#last year we had a really unusually cool/wet spring

[restinthewest]

I’d say that this past year in particular I’ve gained a fresh appreciation for winter; I can appreciate the opportunities for coziness, the beauty, I’ve always loved snow. Every season has its time and winter is lovely in many ways!

But mannn am I a summer gal at heart. This past week I’ve been dreaming of floating on a river or a lake in a tube on an unreasonably hot day with a montucky cold snack. I want to be on a Mexican restaurant patio at 8 pm, sweating because it’s hot AND because of spicy food. I want to be sitting in a moderately uncomfortable camping chair on a sandy shore. I want to stroll through a storm of sweet smelling cottonwood fluff. I want to fully stick my face against a ponderosa right after it’s rained and inhale till I feel lightheaded. I want to get in my car after it’s been sitting and momentarily feel like I’ve entered an oven.

[redheadinjapan]

Niigata Weather: Here Comes the Rain

Not only has it almost been almost a year since I first arrived in Japan, but we’re also starting to get into the rainy season (called Tsuyu), so I thought it would be a good time to talk about the weather. Specially, Niigata weather. Niigata weather is, in a word, “rainy” (or, in the winter, “snowy”), but there’s a lot more to it than just that. You can find “Niigata’s cold, rainy, and gets lots of snow in the winter” anywhere, so I wanted to break it down a little bit more.

While it is true Niigata gets a lot of precipitation, which means rain most of the year and snow in the winter, it’s not all rainy all the time. When I first got here last summer, it was hot and muggy (though people kept telling me I’d missed the worst of it) with the occasional rainy day. It wasn’t rainy all the time like I had feared after reading about the area, and when it did rain, it was usually on and off rather than continuously pouring rain. This can make the area a little dreary with lots of overcast days, but it doesn’t stop you from being able to go outside.

Summers and winters in Niigata last for a while, a little more than three months each. I was surprised because where I’m from in the US each season is about the same length, but here there’s a notable difference. Especially when it comes to fall, which lasted maybe a couple of weeks last year. It felt like we had just reached the point where the air had that crisp coolness that I associate with fall and then it was over again. Winter hit hard, starting December off with some wet snow flurries. Then, a week or two into December, it absolutely dumped snow on us. So much snow piled up in one afternoon that some of us were worried about bus/train cancellations and if we’d be able to get home (since Japan doesn’t do snow days like we do in the US). Most people said this was an anomaly, even for Niigata City, we did continue to get a decent amount of snow throughout the winter, and it seems the further inland you get, the more snow you get. A good coat and snow boots are definitely worth the investment.

The season that surprised me the most, though, was spring. It was so refreshing when the warm weather started coming in after nearly four months of cold, wet winter. I’d never seen so many blue skies in Niigata City until spring. One of the first days I noticed the clear blue sky, I took a picture of it to send to my friends in the US since it was so unusual at that point. Another day, I scrapped all of my plans for the evening to go eat by the river because it was so nice outside. Turns out, spring in Niigata is really pretty with less rain than usual and not too much humidity. Of course, this also makes for some good Sakura viewing to kick off the new season. 

Now that it’s July, I’m definitely feeling the summer heat creep up. Though it probably started in June, it’s gotten worse as the rainy season adds more humidity. I can only hope that the summer heat won’t kill me or my electric bill. Though the sunburn might. Even walking to school without sunblock is sometimes enough for me to feel the start of a sunburn. At least the rainy season doesn’t seem to mean “constant rain” so much as “more likely than usual to get a couple of days of heavy rain.” Summer is the only Niigata weather I have yet to really experience, so I’ll have to see how I fare, but so far, despite the humidity and tendency to be rainy or overcast 3/4ths of the year, it’s not as bad as I expected, so at least there’s that.

[turtlesandfrogs]

So my region has had record breaking cold for the month of April, and May looks like it's on track to also be unusually cold. Skip to the break if you want to read my observations and how I'll be adapting.

To give you an idea of things, April's temps were what we expect in December, I've had multiple sowings of cold hardy crops fail to germinate which has *never* happened before, and most crops are at least 2 weeks behind where they should be. The big wheat farms on the other side of the state are also having very delayed planting, and they're project a lower harvest this year because of it.*

On the other hand, La Niña's effect on summers is much weaker than the effect on winter and spring, so I expect either a much cooler summer than usual (meaning very little harvest from heat lovers like tomatoes, basil, squash, corn, beans, etc without some sort of argumentation) OR it to slingshot from our cold, wet weather to unusually dry and hot like last year.

Did I mention that we had one(1) day back in early April when it got up to 70, and since the the highs have barely reached the 50s until last week?

Here's what I've noticed this very cold & annoying** year and how I'm going to incorporate it into future garden planning.

First off, over-wintering crops have done magnificently, and have a clear advantage over the same crop sown early in the year. Arugula, Kale, Chard, etc, etc, have all had much better spring harvests (surprisingly so) from over-wintered plants than late winter and spring sown crops, many of which failed to emerge.

Radishes, surprisingly, did better with the cold than some other crops.

Crops in the hoop house, while more than 2 weeks later than last year, are still doing well. I am immensely glad for the strawberries and I look forward to making a (few) cold frame(s) so I can move away from plastic. I'll use what I have as long as it works, of corse, but I've already got some sliding glass doors I got for free and I'm very excited to use them.

So, going forward, I will put a much stronger emphasis on crops that can over-winter well, and not depend as much on early-spring sowings of crops for spring harvests. Peas, brassicas, chard, etc, will all be sown early enough that they're about 4 inches tall by Oct. 31st so they can over winter and get a head start on spring, but I'll also have Brassicas, chard, etc as full grown plants on Oct. 31st so I can continue to harvest from dormant plants through the winter.

How I'm preparing for the summer, which will likely be unusually cold *or* unusually warm and dry:

In case the weather stays cooler than normal, I can expect no harvest of any tomatoes bigger than cherry or plum, and I can expect crops like basil to just suffer- unless I do something.

In this case, I've got my roma and beefsteak tomatoes, along with my basil, in the hoop house, and soon more will be planted against a mostly south facing wall which will have glass doors leaned against it to provide a warmer micro climate. I'm also going to plant green beans in that lean-to. However, I'm going to skip corn this year, or at least delay planting and not expect a great harvest. I'm only planting cucumbers and summer squash, and I'm going for varieties that are specifically suited to cool, short summers.

If it is a cool summer, all the greens, root crops, and berries will be fine, if less productive, so they're not getting any extra care. Sorry guys. The potatoes and fava beans will have a good harvest regardless of what the weather does from this point. Even if they did get a slow start. Probably.

If it does decide to warm up, I have some compost pit gardens ready and waiting for squash to go in them, and I'll go ahead and plant the corn, too. If it gets really hot, I'll take the cover off the hoop houses, and the tomatoes and basil will be fine. I've planted some of my greens and other less heat tolerant crops where they'll get some shade, which will help them if it starts getting too hot.

Everything is getting deeply mulched and I've been working on increasing organic matter in my soil, so with the on-going heavy rains, I think there's still a good chance that I won't need to water very much, except for some crops, like the passion fruits (which I'll only get a harvest from if we have a hot year).

Maybe this will be the year that we get our grey water system set up :D In which case, if it's a hot year, we can expect bigger harvests.

There's more, but I think that's enough for now.

*along with the war reducing planting in the Ukraine & Russia, and India banning wheat experts, expect flour and other wheat based food costs to get even higher.

**Yes, annoying. We regularly have freezes and long, dark days full of drizzle from October to mid April, with out getting more than a light sprinkle of snow once or twice a year usually, so to have this cold and wet weather extend longer than usual is annoying. It's also made making a living much harder this year, so it's even more annoying. My region is known for it's higher rates of depression, vitamin d deficiency, and serial murderers. So having an even longer winter is really bad for people's mental health.

[lifeiszestyy]

Leak

*A Sparkle Star Galaxy short story*

day 12 of @writersmonth - leak / roommates AO3

Summary: Squad 2 takes shelter in a cabin during a storm and get to know each other better. *Drew and Will belong to @juliettelime

Date: Orange Leaf 2, 4508 Scenario: During the first squad mission of the year, one month into the school year Setting: Toadwood Forest, the Mushroom Kingdom, Astraea Characters: Dereck (13) + Drew (15) + Kookoo Kajoo (13) + Fly (12) + William "Will" (19)

Thunder shakes the small cabin, rain pelting the roof as lightning flashes outside. The members of Squad 2 take turns drying off in the small bathroom, quietly sitting in the living room as the bulb above them flickers.

Dereck is the last to come out of the bathroom, and when he plops himself on the couch, the springs on the couch squeak horrifically. Everyone winces.

“Now what, captain?” Dereck asks, looking at Drew.

As Kookoo pours Dereck tea, Drew sneezes. He looks at each of his squad members and sniffles.

“Yeah,” Drew says, his voice unusually quiet. “We should wait out the storm.”

“Are you getting sick?” Dereck asks, leaning forward, eyes wide.

“He gets like this when it’s damp and wet,” Kookoo says. “I guess it’s been a while since we’ve been caught up in a storm like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Drew says, waving his hand dismissively. He sniffles and says, “It’s almost night time anyway. Since these woods are haunted, it’s probably better to head out in the morning.”

“Oh! So this is a slumber party?” Dereck says.

“Dereck, we’re all roommates already. Except for Kookoo.”

“Thanks for the tea, Kookoo,” Dereck says.

“It’s already cooled off a bit, so you can drink it,” says Kookoo. She sighs. “It’s way too early to go to sleep. We should review our mission.”

Drew groans. “We already went over it before we left. We’re just scoping out the old factory to see what the Mushroom Kingdom is doing with it. That’s all.”

“We’re to avoid confrontations with ghosts,” Kookoo says, “and to not damage the forest. However, we’re allowed to lay traps around the factory if there are Mushroom denizens there.”

As Drew rolls his eyes, water drips onto his nose. As he looks up, a drop of water hits him in the eye.

“Argh!” He gets up, wiping his eye, and sits on the couch between Dereck and Fly. “This place sucks!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been rolling your eyes.”

“Kookoo, can’t you use your magic to seal up the roof?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kookoo takes out her magic rod and fires a beam of energy at the roof, the wood stretching to cover up any small holes to prevent leaks. “If you get splashed again, tell me where the hole is. I can’t see very well.”

“How long have you had glasses?” Dereck asks.

“Since I was really little.”

“Do all Magikoopas have glasses?”

“I don’t… know?”

