom heaves a sigh and you swear you could feel his warm breath calm your nerves. You shut your eyes close and muster the courage to utter at least a single word that wouldn't shatter your hopes anymore.

“Please… Listen to me, I can’t lose you,” Tom's voice is a mere whisper and your heart sinks at the possibility of the inevitable.

Nevertheless, you shake your head and put your fingers to your ear. “Tom, I'll make it. Trust me,” you assure him and swallow harshly as your eyes well up. You never were the emotional one, you had aced the impossible before, but today just happened to be the day when your heart ached and you wished to melt in someone's arms. Tom's arms.

“I love you.”

You blink your eyes and furrow your brows. “What?”

“I said I love you, Y/N.” You feel the pain in his voice despite the barriers and your brimming eyes overflow just enough to let a tear stain your cheek.

03:00

“Y-you?” Your lip quivers and breath gets caught up in your throat. You sniffle and shut your eyes, it wasn't real. “Do you-”

“I have been in love with you ever since that first fucking day,” he said, sure and steady.

Silence.

You swallow harshly as your eyes watch the data percentage reach close to 98%. Your fingers tap on the table in front of you, ready to pull out the device and run for your life. To run to him.

“Y/N?” You feel heart-wrenching pain as your name rolls  off his tongue. How little a gesture, yet still left you in misery.

01:00

“Dammit, talk to me!” The voice in your ears was loud, loud and desperate. You could even hear the tapping of his foot, like the world silenced every other sound so you could savour the last moment, let his words engulf you for the last time.

100%

“Done,” you manage to slip the word out.

“Run, Y/N!” he screams over the comms and you inhale deeply. Show time.

Your fingers wrap around the device and you pull it with a jerk and take to your heels. Your vision grows hazy and you hastily wipe your eyes with the back of your hand but it doesn't help. Your pools were clouded, but your thoughts weren't. Tom was quiet yet his voice was still playing at the back of your mind like a broken record and you loved it. Maybe it was the last time that you got to hear it and if so, at least it was filled with the love that you desperately needed.

You stumble and then regain your balance.

You had done this before.

You harshly clear your throat and part your lips to let the words out. You couldn't wait to be in his arms, to tell him that you felt exactly the same but your current situation wasn't assuring your chances of escape. You take a gust of air in through your parted lips and manage to push the words out.

00:00

“I lo-”

Boom.

My masterlist | Amy’s masterlist

Taglists:  @hollandroos @badhollandfluff @eveanne-03 @brookestreewolf @bonfirelohve @spideymood @sensitivesapphic @hollandofthefree @uglypastels @spideybitey18 @rainbow-marvel @moonkissedtom @andwhatdostarsdobest @marcymakemagic @spideychronicles @starlightfound @summertime-acoustic @notsolivelyadele @hollandfieldblurbs @itslizabitch8021

Tags: @hazsterfield @tomhollandeu @kick-namestake-ass @starksparker @curlytoms @screamholland @tomnhaz @pbnjparker @starkschurro @spiderboytotherescue @theprincesofasgard @spdys @anthonyed @hollandsbaby @petalparker @madmadmilk

[satbiym]

Chapter 1: Dragon Yuuri AU

The Last Dragon: Flight by satbiym

Word Count: 2.2K, Chapters: 1/?, Warnings: None 

Written for prompt 95 of @wewritevictuuri​ “There’s no going back if we do this.”

Summary:

Beware traveller, for here be dragons…”

I sure fucking hope so, Victor thought as he pushed open the door to the fenced off caves.

Upon being commissioned to make a serious documentary on dragons by a rich tycoon; famous scientist, Victor Nikiforov was determined to rise to challenge and overcome all barriers that stood in his way; even if one of those barriers was the fact that dragons didn’t technically exist.

A rumour of a so-called dragon skeleton has Victor rushing to film the results, only, the skeleton brings more questions than answers. Every scientist worth their salt knows not to bias their results with personal opinions, but...

Dragons aren’t real, right?

Although, the blue dragon in front of him is pretty convincing evidence to the contrary.

Continuation of a fic originally written for the @isekaiyoizine​

Read it on AO3 or below!

No creature above all others has haunted our imagination, on land and in the air, like the dragon.

Dragons have left their mark in the folklore of our ancestors, but what if these fantastic stories were more than myth?

What if the legends of these magnificent creatures were true…

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

The locals called Hasetsu 'inauspicious', steering clear of it and making sure it remained undisturbed by both man and machine. Unfortunately, the advent of progress and the greed of man waits for none, and eventually, eyes turned towards Hasetsu to satisfy the need for more, more, more.

They laughed off the warnings of the locals and dismissed their stories as ramblings of the uneducated, for who else would cite folklore as reason enough to throw away potentially millions of dollars in real estate?

Palms were greased, permits were signed and companies were hired to build the next iteration of the future.

The engineers responsible for construction expected to find only overgrown flora and fauna, something they knew how to handle. But what they didn't expect was to find themselves right in the middle of a centuries-old crime scene.

The Chief Engineer took off his hard-hat and resisted the urge to curse as the smell of vomit mixed with the already putrid smell of human remains. This project had just gotten a lot more complicated.

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

This is the story of a unique family that survived from the time of the dinosaur to make a final stand four hundred years ago, a scientific exploration of a remarkable species...

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

"Victor Nikiforov, you have been the face of Paleontology and are considered one of the most important scientists of this millenium. We are curious - what do you think about when you're in the field, trying to discover something?" The talk-show show asked, as the children around them, visible even though the bright stage lights, screamed their approval.

Victor smiled a bit and straightening his glasses, said, "To be honest, Ellen, I try not to predict what I might find as this might taint my results and may even make me unable to see what's right there in front of my eyes, simply because it didn't fit with my worldview. I prefer to choose science over emotions in that sense."

Ellen laughed, sounding delighted, and chimed, "There you have it, folks! From the mouth of one of the best scientists in recent history! Don't taint the results!"

"Well that, and remember kids, the only difference between science and messing around is..." Victor said, lilting and urging.

"Writing it down!" the audience shouted back.

"Beautiful!" Ellen said, miming wiping away a tear, "You are all wonderful scientists! And with that we take a break before we come back and Victor here will show us how to properly excavate during a dig and who knows what we'll find there..."

Victor kept smiling as commercials rolled and the makeup artist came over to refresh his look, silently handing over a tissue to Victor's murmured thanks.

"The lights, huh?"

Victor looked over at Ellen and huffed out a wry laugh, "Yeah, even after doing this for five years, my eyes still tear up."

Leaning forward, she said, "Well, despite them, you did a wonderful job today. But now that the cameras are off, I am curious about something…"

Forcing his smile from stilting, Victor quirked an eyebrow and gave her a nod to go ahead, affecting curiosity despite knowing the question.

"I guess, what I really want to know is - what can we expect next from Victor Nikiforov?" Ellen asked, unaware of the dread pooling in Victor's gut.

Victor hummed, as if considering the question, and with a tone that belied the reality that this very question had lead to many sleepless nights, said, "To be honest, I don't know myself. My field is highly dependent on nature, and nature is the most imaginative creator of them all. You could either try to constrain it by leasing it like a wild horse or make sure you've held on tight and enjoy the ride. Personally, I prefer allowing myself to be surprised. It's more fun that way."

"And make sure you don't fall off, yeah?" Ellen asked mischievously, shattering the ice around Victor's throat.

Victor laughed, and nodded, "Oh, yeah, that too."

Ellen shook her head, amused, "Ever the diplomat. Fine. Keep your secrets, Victor Nikiforov, I guess I'll just have to wait, like the rest, for your next act."

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

… This is the natural history of the most extraordinary creature that never existed.

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

Victor resisted the urge to fidget as the helicopter began its descent, he hadn't expected to wake up this morning to a message from the office of the CEO of Paladin Ventures requesting his presence at his earliest availability. Considering Paladin Ventures was responsible for his current multi-million dollar grant that enabled him to continue his research while maintaining his freedom from the leashes of academia…

Let's just say, Victor's earliest availability was suddenly a lot sooner than it had been yesterday.

And if the haste with which the helicopter had been sent over at his acquiescence, the media mogul who was responsible for more than half the world's research funding in areas like paleontology, history and restoration, was just as eager to meet him.

Victor could feel his stomach twist, a sensation that only visited him whenever he was on the cusp of something life-changing, he had a feeling that this meeting was going to be the answer he had been looking for.

"We're here, sir. The Paladin is waiting for you." The pilot said, pointing outside, where a seemingly ordinary man stood, smile visible even from the helicopter.

The man waved on seeing them, and ran towards them, opening the chopper's door before anyone else could and shouted over the noise of the blades.

"There you are, Victor! I have a mission for you and it's all our dreams come true!"

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

As a kid, I was mad about dragons;

Dragons from the high seas, flying dragons from Greenland, fire-breathing dragons from Europe and here's the thing that got me, these myths came from all over the world, right? From cultures that could never have met and yet from the Andes to the Himalayas you could hear stories of dragons and…

Here's a kid's best guess, the only way that's possible is if the stories were real.

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

Victor, seated in a helicopter for the second time in 24 hours, was still reeling from the information he had received, been commanded to verify and document.

They've found something, in Japan. Something the Japanese government is very hush-hush about, but I was able to finagle a first look at. Of course, if it turns out to be a hoax… but anyway! If it is what the rumours say it is… well then, it would all have been worth it. I need you to go and bring back all you find.

Victor closed his eyes, when he remembered the fanatic and helpless excitement on the Paladin's face, like this was the break he had been looking for.

But, empathy or not, Victor couldn't see how what the Paladin had told him could possibly be true. There was just no way that-

"Do you believe the story the Richie Rich's trying to sell us, Baldie?" a voice said, aggressive in intent and content.

Eyeing the pilot who was still focused on flying, thank god, Victor smiled and lightly said, "Nature isn't constrained by our imagination, Yura. Remember-"

"Yeah, yeah," Yuri asserted derisively before laying a hand on his chest and as if reciting an oft-repeated phrase, "Don't predict what you might find as this might taint the results yada, yada, yada. Yes. I've heard the press spiel, Victor, but you cannot tell me you seriously believe him?! All rich people have their eccentricities. His is just sending us on a pointless goose chase."

Victor laughed lightly, "Why Yura, I didn't know you watched my interviews!"

Despite the rage emanating from Yuri's silence, Victor, from the backseat, could see the way Yuri's ears went red.

"You - shut up! You're insufferable! And impossible to avoid, you're everywhere, it's disgusting!" Yuri spluttered, ears still a bright cherry red.

Victor opened his mouth to parry back, but was cut off by a curt sound from the pilot. They turned, only to see a barren wasteland that looked as though it had been abandoned in a hurry, greet them welcome.

They had, it appeared, arrived in Hasetsu.

And by the uniformed person waiting for them, they had a welcoming party.

Victor got off the helicopter, but the noise and wind weren't enough to block out the first words from the person outside's mouth.

"I don't know what you're expecting to find here Dr. Nikiforov, but this ain't like your usual kind of dig."

Victor smiled wanly as Yuri cursed lowly behind him as he carried the equipment out of the helicopter, and stepped forward to shake the uniformed policeman's hand, replying "Thank you for your concern, but there is always something that can be learnt from every experience. What happened exactly?"

The policeman just shook his head, gesturing toward them to follow him, said "Then I'm afraid, this is something you need to experience yourself to understand. I'm the Chief of Police around here, but even I haven't seen anything like this. Come on then, might as well get right to it."

Bemused, Victor followed along, with a grumbling Yuri behind him.

As they walked into the forest, the trees becoming denser and more untouched by the machinations of the contractors, the Chief explained, "We told the higher-ups that this forest was cursed. For centuries no one has ventured up here, and we were right not to! For look what they found!"

Yuri sighed irritably, "You're trying to tell me that some centuries-old human remains were enough to warn an entire village off of the forest? You've got to be kidding me."

Victor sent Yuri a warning look, as the Police Chief shuddered, "It wasn't the human remains that were the problem, young man."

"Eh?" Yuri said, forehead beaded with sweat from carrying around the equipment under the hot sun, but the Chief wasn't willing to answer any further questions.

They walked into a forest that seemed almost regal in its staid dignity, sun filtering through the trees and the chirping of the birds. If it wasn't for Yuri's continued grumbling, Victor would have thought he had entered a whole new world. They walked deeper until the light of the sun was almost blocked by the overarching trees, forcing Victor to rely on his torch.

The ruins emerged from the trees, tall and proud, despite the weight of the years and beseeching weather.

Even Yuri couldn't stifle a gasp as they walked towards the almost palatial dwelling that the ruins seemed to be built around, the stones in the path glittering.

"What-" Yuri started to ask, before he gasped, almost dropping the equipment he was carrying.

Victor was distantly aware of the Chief praying beside him, but even the proximity of the noise couldn't make him turn his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

Dark marks surrounded the center dwelling, across the glittering paths, burning its way through the tens of hundreds of fallen human bodies on the ground.

But, that wasn't what gave them all pause.

It wasn't the human remains that were the problem, young man.

"Is that - What are that those?!" Yuri shrieked as he pointed at the other remains strewn around the dwelling.

Victor had always believed that nature could not be predicted or contained, but even he couldn't believe the sight in front of him: skeletons with bone structures he had never seen before, with the smallest one towering over them, as tall as a skyscraper and just as slim.

Victor slowly set his bag down to investigate further, only to have his arm be grabbed by Yuri.

"What do you think you're doing?" Yuri exclaimed, eyes wide.

"What I was sent here to do, Yura." Victor said gently.

"No! This isn't your job, this is- is- something neither one of us signed on for! It's unnatural!" Yuri said shrilly, still staring at the skeletons with a frantic look in his eyes.

"Yura." Victor said simply.

At that, Yuri seemed to remember himself, eyes losing their bewilderment, but he still clutched Victor's arm tighter, unwilling to let go.

"Yura." Victor tried again, and said evenly, "We are scientists. It is our responsibility to make sense of the seemingly unnatural. Even if it means that our lives will never be the same again, we must move forward and tell the story that is true and not just the story we want to hear. Now, I am going to figure this out, I cannot promise what we'll find, but… if you want, you may take the helicopter back home if you so choose."

Yuri for the first time since they'd seen them, looked away from the skeletons, and back at Victor, studying his face for a moment before shaking his head and ruefully murmuring, "There's no going back if we do this, is there?"

Victor let his silence be Yuri's answer.

Yuri took a deep breath, released Victor's arm and with finality, nodded, "Alright then, let's see what we can dig up."

[fireofmyloins19]

Don’t hurt yourself

Requested - “Tommy imagine based off the song don’t hurt yourself by beyonce please, thank you x”

Thomas Shelby - Don’t hurt yourself

The glass only just missed his face, smashing against the wall beside him as he turned to look at it shatter to the floor, his hands raised for protection.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” you screamed at him, grabbing another glass from the side and launching it at him again, this time slicing him on the hand when he tried to catch it, incapable of stopping you in your rage. “Come on, do something, say something! FUCKING DO SOMETHING TOMMY”

His lack of a response to your accusations were only making you angrier, his composed expression and insistence to not defend himself confirming that what you had heard was true. Him and that whore of a barmaid. You turned to grab another glass before he lunged forward and grabbed onto you, restraining you by your wrists to stop anymore blood shed. You writhed in his grasp, desperate to be free so you could give him what for but you knew you couldn’t outweigh his strength so instead, settled for screaming in his face.

“You would choose her over me? HER? I don’t need you, you’re welcome to that god fucking whore, go on!” his grip had loosened slightly whilst he stared down at you, concentrating on your words. Giving you chance to pull one hand free and bring it down on his chest, throwing it against him hard as you began to fight with his strength. “I could get any fucking man around here Thomas Shelby, just you fucking watch me”

“STOP FUCKING FIGHTING ME”

The first words he spoke since you stormed into the room caught you off guard, your barrier dropping for a brief moment as you looked up at his stony face. A fear washing over you whilst you stood in silence, his fingers still wrapped around one of your wrists whilst your other hand lay balled up on his chest; yours twinging as the pain set in. His eyes were wide and crazed, flicking from one of yours to the other as he tried to work out what you were thinking. You scrunched up your face in disgust and ragged your hand away from his, not wanting him to see your moment of vulnerability but you knew it was clear in your eyes.

“You’re disgusting” you spat at him, being sure to let your eyes trail up and down his body in the hope of making him feel uncomfortable and insecure but it was an achievement to ever know how Tommy felt. He stood helpless before you. Now that he wasn’t dodging the glasses or taking your punches, the first wave of guilt set in. He knew it was wrong, a mistake that meant nothing but, try telling that to you.

You grabbed your coat from the back of the chair that sat at your dining room table, throwing it over your shoulders in a hurry and scooping up your house keys.

“Wait, where are you going” Tommy sighed, stepping forward slightly with an arm out as though to gesture for you to stop. You turned back to him with an exaggerated look of confusion on your face, as though to question how he dare ask.  