Dereck thinks for a moment and says, “Hey, we don’t know each other very well, right? We should play an icebreaker game!”

Drew sneezes. “We already did that when the school year started, remember?”

“Yeah, but we just stated some basic things like we do in class. We’re a squad, and we have to really know each other well in order to do our best. You want to overtake Squad 1, right?”

Drew straightens his back and says, “I mean, I would argue that we’re already better than them.”

“We’re not,” Will says, placing his cup on the table. “It’s only been a month, and their teamwork is impeccable. We don’t have that level of coordination.”

“Because we don’t know each other well!” Dereck says. “Let’s play Rock, Paper, Scissors, Truth!”

“What’s that?” Drew asks.

“I play it with my family all the time! The winner asks the loser a question which the loser has to answer truthfully. Then someone challenges the winner. The game ends whenever you want it to, or if someone wins ten times in a row. Because… It’s not really that fun if one person gets that lucky.”

“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Kookoo asks.

“I’m trusting all of you to tell the truth!” Dereck says. “And if you want to lie, I can’t stop you, but at least make it funny.”

Drew points to Fly and says, “What about him? He doesn’t talk.”

Dereck smiles brightly and says, “Fly has a notebook!”

Fly snaps his fingers and pulls out a notebook and marker from his bag.

Will sighs. “Who’s going first?”

Dereck raises his hand. “I’ll go first!”

Drew sniffles. “Okay, me, too. I’m captain, after all.”

They turn to each other with a fist in the palm of one hand. “Rock, paper, scissors!”

Drew raises his arms and says, “Woohoo! Okay, Dereck, do you even like all of your siblings and cousins? It’s gotta be annoying having such a large family.”

“Of course I like my family! Every single one of them.” Dereck pauses. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I have a cousin that lives in the Lost City that’s kind of rude. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it, though!”

“Well, if he ever bothers you, let me know, and I’ll rough him up!” Drew looks at the others and says, “Who’s challenging me?”

“Me,” Will says, leaning forward.

“Rock, paper, scissors!”

As Drew groans, Will asks, “Do you regret leaving your family behind?”

“Aw, come on, that’s a personal question.” Drew sighs and crosses his arms. “She won’t miss me.”

“That may be true, but you didn’t answer the question,” Kookoo says.

Drew purses his lips and squints. “I don’t.”

“Was she mean to you?” Dereck asks.

“She…” Drew trails off and then sniffles. “Anyway, I answered Will’s question. Next!”

“My turn,” Kookoo says.

When Kookoo loses, Will asks, “How long have you and Drew known each other?”

“Since we were little. I think I was four and he was six. He snuck into my room while I was reading.”

“You’re always reading, Kookoo,” Drew says. He laughs. “I stole old Koopa Koot’s shell. Man, that was funny. Kookoo set me on fire, but she let me hide under her bed after I told her what happened.”

“You didn’t rat him out?” Will asks.

Kookoo looks at Drew and says, “He may be a Dry Bones now, but he really looked pathetic back in the day.”

“Hey!” Drew stomps his foot.

She snickers. “Anyway, I never liked that old man. So, who’s next?”

Fly leans over with his hands ready.

When Will wins again, he asks, “Why don’t you talk?”

Fly writes in his notebook, [I made a bet with my twin. They wanted to see how long we could last without speaking. Loser gives the other their secret stash of lemon candy.]

“Wait,” Drew says, “but you spoke when we met.”

Fly shakes his head.

“Did he?” Dereck asks.

Drew shrugs. “I mean, he just said one word while passing out from heat stroke, but, like, still.”

Fly writes [THAT DOESN’T COUNT.]

“Okay, okay. I’m challenging Will again!” Drew yells when he wins, and he points at Will. “I heard that you could have totally quit after the ship crashed. I heard the Magicommittee was totally going to set you up for life as compensation. Why did you decide to come back to school as a super super senior?”

Will furrows his brow. “They assigned me to you guys because you’re all so young. Like a babysitter. Besides, I was away for two years, so I have to make up for those years.”

“But you didn’t have to come back.”

“Sure.” Will looks away and thinks. “I don’t want to talk about it, but… That crash. I think that… I think that it’s up to me to become strong enough to make sure something like that doesn’t happen again.”

Kookoo’s eyes sparkle. “...Yeah? Strong enough how?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still figuring things out. I missed a lot of school, so I don’t really understand a lot.”

Drew glances at Kookoo who is looking at Will intensely. Drew sniffles and says, “Yeah, well, if you want to talk about changing the political infrastructure of the kingdom or yada yada yada, you can discuss that with Kookoo some other time when I’m not falling asleep. Or in earshot.” He wiggles his nose and says, “Sorry for asking something so personal.”

“It’s fine. That’s the game, right?”

“I guess we have to become strong enough to support Will, huh?” Dereck says.

Fly nods.

“Strength isn’t just physical,” Kookoo says. “It’s about the willpower to overcome any challenges that come between you and your goals. As a team, we have a shared goal. But it’s important to support each other outside of our team goals.” She blushes. “Um, that is… Not necessarily, but…”

Drew laughs. “We can help each other out with things outside of our missions. We’re friends now, right?”

“Yeah!” Dereck pumps his fist in the air.

Fly looks at Will who crosses his arms and looks away. Fly writes [I’ve never had friends.]

Dereck’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Never? Never ever?”

Fly shakes his head. He hesitates, then writes [I only trust my twin.]

Dereck smiles. “You can trust us! We can be your friends.”

“I mean, we’re already friends,” Drew says. “The five of us survived Fawful and Cackletta’s minions together. So, maybe our teamwork isn’t the best, but also who cares? The Koopalings can barely get along, and they wreck shop no problem.”

“The Koopalings are on another level,” Kookoo says. “Aside from their unnatural abilities, they’re actually extremely coordinated when they’re focused. Getting them to focus is a completely different issue.”

Drew points to Dereck and says, “Do you see how huge these muscles are getting? In two years, I bet Dereck can go toe to toe with Roy or Morton.”

“It’s not just muscular ability. They’re powered by magic.”

“Then can you make us powerful, too?”

Kookoo sighs. “Yes.”

“Alright!”

“But I have limited uses of magic, remember? And there’s a time limit on my spells. The kinds of magic I’m capable of aren’t permanent.”

As she finishes, water drips from the ceiling to the chair Drew previously sat on.

“So there’s no point to you closing the holes in the roof if they’ll just reopen,” Drew says.

“Exactly. Good job for recognizing that, Drew.”

Dereck yawns. “The thunder and lightning have stopped, so we can sleep easily now.” He smiles and says, “I think Will won the game. He beat most of us.”

“Aw, man,” Drew says, “I don’t think I have anything to give out as a prize.”

“I really don’t need a prize,” Will says.

Fly shakes his head and stands up, walking over to Will. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a candy, a picture of a lemon printed on the wrapper.

“Oh… Thanks.”

Fly nods and goes back to his seat.

Kookoo grabs her tea tray and says, “I’m gonna wash this and put it away. You guys figure out the sleeping situation.”

“Kookoo, you should take the bed, and the rest of us will sleep here,” Drew says.

“Are you sure?” Kookoo asks.

“Well, Fly snores really loudly, and I know you have delicate ears–”

Fly stands up and looms over Drew, his mask so close to Drew that he can almost see Fly’s face through the eyeholes.

“It was a joke!”

“Ignore him, Fly,” Will says. “Between the four of us, we know who snores the loudest.”

The three boys stare at Dereck. Dereck laughs nervously.

After washing her tea set and putting it in her bag, Kookoo comes back to the living room to see the four boys in their sleeping bags, three of them on the floor, and Fly on the couch. “Fly… You don’t want the bed?” Kookoo asks.

Fly shakes his head.

“Okay. Well, good night.” She turns off the light and makes her way to the one bedroom of the house.

“Um…” says Dereck. “You don’t think ghosts will visit us while we sleep, do you?”

“Eh, they only attack people traveling through the woods,” Drew says. “That’s why they built these cabins. And if you see anything, let me know. I’ll punch it.”

“Okay. Good night, Drew.”

“Good night, Dereck.”

As the four boys close their eyes and drift off, a transparent, white figure looks into the cabin, eyes glowing white in the darkness.

[21u004]

the last / okkotsu yuuta / april 4th, 2021

okkotsu yuuta is not an early bird.

he doesn’t like getting up before the sun, but he learned to love it when he once watched it rise with you. he doesn’t like cold showers in the morning, but he’s willing to take them to be presentable for you. he doesn’t like alarms, but he’s willing to make as many as he can to wake up with you.

yuuta is not an early bird, but at 5 in the morning, fully-dressed and awake, he’s in front of an old convenience store, six feet away from where you sat down.

reluctant to call out your name, his gaze and shoulders heavy with unnecessary guilt.

he eventually greets you.

“good morning,” he tells you at 5:16 a.m.

his voice is raspy, possibly from how it’s only been 53 minutes since he woke up.

you don’t mind it anyways; you’ve gotten used to hearing its soft whispers of “good morning” whenever he comes by your place to pick you up, or the lighthearted bursts of laughter when he finds himself in a stupid situation, or how he leans into your ear to tell you how wonderful you look when it’s too crowded and you’re struck with unpleasant thoughts.

it takes you minutes to reply, hesitant and distracted with thoughts wondering why he was here even if it had been you that called him over last night.

he figures you haven’t noticed him yet, so he takes three steps towards you.

one for each year you both spent calling and finding home in each other.

the first year, when you first ask him to go stargazing with you even though there were barely even stars at night with how bright the city is.

the second year, when he’s not-so-shy to let you know about how he carries an extra scarf from fall until spring because he’s memorized your forgetfulness.

the third year, when things start to fall apart, but you’re both still able to mend it back together. (or pretend that it’s fixed.)

and the fourth—

“you really came, huh,” your voice is low and almost inaudible except for the pained chuckle at the end of your sentence.

full of regret, your head hangs low. maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have invited him.

he was stupid to have actually come anyway.

and honestly, he didn’t want to come had it been someone else that invited him out at morning.

but it’s you who invited him, and he’s never been able to say no to you. not when he doesn’t like seeing you disappointed.

“of course,” he lowers his gaze to the ground, unable to look at you without feeling his head and chest ache every second. “you know i’d never flake out on you.”

—then why was there never a fourth year?

something stings your eyes and blur your vision for a moment.

they’re gone when you blink, leaving behind a wet trail down your cheek that was quick to dry when the breeze passes you by.

a sore, forced laugh leaves your lips, followed by a cough that has him rushing to your side and patting your back gently while worried eyes watch over you for every second that passed by.

“are you okay?” despite his hoarse and harsh-sounding voice, his tone is sweet and mellow, dipped in genuine concern, rough hands handling you delicately.

everything’s silent other than your cough resonating in the empty parking lot and his soft pats on your back ringing in your ears. it remains empty aside from the two of you.

too bad it wasn’t open for 24 hours so that there would be a few vehicles around or aisles for you to hide behind and then you wouldn’t have to face him.

that’s what you’ve always done though.

run away from reality and its problems.

it’s time for you to face it again.

“sorry,” you cough into your elbow. “yeah, i’m fine.”

yuta knows about how often you lie about your condition, so he asks one more time in hopes of getting an honest answer.

a nod is all he gets. he doesn’t question you again.

he wants to though.

he wants to ask if you’re okay and if you two can try again.

still, he doesn’t because he knows that he’s going to get both a ‘yes’ and a 'no’, and he knows which answer belonged to which question.

backing away from you, he sits when he deems the distance between you two not too far nor too close. you’re more than a hand’s reach, and that’s enough for him. he wants to be closer, but to have you around is already enough for him.

it’s already 5:28.

time passes too quickly.

despite wanting to cherish the moment, sit in silence and hopefully, peace as well, he stops his stalling and questions your need to see him in the morning when there’s so much more time left on the clock.

as he’s fulfilled your desire to meet him, you fulfill his of basking in the stillness of the world—with you.

you, and not someone else.

you, because you’re the one he wants to have around.

you, because he—

—loves you.

he loves you, and not someone else, because he can’t see himself with anyone else other than you.

(and he’ll keep on loving you, even if you tell him to stop for his sake and yours.)

“do you still remember?” you mumble in your folded arms on your knees. “when we first met.”

of course he does. it was somewhat unusual and unforgettable aside from the fact that the place you’re both at right now is where you two met.

a cold, lonely dawn spent at an empty parking lot of a convenience store. two kids feeling empty and drained until he decided to strike up a conversation with you, wondering why you were there when you could ask him the same. neither of you judged each other about it though, understanding one another regardless being in different situations.

that’s when you both got on the same vehicle and drove to a road that led to now.

it was like any other roadtrip, fun yet tiring, but neither of you realized that when everything was romanticized since the moment you two got on. it really was stupid of you two to think that meeting at a convenience store was romantic because it’s not.

it really was stupid of you to ignore the warning signs.

“yeah,” scratching his nape, he tilts his head to get a glimpse of your face, but he only sees your back. “we danced around even though there wasn’t any music playing.”

“it was dumb,” you turn away from him as if you were going to get the urge remake the mistakes you made then if you saw his undeniably pretty features.

“it was fun though,” a shy, embarrassed smile tugs at his lips. he hopes you’re smiling too.

“wanna do it again?”

this was dumber.

though you’re not going to make the same mistakes again. this was the end already, after all. there’s no more mistakes to be made when there’s no choices to be made.

the deep inhale of the cold air stings your lungs as you finally face him for the first time today, standing up and holding a hand out to him.

he swallows the last bit of hesitance that was preventing him from taking your hand, then starts to pull you into him.

“still no music?” one of his hands run to your waist.

you answer him as he’s about to intertwine his other with yours by taking out your phone and a slow, gloomy melody begins to play. it echoes in the empty space lightly when you settle it on the cold cement floor.

no comments were made about the choice of music. his hand rests on your waist while yours on his shoulder, the others laced together.

for a moment, you’re both back to the start.

dwelling in the glum atmosphere, savoring each other’s company.

still unable to look each other in the eye so you two opt for the ground or anywhere other than the eyes or face. stiffly and awkwardly swaying, feet pausing every few seconds in doubt, choosing which steps to take because it’s not used to dancing.

bathing in the lowlight of mornings that turn into something better because that’s what you two are good at: romanticizing the hopeless and the unromantic.

“i wanted to have a last dance with you,” you mutter, afraid he hears it. “that’s why.”

with the little space between your bodies, he does hear it. like your first meeting, he doesn’t judge you for it. he likes dancing with you anyways.

“it doesn’t have to be the last one,” he wishes to say but it remains as a thought, the lack of courage not allowing him to use his voice. knowing he’s going to regret doing so later, he still keeps them to himself.

so instead, he says something else.

“we can always dance again, if you’d like.”

fuck.

that’s even worse. (is it?)

on his shoulder, he feels your fingers claw at him. he wasn’t supposed to say that. at least he doesn’t mind it, but maybe you do.

you said it yourself, this was the last. maybe you said that because you didn’t want to anymore, he overthinks.

with closed eyes, your fingers loosen up on the cotton material, relaxing and exhaling slowly through your nose.

“that's—” he tenses up at your voice.

“that’s cool.”

did he hear you right?

“i don’t mind dancing with you again but,” the corner of your lips curl up, a burning sensation in your lungs when you inhale the cold morning air and finish your sentence. “someone might.”

someone, meaning the person you see himself with in your stead. the person whom you’re convinced is better than you. the person whom you’re convinced is more fitting for him, unlike you.

your eyes meet, and he can see through you.

you always lied about how you felt, until now.

it’s all obvious with the way your voice stutters, eyes falter, and hands tremble; with how you avoid his gaze as much as you can because it’s become unbearable to look at him without having your heart be spared from being torn into little pieces.

yuuta’s done beating around the bushes. biting his lip, his hands squeeze your waist and hand, his gaze shaky.

“you didn’t have to end this.”

having enough of it, too much for him to contain, he bursts into tears and lays his head on your shoulder, shuddering and holding onto you tightly, as if that was ever going to stop you from letting go.

“it was better for the both of us.”

the music gets drowned out by his choked sobs, the sky growing a little brighter than before each minute.

the sun rises slowly and lights up the dark corners of the world, and there’s nothing you can do but watch another day begin again.

there’s nothing you can do to stop yuuta crying.

there was nothing you could do to stop yourself from falling out of love.

(and even if you could prevent it, the road was always going to lead here.)

and as your shoulder gets soaked in tears, while you softly tug at the black tufts of his hair, you remember that there never was a fourth year because you—your insecurities—cut it off before he could. (because he never would, and neither would you.)

at your reply, he wonders why he even came here in the first place. was it because he was hopeful that you’d take him back again? (definitely.)

it’s too early for this, and okkotsu yuuta is not an early bird.

he doesn’t like getting up before the sun, but today, he did just for you. he doesn’t like cold showers in the morning, but today, he took them to be presentable for you. he doesn’t like alarms, but last night, he made as many as he could to make sure he doesn’t wake up late and make you wait for nothing.

yuuta is not an early bird, so he faces the consequences of being left.

(while he’s busy facing his consequences, you’re facing yours: having to wake up knowing he’s someone else’s because of you.)

(you never wanted to leave, but it was better than to have him abandon you.)

(even if he never was going to.)

[meat--grindr]

NFSW with Yandere Harry Warden.

Finally, after like, ten thousand years, it’s here! I’m so sorry this took so long. Both the Christmas break and the 46-page essay I wrote just before really swallowed my routine and motivation whole. But! I think I’ve found my words again, which means it’s back to the grind, baby!

Just some notes before we get going: as with the previous Yandere ask featuring best-boy Brahms, I feel I should give out a little warning. In general, I am not really a fan of the whole yandere thing, and I have some real issues with it when it comes to NSFW scenarios. I’m not judging if that’s your thing, I’m just saying it isn’t mine. That being said, I find the more possessive/protective aspect of the yandere troupe fits really well with slashers (possibly because I find it attractive on the lowest of keys asdkaskah). As was the case with that previous ask, I have taken some liberties that tend more toward ‘possessive’ than properly ‘yandere.’ As always, if this isn’t at all what you were hoping for, my DMs are open. Perhaps we could figure something else out together!

Under the cut you will find two different scenarios which follow a similar premise—you were flirting with someone else at a bar to make Harry jealous. When you get home, he takes matters into his own hands. Honestly, this is just borne out of my deeply held belief that our Valentines’ Slasher is a switch ;)

Jealousy: A Double Feature (Yandere [?]) Harry Warden (Gender Neutral Reader) – NSFW

The Set-Up:

·       Harry had been with you all night, that much you knew, though you had only caught sight of him once. He was tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes. You spotted him over the shoulder of the friend of a friend—a stranger really, though that hadn’t stopped the pair of you from orbiting one another all night. You knew he was the perfect choice from the moment you set eyes on him. He was tall, broad shouldered, cut rough around the edges, but he had a sweet smile and an open face. It was one that said there would be no hard feelings at the end of the night if he didn’t end up going home with you. It almost made you feel bad, leading him on as you were. Almost.

·       The way you smiled and laughed at his (admittedly quite funny) jokes, the proximity of your hand to his on the table, the way you pressed your cheek to his, feeling the scrape of stubble along his jaw—none of it meant anything. You knew it and you were pretty sure Bradley (Braden?) knew it too. Harry Warden definitely knew it, but as you peaked over a flannel clad shoulder, you could see, even from a distance, the tight set of his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders. You smirked at him and leaned in to whisper into the stranger’s ear.

·       It was something utterly trivial—a compliment about his jacket, or a comment on how badly you needed another drink if your friend was going to play that song on the jukebox—nothing of substance, but you knew it would make Harry’s blood boil all the same.

·       When Happy calls last orders, you stand, exchanging lengthy Maritime goodbyes with close friends and friendly-for-the-night-strangers alike. Casting a glance around, you can’t find Harry. He must have slipped out already, not wishing to be spotted as the crowd thins. Coming out at all had been quite the risk for him and had taken more than a little convincing on your part.

·       You expect to meet him in the lot, but his face was not among those still milling about their cars, stuffing drunken friends into backseats or beginning tottering journeys down the street.

·       You count the alleys on Atlantic Street as you pass them, sure you’ll catch him in your peripherals, but you find each unoccupied, save for one. A pair of rats fight over a scrap of bread, their beady little eyes and slimy coats catching the dim light of the streetlamps in a greasy fashion that makes you almost ache for a shower.

·       Your eyes scan the streets as you walk, senses on high-alert for any sign of his presence—the puffed clouds of his breath in the cold or a late-night smoke curling up toward the streetlamps in the distance, a kicked pebble scraping across the pavement, anything. You find yourself jumping the gun and mistaking familiar landmarks for a more welcome shape in the darkness—the saplings you’d helped Mr. Hastings plant in his front yard in the summer, the devotional cross behind the hedges at St. Andrews Presbyterian, the statue of the town’s founder in the square. Even with each disappointment, your mind jumps to the next place he could be waiting for you: the grocer’s lot, the schoolyard, the ballfield—all empty.