“Why does that concern you? You quite clearly haven’t been telling me where you’ve been and what or who you have been doing, so what makes you think I should tell you?” you lent your head to the side as though to show you were waiting for his answer but when it never came you gave him a sarcastic smile and walked towards the door, “Bye Tom”

It was after midnight when he finally found you again, stumbling about by the bar in the Garrison, attempting to order yet another drink. His face fell cold when he saw you, a hand still raised towards his mouth where he had just placed a cigarette and his brow furrowing as he watched your sorry state. He sighed to himself, pulling the cigarette away and sliding it back into the tin before making his way towards you. He strolled to your side, wrapping an arm swiftly around your waist and putting on a small smile as he nodded at Harry behind the bar, hoping to keep up a front to the people around you so as the whole of Small Heath wouldn’t know what he had done.

Your head flew in his direction when you felt his touch, your eyes squinting as they tried to focus on his face, the excessive amount of Whisky blinding your way but you could just about make out his features; fuzzy but familiar. You scoffed and rolled your eyes dramatically, your head lolling to the side where you looked back to Harry as though in the hope he would match your expression but he simply stood bemused. You twisted your head back to Tommy, wobbling backwards in his arms.

“Do I know you?” you giggled, a wide sloppy smile now present on your face.

“Stop it we’re not doing this now” Tommy groaned, glancing to the side where Harry still stood watching but the look he now got from Tommy was enough to make him walk away instantly.

“Doing what?” you pouted dramatically, swaying forwards where your arms landed on the bar and your head falling into your hands for a moment before pulling yourself back up, brushing your loose strands of hair from your face, “Is anyone gonna give me a drink round here, HELLO?”

You shouted across the bar before falling into a fit of giggles, Tommy pulling on your side to try get you walking back towards the door but it was no use. Your face contorting with anger while you tried to push him off you, beginning to protest loudly in front of the crowd.

“Get the fuck off me” your cries filled the pub as the doors swung open, Grace entering and her face making it clear she knew she had arrived at the wrong time, “OH HERE SHE IS! Someone who can get me a fucking drink, come one!”

You slammed your fist against the bar to which Grace quickly responded, slipping behind it and dropping her belongings to the floor before looking between you and Tommy apprehensively.

“What would you like?”

“Oh well, I’d like a lot of things” you tilted your head back as you spoke, suggesting you were thinking about your answer before leaning forward to meet her worried eyes again, “but I tell you what you can give me. An apology and a new fucking husband, because you stole mine right from me didn’t yo-”

“Right that’s enough” Tommy snapped at you as your voice began to rise and your hands swung towards Grace who cowered behind the bar. He wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, pulling your feet from the floor which you quickly began to flail about, kicking him numerous times in the knees.

“Get off me!” you screamed, fighting against him yet again but this time, actually managing to get free. Just about landing on your feet with a thud, your arms flying out to your sides as you regained your balance before catching sight of the now deadly silent audience that had gathered. “What the fuck are you all looking at?”

It only took your few words and venomous stare for them to quickly look away, the usual rowdy noise of the pub picking up again as though nothing ever happened. You spun around to face Tommy, seeing his lips part as he was about to speak but you raised your finger towards him as a warning. “Don’t you dare say another word”

You could feel Tommy’s eyes burning into the back of your head while you let yourself fall all over the young man charming you at the bar. Your flirtatious giggles rang out through the pub, even if they were fake you were happy Tommy could hear them. You couldn’t repeat a word the man had been saying to you, simply smiling at laughing at everything he said whilst you thought about your husband’s rage building in the corner of the room; finding it quite entertaining to see how much you could get away with.

You hadn’t seen the man around before, and you guessed that was understandable as no man who lived in the area would think about going near Thomas Shelby’s wife. His hair was short, though longer than Tommy’s, slicked to one side and a sandy blonde. The lack of wear on his face portraying his youth, not a single line or blemish. Fresh faced and handsome but not a man, and you guessed this was why you had got away with standing there for so long, Tommy maybe found it half amusing to see the boy you were trying to make him jealous of. But this thought only made you feel that you needed to up your game.

You reached your hand towards his face, letting your fingers trail across the hair just above his ear gently whilst he spoke. He voice fading out slowly as he realised you weren’t listening and his eyes glancing towards your touch, more than likely thinking he was about to get lucky with the wealthy beauty stood before him. You let your eyes meet his, giving him your best seductive stare with a sweet smirk on your face, not having worked this hard for any man before but you prayed it would pay off. He had stopped talking all together now, a mischievous grin spreading across his face which you struggled to not scowl at but ignored it the only way you saw fit, closing your eyes and leaning forward slowly. You soon felt his lips brush against yours, but only for a second before they were hastily removed.

You opened your eyes with a smile, seeing the man now staggering from the pub over Tommy’s shoulder before focusing on his face. He stared at you hard, his eyes so vacant it was as though he was staring at not only your person but your soul, leaving you feeling nervous yet somewhat enthralled by the excitement of your game. You noticed his jaw clench when your smile grew wider, only making you scoff and turn towards the bar which he copied.

“Have you finished?” his voice was low but his annoyance evident, causing you to snicker.

“Well have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes” he spoke flatly, still not having turned to face you while both of your eyes stay fixated on the liquor behind the bar.

“Well then yeah, I have. But if you dare ever disrespect me or go against our marriage like that again,” you turned and threw your hand up, grabbing onto his shirt collar and being sure to pull him close to your face, “you’re gonna loose your fucking wife.”

[47mel47]

TDB Glee 1x04 Rewatch: Meta Monday

Ok, so I am not sure I have anything to say that has not already been said by more intelligent and coherent people than me, but here goes...

I actually struggled to find a connection between the main narratives running through this episode (Kurt and Burt, Quinn’s pregnancy/her relationship with Finn and Puck/Terri and her plan for a baby, Sue and Sandy planning the demise of the Glee Club, and Will’s leadership of the Glee Club causing conflict with Rachel/his role in Finn’s life). I mean, I suppose there is a connection between Kurt and Quinn, and the fact that they are both telling a difficult truth to the people around them. The difference being that Kurt is completely opening himself up with the truth, whereas Quinn’s truth is shrouded by a lie. But in regards to everything else, they don’t necessarily fit cohesively (does anybody else have any thoughts in regards to this? Have I completely missed a point here?)

Quinn Ok, so we get another side to Quinn in this episode, that sets up a comparison to her in the previous episodes. She is not a two-dimensional mean girl (which the show does like to relegate her to), but is somebody who is struggling with self-esteem and efficacy. Her line to Puck when explaining why she had sex with him (”You got me drunk on wine coolers and I felt fat that day”) is eye-opening in regards to how she views herself, and perhaps why she is so focused on her image and the way that others see her. I read in @spaceorphan18 ‘s recap of the episode that “Quinn’s pregnancy is not about her”, and I hadn't just to what extent this is true. We get more from how Finn is feeling about this situation, Puck’s reaction and the insanity of Terri’s plan than we do of Quinn’s state of mind at this point. Quinn is often a hard character to read and understand (at least from my perspective), but perhaps that is more of her not being given the chance to be understood.

Will, Rachel and Finn Kendra hits our Mr Schue with a hard truth (ooh, so maybe this is what this episode is actually about...) with “You have to be liked”. I don't think a truer word has ever been spoken to him (as least until we get Sue’s “You need at least one adult friend” pearler in ‘Big Brother’), but I am not 100% sure how that exactly plays out in his actions in the rest of episode. See, I have no issue with him trying to spread the solos out among the Glee Club. His rhetoric about everybody needing to feel like they were star was something that he needed to act on as he continued teaching this group of kids. But we know that this is not the case. We know that he will lean heavily on Rachel as his star, at the expense of the rest of the Glee Club. And it is frustrating to watch in hindsight.

Now the Rachel in this episodes is showing glimpses of the Rachel that I am not the biggest fan of. There has been a lot of discussion in the TDB podcasts about how Rachel is really only validated through her talent, and I agree with that, and it does her explain her reaction in this episode, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I also couldn't help but think of early season three, with Rachel’s sense of entitlement in regards to Maria and the quick glimpse of a reaction we get from Mercedes when she is told that she is going to be a Jet. Rachel is talented, Rachel works incredibly hard, but Rachel is not above anybody else in the choir room. And when Rachel realises that, and works to bring everybody together as a team (like she did in the previous couple of episodes), Rachel is fucking fantastic.

Finn, like Quinn, is so concerned about how other perceive him that it dictates so much in his life. I mean, he will be kind to Kurt and help him with the team, but that will come with conditions. (Question- why is the football team so popular in this school when they are so awful?) And this is something that will continue with his and Kurt’s relationship for a time. This episode is also where his relationship with Schue starts to blur the lines between student and teacher. Now yes, I understand a student going to a teacher with such news. We teachers get hit with a lot, and being able to talk to students when they confide is something we have to know how to do. What I don’t get is the teacher taking the student off school grounds to have this conversation. Keep it professional, Will.

Kurt and Burt Ok, so this is who this episode is really about. 

So, in the opening scene we finally get introduced to the father who was hinted at in the previous episode. He is gruff, he wears flannel and he comes home early from work to watch “Deadliest Catch”. The show is playing on stereotypes to se him up as a father who audiences would assume would not accept having a gay son. However, I think a good part of the Burt Hummel we are getting here probably has a lot to do Kurt’s perception of his character, and his concern about being confident enough to tell him the truth. In hindsight, we know that Burt is aware of that his son is gay, and we are also aware that these two are not in a place of open communication. They are living separate lives under one roof (I feel like this comes from a Burt quote...) and it is going to be Kurt who breaks down that barrier.

Kurt’s dealings with the football team were a brilliant combination of hilarious and kick-ass. Because he is also breaking down barriers here. The football team is not the safest place for him (I mean, we get examples of blatant homophobia not being called out by two teachers in the locker room), and yet, he takes it on and conquers them. And unlike Finn, who is always trying to present a front with this team, Kurt never strays from who he is. And it is that true self which will help the team actually win their first game.

(One note- I love the fact that Kurt interrupts Schue when he is trying to lead the footballers dance lesson. His contempt for Schue is fantastic to watch across the series, and is a blatant stab in the back to the whole ‘He save his life’ rhetoric that we are reminded of many times.)

At the football game, we also get another insight into both Kurt, Burt and their relationship. Kurt is so excited to see his father there, so proud to show him that he really was part of the football (let’s forget the initial lie, and just focus on his completely lit up face at this point). And then we get Burt’s worried, “He’s so little”- the first inkling we get of his softer exterior. We know now that he deeply cares for his son, and will always be concerned for his welfare (because he is well aware that his son’s sexuality is going to make aspects of his life harder), but this is the first sign of affection, from Burt towards his son, that the show gives us.

Their final scene together is one of the best scenes of this show. The perception that has been built around Burt in the past two episodes is shattered with two simple words (from both him and Kurt). And the acceptance that follows is the beginning of one of the best father and son relationships depicted on television. And beginning is a deliberate choice from me here, because these two still have a long ways to go. Because even though Burt accepts his son, and loves his son, he is still “not totally in love with the idea”. But at least now, the two of them are talking. They are being honest with each other. And even though they will hit a couple more speed bumps on the way, we can tell from this scene that, even though they may not always get one another, they will always love each other, fiercely and protectively.

@todaydreambelievers

[hecalledmehanbana]

This is a short story I called Broken. I wrote it when I was in a very dark place. Trigger warning.

The tears stream down his face as he sits, alone, drowning in the sounds of Simple Plan and the trueness of the song. He feels so alone, like if he disappeared no one in the world would care.

He doesn’t know how untrue that is. He doesn’t know that every time he says something about disappearing, her heart breaks; another crack in the fragile barrier.

She sits, awaiting the text she knows will never come. She knows he won’t ask for help, she even knows he isn’t going to tell her anything. She knows he won’t say why he just wants to disappear. Every time she asks, he changes the subject or just clams up.

He sits, a text ready to send, his thumb poised above the send button and just waits. He waits for the clue that he needs to tell her why, give her a reason, so she won’t just stop talking to him because of his “issues”. That’s what his mom calls his depression. Issues, and a cry for attention. In fact, just this morning his mom said that he just wants the world to see him, he just wants to be the center of attention and that’s why he walks around like he’s Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But she doesn’t know the truth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~

She’s broken, but she just wants to see him smile again. It’s been so long since he smiled a true smile. She fakes her smile, but nobody knows that; nobody knows she is broken. Everybody sees her trying to help him, trying to help everyone who doesn’t have anyone else.

Her dad tries to talk to her, tries to understand. He sees the brokenness in her eyes but he doesn’t know why. She just tells him, “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.”

Fine. What an interesting word, depending on how you look at it. It has so many sides, so many different meanings. It can mean someone is attractive, it can be a description of how someone feels, and it can be a mask. Everyone has worn this mask at some point. Saying, “I’m fine,” but meaning: HELP ME, I’m Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. The boy and the girl are both saying they are fine, maybe to different people, but they are saying it nonetheless.

The boy doesn’t want anyone to know that he has to sell himself to save his little sister. He doesn’t want anyone to know that his mom can’t know. He’s so pretty, almost like a girl, and that’s why they like him so much. He hates it, he wishes he could just quit, but his sister got in with a gang, she failed her task because he caught her. He took over her debt. His reward for the torture is still having a little sister; it is him knowing his mom won’t lose her little girl.

The girl doesn’t know how to say she’s been violated, abused, tortured, in the most personal of ways. She doesn’t have the words to say that her innocence was stolen. She doesn’t know how to look her dad in the eye; he looks so much like the one who took away the innocence she treasured. She can’t tell her dad his only brother terrifies her, she can’t tell him not to let her uncle stay at the house when he comes, which lately has been becoming more and more frequent.

She doesn’t want the boy to know. She doesn’t want him to know she is stained, no longer pure. She doesn’t want him to know she holds her rapist’s child within her. She doesn’t want him to know she wants it out. She doesn’t want him to know she has to fight herself to get up in the morning and that she’s ready to give up.

She doesn’t know he hides the same secret in a different light.

He doesn’t want the girl to know he’s a prostitute, for men. He doesn’t want the girl to know he is torn. Torn between saving his sister and saving himself. He doesn’t have the words to say that he can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t have the words to say that he loves her.

He doesn’t know that she feels the same.

He doesn’t know that she loves him but feels worthless and like nobody could ever want damaged goods. He doesn’t know that she can’t keep fighting. He doesn’t know that he is stronger than her. He doesn’t know that she is writing him a letter as the rope hangs in her closet. He doesn’t know that she writes his name on the envelope, puts her new necklace around her neck. And he doesn’t know that she kicks the chair out from under her. He doesn’t know that she struggles to breathe for minutes before she finally breathes her last breath. And nobody knows that the last words she mouths are, “I’m sorry, I love you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~

Her dad calls her for dinner. She doesn’t answer, and he assumes she is asleep. He lets her sleep, not knowing that she is sleeping a different kind of sleep, a forever kind of sleep.

He knocks the next morning, and when there is no answer, he opens the door. The first thing he sees is two envelopes on her bed. He knows something is wrong and takes just one step into her room, and with the slightest turn of his head, he sees her, hanging, the tear stains on her cheeks.

He can’t stand to see his little girl like that so he sprints out of the room, calling 911. The dispatcher hears the agony in his voice as he says simply, “My daughter, she hung

herself.” Calmly the dispatcher asks him his address and tells him that emergency crews will be there shortly.

When the police get to the house, he shows them her room. They get her down and covered and only then does he enter the room again, really looking at the envelopes. He’s hoping for answers, praying this is all a nightmare and soon he will wake up. He picks up the first envelope, the one that simply says “Dad”. He opens it and reads the letter. He can hear her crying and knows he should have been there. He breaks down, trying to understand:

Daddy,

I’m so sorry. I know you don’t understand. I need you to know I love you so much, and I need you to promise that you won’t forget the good things about me; you can’t forget any of it. I need you to remember me and ALL the time we had together. I need you to understand that this wasn’t your fault.

I’m pregnant. I know you thought I was still a virgin, but I had that stolen from me. Uncle Jack took that. I can’t handle it anymore. I am so So SO sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I am a coward, and I’m sorry I didn’t have the words to tell you sooner.

I love you so much.

Love,

Lanie

P.S. Please don’t kill Uncle Jack. He is still your only brother. P.P.S. Please make sure that Jake gets his letter.

Sobbing, he finds her cell phone. He doesn’t know Jacob’s number and he is the first one who needs to know. He hits the Send button as soon as he sees Jacob<3(: highlighted in blue. When Jacob answers the phone, expecting the quiet feminine voice of the girl he loves, his best friend, and instead hears the choked up voice of a grown man, he knows something is wrong; before her dad can say anything more than just one word, “Jacob,” he hangs up and runs directly to her house, 2 miles from his own.

Arriving, panting, at her house, he sees the police cars and the ambulance. He knocks, then without even waiting for an answer rushes inside, nearly bowling down the man who dialed his number from his daughter’s phone, the man who is still choking back tears. He looks around, wondering where his best friend is, but knows, with the look on her dad’s face that there is no use and he won’t find her. She won’t be smiling and she

won’t hug him as a greeting. He knows, but he wishes he didn’t. He walks into her father’s arms, the other man in her life who loves her as much as he does. And knowing that it won’t help either of them to say anything, he just clutches him tightly and sobs.