·       It isn’t until you turn into your driveway that he materializes, as if from the darkness itself. His face is bathed in shadow, his shoulders hunched against the cool breeze. He follows you up the drive, hands dug deep in his pockets. He’s utterly silent, but you’re relieved to see him anyway. He slouches up the steps, bracing a shoulder against the weather-worn siding. It creaks beneath the pressure. 

·       “Well, you sure got here quick. I didn’t see you leave.”

·       He makes no attempt to respond, merely waiting for you to produce your keys and let him inside. While his silence is not wholly unusual, this one feels…pointed. Perhaps you had upset him more than you had intended.

·       You chew your lower lip as you contemplate this, fishing your keys from your pocket and turning them in the lock. The grating screech of rusty door hinges proclaims your late-night return into the silence. You cringe as the sound carries, echoing around the enclosed back porch. You hope your neighbours are heavy sleepers, as if not there would surely be some comment made in the morning. The folks around here are nice enough that you doubt there would be any legitimate animosity in it, but sometimes their friendly commentary comes off more passive-aggressive than not, and their interest in your life more condescending than genuine. You know they mean no harm, but that doesn’t stop them from getting on your nerves now and again.

·       Fixing the hinges would have been a quick and easy thing, sure—a drop or two of WD-40 and a filthy rag were enough to work a quick miracle around these parts, but you knew they would only rust again when the heavy snow came in a few months time. And despite the optimistic predictions of a mild winter folks were spouting around town, come you knew they would.

·       The snow would drift in, creeping up the porch as it always did. First just a dusting, thin and powdery as icing sugar, easier to remove with a broom than a shovel. Then, almost overnight, the heavy snow would come, whipped by the wind as it howls across the harbour into great peaked dunes, waist-deep and packed tight against your door. On more than one occasion, you had found yourself climbing out through a first-floor window to dig a tunnel just to get the damn thing open.

·       No, it would be far less of a hassle to simply leave the hinges as they were—at least until the spring. By that time, there would hardly be a scrap of metal in the whole damn town that wasn’t oxidized nearly past the point of usefulness. Let the neighbours complain then, as if their hinges wouldn’t be squeaking just as badly.

·       Pushing through the second screen door, you stumble into the kitchen, already in the process of kicking off your boots. Your companion slips in behind you, allowing the screen to bang against the doorframe as it closed. The noise echoes around the tiled kitchen, battering your ears. You wince, but at least it wasn’t quite as piercing as the protesting hinges.

Part One—Domination or Mine, Mine, Mine:

·       The metallic music of jangling coat-hangers greets you as you throw open the closet and hang your jacket. Your fingers smooth over the wrinkled denim in a vain attempt to make it look even a smidge more presentable for the next time it’s worn. Deep down you know what it really needs is a good pressing. But you hated pressing clothes and would probably put it off until it couldn’t wait a moment longer.

·       Behind you, you hear the screen door woosh open again—probably Harry going out for a smoke, you think. Then the scream of the hinges pierces the night, and the resounding SLAM of the outer door shakes the house. You hear the lock click into place, a quieter sound, though it’s no less forceful. You whirl around, equal parts frightened by the noise and irritated by the man who had caused it.

·       “For Chrissake, Harry! It’s late, would it kill you to be more qu—!” You don’t get the chance to finish your reprimand before Harry’s strong hands catch you around the waist. He swings you about, storming forward to slam you against the door. The wood shudders with the impact, the flexible mesh of the screen warping around you; a thin net between the rough wood and your shoulder blades. Your head cracks against the door, white light bursting across your vision, blotting out the dark kitchen and the even darker shadow of the man who stood before you.

·       Even as the blinding brightness behind your eyes dissipates, you struggle to make out his features in the darkness despite your proximity. Then, his lips press against yours and the breath stills in your chest, unable, or simply unwilling to rise beyond the catch in your throat. They are warm and wet, tasting of bitter liquor and a recent cigarette—du MAURIER’s, you thought. You’d never seen more than the very tip of a pack peaking from a denim pocket or the rolled cuff of a shirtsleeve, but the red box was distinctive. He must have smoked it on the way home. The thought comes to you sluggishly, stuttering through the few sparking neural pathways that hadn’t shut down entirely when he’d first grabbed you. Dimly, you are aware that it’s an utterly absurd thought to have in this moment. How can you think of anything at all when Harry’s got you pinned against a door and he’s kissing you like a man starved? Maybe you’d knocked your head harder than you’d thought.

·       You try to clear your mind, directing your focus away from cigarettes and packaging and back to the matter at hand—Harry Warden.

·       You can almost feel the anger rolling off of him. It’s in the tightness of his jaw, the rough press of his hands against your hipbones, and the strength with which he keeps you pinned against the door. It thrums through his lips where they press against you and jolts through you when his teeth clash against yours, or his fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of your jeans.

·       You reach for him with trembling hands to cup his jaw and kiss him harder, to wrap around his neck and pull him even closer, to feel in your hands somehow, anyhow, solid, and warm. But he catches your hands, pinning them roughly against the door, his grip so tight it’s nearly painful.

·       A keen, stinging pain blossoms on your lower lip as his teeth sink into your flesh, hard and sharp. Then he’s gone, melting into the shadows of the dark kitchen. You’re left there, back braced against the door, breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. Quite suddenly, you realize you’ve gone hot all over, as though a fever had dug its claws deep into you in a manner of seconds. Your brain struggles to restart its thinking processes through a fog of unsavoury thoughts and debauched imagery. So, this was to be the consequence of your actions. I can live with that.

·       With a shaking hand, you feel your way up the wall to your left, groping along in the darkness, until you find the light switch. With a muted click the kitchen is bathed in a soft glow. After so much time spent in the darkness, the light, low as it is, is dazzling where it bounces off the white tile floor. You raise a hand to shield your eyes but catch a quick glimpse of Harry. He’s standing over by the table, a hand on the arched back of a white-washed chair. His head snaps to the side, dark eyes fixing upon you, unwavering.

·       His voice is low, a gravely growl that rumbles from deep within his chest, “Turn it off.”

·       You blink at him, stupidly, one hand still hovering over the switch. He wrenches the chair from its place at the table, swinging it around and slamming it down before him with a BANG. He takes a menacing step toward you, never once taking his eyes from yours. “Turn. It. Off.”

·       You jump, rushing to do as you were told, flicking the switch again. As the darkness settles over the room like a blanket, your eyes, now more accustomed to the light, struggle to pick out his shape in the gloom. A small patch of sodium-orange light streams through the window above the sink, staining a patch of floor before the chair. Beyond that pool of light, you can see nothing.

·       Your ears, however, do not fail you as your eyes have. You can hear him rifling through a drawer. From the rattling, you assume it’s the junk drawer—a messy collection of odds and ends that seemed to have no other place in the house. You were always saying you’d get around to cleaning it out one of these days, but it only ever seems to accumulate more junk.

·       You peer into the darkness and find, if you squint, you can just make out what you think is Harry’s form. He’s hunched over the drawer, picking through the bits and bobs, looking for…something. Maybe if you had cleaned the drawer out, he’d have an easier time of it. Alas.

·       Then, he stills, the drawer slams shut, and the room goes silent. The hazy smudge retreats further into the gloom, and you lose him again.

·       For a long moment, the silence fills the room, pressing against you, an almost tangible force. Then, with a single word, it is shattered, “Strip.”

·       Despite the bright bolt of heat that single syllable sends thrumming through your gut, you almost laugh aloud. “I-In the kitchen?” Your incredulous tone does little to mitigate the warmth rising to your cheeks, nor the desire that flutters to life within your chest.

·       Harry does not respond. You can feel the command hanging in the air, and with it, the weight of what he has asked of you—a display of willing vulnerability. Your gaze is once again drawn over to the kitchen window. Set above the sink it faces out onto the street. The blinds are raised, as you had left them after dinner, and the lacey white curtains do very little to obscure the view in either direction. Usually, you see this as a blessing, watching the comings and goings of the world as you eat breakfast or dry the dishes, but now it makes you squirm in discomfort, “I don’t know, baby…the window’s open. Someone could see us…”

·       You peer into the darkness again, craning your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but everything beyond that smudgy patch of orange light remains lost to your eyes.

·       Harry’s voice rings out from the opposite side of the kitchen, much closer than you had realized. You hadn’t even heard him move. He was so quiet you’re sure the neighbourhood cats would swat at his boots in a jealous rage as he passed…if they could hear him coming that was.

·       “You didn’t seem to care who saw you with that fuck in the bar.” His tone is even, but there is a tightness about it that betrays him. “You know this town. You know how people talk. It’ll be all over by tomorrow. ‘That lonely soul from 214 out on the town. With a man no less. Could be the start of something.’ They’ll ask all about it, I’m sure. And you’ll just brush it off like you always do, but they’ll speculate all the same. Little do they know; I’ve already got my stamp all over you.” There’s a short pause, “Now, strip. I won’t ask you a third time.”

·       You turn your head to face him, but are met with nothing but the seemingly endless, empty void. Usually, you wouldn’t have any qualms about pushing back against his commands. You both got off on it in fact—you know just how much he likes putting you back in your place, though sometimes he lets you get away with misbehaving. But you could usually see his face. You knew by the set of his jaw, or the narrowing of his eyes, just how much harder you could push him. Now, however, you could hardly place him in the room, let alone determine how much pushing he was willing to tolerate. If the sharp, impatience of his commands was anything to go by, you could tell the answer this time around was little. Very little.

·       You eye the window again, weighing the risk. Sure, someone could pass by and see you, but it was late—so late it was almost early. Plus, it was dark enough inside someone would have to press their nose up against the glass to get much of a look, and if that was the case, you likely had a much bigger problem on your hands. And you cannot deny the thrill that shudders through you at the thought of stripping down for Harry when he gets like this: all demands and possessiveness. Then there are the thoughts of what he might do to you once you have. Those come quick and easy: his lips on your throat as he hoists you up onto the counter, strong hands on your thighs as he sets to work on your most intimate spots with his tongue, his cock stretching you open as he takes you in that chair, bent over the table, spread out on the floor. You feel a damp patch beginning to form in your underwear, a heat spreading between your legs that wants and wants and wants.

·       Fuck the risk.