After about five minutes, her dad tells him, she left you a letter, but he trails off because he knows that the letter won’t make it better, he knows that the letter may even enhance the pain if she tells Jake the truth that she told him.

Hearing that there is a letter, he gets excited and steps back from the hug, hoping that maybe that little piece of paper will hold the answers to why she’s gone. He takes the letter out of her dad’s outstretched hand. Suddenly terrified, he looks into her dad’s eyes for reassurance. He nods, seeing the message saying he needs to read it reflected in those eyes that were just like hers.

He takes a deep breath and opens the envelope, pulling out what he recognizes as paper from her favorite notebook, and seeing:

Jake,

I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you, I know, I’m stupid. This hurts and I am sorry that I couldn’t be strong enough to stay. I’m sorry I am too broken to fix, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t look in the mirror and see the starting to show baby bump that I had no choice in and know that you would never love me like I love you because I’m too broken. I am shattered.

I am ruined, and it is all because of Uncle Jack. It’s his fault. It’s his child, the one that nobody else is ever going to know about.

I know you’re broken too, I can see it in your eyes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to stay and face my demons. I’m sorry I can’t give you a chance to help me beat the nightmare that is my life. I’m sorry I never told you I love you and I’m sorry that I have to leave, but I can’t go on anymore. The only reason I have been here for so long is you. You kept me getting out of bed and you kept me alive until now.

I love you, I love you, Iloveyou, Iloveyou, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou. I’m so sorry.

Please take care of my dad. He needs you, now more than ever. Live for me too. I couldn’t live for myself, so I need you to live for me.

I love you, more than you can ever know. Love,

Your Lanie

Frozen, he reads it over and over again, lingering where she says she loves him. Tears stream down his face as it finally hits him that his best friend is gone, that he will never hug her again, that he will never hear her say I love you.

The next emotion that hits is rage. He turns to her dad with rage clear in his eyes and says, “Why didn’t you save her?! Why did you let him do that to her?! She’s gone...” As quick as the rage appears, it is gone, replaced with grief, sorrow, and guilt. Gut wrenching sobs wrack his body as her dad holds him, crying for a love that didn’t get a chance, sobbing for his lost daughter, and mourning for the boy in his arms whispering his daughter’s name and asking her why she had to leave him.

The police officer in charge walks up and motions to her dad, subtly telling him that he needs him. Her dad leads Jacob to the couch, where he sits him down and walks away with the officer.

The officer tells him that he needs to see the letters. At first he refuses, but, remembering what she says about his brother, hands over his letter, pleading with the officer not to take Jacob’s letter. He asks the officer if it’s possible to press charges against someone if the victim is dead, needing his brother to be punished, and hoping to save another family from having to go through this because of his brother. The officer says to him that they will press charges if the Medical Examiner can prove that she really was pregnant, because that will be proof although she can’t testify against him.

Walking back over to Jacob, he hears a familiar song coming out in a broken voice, “Take a breath, I pull myself together, just another step till I reach the door. You’ll never know the way it tears me up inside to see you, I wish that I could tell you something to take it all away...” The song continues, now with both her men singing to her, “Sometimes I wish I could save you, and there’s so many things that I want you to know. I won’t give up till it’s over; if it takes forever I want you to know... When I hear your voice, it’s drowning in a whisper; it’s just skin and bones. There’s nothing left to take, and no matter what I do, I can’t make you feel better. If only I could find the answer to help me understand... Sometimes I wish I could save you, and there’re so many things that I want you to know. I won’t give up till it’s over, if it takes you forever, I want you to know... That if you fall, stumble down, I’ll pick you up off the ground. If you lose faith in you, I’ll give you strength to pull through. Tell me you won’t give up ‘cause I’ll be waiting if you fall, Oh you know I’ll be there for you... If only I could find the answer to take it all away... Sometimes I wish I could save you, and there’re so many things that I want you to know. I won’t give up till it’s over; if it takes you forever I want you to know... I wish I could save you... I want you to know... I wish I could save you...”

Finishing the song, neither one wanted to break the comfortable silence that had fallen, but then Jacob did, saying that she used to sing that song to him when he was at his lowest or laying awake at night. He never would have guessed that she would leave him...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~

Broken, but mending, the two men live for her now. They raise awareness of situations like hers. And they stick together. Jacob told her dad about his “job” and is saved from that, all the while keeping his family together. They had one broken family in the area, they didn’t need two.

Moral of the story, sometimes it’s the people who are trying to do the saving, who need saved the most

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Little Talks

They would be leaving for Spain tomorrow. Mike was looking forward to the trip for several reasons. One, it was yet another exotic international location that they’d have under their belt. Two, to add to that, it was the homeland of a good friend of theirs who probably would be all too happy to show them all the best points of interest. Three, it was another title defense, one that Mike felt pretty sure about. There was nothing they liked better than showing off in front of an audience, giving their fans what they wanted, and proving just why they were champions. The best part, Mike thought with a smile, was doing all these things with him. They’d made the most of their time off- training physically and mentally, sure, but also doing other things- they’d bought a Christmas tree and decorated it together, strung up a pretty respectable light display outside (even wrapping the ring ropes in multi-colored fairy lights), and Mike had done some early season baking. Not just because they enjoyed the season immensely, but well… Mike knew it’d been over two decades since their beloved partner had a good Christmas, or a Christmas at all. They wanted it to be everything a good holiday season should be, something to make up for all he’d missed out on through no fault of his own. And as soon as the last bits of work for the year were done with, Mike was looking forward to just that time alone to enjoy it with him. They were really starting to cherish that- just time alone in their own home in each other’s company, with nothing to do but just be. And that’s how they were now on a December evening, a nice rainbow-tinged ambience in the living room from the lights on the tree and outside. The TV was on but Mike wasn’t really paying attention to it, far more interested in the person they were nestled on the couch with, tucked comfortably under his arm. “Hey.” They tilted their head up, an easy, relaxed smile on their face, the tone of their voice matching. “You all ready for next week?”

John flinched out of whatever headspace he had delved into. Thinking about nothing in particular.

“I guess.”

He thought about the luggage he packed last night.

“Yeah.”

“You excited? I’ve never been to Spain before. Heh, truth told, I’ve never been to most of the places we’ve been. When I was back in Florida we more or less stayed put, and none of the other places I worked had much means to travel far.” Their fingertips idly ran themselves along his arm, a soft hum buzzing at their lips.

“I don’t mind it.”

He paused.

“Sometimes it's overwhelming. Don’t think I could do it alone.”

“That’s why we’re a team. I’m always gonna have your back. I wouldn’t want to do all this stuff any other way either, you know.” Their hand slid downward, resting on the back of his much larger one but taking care not to slip in the gaps- they’d learned by now that he didn’t like interlaced fingers. Mike didn’t know why, but it didn’t matter- if it was something he didn’t like, that’s all they needed to know. “I called ahead for Honors, by the way. Got us the same beach house we had last time. I know we won’t be staying in California as long as before, but I kinda liked having our own little place on the ocean not connected to like a billion other fucking rooms and stuff. And after that… I dunno about you, but in my opinion it’ll be nice to just stay at home for a while and not worry about anything.”

As strange as this seems, John had decided that he was okay with their movements. There was less and less of that jolt to the senses when Mike touched him unexpectedly. He understood the intent. That awkward progression was better left unspoken. So he just let it happen. And sometimes, like in this case, reciprocated with a like touch.

“Just us this time.” “Yeah. Nobody else. Just me and you and the ocean. You don’t gotta boogieboard with me this time though.” Mike laughed, green eyes twinkling in the low light, and snuggled a little closer against his side. “I like the people we work with. Mostly. I like that we’re mending things with people we may’ve got in misunderstandings with. I like our friends. But I think I like it best when it’s just you and me, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

There was a silence between them as John paid a small bit of attention to the aesthetics of a town car making a corner in a closed off course. Anything to not pick up on the nonverbal cues being emitted.

“I like it here best.”

“Me too. Heh. I used to kind of hate it here, to be honest. I mean it’s a nice place to live but it wasn’t New York and I resented it cuz being here meant I’d settled for less than what I really wanted and couldn’t even fucking afford to go home. That was before you came. Now that you’re here I don’t think I’d rather be anywhere else. Not even New York. Cuz I don’t think you’d like it there as much.” They shifted a little.

“I want you to be happy more’n anything. Almost anything. I mean this is gonna sound kinda dumb, but if I can be with you an’ make you happy’s you deserve to be, that’s all I really want. Everything else is gravy, y’know?” Their left hand is on his shoulder now, their right on top of it, their gaze tilted up at their partner’s face. His eyes met theirs.

“Yeah.”

Something bubbled up in his mind. It was a surreal notion to make.

“Sometimes it wasn’t so bad. It was just my life. I mean, I don’t want to go back. Maybe I shouldn’t have been there.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“I never got why. But a lot of times, it was just me. That was okay.”

The wheels were turning and he wasn’t too sure what he was trying to say. In the quiet of their home, he confessed after the millionth time of not getting across his point.

“I feel like sometimes I’m not right.”

“Hmm. I think you’re perfect just like you are. Like I’ve said before, I like that you aren’t like anybody else. You’re different. Different than anybody else I’ve ever met. That ain’t bad. And it don’t mean that you ain’t right or there’s anything wrong with you. Just means you’re not the same as everybody. But I like you better than everybody.” Their expression was all but completely enamored- most people would take one look at Mike and see someone utterly, helplessly in love, and wanting to express that love in full, unabashed ways that may or may not involve chocolate syrup. One hand slips from his shoulder, resting on his chest instead, the Bronx brawler sighing softly at the steady feel of his heartbeat.

“That’s why I like you, too.” “I want to show you how much.” Scootching up, they kissed his jawline. They’d done it before, but things had moved forward since then. Maybe this time, after all the little forward progress they’d made…

He froze at first.

And then relaxed. His hands sat rigid where they were however.

He inhaled, closed his eyes, and let Mike advance. They kissed him again, gently cupping his cheek in their free hand, their other tucked around his shoulders as best they could without their cast making things awkward. They kissed him on the mouth a couple more times, almost as if they couldn’t get enough of it, before planting another on his lower jaw, then one at his throat. A significant blush was tinting their cheeks a shade of rose that, though they would’ve denied it, was rather cute, especially mingled with their freckles. “You can touch me if you want to, y’know…” Their chuckle was soft, somewhat breathless, teasing but not mean. Encouraging, even. John’s outside hand trembled just over their side. Mike’s hand went over his and like a guide, settled it on the side of their breast. Wordlessly, Mike nodded and their hand squeezed his in the hopes of imitation. Moving their hand away, they rest it again on his chest before slowly, almost daringly moving downward. Their fingers brushed against the front of his jeans, fingers fiddling with the button on his fly. Their heart was pounding, but then they paused. They could feel John’s hand on their breast, shaking like a leaf. He was allowing this, but nothing in his body language was reciprocal. They sighed softly, pulling back but not away entirely. “...John? This is gonna sound like a stupid question, but… do you even like me? I mean, I know you do, but I mean like… are you even attracted to me at all? I’m a mess, I know I am…” He’d said he liked how they looked. Said they had a warrior’s body. But there was a big difference between finding something aesthetically nice and being attracted to it. John wanted to clear and concise in his response but he fumbled all over his words. Until-

“I am.”

But his hand moved down to their hand and halted it. Not in any way that was brazen but with a soft touch. But still a barrier between Mike and an encroaching darkness he never wanted to be enveloped in again. That thought was wrong. But its effects still lingered after all this time. And not just that. Before, too.

With all of his strength and with the knowledge that he has once again has disappointed someone, he continued.

“And I just need your help.”

With what, he wasn’t sure. It was always some boogeyman. A voice in the vent. Never correlated to the obvious. A never defined boy shattered and trapped within the limitations of his mind. Unable to answer a simple question. Two adults doing what adults do and he can’t seem to get it right. What’s right, he wondered. Because it never seemed right before either.

“And I’m not sure what that means. But I won’t go anywhere.”

“Neither will I.”

Mike gave him one more kiss, more reassuring than longing this time, and moved off his lap after, but only to re-settle in that comfortable place at his side.

“Don’t worry. We’ll work this out. Whatever you need, however I can help you, you know I will. Promise.”

[davidaolson]

Awakened by a Demon

The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

“Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u”

It’s screeching shattered the still of the night. Not just once. Over and over for the better part of an hour. It screeched. Then the lull during which my heart settled and I felt sleep crawling from between the sheets, my eyes growing heavy. Until it screeched again. Four screams in a sequence with the last sputtering words decaying like a loosely mounted motor running out of gas forcing every cell in my body to high alert. Danger, Will Robison.

The beast had to be close. Beast? Or was it a ghost? A demon? A demon ghost hybrid. The locals are superstitious. Stories of ghosts and spirits are commonplace. Just tonight, I learned Auntie would not go to the upstairs floor in her own home. Her own home! A place she lived for decades because she believes it is haunted. Yet, it is ok for the maid and the grandkids to sleep up there. How much of the belief is based in fact? How much is fiction from a people steeped in superstition? I noticed I am fingering the smooth leather medicine bag I’ve worn around my neck since my encounter with Rattlesnake in New Mexico a couple of weeks earlier. I guess a Western education does not immunize one from a belief in amulets or the evil they keep at bay.

The noise seemed to be coming from just outside the sliding glass doors of my room in the Abuyog hotel. It may be a ventriloquist. The identified location a misdirection and it was nearer. Under the bed??? Did I remember to lock the window? “Fu-Quuuuu”. Is the demon studying me from behind a curtain of darkness? Behind the corner armoire? “Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” Let’s rationalize. Maybe it’s a screaming cat. A cat in preheat sparring with an overzealous mate attempting to force a dry fuck, or a night bird trying to spook a twitchy nose rat into breaking cover and running, perhaps the Philippine version of a Screech Owl, the tufty eared, bug-eyed predator out for the nightly hunt. Screech Owl? Screeching Owl. Yes.

The noise tortures me. I am also tormented by claws scratching the floor in the room directly above me. Or, is in hiding between the ceiling and the floor? If it found a way to infiltrate the hotel, is my room safe? Is it rats? Is the Fu-Quuuuu demon inside the hotel trying to catch a rat? Does it have the flexibility to escape through a hole and emerge in my room? Is it a rat jousting with a slithering snake? Will the snake find refuge in the pipes and poke a triangular head out of the toilet bowl during my morning constitutional sinking teeth into my meaty, muscley ass or, shudder, ball sack? I better check the bowl then shit while hovering.

I cowered stock still sweating in the bed. My pillow is soaked through to both sides. My heart pounds. What time is it? I slowly looked at my phone. 3 am. 3 fucking am and I’m wide awake. 3 am. Much too early to chase a sunrise. And going outside in the dead of night could mean an encounter with the Fu-Quuuuu demon. Is it taking a clue from the owl playbook, trying to spook me from my safe sanctuary into vulnerable open space? I want to run. But, I imagine going up to the roof and facing Fu-Quuuuuu followed by my own fading Oh-Noooooo as it devours me, head first, or hexes my life ensuring I die tragically, or scares me so deeply my hair roots die and white strands sparsely cover my head. Irrational? Who’s to say what evil lurks in the heart of demons.

I lay unmoving for the next two hours too terrified to reach beyond the bed for the lamp for fear the demon is throwing its voice beyond the glass as it sits beneath my bed waiting to tear off any limb extending beyond the bed’s edge. Too frightened to reach over to my wife for comfort for fear the beast would hear me move and be triggered to attack the way running prey triggers a bear to give chase. I lay petrified waiting for the rising sun to send the safety of daylight.

“Did you hear the demon last night?” It wasn’t until the second morning hearing the awful screeching that I overcame my embarrassment and felt comfortable discussing the screaming, screeching demon.

“Demon?”

“Ya, that loud screaming.”

“Screaming? That was a tukó, one of our local geckos. The name is from the sound it makes. Tu-koooooo. Tu-koooooo.” It’s a cute lizard. Good luck in the home.

“I didn’t hear no Tu-koooooo. I heard “Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” My voice decayed quicker than tukó at the end of a chant. “Cough. Cough.” I look at her. No sympathy for my feigned cough. It’s no use. I know it. She knows it. There is no way for me to save face. I feel the fool for being distraught because the unfamiliar voice squawked by a little lizard frightened the hell out of me. And I am simultaneously excited knowing Rattlesnake may have been speaking capital ‘T’ Truth.

The Ambien Zombie

The waking up before the sun theme lasted the entire trip. Jet lag from jumping 13 time zones over 24 hours requires the better part of two weeks for me to fully adjust. We were only a few days into the trip. Once my body clock adjusts to local sun cycles, we head back to Chicago where I endure another two weeks of screwed up sleeping schedules. Plus I have a very difficult time sleeping in a sitting position. On long-haul flights, I use prescription Ambien to help me sleep and adjust to a new time zone.

I’ve head stories of Ambien zombies, perfectly nice people zombified by the drug especially when mixed with Alcohol. They babble incoherently, have even been known to strip naked and wall about the plane. All with no recollection when then come down.