·       You fumble with the button of your jeans, fingers trembling with a jangly mixture of excitement and trepidation. You peel them down your thighs, the thick denim seams scraping against your skin. You kick them off and into the darkness, not caring where they land. Your shirt quickly joins the pile, a rumpled ball of coloured cotton. It’s only as your fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear that you meet resistance from Harry.

·       “No.” The command echoes, again, from a new spot—this time somewhere behind the chair. “Leave them on.” You frown a little, but obey, leaving the cotton garment alone…for now. “Sit.”

·       You edge forward, socked feet sliding against the tile. Your legs are trembling, something you hadn’t noticed with the door against your back, assisting in keeping you upright. You knew it had nothing to do with the night’s boozy beginnings. When you’d left the bar, you could feel the pleasant hum of alcohol buzzing at the base of your skull, but now, in all honesty ever since that kiss, you would swear you were stone cold sober. No, this shaking has nothing to do with the drink, and everything to do with the man who waited for you in the darkness, and the promise of what he was going to do to you.

·       Not wanting to push your luck, you slip around the patch of light on the floor. If you caught so much as a glimpse of someone through that window before you had even started, you knew you would lose your nerve and that would be that.

·       When at last you plant yourself firmly in the chair, you jolt, squawking in surprise, knees reflexively shooting up to your chest. “It’s freezing!” You curl in on yourself, wanting as a little of your bare flesh touching the chair as physically possible. You hear him chuckle, a dark, rich sound that makes you shiver almost as much as the sudden chill. “Poor baby.”

·       You wrinkle your nose at him, huffing in indignation. You were no baby. It was just cold. Still, you take a grounding breath or two before you can find the courage to press your temperature-sensitive flesh back against the cool surface of the chair. You know the wood will warm beneath your skin in no time, but your muscles jump and twitch regardless, making their opposition known. It’s not an unbearable chill, despite the wave of goosebumps slowly spreading across your exposed skin; perhaps a touch uncomfortable, but it will pass.

·       Your ears prick up as you hear Harry approaching from behind. “Hands behind your back.” He says, his breath stirring the little hairs at the nape of your neck as he bends over you.

·       When you comply, he grasps your wrists roughly, winding something coarse around them—it feels like a length of cord, old and fraying at the edges. You squirm in your seat, rolling your shoulders and wriggling your hips, not quite fighting against Harry, but not making it easy for him either. Still, he manages to wrangle the rope around you and pull the final knot tight. He pushes two fingers beneath the cord, exploring the space between it and your skin. Clearly satisfied with his handiwork, he withdraws, sweeping around the chair to face you.

·       Dropping to one knee, he forces your legs together and binds them at the ankles in a similar fashion. You notice, however, that he does not tie your ankles to the chair itself, merely to one another. With a little squirming and tugging, you discover the same to be true of your wrists. Again, he ties the final knot, and eases a finger between your skin and the cord. He looks up at you, his handsome face only semi-visible in the gloom. You realize, after a long moment, that he’s waiting on your approval. You give the ropes a little pull each, and nod.

·       Harry is on his feet in an instant, looming above you. “‘magine my surprise,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “When I see my baby making eyes at some other cocksucker in a bar.”

·       You supress a smirk. You’ll play along with his game, sure, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have your own fun along the way, “Some other cocksucker? You really are a man of many talents, huh?”

·       His hand is around your throat in seconds, pressing you back against the chair, but not squeezing enough to cut off your airflow, “Keep mouthing off, see where that gets you.”

·       You roll your eyes, though you’re not sure he can see it in the dark, “C’mon, Harry. You know it didn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

·       His hand snaps upward, abandoning your throat in favour of your jaw, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh beneath. His face comes into focus, mere inches from your own. You can see him clearly for the first time: the sneer on his lips, his eyes alight with jealousy. “Yeah, you’re real good at that ain’tcha? Had him hanging off your every word.”

·       You swallow hard. The waver in your voice is only half-forced, as most of your bravado evaporates in the face of Harry’s dominating presence. He’s a small fellow—short and slender—but somehow, he’s able to fill out the meager space his physical body takes up as though he’s twice his size. It’s in the way he holds himself, coiled like a snake about to strike, like he’s used to throwing and dodging punches alike. He’s rough around the edges, scrappy, and though you knew he’d never lay a hand on you that you don’t want, it doesn’t make him any less intimidating when he looms like this. “Doesn’t mean I was interested, Harry, you know I’m yours and—"

·       Your words are squeezed into a premature silence as Harry squishes your cheeks together, pushing your lips into a pronounced pout. His thumb sweeps soothingly across your cheek. “I know that,” His grip tightens as he leans in closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from your own, “I think you might need a little reminder of jus’ who ya’ belong to.” His eyes flicker down to your lips, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you. But he simply releases your jaw and melts back into the shadows.

·       From further back in the kitchen, you hear him say, “Can you be good for me and let me remind you?”

·       You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pooling in your gut with every word he speaks. God you want nothing more than to be good for him. You nod emphatically, then with a jolt, you realize that if you can’t see him, he likely can’t see you either. You croak out a wavering, “Yes,” through a throat that’s suddenly far too dry.

·       “Yes, what?” You can hear him rummaging around again, though by the sounds, you’d wager he’s searching the countertops this time. For what you couldn’t say, but that pronounced clink was certainly something bumping up against your sugar jar.

·       “Yes, Sir.” What could possibly be on that counter that was more important than you, bound and promising him your good behaviour? Nothing obvious springs to mind, and yet he keeps searching all the same.

·       “Good.” A shudder passes through you, and you know you’d do almost anything to hear him say that again. At this point, the impact that word had on you was damn near Pavlovian, especially when he said it like that, with a smirk on his lips and a rumble in his chest.

·       The room falls silent again as Harry puts hands on whatever it is he’s looking for. In the quiet, you get the distinct impression that he’s looking at you, even if he is unable to make out your form in the dark. Maybe he can see you, maybe he can’t. Either way you know he can hear you just fine. Why not give him a little show?

·       You whine, long and low into the darkness, struggling against the bonds and rubbing your thighs together, seeking any sort of stimulation that might abet the growing heat between your legs. As expected, you’re sorely disappointed with the results. Huffing your displeasure in what you hope is Harry’s general direction, you hurl a desperate plea out into the kitchen, “It’s so cold, Sir. Please come touch me. Please.”

·       You hear him let out a shaky breath. You know how much he likes to hear you beg and frequently use it to your advantage. Harry wasn’t one for poetry—the point of pretty words was mostly lost on him—but a blunt statement of exactly what you wanted from him—how deep, how fast, how hard—tinged with the desperation of needing him and needing him now? Well. That was a different story altogether. Begging was usually an easy way to get exactly what you wanted out of Harry Warden. This time however, much to your personal frustration, he manages to collect himself in record time.

·       He tuts softly as he strides past you, visible for only the briefest of moments as he passes through the patch of light. “What have you done to deserve my touch?” He stops behind you, “An’ no, flirtin’ all night wit’ a stranger don’t count.”

·       You throw your head back to look up at him, a pout on your lips, “Wasn’t flirting.”

·       “G’way witcha. You were so.” His hand whips out and grasps your chin. “I can’t have that. See, you’re mine.” He’s wearing his gloves, though not the soft leather pair you’d bought him for Christmas last year. Those, in all likelihood were stuffed into his coat pocket. No, these were his old work gloves. The tough leather was cracked and torn in places, exposing the cotton padding. They smelled heavy—like dust, like the depths of the mines. You didn’t even know he still had these.

·       “You know what I think?” He leans forward, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin just below your ear, relishing in the shiver it elicits, “I think you was doin’ it on purpose.” He trails a line of searing, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “Trying to make me jealous. Well, guess what?” He sinks his teeth deep into the meat between your neck and shoulder, “It fucking worked.”

·       You cry out, the mix of pleasure and pain stirring up the heat that had been steadily blooming inside of you. Sharp and bright, it spreads up through your gut, filling your chest and seeping out into your limbs. You can’t help but smirk up at him, “Good.”

·       He presses his lips into a thin line to keep from smiling too, “Uh-uh. That’s bad. You’ve been real bad, haven’tcha?”

·       You chew your lower lip, pretending to mull it over, “Maybe…”

·       “I think you have.” He trails a gloved hand down and over your shoulder, pressing into the bitemark he’d made. The shredded fingertips of the glove burrow into the indentations left in the wake of his incisors. A dull ache pulses to life beneath the skin, forcing a pained hiss of air between teeth clenched tightly together.

·       “Aww, does it hurt, baby?” Condescension drips sweet and thick from his words as he digs his fingers in harder, you nod frantically, face scrunched up in discomfort, a gasp tearing from your lips as you attempt to flinch away from his touch. “Poor little thing.” A second, gloved hand joins the first, trailing down the other side of your neck. The texture of the old leather ignites a new wave of goosebumps, spreading with the shivers that race across your skin. His fingers trace the tendons in your neck, lingering over your pulse points, scraping gently against the sensitive spots he knows so well just to watch you squirm, “Mine.”

·       The chair creaks as Harry leans over your shoulder, reaching further down your body. He lavishes your collarbone with gentle touches, exploring the dips and hollows he finds there with a rare patience—one you see in him only when he is well and truly set on teasing you. He drags his fingers down, ghosting across your chest, circling your nipples, and tracing your ribs. You shudder beneath the cool leather. It isn’t right. Harry’s hands should be warm and calloused, two points of bright heat against your chilled flesh. That’s what you really crave: the felling of his skin, bare and burning against yours. You open your mouth to ask him, beg him to take the gloves off and touch you properly, but your mind goes fuzzy and blank as his lips find their way to your neck, leaving soft kisses and pressing the points of his teeth into the skin above your pulse.

·       His narrow chest presses hard against your shoulder as his hands roam even further down, trailing across your stomach. You can feel his heartbeat. A little thrill jitters through your chest when you realize that despite his calm outwards demeanor, all steady hands and cocky words, his heart is racing—jackhammering against his ribs so hard it must be painful. A giddy wave washes over you then, knowing he wants you with the same mad desperation. Of course, you had known that from the start, from before that even, still it made your heart shake and your lips twist into a dopey grin.

·       Deft fingers press against your sides, teasing the ticklish spots that make you squeak, and wriggle beneath his hands. A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest, though he decides to take mercy on you, sliding his hands down to caress your hips and the tops of your thighs. “All mine.”