Always, until this trip, I enjoyed my Ambien induced coma without incident waking refreshed on the flip side. Win-win. The episode between Chicago and Taiwan will keep me away from Ambien the rest of the trip and will probably be the last time I ever use the sleep aid. I became the dreaded Ambien Zombie.

I took two as soon as my luggage was stowed in the overhead before buckling into my middle seat, next to my aisle seated wife, for the 15-hour flight taking off at 12:30 am. Normally, I fly long haul alone. There have never been complaints so I assume my induced sleep is simply a deep, dreamless sleep. Not so this time where I experienced two vivid dreams.

The first was of me walking around the airplane in slow motion. In the dream, I was unable to pronounce Pinot Noir in a way the flight attendant understood. I rarely eat airplane food, aside from crackers and fruit cups, because the smell while still in the carts makes me nauseous. But, I ordered the beef dish. And I ordered a whiskey which I mixed with apple juice. The obnoxious concoction was promptly spilled mostly onto my wife’s tray overflowing into her lap. I looked at the mess and returned to eating with all the dexterity and urgency of a sloth. All this, I later learned from my irritated wife, actually happened but I was too stoned on the sleeping pill to realize it.

I now wonder if those previous trips were simply a relaxed deep sleep or I acted the fool. I’ve never been arrested or deboarded so I’m going to guess there were no exceedingly unseemly events.

The second dream was rather bizarre.

Tukó, the gecko lizard, and I are sitting face to face in chairs. This is a giant Tukó, big as a double homunculus human. It’s feet dangle above the floor, the fat tail wrapped around the chairback providing balance. Tukó has no butt so sitting is difficult. The pink tongue licks its eyes the way a dog tongues its snout clean after eating. The mouth opens, sound spill out, the mouth closes. The eyes look at me, expectantly. The mouth opens again, “Who-Ooooooo. Fu-Quuuuuu”

Language gap. Unlike my encounter with Rattlesnake who spoke in words I understood, there is a definite language gap with Tukó, a gap exacerbated by the human lizard culture gap.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I said wondering if the language barrier was two way.

Tukó reaches out a closed hand palm up, turns it over, unfurls the five thick fingers revealing a very small gecko. It couldn’t have been longer than one-inch nose to tail. He pumps his hand up and down motioning me to take it. I reach out and it crawls, without hesitation, into my hand. I can feel the stickiness of the toe pads. It’s a little like tearing apart velcro with every step.

“Emmm…” how to be culturally sensitive here? Is it simply a gift? Am I supposed to eat it? We are in Asia where feeding guests is standard hospitality and refusing to eat offered food an insult. I look at it again. Well, at least it isn’t balut. I hope I don’t gag. I force a smile,” Thank you”. And move it toward my mouth.

Tukó chatters frantically. “Nuh-Oooooo. Nuh-Ooooooo.”

I stop midway, mouth agape.

Tukó points to the side of its head. I am still very confused. “What? What do I do?”

Tukó deftly grabs the miniscule gecko from my hand and places it next to my head. It crawls into my ear canal. A shiver starts from my ear and runs all the way down to my toes. This is worse than one gulp needed to swallow it. I am scared. No. Terrified. I once saw a movie where a person was strapped to a table while a villain in a white lab coat looked on. The villain grabbed an earwig from a bucket of crawling earwigs using a longish pair of zircon encrusted tweezers and proceeded to stick the wiggling bug into the man’s ear. The man screamed in agony as the earwig slowly ate its way through his brain until it reached the center killing him. Was I about to begin a ghastly death?

“Can you understand me now, David? You should be able to.”

“I…I can understand you.” What the hell was going on?

“That is a Babel Gecko. It is similar to the Babel Fish. You do know what a Babel Fish is, David?”

“Yes, I do.” My pride swells. I read the six books in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy and knew the answer. “A babel fish is fictitious It’s small, yellow and leech-like. It crawls into the ear of a person suctioning onto the eardrum enabling the person to understand any language in the universe.”

“Close.”

“Close? I read all the books and saw the tv show. I know what a Babel Fish is.”

“It is not fictitious.” Tukó emphasized ‘fictitious’ by making air quotes with those fat finger hands. “It exists just not in our space-time continuum. Douggy Adams was taken up by aliens and moved between space-time streams. Eventually, the brought him back but failed to erase all the memories from his time away. Those books he wrote contained fractal representations of that time. Now, what you have in your ear is a Babel Gecko. It has the ability to translate all animal, tree, and rock people communication into your human language which is why you now understand me. It cannot translate human to human because the primitive human language causes the Babel Gecko to deteriorate from the inside out.”

“Primitive human language? Human language is the most sophisticated ever devised.”

“Typical human arrogance. It is not the most sophisticated on earth and considered white noise in other worlds. It’s why the beings on distant planets don’t bother responding to the signals and probes you send into deep space. You, humans, communicate only with sound with the exception of visual artists. Unless the artworks are straightforward, you misinterpret them as well. We animals have the ability to communicate with and without sound. We can communicate with color, physical motion, smell, telepathically and any combination. It is called ‘voice’ and is sophisticated beyond human comprehension while being transparently simple to all nonhumans. Babel Gecko translates all voice into approximations of human words. You may sense gaps, sometimes elongated, in the translation because the Babel Gecko must dumb it down for your comprehension.”

“Okayyy. There are insects and other lizards in this room. Why don’t I hear them?” I got him. There was no recovery from this argument.

Tukó chuckled. Paused. “The Babel Gecko knows. Humans like claiming they are good at multi-tasking. But it is impossible for the primitive human brain to focus on more than one task at a time. The Babel Gecko’s sophistication allows it to tune into the vibration of your thought waves then filter the many voices allowing only the one on which you are attempting to focus. This is why you don’t hear the mosquitoes discussing the sweetness of your wife’s blood they are sampling while she showers or the very large spider behind the shower room curtain singing a siren song to lure those same mosquitoes into its lethal web.”

“That sounds quite far-fetched.”

“Of course you would say that. Liars have a hard time believing the truth.”

“Liars?”

“Come now David, you are fully aware humans tell as many lies as they do truths. Even the quote-unquote truths tend to be embellished.”

I have to admit he is correct. I like to think I am truthful to a fault but know, in my heart, I am prone to embellishing my stories. Innocent enough but still, why not just relate facts?

“We in the animal world are incapable of telling lies. Our communication is always congruous. Our voice, true. The body, our colors, telepathy, and words are always in sync. Though, one should be extremely careful when communicating with a split tongue being such as Rattlesnake. With them, truth halves and they may allow one half only to slip off a tongue branch into the world. Half truths are deceptive. Lying by omission of the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me by one of the thousands of Gods, is still lying.”

Gecko stopped talking, stared up at the ceiling. Was it hungry? looking for bugs? Too much silence for my taste, a vacuum needing filling.

“Thank you for the gift of the Babel Gecko.”

“It’s NOT yours.” Heavy emphasis on the NOT. “It is a loan. It will crawl out and away before you leave the Philippines. It would be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Dangerous? You can trust me. I won’t let anything happen to it.”

“Fu-Quuuuuu!”

“Sorry, I didn’t understand you. I think the Babel Gecko is on the fritz.”

“It’s working just fine. And you heard me correctly. I said, ‘Fuck you!’ Your people have brought nothing but misery to this planet and my people ever since you left the trees in your hairy pre-hominid days and started building cities. You bred, still, breed like roaches, and continue spreading your pestilence! No offense to roaches. They are a hearty people. It’s simply a reality your mind can’t grasp.”

“Sorry?”

“Was that a question?” His color changed slightly. A red hue undertoned the skin. Can they color shift like chameleons? The gold eyes pulsed.

“Um, Sorry! I apologize for the human race.”

“It’s too late for apologies. The damage is done. We will all pay the price for your unchecked infestation. You humans most of all.”

“Really? What’s gonna happen?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, Yes I do. I have a right to know.”

“Rights is a human philosophical construct. There are no such thing as rights there only is existence. But, I will tell you. There’s nothing you can do to change the future. It will start when Big Ben strikes thirteen…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt “…the blood moon will crumble…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt.

vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt. My vibrating watch alarm, set for the morning in Chicago, pulled me out of the Ambien slumber. I was still mired in a stupor, still mashed into the too small middle seat in the exit row, still on the plane heading to Taiwan. I dreamt it all.

An Expected Unexpected Trip

We weren’t supposed to be in the Philippines this year. Our trip to Southeast Asia was scheduled, tentatively scheduled, for 2019. January or February, opposite typhoon season, when the cold still strangled Chicago and the Philippines was a beacon of near perfect warmth. We planned to forego Belize where we had lizard basked in the sun for a week each of the previous two Winters and make our 3rd trip in 6 years to my wife’s homeland, her hometown. Her father was aging quickly. His health was not the greatest. Each of our last two visits we believed was the last to see him alive.

The dreaded call, came on a Friday a few days after we returned from New Mexico. Just as Rattlesnake foreshadowed. The following Friday, we were crammed into a plane for the 24 hour trip from Chicago to Manila this time via Taiwan. We overnighted in Manila then took an early flight to Tacloban City in Leyte. It was a short flight. Most flights between the islands in the archipelago are about an hour. We spent more time in lines and waiting in the terminal than airborne. Such is the curse of modern travel.

Our Manila hotel was an apartment. Inexpensive, great air conditioning which we desperately needed in a 90/90 country. The temps were 90+ Fahrenheit and the humidity was upward of 90% all day every day. Life in 90/90 means the sun feels heavy, a burden one must carry like an overloaded backpack even in the relatively cool shade. It was almost possible to extract a glass full of water with every few breaths. Sweat was my Eau de cologne. Not of choice but the natural order of life. The body must cool itself. The inexpensiveness of the apartment means one foregoes amenities like on-premise restaurants. The neighboring Marriott goes for $200 a night. For me, it’s a no-brainer tradeoff. Though, walking between our place and the restaurants in the pouring rain, Manila was in the middle of a typhoon, while sharing a single umbrella is a downer.

Our flight to Tacloban was in the early morning, too early to find a breakfast place. Plus we were reluctant to walk to the nearby hotels and be pelted by the typhoon drenching Manila and snarling traffic. The food at the domestic airport did not appeal to me. This all added up to being hungry upon arrival in Tacloban.

Stuffing My Face With Outdoor Chicken at Andoks

Our choice of eateries on the road to Abuyog is limited. There’s a McDonald’s or, on the opposite side of the street, Andok’s Chicken. Just the thought of McD’s makes my stomach cringe so, when asked, I requested Andok’s. I think it surprised our hosts. Andok’s is an open-air eating establishment with the food cooked on an outdoor spit behind a three-sided glass enclosure. It looks and smells succulent. We order, carry our chilled pop, without ice, to a clean table next to a table where a group recently vacated.

Our conversation is primarily in the local language, meaning I think it my own bubble. It is an existence with which I am more than content. I half listen to the ambient noise, sip my rapidly warming pop. Curse the ice made with unfiltered water. My inner life is active. I rarely grow bored. I am content to sit and think while they conversed. After all, they have a deep history and I don’t speak but a few words in their language. To expect them to accommodate my desires would be selfish. We achieved yin-yang balance.

I catch a whiff of a stench and look around to see if an open sewer is nearby. Nope. There’s a person at the adjacent table who I at first think is a worker cleaning up but noticed she’s eating the leftover food. Nibbling whatever morsel she can from the chicken bones, tilting the bottle to drain last drops of soda. When finished picking the plates clean, she walks toward us and reaches out for my half-empty water bottle. They told her no. I try an appear nonchalant.

Her face is oddly shaped. Is she mentally challenged? A mild Down’s Syndrome. There is a strangeness to her eyes. She walks behind me on her way beyond the restaurant boundary and I realize the malodor is not an open sewer. It is her. She never says a word at our table nor while she waits, like a feral dog outside the range of stick and stones, for opportunities to pick at leftovers. She took a position further from us than the strays sniffing the chicken laden air on the periphery. Is this how she is forced to survive. Does she view herself as lesser than dogs which is why she waits beyond them? Is she viewed by the locals as lesser than a dog? Does this society have more empathy for the canid than the hominid? I soon find out.

My companions drop back into their lingua franca freeing me to eat the delivered chicken and ruminate in the less visited antechambers hidden in my mind. I think back to the unplanned nature of this trip and its prognostication by Rattlesnake two weeks prior while we explored the wilds in Nueva México. A little Spanish thrown into the narrative. I’m not totally oblivious to other languages just lack fluency in any but English. Tubig means water in Tagalog and Salamat is thank you. Two words I need to get by in this country.

Rattlesnake told me. Is that the right phraseology? No. It is more apt to say Rattlesnake warned me that Tukó harnessed the temperament of a trickster with the ability to shapeshift. Trickster spirits take human form by day changing to animal form when Sun is replaced by Moon. He warned me, a preferred form for Tukó was that of an impoverished, mute woman. Is this woman a human being or a spirit being? Are her eyes a bit off or did the Rattlesnakes tales fill my head with imagined realities?

I try from a distance to see her eyes. Are the human round pupiled or vertical gecko pupiled. I cannot see clearly from where I sit. Would round pupils, tell me anything? If Trickster shapeshifts to a human, wouldn’t it also mimic the eye design? Perhaps the human form is a shell and a vertical pupil exists behind the round pupil. In the right light, would I be able to see the Trickster behind the translucent human-like eye?

I catch myself absentmindedly rubbing my medicine bag. Instinct once again overrides my Western University education predicated on logic. I doubt this would have been the case before I encountered the talking Spirit Rattlesnake and the Ancient One that set him free from the large stone. That singular event rocked my understanding of reality and now I am unsure where the division between real and imaginary exists. Or are they one and the same?

I look at her askance. Not wanting anyone to know I am staring but I need to know her nature. What is that movement? Did she just flick a pink tongue over her eyes?

Our stomachs full, my companions start tossing chicken bones to a yellow furred mongrel. It’s a stray. Heavy teated. Dirty. Patchy fur from fighting other curs. It inches closer, warily, until it is next to our table. Hunger trumps fear. Western dogs who are rarely given chicken bones. One because in America dogs are on par with humans. And because of the belief, their digestive system is too sensitive for the tiny spears. They give all the chicken leftovers to the dog. The dog eats. The hungry woman looks on. They pet the dog, a few affectionate pats on the head. They tell her she’s a pretty dog. Eventually, they give the woman a chunk of pork. No kind words. No affectionate touch. They don’t tell her she is pretty.

Is giving her food kindness? I don’t see it that way. We give of our excess. Our trash. A mouthful she would have helped herself to after we left. It seems to me more a guilt offering. But this is my perspective, the view of an outsider out of tune with the spoken language and the cultural context. My conscience is not assuaged.

I ate too much and I struggle with churning guilt grinding at my insides. I try to rationalize my lack of action as not wanting to throw a stone in the culture pool and start unexpected ripples that might upset the natural order. But it is simply a rationalization, a lie told to the self.

Truth is, I am wretched. Not the poor woman with little access to food. Me the overweight, self-centered glutton who ate my fill, more than my fill until I was sluggish, without thinking of her hunger. Ate until I was stuffed beyond need. As I think this, I looked sheepishly at her one more time with my eyes hidden behind my dark sunglasses. I swear her eyes flash gold for the time it takes to snap my fingers, flash gold with a vertical slit and the hint of an almost smile.

There is still an hour’s drive to our hotel. An hour where I am reminded of my wretchedness with every home we pass cobbled together using uneven wooden planks leaving open seams in the walls, and discarded sheet metal roofs creating oven temperatures in direct sunlight, homes without running water or electricity, homes without screens to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

I had forgotten the extent of the poverty in the country, forgotten the face of a similar poverty I saw every day in India and vowed never to ignore. Forgotten how blessed I am to have access to quality medical care, two cars in the family, a home with climate control, the means to travel eight thousand miles and stay in a comfortable hotel with a roof from which to enjoy the sun climbing spectacularly orange over an ocean horizon. And, always, the promise of a warm meal greeting our every arrival at Auntie’s home.

Auntie’s House

It is customary in the Philippines for a family member to host the deceased for the nine days preceding the funeral including the feed those coming to pay their respects. On day ten, the funeral is held. There are additional ceremonies at prescribed intervals following the entombment with the last at the one year anniversary.

Aunties home became the makeshift funeral parlor with the casket prominently displayed in the family room, the first sight when entering the front door. On the trip over, I wondered how people tolerated the stink of the slowly decaying body. It turns out, in this case at least for they do not live below the poverty line, the casket was top tier including a clear, glass covering. Hermetically sealed. Any odor would be confined.

We arrive on day 7 and visit daily until the funeral which ended up being delayed until day 10 for want of an available officiate. Each time we enter food is offered within a few minutes. In the Philippines, serving food is equivalent to saying, “I love you.”

I love chicken adobo and pancit. Have grown accustomed to heaping bowls of rice. But not so much the bony fish, too much work to separate the flesh from the sharp bones. Nor am I a fan of dinuguan. Pig’s blood adds a strong iron taste to the soup. By the third day, my palate craves variety. Our farm visit added a touch of variety. Virgin coconuts freshly felled from the trees with a machete have the sweetest milk. Locally grown greens added to a soup of freshly killed chicken, head included. It is a self-supporting chicken so the meat is on the chewy side. Of course, heaps of steaming rice, for a meal minus rice is only a snack.

The trip to the farm is different than past adventures. The ferry was bypassed by a bridge. It’s not strong enough to support a car so we walk across and board a motorput for the final distance to the farm. It terrifies one of the aunties so she opts for the ferry on the way back. It is dubbed the dancing bridge for it sways while we walk across.

Aside from one fast food place, there are no restaurants in town, none with hygiene necessary to sensitive Western stomachs. The last thing I want is Montezuma to seek revenge while I’m in the Philippines. On our final full day in Abuyog, Cousin remembers a new Italian restaurant owned/operated by a real Italian at the far north end of the city outside the town proper. I am skeptical. Authentic Italian food in the middle of a small town? How is possible? We eat there for lunch. Stay to swim and eat dinner as well. It is heavenly. And we finally have wine to accompany our dinner. There are no liquor stores in Abuyog, my wife tells me. No place to buy wine. We find the last day she is wrong. There is a liquor store a very short walk from our hotel. We leave tomorrow. No time for a bottle of red or a chilled white.

Daily temps are 90/90. Yet the homes have no air conditioning not even the nicer ones like Auntie’s or Cousins. I mostly visit after sundown to avoid the heaviest heat. As soon as I enter, someone adjusts both oscillating fans to ensure I was in their path and had a smidge of relief from the heat. Still, after about an hour, I am sweat soaked and head back to the hotel to bask, sometimes naked, in the air conditioning, temperature set on stun.

Some of the visitors we encounter are comfortable enough with English to greet me and ask if I am hungry. Hungry or not, food is still served. They can speak quite a bit more but are embarrassed to speak the language with someone who is fluent. The fear of making mistakes and possibly looking foolish is strong. I speak no Waray, the local dialect, so welcome any attempt at English. I do not push the issue. It is my preference they enjoyed the company of my wife. These are her people and holes are rent in the fabric of their family during her absence. Our visits are a time they all participate in mending the holes, a tribe working together to sew up the holes in the fishing net. I enjoy watching her. She becomes highly animated when conversing in her native dialect. I sit and watch from my familiar bubble.

For most of my life, I have felt an outsider, apart from the group, isolated. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was (am) the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. I have come to accept isolation is endemic to my DNA and I have learned to thrive in solitude. So much so, it has gradually become my preferred mode of being. I inhabit a bubble. Bubble boy.

The isolation becomes a shroud when visiting a land where my language is an afterthought or a nonthought. Non-language can be a wall. A wall of our own making when we chose to remain monolingual.

Unless one has extensive practice existing in isolation, whether by choice to remain apart from people or one is forced into it by dint of not speaking a common tongue, it can be a terrifying space. The sharing of even a few phrases gives hope, creates connection.

Many, probably most, of the native-born US citizenry speaks English only. Bilingualism, sadly, is an anomaly, a logical outcome of communal arrogance. “If you don’t speak Amurican you ain’t worth talking at“. It sucks that multilingualism is viewed as an unnecessary expense by most school boards in the United States. Worse, speaking any language other than English is increasingly, thanks to the orange buffoon, viewed as unAmerican, unpatriotic. If he truly wants to make America great, he should emphasize multilingualism in the schools verbal as well as speaking the languages of the arts.

For the ‘Build the Wall’ types, being in the midst of people who speak a language in addition to English, or worse, only English is uncomfortable exacerbating their fearfulness. They would rather isolate themselves with a border wall than face their fear. Build an isolating wall because of a fear of being isolated. Oh, the irony.

The proposed border wall between Mexico and the United States is a concept buttressed by fear, a foolish attempt to medicate anxiety. Like the antidepressant Prozac, it creates the illusion the situation is different. Perception is more important than reality.

Me, I am thankful for the multilingual. They can help build a bridge between us.

On our previous visit to the Philippines, I learned the concept of beer English. We were at the beach celebrating our marriage with lots of fresh food and buckets of beer. For the most part, I watched the waves kicking up against the shore and the fishermen in their small boats pulling in nets. Once in a while, there would be a word I understood in their language pulling me into their reality before I returned to watching. From a raging sea of Waray, an English speaking fish breached the water, hung in the air. A cousin started speaking to me in English. I was incredulous.

“You’re speaking English?”

“It’s beer English. We only speak English after drinking five beers.” Everyone laughed. And I was included in parts of the conversation until the beer was gone and we parted for our own homes.

There does not seem to be a drinking culture at wakes in the Philippines. Consequently, there was no beer English, very little conversation drawing me in. My ears do prick up when I catch one of the few Waray words I understand. Salamat for thank you. Tubig for water. O-O for yes. Mostly, at Aunties, I retreat to the sanctity of my bubble from which I people watch.

The Honking Huge Spider

I was in my sanctum one evening when I saw the short, jerky movement of a black object overhead. The homes, the ones I have visited, have no screens. Geckos and insects are regular visitors. In the ceiling line, where the ceiling meets the wall, a massive spider. I am not one to shy away from the creepies or the crawlies but this monster caused chills to shoot down my spine and escape through my toes where they hid in the shadows of a bookcase.

The spider is a good 5 inches in diameter with a body big enough to kidnap and drain the blood from a small child in one slurp. Not wanting to interrupt my wife’s animated conversation and appear to be a fraidy cat in front of her family, I stared at her hoping she would feel the intensity of my gaze and look my way so I could lip point, Philippino style, at the gruesome beast. No luck.

I sent mojo vibes through the air figuring the dense humidity would easily carry the signals drop to drop between us and tweak her subconscious. Again no luck. I became increasingly agitated. Should I shout a warning and save everyone’s lives? Or would my alarm raise twitters at the city boys irrational fear of something that amounted to a child’s pet?

I hold my tongue. Chilled fear sweat added to and mixed with my heat sweat. I am both hot and cold.

A gecko darts across the ceiling in the direction of Mr. Monster Spider. It is the biggest I have seen on the trip. Six inches long with a thick body and tail. Was this the Spirit Tukó come to save me?

As gecko draws near to the spider, it scurries until it is directly over my head. The movement is blindingly fast. If the spider decided to attack, could I beat it in a foot race? I am wearing my ultralight Ferrell tennis shoes but don’t know if my old knees can sustain a pace for the duration necessary to be further from the spider than one of the other guests. I didn’t need to be faster than spider just faster than the slowest person to put a victim between me and the monster. Of course, it could just let loose and fall from the ceiling onto my head the moment I look away and siphon all my brain juice.

Gecko appears not to notice Spider. Rather than witness a lizard arachnid skirmish, I watch Gecko descended the wall and take refuge behind a framed picture. Is it, too, afraid of the spider or simply returning to digest a stomach full of insects in a safe space?

Either way, I feel safer with the sentinel Gecko, a natural predator, close by. My protector. My savior. I have long been a fan of geckos. Correction. I love geckos. I wish there were a dozen or so roaming the walls and ceilings in our Chicago home. Wild geckos. Free-range geckos. Not the inmates transferred from animal prisons (aka pet stores) only to be locked in another glass cage inside a home.

A human can’t be human confined to 6′ x 8′ prison cell and still be a human nor can a gecko be a gecko when confined to a small enclosure. The US government confined the American Indians to reservations knowing full well it would crush their souls beyond repair and domesticate the ‘savages’. I don’t want a tamed gecko. It would lose gecko essence. They are harbingers of good luck. If the essence is gone so is the luck. Or, the luck may go negative and bring bad tidings upon the household.

Geckos feast on the crawlies invading the home. And they whisper dreams into your ears during slumber. I could use some vivid dreams. One can never have too many geckos gracing the palace. The praying mantis also eats insects so is beneficial but they don’t dispense dreams. Alas, Chicago has bitter Winters meaning no insect food to sustain geckos. Geckos starve. More bad luck. Geckos are another good reason for me to move to the Desert Southwest. I wonder, is Gecko of my totem?

On our last trip, we were island hopping near Puerto Princessa. I paid a few Philippine pisos for a temporary gecko tattoo over my left shoulder. Since then, I have contemplated a tattoo of Delicate Arch topped by a gecko against a sunset. Almost like it was riding the Arch into the sunset cowboy style. It would make for a great back piece. A symbol of my favorite land, a spirit animal. And if the ink could be made of finely ground red rock dust, it would have in my body the actual where I wish to rest forever. Now, if only there was a way to get inked without needles.

Finally, Irene looks my way. I lip point upward toward the spider careful not to make eye contact and force it into a defensive posture from which attack would be imminent. I do not want the beast finding a path into my head to play mind games.

“What?” she said.

“There’s a spider,” I whisper not wanting to be too obvious.

“What spider? Where?”

“It is above my head.” Emphasis on every syllable. I look up. It’s gone. Disappeared.

“I swear. There was a huge spider,” I show her the size with my hands. “The mother of all spiders. A baby eater for sure!”

She gives me her half twisted smile. The one when she considers my actions foolish, my words moronic, or general idiocy on my part. She returns to her conversation. I feel humiliated. I also grow increasingly agitated. I cannot shake the feeling it is lurking in the shadows studying me with those 12 beady eyes waiting for an opening to pounce and sink those nasty fangs into my delicately soft alabaster neck.

I give a few exaggerated yawns arm stretch overhead but not too high to put them in harm’s way. My wife catches my drift and arranges for a motorput to take me to the hotel though I would prefer to walk. She doesn’t feel it’s safe for a foreigner to walk the streets alone after dark. I stayed safely locked in our airconditioned room until the funeral on the morrow.

Funeral

We hop into a motorput magically appearing right outside our hotel dressed in our blacks and/or whites, the preferred funeral colors but no reds. The motorput is a motorcycle with an attached side cage for passengers. The vehicle is not made for people of my height and girth. I shoehorn myself into the vehicle and endure the short, uncomfortable ride to Aunties. Thankfully, Irene is tiny so we are able to sit side by side. It is early morning and already the heat is surging. The hearse is late, as expected, so we linger in the room with the casket. I check overhead for the massive spider. Nothing. There is no way I am going to sit on the couch for fear it may be hiding between it and the wall. I stand. Watch warily. And exit the house right behind the casket. We are first and second-row mourners walking behind the hearse to the church.

The slow procession begins in full exposure to the sun. I have neither hat nor umbrella to stave the biting light rays boring through my flesh and into my body with the ferocity of a radioactive maggot in rotting meat. I boil from the inside out until sweat seeps from every pore and drops down the crack of my ass, swass. Sweat is the equivalent of body tears. We have only walked two blocks and there is close to a mile remaining. I rejoice inside when we turn from Auntie’s lane onto the thoroughfare to the Church and see trees lining the East side of the street. I strategically slide right and drink in the cooling shade.

A few trees ahead, there is a rustling of leaves. Green ballerinas? There is no breeze. There is, though, a small animal in the branches probably a bird, the monster spider hunting…me, maybe a lizard. We saw large iguanas in the Belizean trees. Would I be lucky here as well and see an interesting lizard or maybe a monkey?

My head cocks upward. I tried to be discreet. But it has to be obvious to the few without tear-soaked eyes. When beneath the fluttering leaves, my head is angled almost straight up, sweat trickles into my eyes. I reach to wipe away the sweat and feel something fall into my mouth. It sticks to my lips for an instant then slips inside. It is no bigger than the broken tip of a toothpick but soft with a slight wiggle. Wiggle?

I don’t want to gag and hack it up causing a scene amidst everyone’s sorrow so fish it with my tongue until it is between my front teeth and I can discreetly grab it. It is soft, pliant, dark with the texture of a lizards tail. A yellowish, juicy substance oozes from the broken end. Lizard blood. My lips tingle. Probably an emotional reaction to chewing lizard tail. It needed some chili peppers.

The Church

We enter the church. The delicious air is a good ten degrees cooler. The wonders of shade and fans to agitate the air. The upper row stained glass windows are open to the outside, to the elements. A few stained glass windows have holes. Vandals chucking rocks? The Doors and side windows are wide open, no screens, allowing nature free passage and a place at the foot of the Lord. Appropriate that the created has a place at the table of the creator. Birds flitted inside the church.

The second thing I notice is White Jesus. This is one of my pet peeves. It is bad enough swarthy people around the world apply caustic chemicals to lighten their skin to attain a twisted ideal of beauty. The Catholic church perpetuates the idea their God-Man was a slender white guy with light hair when they know full well Jesus was a Middle Eastern carpenter who was most likely brown and muscular. Better to show simply the cross as do the Protestant churches than further ingrain the twisted white is right agenda. It really is a disgusting practice.

By the time we reach the front and sit in the first pew nearest the casket, the immediate family pew where I feel completely out of place considering the deceased’s siblings sit further back, the slight tingle has crawled over my lips, slowly spreading until my lips and tongue are numb. What the fuck is going on? The numbness spreads up my cheeks, over my forehead, into my hair then rushed down to my waist. I can still feel my eyebrows and my legs still move. My eyes, too, retain the ability to bounce around their sockets. I can just move my head a few centimeters. The colors grow vivid as if the vibrance slider in Photoshop is pushed to the maximum. Acid trip?

I try to get my wife’s attention. I can’t speak. Can’t move my arms. She is lost in sorrow. We do not connect. The priest enters. The congregation rises. I stand out of instinct? More likely the almost 20 years of attending Catholic Mass imprinted the ritual into my DNA. I will never be free despite being nonCatholic for almost three times the years I spent in Catholic schools. The priest motions us to sit. And we all, in unison, drop to the seated position. Soon would come standing and kneeling and sitting and more standing and more kneeling. Catholic yoga

Sweat rolls down my face burning my eyes. I can not wipe it away. Frantic, I side glanced at my wife again hoping to attract her attention. She is still lost in grief. I am stuck on an island. Bubble boy is isolated. Bubble boy is not enjoying this isolation.

The priest raises his hands heavenward and opens his mouth to pray. Instead of words, sparrows fly out, small brown sparrows emerge from his mouth. Chubby seedeaters. They clumsily fly about until finding purchase on the walls, behind the lights where they cast eerie shadows, perched on the cross where they chirp, chirp, chirp. The longer the priest drones on, the more sparrows rush forth. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Until the altar is coated with brown birds. The mass of birds actually more beautiful than the gilded altar. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Not a pretty song in the bunch though. Chirpy chirp. The language of the birds a fitting eulogy especially since I exist outside the language of the priest and congregation. I would later learn the priest spoke monotone with a message clearly showing he had no personal, first-hand knowledge of the deceased. He was not nearly as coherent or interesting as the chirping sparrows.

At the consecration of the elements when Catholic lore says the wine and host transubstantiate into the blood and body of Christ, swallows explode from the wounds of Christ, streaming out of the hands, feet, and sword pierced side where once flowed blood and water. A steady flow of dark blue tuxedo dressed birds with elegantly curved wings. Each leaves an arced, blood red vapor trail that is pierced by a following bird and shatters into thousands of particles until a red mist hangs in the air like a dense morning fog hovering over a lake obscuring my vision.

The swallows twist and turn in the air with more grace than a prima ballerina in a Bolshoi Ballet. Their elegant flight poetic, poetry, the highest language, on the wing. They fly in and out of the windows seemingly gaining speed with every flap of their delightful wings. They fly under and over the casket while the priest speaks the eulogy.

I prefer the bird eulogy. I cannot understand the priest. I can understand the birds. They are honoring the deceased with an aerial ballet. They fly until their deep blue feathers are pushed from their bodies falling quill first into the ground like a thousand arrows shot into the sky descending in a veil. The blue feathers are replaced by virginal white feathers. Blue tuxedo swapped for a pearlescent tuxedo. What a tribute!

I want nature to be my eulogist, too. Yes, I do mull over the format of my wake and funeral. I’m creating a playlist of favorite songs for the occasion. It will be my last party and I want it done my way. Actually, I prefer my grandson to speak my eulogy since he is the only living being still viewing me from behind rose-tinted glasses through which I appear infallible or pretty close to infallible. He won’t have to lie to the congregants and say what a great guy I was. When he says it, he will believe it. It will be his truth even if it’s contrary to everyone else’s truth.

He would lead the burial procession, my final walk to my holiest of holies, the remote Red Rock Utah desert. I would love to rest atop Delicate Arch but I’m afraid the National Park Service would object, vehemently. Bones kicked by vultures and falling from the sky might cause injury followed by the inevitable lawsuit.

The procession would include a gaggle of geckos including at least one tukó since it’s voice sounds both cheerful and a lament. Its song will touch the hearts bidding me good riddance and those who weep in sadness.

I would like a chorus of birds in the background, the same cacophony the rises Sun in the morning, a chime of Canyon Wrens sitting first chair trilling the most beautiful birdsong ever to delight my ears. Their descending trills a metaphor for the winding down of my life. Somewhere in the procession, a single mythical rattlesnake to guard my corpse against rodents until one of the last California Condors rips open my chest and sticks that nasty pink head between my ribs and eats my heart. And we rise to the heavens on spectacular black/white, yin/yang wings as wide as the sky itself.