·       One hand drifts, pressing against the seam where thigh and hip join. The pressure feels strange, the muscle jittering beneath his touch, though it doesn’t hurt. His fingers follow the natural curve of your body, pressing into the space between your thighs. You try to part your legs for him, but the cord binding your ankles only lets you go so far. Still, it’s enough for Harry to slot his slender hand into place, fingers pressed tight against the wet spot that’s been steadily spreading across the cotton fabric of your underwear.

·       His tongue flickers over your neck, a snicker bubbling up in his throat, “Well, well, well. Aren’t you just a little fucking slut for me tonight?”

·       You whimper, the sound sitting high in the back of your throat, “Take the gloves off and touch me.” What was meant to be a command comes more as a cracked plea, half-whisper, half-sob.

·       The bark of his laughter is muffled against your skin. His fingers remain pressed against you, but they stay frustratingly still. The pressure is delicious, sparking your touch-desperate nerves, but not providing the stimulation you so desperately crave—you need him to move. “Who said I was gonna keep touchin’ ya’ ‘t’all?”

·       “Please!”

·       Deaf to your pleading, he remains utterly motionless, and you feel something inside of you shatter. Perhaps it was your patience, perhaps it was the last of your inhibitions. Whatever the case, Harry had chipped away at it, cracking it piece by piece with his teasing. Now it lays in shards within you, and you know the only way to get what you want is to take matters into your own hands.

·       You buck against his fingers and for a moment, the pleasure swallows you whole. Your head falls back against the hard wooden back of the chair, a moan tearing itself free from your throat unbidden. Your toes curl as you begin to move your hips, grinding against his fingers, glassy eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

·       Behind you, Harry growls. Dimly, through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind you realize you may have made a mistake. A split second later, his fingers disappear. Your hips jerk forward, desperately trying to follow. You thrash in the seat, a sob wracking your chest, as the pleasure deflates into a dull throbbing. “No!”

·       You feel the smile slide onto Harry’s face, more teeth than lip, “Oh no, no, no, Sweetheart. You’ve gotta earn that.”

·       The simpering edge to his voice has you bucking into the empty air again, “Then let me.” Your struggle to catch your breath, craning your head to look at him. “Let me earn it.” The silence stretches on in the darkness. Was he considering it? Would he refuse? Not if you could help it, “Please, Harry. Please.”

·       A soft sound leaves him then—when you say his name like that, a prayer—a sound like he’s been punched, a rush of air accompanied by a soft groan. Though he’d never admit it, your voice had such an impact on him. Especially when you sound like this, husky and wrecked. Desperate. It takes him nearly a minute to find his voice again, and when he does, it’s rough, a rocky rasp caught low in his throat, “Maybe I will.”

·       He slides back up your body, his weight lifting from your shoulder. You give the joint a quick roll, working out the stiffness you’d failed to notice growing beneath the pleasant weight and warmth of his body. Quick as a flash and silent as a shadow, he sweeps around the chair, appearing before you.

·       With strong, sure hands, he seizes you by the arms, dragging you to your feet. He kicks the chair back, sending it sliding across the floor with the screech of wood against tile. In the darkness you hear the snick of a switchblade. You still, a prick of fear piercing your chest despite yourself. Harry drops to the floor. In a matter of moments, your ankles are freed from their restraints. Though you expect him to do the same for your wrists, he flicks the knife closed, leaving you partially bound. You hear something land nearby on the floor, though for all your squinting, you cannot make it out.

·       He reaches for you then; with a gentleness usually reserved for after your more…strenuous encounters. He strokes the back of his hand down your cheek, and you jolt against his touch, realizing it’s the touch of bare skin. You attempt to lean into it, but he’s already pulling away. His other hand snakes up, fisting roughly into the hair at the nape of your neck. Instinctively, you arch your back, craning your head and bowing against him to lessen the sting.

·       He presses down, forcing you to bend toward the ground until you lose your balance and collapse, bare knees colliding with the cold tile. Your arms jerk against the cord, as you attempt to catch yourself, but the knots hold firm. You wobble, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in position but manage to remain at least partially upright.

·       Even before you hear the jangle of his belt buckle hitting the floor you know just what he wants from you. You readjust yourself, sitting higher on your haunches. The rustle of his jeans hitting the floor makes your heart flutter with excitement.

·       Harry looms before you, a great dark shape. Though he isn’t overly tall or broad, he towers over you when you’re on your knees for him. The pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, the rough skin dragging against your flesh. Your tongue flickers out to meet it and he stills. He hooks the digit into the corner of your mouth, pressing it into the soft meat of your cheek. You press your tongue against it, sucking gently and he groans. “I think my baby can handle somethin’ bigger, yeah? You want something bigger?”

·       You whimper your affirmation, letting him slip his thumb from your mouth, waiting patiently as he pulls his cock from his underwear. He presses the tip against your lips, hissing as your tongue slides wet and warm against it.

·       “That’s a good pet. Open up.” You open your mouth, pushing your lips down over your teeth as he presses into you. “That’s it, baby. Take it all. Show me how good ya’ can be for me.”

·       Breathing deeply through your nose, you try to remain as still as possible as his cock slides into you inch by inch. Your jaw is already beginning to ache from the stretch, but a sore jaw will certainly be worth the reward if you can be good for Harry now.

·       The tip bumps against the back of your throat and you have to fight not to gag. “Fuuuck.” He presses in further, hips canting forward as you choke around him. The tip slips down into your throat, and you panic. The sensation is entirely new, never having taken him so deep before. You jerk back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. You gag, doubling over in a fit of coughing that wracks your body. Harry’s hand is in your hair again, tugging gently. You look up, vision blurry, and the tugging becomes a gentle petting, his fingers carding through your hair soothingly, “Are you okay?”

·       You take a shuddering breath, but nod. Your voice comes out in a shredded whisper, “Just s-scared myself is all.” You draw yourself back up onto your knees and take his cock into your hands.

·       “Take your time, pet.” He groans as you begin pumping his length slowly, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knows he’ll get what he wants from you sooner or later. “I’m in no rush.” Cocky bastard.

·       You trace the vein on the underside with a finger and he pulses in your hand, a bead of precum dripping down his length and onto the floor. You dip your head to kiss along the shaft, following the thin wet trail as you work up the courage to take him into your mouth again.

·       You take a deep breath and sink down onto him, relishing in the growl that rips through the air above you, “Mmm! Mind the fuckin’ teeth, Sweetheart!”

·       Your legs begin to cramp beneath you, but you press forward, swallowing around the length in your mouth. He bucks into you, the tight heat drawing him deeper in, the tip once again bumping against the back of your throat. This time, however, you’re ready and manage to keep control over your gag reflex. You swallow around him again, and the hand in your hair tightens, dragging your head back. His cock almost begins to slip from your lips, before he pushes his hips forward again. “Let me fuck your mouth, yeah?” You moan around him, letting the slackness of your jaw speak your permission for you.

·       Curses tumble from his mouth as he rolls his hips into your waiting mouth again and again—a litany of ‘fucks,’ and ‘Christs’ and disjointed praise mixed with a constant stream of ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ The sound of his voice and the drag of his cock over your tongue is nearly hypnotizing. You flatten it against him, hollowing your cheeks as you do, and his hips stutter, your name suddenly the only thing on his lips. It makes you throb. You just need a little friction to take the edge off, to ease the dull ache between your thighs. You squirm, twisting your wrists against the bonds. Harry makes a sound above you, and for a moment, you freeze. Had you been caught? You glance up at him, but you find his head tilted back in pleasure, eyes cast to the ceiling.

·       Feeling a little braver, you begin to bob your head along with his thrusts. His grip on your hair tightens in response, and he moans long and low in the back of his throat. He seems far too occupied with your mouth to take any notice of your hands.

·       You twist your wrists again, feeling the knot beginning to loosen. So, you keep at it, working the cord further and further up your hand until it pops free. Your body jerks with the momentum, momentarily thrown off balance, but you recover quickly, forcing yourself to choke, as though Harry had pushed too far into your throat again.

·       The ruse appears to work, as Harry’s hips buck forward and still, lost in the tight squeeze of your throat. You ease your thighs apart and slip your fingers between them. The cotton of your underwear is soaked, likely to the point of transparency. You can’t help but moan long and low around Harry’s cock as you brush your fingers against the drenched fabric. The wave of pleasure that rolls through you is heady and electrifying. You want more. Right now. Your fingers press harder and your hips jerk up against your hand.

·       Even in his pleasure, this gets Harry’s attention. Looking down at you, he almost laughs, the sound caught somewhere between a snicker and a moan. You feel your cheeks heat with the shame of being caught, though by this point you’re so tightly wound you can barely find the brain space to care. You can practically hear the cocksure grin on his face, “You greedy little whore.”

·       You try to pull your hand away, but Harry’s boot comes down over top of it. He doesn’t press down hard, but you can feel the thick treads grinding against your flesh, indenting the pattern into it. Your fingers are trapped right where you wanted them: pressed against the damp fabric of your underwear and the sensitive nerves beneath. They spark and throb against your fingers, begging for more stimulation and you can do nothing.

·       You sob around Harry’s cock as he begins to thrust into your mouth again. “You wanna touch it so bad, baby, I know,” He presses down harder with his boot, and you whine around him, “But’cha can’t.” He’s pushing deeper into your throat now with every thrust, “You can’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” His hips begin to stutter now, losing their rhythm as he picks up the pace chasing his release. His voice has gone taught, shaking with both the pleasure and the exertion, “You’re all mine, Sweetheart. All mine.”

·       His cock throbs against your tongue. He pushes to the back of your throat one final time, and he’s cumming, letting it fill your mouth and leak down your throat. You sputter, swallowing around him in a desperate bid not to choke. His thrusts have gone shallow and lazy, but he doesn’t stop. Groaning, he grips your jaw, “All fuckin’ mine.”

·       You swallow a final time, and he pulls out. You cough, gasping for breath. Dimly, you’re aware of the rustle of denim and the metallic chirp of a zipper being done up. Regaining control of your breathing, turn, cleaning your drool covered chin on your shoulder. You inspect the wrist of your free hand. The skin feels tight and raw but doesn’t appear to be broken. You assume the same is true of the other, where it remains trapped under Harry’s boot. “Fuck, baby. You take it so well for me.”

·       You tilt your face up toward Harry, chest tightening with the praise. “Harry,” Your voice is raw, your throat aching from the fucking it had just endured, but you beg him anyway, “Please, I was good. Touch me…or let me do it myself. I-I’ll put on a good show for you!” You buck up against his boot, throwing your head back and whimpering.