Since Delicate Arch won’t be available, my corpse it to be strategically placed beneath a gnarled juniper. A touch of shade to guard against sunburn. Face me West so my milky eyes can enjoy every sunset until they are plucked out by Raven and gifted to a blind coyote so it can see the world in vivid color and rejoice, as I did, with sunrises and sunsets. I can envisage it stopping mid-hunt, mid-chew on a kangaroo rat and watching, mouth agape as the apricot rays fade to tangerine. Maybe the not quite dead rat will escape while Coyote is mesmerized.

The priest descends down from the pulpit. Shakes the aspergillum at the casket anointing with holy water. The now white swallows start flying in tight counterclockwise formation layer upon layer from floor to ceiling creating a whirlwind, a translucent, blood red whirlwind. I feel myself leave my body and float into the air. The hulk remains seated. I see my shadow. Dainty long wings. A swallow. I am a swallow and I can fly. I am lithe. I am agile. I am Bird.

I join the flock flying round and round at dizzying speeds maintaining a fine balance between centripetal sucking us into the middle force and centrifugal thrusting toward the wall force. The blood red contrails continue to slide into the whirlwind forming a funnel cloud. The tip dancing on top of the casket, tap dancing on the glass until a hole is bored right through. The glass shatters it into a thousand knife edged splinters slicing the air into ribbons. They, too, join the funnel and shoot up into the ceiling digging and twisting, carving a hole in the dark wood.

The soul, white as daylight, cleansed of sin, purged of impurity pulls away from the body into the calm at the center of the vortex where it hovers with face turned upward, arms reaching heavenward. We all, birds, soul, red whispering smoke slowly begin to ascend. Once through the bored hole in the roof, our speed increases both circular and upward. The more rapidly we fly the quicker we ascend, ascend through the damp clouds, through the cerulean sky, into space and still we ascend. We are headed toward a dot radiating white light, whiter than starlight. Is it a distant sun? My head tingles.

When I was in High School, I saw Supertramp live in 1979. It was my first concert. I was dressed in my coolest Rock and Roll denim vest, elephant flare bluejeans with side stitching, over a pair of Midwestern style cowboy boots. They were tawny with a squarish toe. None of that roach killer pointy toe shit the cow fuckers wear in Texas. I was probably wearing a $5 bootleg concert shirt purchased near the carpark. A friend drove freeing me to indulge in mind-opening substances. Our seats were 20th row almost dead center. We didn’t sit. Everyone stood on the folding metal chairs straining for the best sight line.

Late in the concert, the band jammed an extended version of the song Rudy including a synchronized video running on a big screen behind the band. The lyrics talk about Rudy riding a train to nowhere. The sound of a train chugging along. Subtle at first. The tempo of the song increased so did the locomotive until it was flying down the tracks at high speed. The screen image changed to black with a pinhole of white dead center. We were in a long, pitch dark tunnel except for the tiny dot on the horizon. The locomotive chug, chug, chugged. The song tempo increased. The dot grew bigger. Faster, faster until we exited the tunnel and were blasted by a full white screen. And I experienced the biggest head rush known to man with a force that knocked me off my feet and onto my ass in the seat of the chair.

This is how the ascension to the white light high in the sky felt. A slowly growing headrush. Our speed increases. The light comes closer, grows bigger, increases intensity. My eyes water against the speed we were moving and the friggin’ brightness of the immaculate light. I close my eyes tight to prevent my pupils from melting.

A voice at once feminine and masculine, gentle and kind spoke, “Welcome, my faithful servant.”

I feel a warmth from the pit of my stomach radiate outward, engulf me like I am swaddled in a blanket just out of the dryer and still hot. I force my eyes open. The light is still bright but I can make out a silhouetted figure between the machine gun eyelid blinks. Arms reach out from behind the light veil. My name is called. “David…David…” I am about to come face to face with God. “David…David…” I reach my wings toward the figure and feel a sharp pain in my side. “David…David…” distinctly feminine now.

“I am coming, Lord!” Again the sharp pain. I must be flying too fast or the thin air is making it hard to breathe.”

“David…” feminine and familiar?

“David, it’s picture time.”

“Pictures?” I open my eyes. I am still seated in the pew next to my wife. Her elbow caused the pain in my side. I can move again.

“Yes. I need you to take pictures of us around the casket. You will be in some, too.” There is a Philipino tradition of taking pictures of the family members standing around the casket. It dawned on me, during the days of the wake, people were taking selfies of themselves and the deceased in the casket. It felt almost morbid to my Western sense of decorum. But, it was a different culture and, as Pope Francis said, who am I to judge.

The remainder of the ritual was to walk behind the hearse to the above ground, vault cemetery. Most, including me, rode in cars to avoid the growing heat. At the cemetery, the casket was inserted into the concrete vault. This one was on the 2nd tier of three tiers. Many prayers were said. Rosaries swayed with the people’s emotion. I held an umbrella over my wife and myself so we wouldn’t collapse in the feverish weather. More prayers recited, ritualistic incantations spoken without thought as to their meaning.

The vault was sealed with cement while we watched then we walked back to the cars. Except for Tío Pat who hung around until the cement had dried and a name with date scraped prominently in the rough surface. A formal seal. Every tomb had the combination. I guess there are problems with people stealing from the graves and he wanted to make sure there was no funny business before the cement set solid. We returned to Auntie’s for another meal. While eating, I kept a wary eye out for the baby eating spider.

The next two days we spent at a mini resort in Tacloban where I did pretty much nothing except chill in the shade and write and drink and eat not Philippino food. Then it was an overnighter in Manila followed by a planned two and a half days at Busuanga Island Paradise in Coron, assuming the planes jumped on time.

Busuanga Island Paradise Resort

It was while checking in at Busuanga Island Paradise resort that I finally set eyes on a Tukó. Irene was completing the paperwork when a loud Tu-Koooooo sounded. Jenny, the manager, saw me searching the ceiling. She was tall for a Filipina, wore a baseball hat with the pony pulled through the back. Her face hinted at underlying features not quite Asian. I would learn later her father was an American. An Assistant Manager name tag was pinned to a white Busuanga polo. She wore knee-high water boots. It had rained every day for the past 21 days and was raining now. “Do you want to see the Tukó?”

“Yes,” I blurted excitement peaking on the inside.

She pulled a large picture frame part way from the wall. I peeked behind. Too much shadow. Easily remedied by the flashlight app from my iPhone. The bright white light helped me to see but it was still difficult to get a clear view even with my head pressed against the wall. Only one eye could see the lizard hiding high. My blue eye stared into vertical slit yellow eyes, very like Rattlesnakes. Cousins? It looked to be about 8 inches in total length including the deformed tail. Had it escaped the jaws of a predator?

“He’s a little one,” Jenny said. “There are lots of tukós here. Yesterday, I saw one twice the size at the pavilion.” Lot’s of tukós? Tukó promised land? Would I finally meet the spirit Tukó? There were only a few days left on our trip. Was I getting close?

The second evening, I am sitting in the outdoor pavilion in cross section with both fans enjoying the sounds of the jungle evening, switching between writing of my travels and reading poetry by Filipino author Nick Carbó. Half the books I read are translations by authors from the other countries. When visiting or planning to visit a country, I read at least one book from a local author with the aim to absorb a few cultural nuances. Obviously, the books have to be translated into English which limits the selection. And the profit motive further reduces the available topics to those appealing to English readers. Imperfect. But better than self-imposed isolation.

Anyway, I am switching between reading and recording our Philippine adventures in my travel notebook. Unlined, of course. Lined paper constricts writing to linear thinking. I like to think in other word flowing possibilities. A lovely tree frog hopping on the ground catches my attention. It is the color of brown, chlorophyll deprived leaves, dead leaves fallen from mother tree after their season turned. The legs are chicken thin, comical. Black eyes bulged from the head. I was tempted to catch it for closer scrutiny. But my words were flowing and I prefer to not interrupt flow.

I turn back to the table to grab my water bottle and am greeted by a very large tukó. It had to be at least 12 inches from toe to the tip of a very fat tail. Startled, I pulled my hand back. It didn’t move. There is no sign of fear in its eyes or body language. It stared. I stared back. There’s a glint in Tukó’s eye. There is very little ambient light so the glint must be emanating from an internal spark. I look deeper into the eyes through the vertical slit, beyond the gold flecks, and see the formation of the universe outside of time. The gold flecks are released by the explosion creating Earth. There were Canyons. Slot Canyon. A black Sphere.

A pink, almost human pink tongue, licks one eye then the other. Most geckos don’t have eyelids and are not able to blink. Like snakes, their eyeballs are covered with spectacles—transparent scales that protect them. Without moisture, gecko eyes can become dry like stone baked in a noonday sun. Swipes of the tongue keep them moist and clean, windshield wipers replacing instead of removing moisture. I sense a thought in my head. The thought feels like, “Dyu got sum ting para moi?” This could just be my mind playing tricks on itself. Then again, there is the distinct possibility this is the Spirit Tukó.

I reached into my shirt and pulled out the medicine bag. It was damp. Shit! We were snorkeling all day. The medicine bag was beneath my rash guard. I forgot to take it off. I open it up and pulled out the creamy flower. There is no movement inside the petals. Most likely worm is dead. Desert creatures and salt water are incompatible. Maybe, Tukó will still accept the offering.

I unfold the flower and lay it on the table exposing the worm. Tukó’s head bounces up and down in excitement. It licks both eyes double four time. It looks at me and back at the flower. Then it looks back and forth between the soy sauce bottle and the worm. I could have sworn Tukó did the Filipino lip point at the soy sauce bottle then again at the motionless worm.

Soy sauce is the number one condiment in this country, a land devoid of spicy foods. I have heard tell of a region enjoying fiery peppers but we have not set foot on that island. I planned to pack chili powder to add some pizazz but, in my haste, completely forgot. I was forced to suffer under the other two primary spices, salt and pepper. I grab the bottle and place a drop in the worm.

“Mu-Orrrrrr. Mu-Orrrrrrr.” Tukó bounces it’s head up and down. I sprinkle a few more drops on the worm. “Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr!” Tukó happy dances with every additional sprinkle.

“Okay”, I douse the worm until it is floating in a brown pool of the salty liquid.

Tukó, deftly and with lightning reflexes, grabs the worm. Chews once, twice then swallows. “Yu-Ummmmmm.” Wipes its mouth on the creamy flower leaving a brown stain looking like shit on toilet paper. “Yu-Um…” The second Yum is cut short. A look of disappointment clouds Tukó’s face followed by angry utterances. “De-Edddddd. No-Stooooryyy. No-Stooooryyy. De-Edddddd Fu-Quuuuuu! Bu-byyyyyy!” Tukó turns and waddled off. The body undulating like Snake but suspended on the four legs. It would have been comical were I not stunned and devasted it was leaving without informing me of my purpose. I feel tears well in my soul.

“Wait! I’m sorry. Worm’s death was an accident. I checked yesterday and it was still alive. It was an accident.” I brought it 8000 miles. Snuck it through customs carefully avoiding the sniffer dogs. “Don’t leave. I need to know. Rattlesnake told me you knew my purpose… don’t… don’t go.”

Tukó takes no heed. There is no indication it heard my words. If anything it speeds up. It waddles to the wall, climbs vertical with as much ease as I walk on flat, paved sidewalks, and disappears into the rafters.

Failure! All that effort getting Worm to the Philippines. Finally, meeting up with Tukó. What now? What now? I was on the edge of learning my purpose twice. One ended with a dream sequence conversation with Spirit Rattlesnake. This, the seconded, ended because a worm died. I was so close. It was a nightmare. Nightmare? Dream? Dream! And then it dawns on me…

I run into the night jungle, fall on my hands and knees at the base of a tree, and feel around for some soft loam. Mosquitoes buzz me. I dig with bare hands sifting the dirt through my fingers searching. One crawly. Too big. Mosquitoes ravage me. Poke and prod. I feel fleshy wigglers. Sweat burns my eyes. Mosquitoes pierce me. I pull out my phone, flick the light on. There. There. Gold. Grubs. Five grubs. I pick up two and tuck them into my medicine bag, hold two more in my hand.

I run out of the jungle. Grab my books and continue running into our room. I hadn’t run with such urgency in years. I grab the door with the muddy hand. The handle slips. I brush the mud off on my shorts, was able to turn the handle, and open the door. The room is still chilly. Amazingly chilly. So chilly, the cold-bloods would be sluggish.

I rush to the window. The mini gecko still clings to the diaphanous curtain. I grab the first grub between two fingers and held it out to the gecko. I move it slowly closer despite my rampaging heart and shaking hand. The gecko sniffs, licks with the pink moist tongue, then grabs the grub and gulps it down in one swallow. How I don’t know because the grub was almost half the length of the gecko. I show the second grub to the gecko and make sure it saw me stuff it into my ear.

“What on earth are you doing? Did you just put something in your ear?” Her toothbrush is still in her mouth.

I had forgotten my wife was in the room. I wave her down and shush her. “I’ll explain later.” I lean in close to the mini lizard. Hoping. Hoping. I feel the grub wiggling in my ear and have to fight the urge to pull it out. My hoping was rewarded by hopping. The gecko leaped from the curtain onto my ear then crawled into the ear canal. Where it, thankfully, gobbles up the grub.

“Yu-Ummmmmm.” I heard it say. “Thank-Youuuuu. I was so hungrrrrryyyy. Tired. Sleep now. Talk on the ‘morrow.” I could feel it circling like a dog then curling up and settling down in the warmth of my inner ear. It is pressed against my eardrum. At first, all sound was muffled. In a few moments, clarity returns. No. Clarity is enhanced. I can feel-hear its rhythmic breathing.

I am now equipped with a living translator, a Babel Gecko. Mission to speak with Spirit Tukó step one accomplished. Tomorrow I will seek the Spirit Being and attempt to convince he/she/it/they to continue our conversation. Until then, I have some mansplaining to do or I might be sleeping on the floor.

There’s Got To Be A Morning After

I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep, a sleep restful from eyes closed to eyes fluttering open. Not once did I stir awake the usual 2, 3, 4 times every night. I must not have snored for my wife did not nudge me awake during the night and tell me to go back to sleep. Or, I was so exhausted I was oblivious.

Is this attributable to the Babel Gecko silencing my voices? Or a long day island hopping to white sand beaches, swimming in warm crystalline waters, and snorkeling near reefs teeming with fish?

I slept for seven blissful hours and awoke percolating energy. I can feel Babel Gecko as a slight pressure in my ear canal. But, there is no movement. A small gecko barks by the mirror. It is amazing the volume coming from such small creatures. Just gecko speak. No translation. Babel Gecko must still be sleeping. I want to rush out to the pavilion and seek the spirit Gecko, Gecko with a big G just like the big G Gods. What use, though, if my Rosetta Stone is not awake?

I push the area around my ear, front, below and behind, hoping the pressure will nudge it awake. No joy. I contemplate sticking my pinky in my ear, the nail length should reach. It also might pierce Babel Gecko. Patience. I tell my self. Patience? Patience when every fiber of my body is stretched taut enough that any touch would vibrate in the audio range, a human harp singing?

The last time I felt this high strung was the first time I engaged with my wife in the biblical sense. That night I had a clear path to satiating crescendo and hours of cuddling relaxation. Now? No path, no physical path. Perhaps a run? No. My knees are ravaged and the humidity would wrap me like a warm, wet towel keeping me from losing heat and ripe for an internal meltdown. One heart attack is enough.

Rub one out? No, that would leave me with sticky fingers, a wet bed, and wake my wife from her deep slumber. Not a good choice. She prefers, strongly, to not be woken early in the morning. We still had a few hours before she needed to wake for our 2nd day hopping the pristine islands. I could write a few pages in my travel journal but the agitation would render my already poor scribbling unreadable even to me.

I ease out of bed, grab my Kindle, make a cup of Earl Grey and walk to the pavilion. There is still a few poems by Philipino poet Nick Carbó to finish in his book, El Grupo McDonalds, before wrestling with Octavio Paz. Nick’s imagery is straightforward, relatively easy to follow. Octavio lives in the surreal. The words are tangled, the images twisted yet still sing beauty to my warped soul, Romeo serenading Juliette, Napoleon invading wet Josephine, Eve giving sight to blind Adam. He requires deep concentration to extract meaning. Mostly, I play in the imagery because much of the meaning is beyond my comprehension. That should get my mind off the internal machinations driving me to agitation.

Considering I’m living a pseudo surrealistic life what with a talking Rattlesnake and now an animal voice translating Babel Gecko tucked in my ear, surreal is on par with my mindset. I expect my near future will be steeped in a warm tea of melting clocks and fish on tethers.

In the pavilion, I sit at the table designated ours by the hotel staff. It is roped off by a small sign bearing my wife’s name, an invisible, inviolate border. It is situated between two oscillating fans mounted high on the rafters at a ninety-degree angle ensuring a constant breeze from one side or the other. A breeze clearing mosquitoes and keeping me cool, sorta.

Fish Soup

Red Crabs and Rice!

When we first arrived and lunched at the pavilion, we were not enamored with our assigned table. We staged a coup and conquered another’s territory. We illegally immigrated to someone else’s table and squatted. And, you know what, we were comfy. The other couple was comfy. The world did not end.

I turn the fans on, open my Kindle. The backlight is too bright. I scale it down to a soft glow until the backlit display casts a gentle light, just right for reading.

I chose to sit in the pavilion hoping the return of Tukó, hoping the Spirit Being would forgive the accidental death of the yucca worm and speak the wisdom I needed to hear. I wait and wait. No reappearance nor would it show those golden eyes to me for the duration of our trip.

I read for a couple of hours, read until the thick, misty air glows dim gray-white, no apricot/tangerine sunrise this far into the jungle. I read until I hear the door click open and see my wife floating across the grounds her eye waving to and fro scanning for snakes with every step. We saw a nice grass snake our first day here. It crossed our path and slithered off into the taller grasses. She was not amused. Just out of bed, she is still as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes upon her in a Chicago restaurant and felt a tingling in my loins.

We eat the buffet breakfast, lots of scrambled eggs overcooked for me, peeled fruits, toast. She has a few cups of coffee, me another tea. A satisfying meal before heading out to the wet market to buy some freshly caught fish and the huge prawns our boatmen would cook a few hours later, food they would serve us while we rejoiced on the pearly beaches and swam beneath a cerulean sky in impossibly turquoise waters. Would Babel Gecko tag along for the adventure or take leave before we plunged into the depths?

Swimming with the Fishes

Our hotel is in the jungle, a twenty-minute van ride to the jumping off point for the water adventures. As much as I try to prod, and will Babel Gecko into a woke state, there is no movement in my ear canal.

At the wet market, the flies buzz, a few near dead fish gasp a spasm through their scaly bodies as they slowly drown in the thick air. It is the perfect time to expose my psyche to the pained fish. What were their final thoughts? No translation was forthcoming.

I know Babel Gecko is still there. I can feel the coolness of its tiny miniscule, cold-blooded body against my eardrum. Yet, I can neither hear nor feel breathing. Is it dead? Alive? Sleeping?

We will be snorkeling in the next hour and swimming most of the day. Dare I participate? It might drown and sever any possibility of guiding me. But, what’s to sever if non-reactive Babel Gecko is possibly dead? I send thoughts and prayers to it the entire boat ride.

The boats are traditional, double outrigger and sloooowww. One of our guides stands on the prow watching for submerged rocks.

I catch the boat crew sneaking looks at me speaking out loud to no one in particular. I’m sure it looks like I am spouting incantations the way a priest mumbles through a mass ritually performed a thousand times without variation. The thoughts and prayers did no good. Didn’t think they would. Thoughts and prayers are an illusory phrase spoke to assuage the guilt of people who won’t offer any real help but want others to view them as caring and helpful. More than anything, it is a shout to “Look at wonderful me!”

Our first stop, Siete Pescados, Seven fishes, an area rich in corals, a haven for mobile and stationary sea life.

I am not a fan of cold water except to drink and then prefer water that is as much solid as liquid. This intense dislike keeps me out of pools, lakes, and oceans. I learned yesterday this was not the case with the beach water. Today, we are further out. I tentatively descend the ladder into the ocean bay. The shock I experience when plunging in? The temperature is temperate. Not too cold, not cold at all. Perfect for a bubble bath after a long, long bike ride when on fire muscles need soothing.

The saltiness means buoyancy means no life jacket required…for me. I much prefer the mobility of swimming unencumbered. Irene, on the other hand, is less confident especially nervous when the bottom is more than twelve feet. She always wears a life jacket and uses me as a second flotation device. At times, it feels I am swimming for two. Mostly, I don’t mind the added work. It’s far better than two years ago when I had to snorkel alone in Belize because she was terrified of any water over her head. She has learned to swim with her next goal of learning to scuba dive. I am looking forward to that day. I love Scuba. I wonder, though, how she will take to more water above her than below.

Most of the time we snorkel, I am fumbling with my GoPro camera. I forgot the buoyant stick so must concentrate not to drop it. The floor is thick with coral. The GoPro would sink like a rock and disappear. I don’t like sticking my hands in places I cannot see when in the ocean. Too many critters with spikes and sharp teeth.

Her confidence grows. Short forays on her own become more common. I make sure to keep an eye out so I, in my fish searching excitement, don’t wander too far. Why excited? So many colorful fish. Some only previously seen on television and in professional aquariums.

There is stick, fan, and brain corals, all beautiful, each attracting their own fish species. The fish forage around the coral branches or, like the parrot fish, nibbling algae formed on the coral. Most exciting for me, aside from my wife discovering and showing me a striped sea snake later in the day, is the bulbous puffer fish with the tiny fins looking more like an overstuffed condom than a denizen of the deep. By color, it is nondescript.

It swims like a dirigible. Slowish. Not very linear. The bulky head resembling more a battering ram than a sleek, slicing missile. I follow hoping it will puff up balloonish. No luck. No predator to strike fear in its heart. Nor does this hairy hominid seem threat enough to trigger the instinct for self-preservation.

“Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I spot a Dory fish or a fish similar in shape and color to Dory. Possibly a blue tang. Not being a tropical fish expert, I can’t say for sure. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I realize I am hearing a fish speaking. “Just keep swimming.” Babel Gecko is obviously awake and translating.

“Yes, David, I am.”

“You am? You are? You are what”

“Just am. I am.”

The Old and New Testament God’s used the phrase, “I Am”, to hint at their existence pre-time. It is interpreted by Christian scholars as a declaration of divinity. Here I am, a snorkeling human immersed in a world of water breathers, salt-water breathers enjoying the otherworldly experience. My focus is on simple enjoyment. It seemed Babel Gecko is gearing up for philosophical sparring.

I simply want to be deep under not to think deep while under. I enjoy floating, partially submerged with a mask and a mouthpiece stuffed into my speaking hole with a tube extending into the air. Perhaps I can just ignore the distraction. physically, speech is impossible. I can just keep swimming pretending to be oblivious.

“Wait for it?”

“Wait for…shit.” We already had a brief conversation. Babel Gecko is plugged into my head. Verbal words are unnecessary.

“There you go man, keep as cool as you can. Face piles and piles…”

“… of trials with smiles. It riles them to believe that you perceive the web they weave and keep on thinking free.” The little bugger is quoting song lyrics now. “Why the Moody Blues?”

“Do you remember the opening lyrics to that song?”

“Of course I do. ‘I think, I think I am, therefore I am, I think.'”

“Yes, my bright little star. You think therefore You are. Or, You am as I are.”

I looked back to find my wife. She is a few meters away and seems to be enjoying herself. There is no fear in her body language.

“Because we both are, David, I am able to connect with you at the thought level. Words are so primitive, a waste of energy, and enslaved to a specific language. Thoughts are universal, exist outside the limits of language. Only the simplest thoughts can be dumbed down to words. Except for the poets. Poets extended words beyond mere scratches on a page. They are able to create a bouquet of images, layers of meaning, nuanced implications with a sparsity of words, imagery dense forests with desert symbolism.”

“I enjoy poetry, too. But, I must admit, much of what I read is beyond my comprehension.” I think back to Octavio and the challenge of finding coherence in his imagery.

“That’s because of your propensity to interpret poetry with logic. One can’t think poetry. It must be felt. Poetry is an experience. Allow it to wash over you like the apricot rays of sunrise. Feel poetry don’t think poetry.”

I’m an engineer. Logic is everything. Am I an Engineer because I was born thinking logical or do I depend upon logic for because I am educated in Engineering? “How does one suspend logic?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been human, never been constrained by words or logic. We in the non-human space are fully aware logic is illogical.”

“How, then, do you survive?”

“How do we survive? It’s a wonder any of you humans survive. Logic is used to manipulate thinking thus beguile humans. Human logic says my side needs enough ‘defensive’ nuclear weaponry to blow up the world 10 times because the other side can do it three times. If both sides can destroy Earth one time then there is enough to destroy earth twice. Why is more needed? To line the silk undershorts of the greedy powerful who already possess more money than they can use in twenty lifetimes. It’s all about ego stroking.”

“I always, always knew nuclear escalation was warped thinking, twisted logic.”

“We animals survive by instinct. Emotion. Connection to the Collective Consciousness allows us to experience the energy of all life forms, including humans. The closest word in your language is empathy but our universal web is an amplifier making it broader and deeper.”

“For example?”

“Remember the balloon fish you were following?”

“Balloon fish?” In my mind, I saw Puffer fluttering near the coral. “Do you mean Pufferfish?

“Yes. Pufferfish. You were trying to spook it so it would inflate its body.”

“Um…ya.”

“I was still in a state of semi-consciousness yet felt it screaming in distress.”

“Distress?”

“Of course, distress. How would you feel with a hairy alien one hundred times your size following you around?”

“Ok. I get your point.”

“I have not made my point. For Puffer to puff requires significant energy use. Energy must be replenished by food. A short while ago it expanded to ward off a hungry eel. Eel induced stress then you added to the stress nudging our friend toward a nervous breakdown. I smelled the stress in the water, felt the fear-tension radiating through Universal Consciousness. All beings near Puffer experienced the stress, all except you and the other humans preferring to think in thought. Sharks are drawn to the stress lines and the implication of weakened, easy prey. To protect us all, including you, I distracted you with this conversation. Puffer was free to bumblebee swim away on those tiny fins dissipating stress. We are all connected. It is just you fool humans have ignored it for so long it seems to be erased from your DNA. Or your logical thinking has blinded you from our interconnectedness. You are welcome, by the way.”

“Welcome?”

“Yes, the shortest path between the sharks and the stress nucleus radiator was through your wife.”

“Huh? Oh. Oh! Thank You!”

“De nada, mon ami.”

“You just mixed Spanish and French. Are you multilingual?”

“No. Thought communicators don’t need to speak in any specific language. Have you not been paying attention? You interpreted my thoughts with words in your comfort zone.”

“The bounce between human languages, Daveed, shows a sensitivity to Universal Consciousness. Perhaps Rattlesnake was correct and there is hope, a plan for your life. Perhaps you are not just aimlessly wandering between birth and death.”

For part of our conversation, I was feeling stupid.”Of course, I’m not wandering aimlessly.” How quickly it changed to pissed when my worldview was challenged. “My life has a purpose. I have always sensed a greater calling, a heightened sense of the spiritual, a visceral connection with creation centered in the power emanating from the rocks around Moab. My struggle has always been understanding why I am sensitive to the spiritual and how I am supposed to serve the world. In other words, my purpose for being born. Rattlesnake gave me hope. He told me you held the answers.”

“I am not here to tell. I don’t have answers. My role is to give you a key with which you will open doors. I hint at possibilities. I point toward futures. I…I…I need a rest. Filtering through your mind gyrations trying to find coherence is exhausting. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Maintain sanity.”

With those words hanging in the water. Babel Gecko stopped talking presumably to nap leaving me to ponder the soundness of my thinking and mental life.

Fun in The Sun

We, Irene and I, spend the remainder of the day basking in the glorious Philippines taking advantage of the beautiful weather, idyllic waters, and the serenity of the most beautiful white sand beaches in our world. The water and beaches in greater Coron. We choose to limit our movement on this second-day of island hopping. Day one we hit five different sites. Today, only two. There is a lot to be said for deep experience over wide. Both have their place. Today we needed deep tissue massage.

We spend the majority of our time at Malcapuya Island. The boat parked in a beautiful bay. We take a short walk to the shaded huts looking over a stunning bay. What’s the difference between beautiful and stunning? The angle of the sun glinting off the gentle waves singing when they brush over the sand. The texture of cool sand beneath bare feet too long encumbered by shoes, and the way the ivory whiteness kisses the incoming waves. The turquoise water against a backdrop of an impossibly blue sky sliced with wispy clouds high above cottony cumulus. Seeing my bronzed wife in a sexy one-piece emerging from the ocean looking more mermaid than a human. And many other subtleties felt deep in the soul.

We eat a leisurely lunch. A dirty white dog visits coaxed in by Irene. It looks halfway between fox and dog with the pointed ears and long, narrow snout, and bushy tail. She has elongated, swollen teats, a nursing mother. Where were her pups? I feel the word thirsty. Is Babel Gecko sleeping or has our connection become so intertwined translation supersedes Babel Gecko sleep? Irene gives the fox-dog water from our supply. “You’re giving our water to the dog? What if we run short? It’s very hot.”

“She’s thirsty.” Squatting next to the dog pouring water into her cupped hand which the dog eagerly laps. “She has puppies and needs the water more than we do.”

“How did you know she was thirsty?” It was a dumb question I should not have bothered to ask. She has a connection with dogs that shames my connection with humans. Dog empathy. Animal empathy.

“I could feel it.”

The dog consumes the better part of a liter and chowed down on the leftover fish heads and skeleton ensuring not a morsel goes to waste. Energy ensuring milk will flow and puppies have a chance to become dogs.

There is a big clam a ways out. Locals are giving rides where one has to hang onto the outriggers in the water while they putt-putt to the location. My preference is to swim and see it. We opt for neither. There is enough to explore nearer shore and we only have enough pisos remaining to tip our boatmen.

Our final stop before the hour-long, slow boat back to Coron is a sandbar. We can see the connected island across the strait. Deep massage or wider massage? I am so relaxed, either suits me. We cross to the sandbar. Only, it isn’t just a sandbar. It was but it isn’t now. Best of all, we are the only ones visiting. Peace and solitude.

It is later afternoon, tide on the rise. What was an exposed sandbar in the morning is now a submerged beach bar. A bar without drinks. A Mai Tai would be perfect. We walk on the submerged beach bar. The water is barely above our knees. In the center, an isolated rock outcropping attracts small fish the way light attracts moths only these thrive on algae instead of being cooked when touching the light.

Around the back of the island, rocks and coral abound as do fish. Not nearly the variety we enjoyed at Siete Pescado but equal in quantity. I see another parrot fish notable for their almost fluorescent coloration. The fish swim in mixed color, mixed species clusters, choosing to intermingle without the small-minded prejudice plaguing humanity. Inter-species harmony. My guess is they are not burdened by religiosity and the division wrought by practitioners of the faiths. They come together based on the content of each others character.

The Last Conversation with Tukó

“You are partially correct, David.” Babel Gecko speaks.

“Partially correct about what?”

“The fish people, all peoples but humans, exist in a perpetual state of worship. This is different than humans who set apart a designated time to honor the creator, a begrudging hour a week. Even that pittance is enough to win the label ‘zealot’ or ‘pious’. Each being exists in harmony with their creator never trying to impose their way of life. Parrotfish does not demand Shark become a vegan. Unlike your ilk believing it is a godly faith to ball gag your truth into the souls of those believing differently. Deep-throating others inevitably leads to retribution and the puking of holy wars.”

“How are the other beings different when Shark eats Parrotfish? Isn’t that ball gagging belief too? I’m sure Parrotfish doesn’t believe being eaten allows it to pursue Parrotfish faith.” I had Babel Gecko this time. Logic turned against diatribe.

“No.” Subtle chuckle. “That is each being existing true to their unique design.”

“And just how is that different?”

“To begin with, humans put their own faces on the gods. The Catholic god is white. The Islamic god is swarthy. You all carve division out of harmony. It should be obvious that each human religion creates god in their own images. We don’t put a mask on Universal Consciousness, ultimate reality, whatever you want to call it. Every other being from Rock to Microbe to the ancient Tree people are in a continuous state of worship every moment of their existence. There is no division between life and worship. They wake in worship. Sleep in worship. Dream in worship. Eat and procreate as an act of worship. An elephant never wishes to be a bird or even another elephant. Each exists in their moment, in the present maximizing their uniqueness.”

“Hmm…this sounds kinda Buddhist?”

“Yes. The Buddha was approaching Universal Consciousness but it was still an oblique angle mostly missing the crux. Each being exists as itself. Accepts the uniqueness of all others. None seek to be another. They exist within their purpose. Outside of man, there is never any animal, despite the anthropomorphized stories in your fairy tale books, that seeks to be something outside themselves, their purpose.

“Their purpose? They have a purpose?”

“Yes, purpose. The essence you are so desperate to discover. Do you know, you embodied your purpose at birth? But, like most humans, you lost it seeking joy and contentment outside yourself. Your journey is not one of discovery. It’s about reconnecting with your inner self, unweaving your own craziness.”

“I guess that makes sense.” It actually is more logical than I am willing to admit to a lizard. Inwardly, I have always felt restless, disconnected. It makes sense that I am on a quest to find a lost part of myself. But I don’t relay this to the Babel Gecko. I don’t want to endure another soliloquy on the illogic of human logic.

“Young David, you are on a journey.”

“I’m not young.” I’m feeling smug and annoyed.

“Before you were, I was. I’m older than Methuselah, was a witness to creation itself.”

I felt my head tilt like an inquisitive dog.

“I sense it is dawning on you. Yes, I am the Spirit Gecko, the Tukó foretold by Rattlesnake.”

“But…but…you are so tiny? How? How? What about the worm eater?”