·       He grinds his boot down against your hand, and your vision fills with white spots. You jerk against him, unable to still your hips. His voice floats down to you through the fog of pleasure, as though from far away, “I’m not so sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

·       You sob, bucking against both boot and hand alike, until he presses down harder, and the blinding pleasure becomes a crushing pain that sucks the breath from your lungs, “Harry! Harry, you promised! Fuuck, please! Please! Ow! You said If I was good—"

·       The pressure lessens, “Now, now, baby. Don’t get so worked up. I said I might let you cum. Never said when.” He laughs at your devastated expression. “We’re just getting started.”

Part Two—Submission or Yours, Yours, Yours:

·       The metal hangers burst into a jangling song as you fling the coat-closet open to hang your jacket. The padded denim will probably see you through another month if you layer properly beneath it. Too much longer than that and you’ll be pushing your luck. Perhaps tomorrow you would go through the ‘winter clothes bin’ and bust out the ole’ windbreaker. Of course, to do that you’d have to spend an hour sifting through the assorted piles of junk in your basement to actually find the ‘winter clothes bin.’ Now that you think of it, despite the numerous trips you’d taken down into the dark and dingy space, you haven’t actually laid eyes on the bin since you had put it into storage last spring. Ugh.

·       Though, maybe Harry had seen it. Three days ago, you’d woken up and stumbled to the bathroom to find a steady stream of water pouring from the cabinet space below the sink. It must have been leaking for a good long while before you found it, because the floor was soaked—the bathmat was so saturated with water it had actually squelched underfoot.

·       Luckily, it had only taken Harry around five minutes to fix the problem—a loose ring nut of all things—but he’d spent a good deal longer than that tearing the basement apart in his mad hunt for the toolbox. After a great deal of shuffling, banging about, and swearing, he’d found it wedged between the wall and a cardboard box of assorted holiday decorations. He’d rushed up the stairs, breathless and wild-eyed, “Christ, but it’s a mess down there. This?” He’d said, brandishing the toolbox in his left hand, “stays in the porch from now on.” He’d swept passed you then, leaving no room for argument as he marched off to save your bathroom from any further water damage.

·       Point is, Harry’s ‘leave no stone unturned’ approach to impromptu basement reorganization may just free up your afternoon and save you a headache—he’d probably seen the bin and with any luck would remember where he’d moved it. If not, finding the damn thing would be tomorrow’s problem. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask while you were thinking of it.

·       “Hey, Harry? When you were down in the basement the other day, did you see the—” Turning to face him, you’re shocked to find that he isn’t standing behind you anymore. You could have sworn you’d felt him there with you right up until you’d turned around. You call his name out into the darkness but receive no response. You roll your eyes, sometimes he got like this when he was in a mood—preferring silence to a solution.

·       Your left hand finds the wall, feeling your way along the cool plaster until your fingers find the switch. Light floods the kitchen momentarily flaring too bright against your retinas, and you realize he’s not even in the room anymore. You hadn’t heard him leave, but he’s certainly not still here, unless he’s somehow managed to master the art of invisibility without telling you. He’s a remarkable man, you’ll give him that, but you highly doubt he’s that remarkable. In all likelihood, he’d just popped out for a smoke. Though you’d love to know how he managed to sweettalk the squealing hinges into silence.

·       Crossing the room, you pull the screen door open, bracing it against your hip to keep it from banging closed on you. You crack the main door open just enough to poke your head out. You go slowly, easing it open bit by bit—the hinges whine high and thin into the night, but it’s nothing compared to the fuss they’d made when you first came in. peering out into the darkness, you don’t see Harry in his usual late-night smoking spot—leaning out over the porch railing, one hand curled around a cigarette, the other cradling his chin as he stares out into the relative seclusion of your back garden.

·       Around this time of year, it wasn’t much to look at—the leaves mostly gone from the trees, the shrivelled corpses of your flowers littering the rapidly browning grass—but in the spring, it was a sight, bursting with blossoms and buzzing insects alike.

·       You suppose it doesn’t matter though, Harry never gets to see the butterflies and bees anyway. Not when he only comes out to smoke at night. On the bad days when he’s stressed, or tired and really croaking for a smoke before the sun dips down into the harbour, he usually retreats to the basement, cracking one of the tiny windows that looks out onto the street. But otherwise, he’s an exclusively nocturnal smoker.

·       One night in the summer, when it had been far too muggy to do anything but lay in bed and sweat, you’d given up on sleep to sit out with him. Outside, the air was no less close, but even the pitiful, sporadic gasps the breeze offered had felt so good against your feverish skin you couldn’t bring yourself to complain. He’d stood there, leaned out over the railing, the cherry of his cigarette flaring red-hot in the darkness. You had hopped up onto the railing beside him, dangling your legs out over a bed of wilting marigolds—even they were flagging in this heat, not that you could blame them.

·       For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to simply inhabit the same space at the same time. It wasn’t long before you were lost in thought; staring up at the stars and marvelling at how the scent of your little lavender bushes almost covered the stink of the harbour. Almost. Then, Harry blew a cloud of smoke out into the darkness, which drifted sluggishly across your vision, bringing you back to the present moment. To this day, you don’t quite know why you’d asked the question, nor where it had come from, “So…you only smoke at night, huh?”

·       He’d frowned a little, his eyebrows pulling together as though he was only realizing this for the first time. He’d maneuvered the dart into the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it, “I s’pose so…”

·       “What’s up with that?”

·       He chewed on the end of the cigarette, jaw working as he thought, “Probably got somethin’ t’do with spendin’ so much time in…” He raked a suddenly shaky hand through his hair, “…the pit.”

·       “You were a miner?” You had known so little about him in those days.

·       Again, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, the silence stretching long into the humid night. “It…uh…fucks your sense of time real good. Y’get used to it bein’ dark all the time.” He takes a deep drag, letting the smoke curl about in his lungs for a good long while before letting it go with a heavy, rushing sigh. “‘N ya’ get to like it better that way.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette, scattering in on the wooden deck-boards beneath his boots. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

·       And so, you’d let it go. But the pieces had begun to fall into place: Why he never went out with you, why he was so hesitant to talk about where he’d come from or what he’d been running from the night you found him shivering and soaked to the skin at the end of your street, why he’d asked you to keep quiet about him, why he hadn’t told you his last name—a name everyone in town both knew and feared.

·       He’d told you half the truth then you suppose. After all, he is a night-owl, and that probably did have something to do with his previous profession. However, you think his late-night smoking habit likely also has something to do with risk. You know now who he is and what he did. If anyone knew he was back in town, there would be trouble no doubt. Of course, the rumours that would start flying about if a strange man were spotted hanging around your place would also be trouble, just the type you were more accustomed to handling. There had been jaw about you in town before and there would likely be again. You could deal with a few stray comments from old folks with nothing better to do than gossip and young folks who did but wasted their time on it anyway. You knew for certain that you could not handle the sight of Harry beaten and dragged off to God-knows-where by a mob of angry townsfolk or worse, the police. No, if it came down to it, you’d take the rumours.

·       Shuddering, you close the door, locking the knob and sliding the deadbolt home. You lock the screen door as well, something Harry always teased you about. You could picture him now, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. An easy grin slides across his face as he watches you, ‘Now what’cha lockin’ that for? S’not gonna stop nobody from comin’ in if they really wanna.’ But you always locked it anyway—it made you feel safer. Sometimes you’d tell him so, but that smile would only grow as he pushes off from the counter and scoops you up into his arms. He is really quite strong despite his small stature. ‘Don’t need locks for that no more, Sweetheart. You got me.’

·       But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you’d never locked your doors before he came along. Not once. There was never any need to. The community was small and tightly knit. With only one notable exception—the cause of which now shared your bed on the regular—the crime rate was so low hardly anyone locked their doors at all. But since Harry, you had felt compelled to do so. Not out of obligation to the town, rather an obligation to Harry. They didn’t need to be kept safe from him—they had already paid for their mistakes. If they were smart, they’d never give him reason to shed blood again—no you locked the doors to keep Harry safe from them.

·       Though there was a memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in the mining accident right there in the middle of town, it was something the residents rarely spoke about. Most were content to forget it—and the grisly murders that followed—entirely. But when February rolled around again, an oppressive tension swept through the streets. Even as people pretended to carry on with their lives like nothing was wrong, their hushed whispers and conspiratorial glances spoke the truth plainly—they hadn’t forgotten at all. They couldn’t forget. Harry Warden had stained their community, perhaps forever, and they hated him for it. Many would rather see him dead than locked up and you could think of one or two who might actually try if given the chance.

·       Maybe there was a time when you would have let them, out of fear or some misguided sense of morality. But now that you knew him, everything was different. That night, when he’d finally told you the truth about who he was, what he’d done, the place he’d escaped from, he had seemed so small—trembling on the floor of your living room, fingers digging hard into his arms, unable to look at you for fear of your reaction—and you’d decided then and there you would stand between him and that hatred. You would keep him safe. Locking that door was just one of the thousands of small ways you had found to do so. Maybe a part of him knew that. Maybe not. Still, that door stayed locked at night.

·       Now, if he wasn’t outside and he wasn’t in the kitchen, where else could he be? You pad quickly through the kitchen, your thin socks only able to protect you so much from the chilly tiles. On your way by, you pop your head into the den, wondering if he’d decided to curl up on the sofa in front of the TV—a favoured spot for a deep sulk. If his attitude in the driveway told you anything, this had been be a pretty good guess, but the room is as dark and empty as the kitchen. Strange.

·       Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, four doors stand before you: the bathroom, the office, the guestroom and your bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and through the crack beneath, you can see the light is turned off. The same can be said for the office, and upon closer inspection, the guestroom as well. You suppose he could be in any of the three rooms, but if that’s the case, it’s safe to assume he really wants to be left alone.

·       Perhaps you really had hurt him in your silly attempt to make him jealous. You both knew it was dangerous for him to go out, but you’d pushed him anyway, and he’d said ‘yes,’ because he trusts you and he loves you. And what had you done? You cuddled up to a stranger all night and let him watch. When you think about it like that, a hot wave of shame rolls through your gut. You feel nauseous.

·       You stand there in the hall, chewing your cheek and wondering what you should do. You could knock, calling his name softly and apologize. Maybe he’d open the door and come to bed with you, maybe he’d choose to sleep on the sofa and send you to bed alone. Either way he’d know you were sorry. But trying to force a conversation Harry wasn’t ready to have was often like talking to a brick wall—a brick wall which could get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would be better to let him come to you when he was ready. But if you leave him alone, he might think you don’t care. But if you push him, he might not take you seriously. As you weigh your options, a flicker of movement from further down the hall catches your attention.