“You foolish humans always thinking bigger is better. Sometimes, I wonder why we bother to protect your race. The worm eater was a pretender. The woman you encountered when arriving at Tacloban, as you correctly surmised, was a decoy. Worm eater and the woman are small ‘s’ spirit geckos. Did you not see the woman lick her eyes?”

“Hmmm. Protect our race? The human race?”

“Yes, but that is a topic for another time. I have been around since the beginning…”

“Beginning of what??”

“…the beginning of the beginning. By comparison you, young David, have existed for less than one one-hundred-thousandth the tick of a clock.”

“By that reckoning, I have less than the one-thousand-thousandth before I die. I guess I am both old and young relative to you.” I couldn’t help but be a smartass.

“What makes you think life ends with death? Have you considered death is the beginning and birth an end?”

“Riddles! You are as frustrating as Rattlesnake was before he wooshed back into his rock leaving a scar chiseled into its surface. Let’s rewind. You said I am on a journey?!?!” half question, half declaration.

“Yes. A long journey and I am, as was Rattlesnake, but a link in a disjointed chain wrapped through history connecting discontiguous time passages. I can see all the links back to before the beginning of your great, great grandparents and a few into your future. You, David, are on a hero’s journey. I am one of many advisors.”

“Many advisors? How man… Hold on. A hero’s journey?” Joseph Campbell wrote extensively about the mythology of the hero’s journey underpinning many world faiths. Is Babel Gecko telling me I’m to be the founder of a new faith? A prophet? A god? What shall I call my faith system? But there are issues. “A hero’s journey needs a hero and a dragon to slay.”

“Your quest is to rediscover the purpose you lost after toddlerhood. In that context, you are both hero and dragon. To slay the dragon is to slay yourself. Game over?”

“Wait. You said death is the beginning.”

“Correction, A beginning.”

“A beginning. If I slay myself I would be both dead and at a new beginning simultaneously. A Shroedinger’s cat paradox and I’m the pussy in the box. I would be dead to this life and alive to a new life. Like The Christ, resurrected into God.”

“Correction, a god. Are you able to retain any information? Why do I bother? There are many, many gods and Gods.”

“Again, you sound like Rattlesnake. Are you the same Sprint only shapeshifted?”

“What is Snake but Lizard without legs? By and by, never trust the words slipping off the fork tongues. They split truth. Rattlesnake is the definition of dichotomy. I think I already explained this.”

“Let’s back up,” I said. “You danced around my question. If I slay the dragon thus myself and death is a new beginning, am I to die and resurrect a God?”

“I said to consider the possibility. Compare it with water and ice. When water is warmed to 32 degrees it begins to melt. Cool water to 32 degrees and freezing starts. As one dies, the other is birthed. Death equals life. Life equals death. At 32 degrees is the coexistence of life and death, a perfect balance of living stabilizing dying, death stabilizing life.”

“Are you saying, if I slay my dragon, I will birth myself? But that means I have always been the dragon and the hero never was. Or am I in an equilibrium environment so I am both dragon and hero at this moment? Damn, this is confusing.”

“You are confused because you persist with thinking in thoughts. There is understanding that cannot be explained by primitive human thought. This is one of them.”

“Primitive thought? Human thought is the essence of intelligence. It is by thinking and thought that we ascended….”

“Your kind are so enthralled with thought you have lost the balance of empathic feeling. Need I remind you, it is thinking and thought that devised the atomic bomb. It is thinking and thought that kills for pleasure beyond the need for food. It is being handcuffed by thinking in thought that warps human philosophy until destroying the very habitat sustaining you is rationalized as logical. Because you refuse to experience life outside of thought, you are bringing destruction to many of the plant people and animal people not to mention the pending obliteration of the human people. How the Fu-Quuuuuu does that pass for intelligence?”

No snappy comebacks come to mind. No red herrings to derail Tukó allowing me a face-saving coup de gras and exit stage left. What to do? Simple. Do nothing, no thing. Remain silent. Terminate thinking. Halt thought. Float away on the thin ice of a new day. I unfocus my eyes and hover face down, submerged ears connected to the ebb and flow murmuring of Ocean’s soul brushing against my eardrums, a one-inch diameter breathing tube connecting me to sweet air. Yin-yang. Fish and human. Ommmm. Ommmm.

“David.”

“Huh? What?”

I am not sure how long I dwelt outside of thought in the amniotic paradise. Was it seconds? Minutes? Longer? Nine months? Whatever the duration, I return to awareness feeling relaxed, freshly emerged from a chrysalis after a long, restful sleep. I would like to say transformed physically but I am still an aging redhead carrying too much weight around my midsection. The caterpillar stayed a caterpillar.

“David, can you sense me?

“I can hear you.”

“I haven’t been talking”

“You’re not talking? Then, I am tuned into your thought waves. I guess I am sensing you.”

“Before I go….”

“Go? Go where?”

“Away. I’m leaving.

“Nooo!”

“You should be used to separations by now. Did you not tell Rattlesnake everyone leaves you?

“Ya. Doesn’t mean I like being abandoned.”

“I have imparted to you what I had to impart.”

“Whatever…how can you leave when I’m still a mess.”

“A mess?”

“Yes. You asked how I maintain sanity. I am out of order and will not find my peace until harmony is attained. Harmony with what? Harmony with everything. Including myself. I’m thinking Nirvana on earth. Peace in my soul.”

“What you desire is not a one-time event. Order, itself is an illusion. Harmony, on the other hand, once found requires maintenance to sustain the beauty state.”

“How will I know when I enter the beauty state?”

“The natural world will accept you as one of them. You will be able to understand their essence without the need of an intermediary like me. You will be outside of mere thought and sense the universality of all life. You will be comfortable existing in both the thought and empathy.”

“What about my purpose? How will I know.”

“David, you are on a vision quest. Neither snake nor I can reveal your purpose because it is hidden from us as well. Purpose is not a single destination. It’s a series of destinations. Purpose evolves over time. Rattlesnake was able to point you toward me because I was a near future. Your next future is beyond my vision and my dreams. But my dreaming of future events is imaginary. There is no future as there is no past. It is always present. Always I am. Always you are. I can tell you this..be open. The next spirit may be very large or very small, tree or insect or any being between including rock. It may be nonambulatory requiring you to sit still for days. Keep your spirit open so you don’t miss the sign. There is no saying how many guides hold links in your chain.”

“Sure, I will remain open, leave my spirit raw flapping in the breeze.”

Gecko popped out of my ear. It floundered in the water’s great strength. The ocean was pushing me around and I was infinitely heavier than tiny Tukó. I tried to reach for it but the waves pushed and pulled us in different directions. I thought it might drown. Until it’s tiny tail grew into a fishtail. Scales flipped out of the lizard skin on the bottom half the body. The upper changed into a woman, the spitting image of the raggedy lady at the chicken stand. Still gecko green but definitely the woman. It grew as long as my leg. Shapeshifter. With a few strong flicks of its tail, it disappeared into the distance. But not before singing in a high, melodious voice, “Remember…Spirit Beings come in all shapes and sizes…some are not ambulatory…”

That was the last I saw or heard from Tukó. The boat trip back to Coron took us into a squall of dark clouds, eventually releasing a heavy rain. It rained through the evening and the next day causing a slight delay in our Palawan-Manila flight.

Aside from the reason taking us to the Philippines, it was a good trip. We had space away from tourism to experience untarnished native life and for Irene to reconnect with childhood memories and the people making them special. And we had a couple days of tourism visiting some of the most beautiful beaches and waters the world has to offer.

The next day, Chicago via Taiwan. Most of the trip I mulled over and over the conversations with Tukó. Sticking like a barbed hook in my craw was the phrase that not all Spirit Beings are ambulatory. In my opaqueness, I sensed a clue. The second leg, the long leg was on a Hello Kitty themed plane from the flight attendant aprons to the eating utensils topped with Kitty. I found it trite, childish. Irene thought it cute. I didn’t touch the Ambien.

The Fat Tailed Lizard in the Philippines (Seeking Tukó) Awakened by a Demon The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

[issei-ice-k]

How to Love (not ft. Lil’ Wayne)

Feb. 5th, 2018

Growing up, I was afraid of making mistakes due to my father always negatively criticizing me. However, I’ve definitely seen him soften around the edges over the years and although he has never directly told me he loves me, I don’t doubt for a second that he does because his actions back it up. It should be verbally communicated as well but I’ve accepted him to let his actions speak for him. But as a boy, timid by nature, my father’s criticism caused me to form a bad habit of second guessing myself, and calculating my decisions became my defense mechanism to prevent myself from making mistakes. This obviously stunts growth, because making mistakes and learning from them is part of the learning curve. But I managed to learn this fact through my teen years, and practiced not fearing to fail in my past decade of my life. The results have shown me that things usually work out when listening to your heart and going with your gut feeling. My decision to quit competitive ice hockey, and explore the world of arts gave me the opportunity to study abroad in the country of my heritage, where I eventually landed a stable job in Tokyo with a thriving company and made some of the best friends of my life during my time there. Listening to my heart was working for me, but this was much easier to do when it wasn’t about love. With love, someone else’s heart is on the line. My decisions impact someone else’s life and feelings. What used to be a fork in the road for just my life, now suddenly brings another’s. It was a scary thought when thinking about it that way.

My life continued to attract exciting opportunities. While I was working in Tokyo, I had been offered a job that guaranteed me to move to Los Angeles within 6 months to a year. Ever since diving into the arts, LA had been a place I wanted to explore to see all kinds of art. With a passion to pursue acting and dance, it seemed like this new job was an opportunity of a lifetime. I placed my bet and signed the dotted line.

At that time, I had just gotten out of a 3.5 year relationship and was starting this new job that guaranteed my move to pursue my passion. My life was about to change drastically. I was ready to invest time into myself to see how I could become a better me and how to love myself, which to me, meant exploring what I did and didn’t like about myself, and diving deeper into my hobbies/passions. I wasn’t looking for a relationship but I wanted to meet other women to find out what qualities I wanted in a significant other. But fate didn’t know or care. 

A few weeks into my new job, I was introduced to a cute girl through a mutual friend. Her name, Miku. I couldn’t resist but to ask her out to dinner and unexpectedly, sparks ignited on our first date. I had disclosed that I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship due to my current situation but that didn’t stop us from continuing to see each other. The more time we spent together, the more I saw her playfulness and throughout our little laughter-filled adventures, by some miracle, she chose to give me her heart. I saw this and reciprocated to give her some of mine as well because why not? She was cute, kind, humble, artistic, spontaneous, free-spirited… should I keep going? Okay, one more... her pursed lips doe ;) But it was my first time not labeling a relationship as boyfriend/girlfriend that got intimate. Eventually, although we didn’t agree to label it as bf/gf, I offered for us to be exclusive between each other and we agreed to not see other people. 

You may be thinking, “if we were exclusive to each other, how was it any different from bf/gf?” This caused a lot of confusion, not only to her, but to me as well. No matter how I tried to answer that question, it never made sense because the defense mechanism of my mind created this barrier of an idea that a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work and I needed time to self invest, but my heart really wanted to be with her. The best conclusion that my inner conflict came to was to commit to each other with an expiration date of when I move to LA. But Miku didn’t hesitate at thoughts of long distance. Why? Because Miku has ears the size of Dumbo’s when it came to listening to her heart. *This is a figure of speech guys. Her ears aren’t actually huge. They are very cute.* But just imagine being able to hear every flutter, chirp, and whisper of your heart when it speaks. It would make life much easier to make decisions. Miku loved me fully with no barriers. Her love was pure. She knew how to love far more than I did.

My time to move to LA inevitably came but I was still unable to process my inner conflict. I was naive in that I kept following my mind instead of my heart and I continued to push her away despite her continued effort to try to keep us together. In the end, I ended up breaking her heart, the very thing I thought I could prevent. In doing that, I know I must’ve made her feel like a complete fool for giving me her heart, and made her second guess not only herself but how to love. It was the most unfair thing I could’ve done, which consequently put me in my position now…

Fast forward to today, now in LA a few months after Miku and I broke up and I had still been following the mind that had told me that love will come after focusing energy inward on myself. But my heart for her had been growing louder and more unsettling. I was even reaching out to mutual friends to see how she was doing in prior months. I was really dying to reach out to her but I wanted to respect that she wanted space. Over the past couple months I’ve been trying to understand why I was feeling this. Maybe moving to a new city without friends was harder than I thought? Realistically, I love the LA weather and I’ve been meeting a ton of new people here and I moved to new cities almost every other year since I was 13 and in my hockey days. I couldn’t be happier with my housemates and living situation. I’ve gained a true brother in one of my housemates and I've lived with tons of roommates since I was 14. Trust me, I know what shitty roommates can be like. However, I do recall my move to Tokyo to work for SoftBank being very tough. But much of that was due to being placed in a very traditional Japanese working environment and forcing myself to learn business level Japanese. When I moved to LA, my job, my boss, and my responsibilities didn’t change at all. There was no stress in those departments. I had to look deeper. Maybe because I hadn’t found my partner yet? So I started to look around but when I was trying to look for qualities in the girls I was talking to, I realized I was literally envisioning Miku in my head. And it hit me that deep down my heart knew of a love that was already there. It showed me exactly what qualities I want in a woman. 

I need a partner humble and grounded enough to not need to flaunt her looks, but rather, let me proudly flaunt her around. I need someone wise enough to listen before assuming, who will always self reflect on her words/actions, someone artistic, to have the viewpoint to see beauty in the smallest things, to support my passions, to be spontaneous enough to get up and go on a weekend getaway, to have a similar amount of a Japanese/Western blend as me, to be able to really share the dopamine high of music, to show immense care through the tough times, to share everyday laughter through the smallest corny jokes and puns (like the title of this post), and to have a pure smile of elation. Not only that but I need to really be able to vibe with my partner. Like when something funny occurs and a word doesn’t have to be spoken to know exactly what the other person is thinking, and simultaneous eye contact becomes the punchline to a burst of stomach-clenching laughter. Or when you can nerd out on things that you both grew up on that shaped your childhood, despite growing up in different places. I’m sure some of you can relate. Miku possesses all of these traits and even showed me how to care for those I truly love through the way she gives love.

I remember how excited I was to introduce her to my sister, Reina. My sister was my figure who helped guide me and teach me from her experiences growing up. The one who always had my back, even though she felt like a bully at times ;P But I was excited because she was the closest person to me in my life and I wanted just the three of us to meet so Reina could get a glimpse of Miku’s amazing personality; cute, innocent, and easily amused with a hint of Kanye, who can’t find a fuck to give even if she wanted to about what others think, but will also melt toward any cute animal within sight. It was truly healing to see them get along and sing their hearts out to some of our childhood tunes at karaoke together. And my sister approved. It was the first time she genuinely liked a girl I introduced her to.

During our time, I even mentioned to Miku that she had marriage potential to me but my understanding of those reasons have come crisp into focus. Is it possible to love someone once you are away from them? Many might say no, but this experience has told me yes. Love grows differently for everyone. If love had a template, there would be a lot less relationships in this world.

But here I am trying to pick up the pieces to the heart I shattered... but I know exactly why I failed. You can’t calculate love or half ass it. You just need to listen to your heart and if it gives you the signal, you need to act on what it says, not the thoughts of doubt that your mind creates. The rest will work out if both people fully love each other, because if you try to calculate your moves, you won’t be able to focus on the present moment and what your heart is telling you. I know Miku already knows this if she hasn’t changed how she loves. 

One could argue that I just want the old memories to become the present again, but to be honest, I want it to be different this time around, because previously everything revolved around me. There is nothing that will comfort her in trusting that version of me again. This time I’d show her what my heart truly feels through my actions, as my dad does. To show that I love her. Actions like not being on my phone when we are supposed to be enjoying each other’s time. Staying aware of how people can be perceived on social media and being careful of what kind of women I spend time with. Managing and making time for our alone time. Planning out not only spontaneous dates or events but even planning trips/events ahead of time, including those that she would really enjoy, not just me. I really want to explore the rest of the world with her, and especially Hawaii because I know it’s her second home. My mom had even agreed to put her on flight benefits to make this affordable and possible when I asked her. I want to experience more of what molded her before I met her. But not just her past, I want to show her and lead her to things she still hasn’t experienced during our limited time on this planet. I accept her for who she is and how she thinks and I want to hear more not just about the beauty she sees in things, but her deeper thoughts in life as well. 

I hate to assume, but my heart also tells me that some of her heart is still with me. If she still believes in the way she loves, I’d beg her to dig down and look into her heart to see if there is any sense of love still there for me, even if it’s just a glimmer. Without barriers, I'll provide tenfold through the promise to protect our love for each other. The characteristics she displayed to me are those that will make me happy for life.

I know she thinks that feelings should build from the get go in a relationship, which may turn into love at some point, and I respect her view. I wish I was wiser to have understood my own feelings and actions from the start but I can’t rewind time. But my love for her is clear to me. I can’t control what may happen in the future but I know for a fact that I will regret not giving my all for her. Do I deserve a second chance? Many may say no. But the only thing I can do is to convey my love and hope that she is willing to see through my lens, in the eye of the beholder.