·       Your bedroom door is open just a crack, and through it a quavering light pools on the carpet. At once confused and curious, you creep down the hallway. Pressing your ear to the door, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it doesn’t sound like anyone is in there at all, and yet the light from within flickers as though something is moving in front of it. Curiosity burning in the pit of your stomach, you press your palm against the faded wooden door and give it a push.

·       Candlelight spills out into the hallway, its warm glow washing gently over you. There must be a hundred candles in the room, as every available surface from the dresser to the desk is covered with votives and pillars, tapers and tealights. Were these all yours? You can’t recall ever buying so many, yet here they are. The air is filled with their mingling scents: apples, beeswax, and fresh linen, but beneath that the smell of smoke and the sulfurous scent of the matches he’d used to light them all linger in the air. It can’t have been long since he’s finished lighting them.

·       Harry himself kneels on the floor at the foot of your bed, thighs spread wide. Though he’s facing the door, he hadn’t looked up when the it opened. His eyes remain trained on the carpet before him. His hands though firmly clasped behind his back can’t have been there for long—both the button and zipper of his jeans are fully undone, the fabric stretched wide and slung low across his hips. Beneath the jeans, his boxers have been pulled low, exposing his cock, already hard and drooling precum onto the carpet beneath him.

·       Stunned by the unexpected sight before you, you can do little more than stand there in the doorway, gaping. Harry had certainly never done this before—he’d knelt for you on occasion, sure, but never without being asked first. A tight heat begins to stir within you as the blood rushes from your head to much more…important areas. Feeling a little lightheaded, you find yourself leaning against the doorjamb for support. Though your legs feel as though they’ve turned to jelly, you find your words again with your shoulder braced firmly against a solid surface, “What’s all this then, baby?”

·       He makes no attempt to look at you as he answers, his eyes glued to the floor in a clear sign of submission, though his tone is anything but. There’s bite in his voice, an anger that thrums through his every word, and vibrates through you even from your spot in the doorway, “Jus’ wanna show ya’ I’m good.” He clenches his jaw, eyes burning holes into the carpet, “Make you forget all about him.” He spits out the word like a mouthful of rotten fruit.

·       You grinned. So, he is just jealous after all. Good.

·       “Look at me, Harry.” His eyes flash in the low light, still blazing with anger even as they find yours. His while body is tense with that rage, every muscle coiled and ready to strike, through he remains still, head bowed, arms folded behind his back. His voice is tight, enunciating very clearly, his usual industrial drawl combed into something smoother, “I want to show you I can be just as good for you. Better even.”

·       You smirk down at him, “Oh really?”

·       “I can—” He begins to shift, the movement dragging his shaft against the rough denim of his jeans. He shudders, the words momentarily dying on his tongue. His fingers sink into the carpet at his sides, knuckles going white as he struggles not to roll his hips, bucking into that coarse pleasure. His cock pulses and another bead of precum oozes from the tip. “Fuck,” He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing closed for a brief moment, “I…I can prove it.” There is a pause, his jaw working as he struggles to force the next word out, “Please.”

·       Oh, he really is wound up. Begging doesn’t come easily for Harry Warden, but that just makes it all the sweeter to hear when he does.

·       “Please, let me prove it to you.”

·       You can’t help the grin that slides across your face. “And just how do you intend to do that, baby?”

·       He goes still for a moment, eyes narrowing, still angry but acknowledging the challenge. His gaze slides down your body, dark eyes drinking in your form, coming to rest on the carpet at your feet. “I’ll do anything.”

·       Your grin widens, “Anything?”

·       He swallows thickly, nodding.

·       “Anything?” You’re just teasing him now.

·       “Yes.” His voice is tight and there’s tension building in his shoulders, but you think you can push him a little further.

·       “Anyyyything?”

·       His head snaps up, eyes boring into yours, ablaze with frustration, “Yes for Chrissake! Anything. Just,” He sighs through his nose, bowing his head again, “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

·       You push off from the doorjamb, managing to wobble only a little, as you saunter into the room to stand before him, “Shirt off.”

·       It takes him less than a second to respond, pealing the white cotton shirt over his head, exposing the hard planes of his chest and stomach. “Mm, good boy.” You flop down on the bed, tucking your legs up beneath yourself. “Now, touch yourself.” He reaches for his cock, “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say ‘touch your cock,’ Harry. I said, ‘touch yourself.’”

·       Harry makes a noise caught halfway between a sigh and a whine but does as he’s told. He sits up straighter, his neglected cock bobbing against his stomach. His hands trail up his sides, pressing against toned muscle and bone alike. He shivers as his fingers brush against the scars that litter his chest, remnants of the accident that nearly took his life. “Feel good, baby?”

·       He wrinkles his nose a little, “Not…really? They’re numb kinda…”

·       “Keep going then, you can’t stop until it starts to feel good.” He swallows and brushes his fingers across his nipples. His jaw goes tight, fingers stilling for a moment. You know he doesn’t get much out of touching himself like this, much preferring to fist his cock fast and hard until he finds his release. This is mostly for you—he cuts a lovely figure half-undressed, hands roaming across his body—but if it’s the only stimulation he’s allowed, you figure he’ll find some enjoyment in it. And this hypothesis seems to be correct thus far, as he continues to play far more attention to his chest than he usually would, the fingers of one hand digging into the flesh of his pectoral as his thumb rubs a slow circle around his nipple. His other hand is trailing up his neck, pressing against the sensitive spots just beneath his jaw.

·       His breath is coming harder now, and he’s making lovely little sounds at the back of his throat. His hips press forward, seeking stimulation. “A little lower now, baby.”

·       As commanded, his hands slip down across his ribs, over his stomach. His hands hover about his hips, hesitating, waiting for your instructions. “Oooh, there’s a good boy. Let’s test your self control, shall we? How close can you get to it before you can’t keep still anymore?”

·       He heaves a shaky breath. His fingers dip below the waist of his jeans, tracing the bones of his hips and the tops of his thighs.

·       “You can do better than that. Closer.”

·       You can see his thighs beginning to shake as his fingers slip ever closer to his cock, teasing the inner most spots on his thighs and the seams of his hips, spots you know he loves and hates to find your mouth in equal measure.

· It isn't until his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh just above his cock that his hips stutter forward and a soft cry tears free from his lips.

·       You slip from the bed to kneel before him, pressing your face close to his, crooning praises into his ear. “Is it too much for my good boy? That’s okay, you follow orders so well.” You can feel his cheeks heating us as he flushes a deep red in the low light.

·       Cupping his face, you tilt his chin up, forcing him to look up at you. “Good boys deserve rewards, don’t you think.” Despite the deepening blush, his haughty expression tells you he’ll get you back for this someday. Every word of simpering praise, every degrading kindness will be repaid in full. You can hardly wait. You tilt his head up and down in answer to your own question, “Yes they do. So, let’s give that cock some attention, hmm?”

·       In that moment, Harry forgets himself. His hands shoot out, reaching down to wrap around his length. “Stop!” You bark the order, and he freezes, fingers curling against the air, rather than his throbbing length as he so desperately wants. “Not with your hands.”

·       A long breath hisses out through his teeth. His tone is petulant, “Then how am I supposed to—”

·       “Is that backtalk I’m hearing? Because if it is—”

·       “No!” And just like that the attitude is gone, replacing with a stumbling apology, “I-I’m sorry, I’ll do what you asked. I was just…just clarifyin’. How do you want me to…get off?”

·       “No one said anything about getting off.” You press a finger against his chest, slowly dragging it down over his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, until you find his cock. Your touch merely ghosts over his sensitive flesh, but he trembles beneath it, moaning low in the back of his throat.

·       Your finger finds the tip of his cock, and slips to the underside, stroking roughly against his frenulum—the most sensitive spot on his body. In an instant he’s bucking against you, your name tumbling from his lips along with a litany of trembling pleas for more. While it’s tempting to indulge him, you don’t want this to be over quite so quickly. With a lopsided grin, you withdraw your hand. Harry whines in frustration at the loss, his hips stuttering against the air.

·       His cock drags against the rough denim of his jeans, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He hesitates for only a moment as he looks at you for permission. You nod and his shoulders slump forward, his hands shooting forward to catch himself. His fingers sink into the carpet before his knees, and his thighs slide further apart to accommodate this change is posture.

·       The drag of coarse denim against the over-sensitive flesh of his cock can’t have been the most comfortable sensation in the world, but one wouldn’t get that impression from watching Harry’s expression. Though his head is tipped forward, you can see still his eyes, screwed shut in pleasure. His teeth catch his lower lip tightly. It’s really such a pity, because you know he’d make such lovely noises if he would just open his mouth. You suppose you could just order him to let you hear him, but it was always so much more satisfying to pull the sounds from him yourself.

·       Dipping your head, you press your lips into the column of Harry’s exposed throat. For a moment he goes utterly still, shuddering beneath your mouth. In between peppering every available inch with little kisses, you murmur, “Keep going baby,” against his skin. It takes him a moment to process your command. His lust-fogged mind is able to focus on only a few things at a time, and your lips are taking precedence over everything else. But when it finally clicks, his hips jerk back into motion

·       You graze your teeth along his jaw, catching the spots his fingers had toyed with earlier. Like a latch clicking open, his teeth release his lip, and he moans—a soft sound, almost a sigh. Beautiful. You fall into that spot, nipping and sucking at it until the sounds—moans, whimpers, and curses alike—are tumbling from Harry’s lips one after another.

·       You dig your teeth in hard, and his hips slam forward, a gasp on his lips. The force of his movement pushes his cock further through the opening of his jeans, and the teeth of the zipper drag across his flesh. He hisses, sharp and sibilant, as the sting overtakes the pleasure. God you wish you could see his face—the pleasure swiftly transforming into agony then back again. Though you’re sure your imagination pales in comparison to the real thing, the pictures your mind conjures are enough to send a throbbing wave of want through you. The tortured mix of pleasure and agony on his face is a sight, second only to the beauty of Harry’s expression when he cums for you.

·       As though he could read your thoughts, Harry’s hips jerk down, rutting against the fabric from a different angle. His pace becomes quicker, more frantic as his orgasm looms large on the horizon. You grin against his throat. “Are you close baby?”

·       Harry doesn’t speak, but you can feel him nodding, his bony jaw bumping against the top of your head. “That didn’t take very long. Were you playing without me earlier?”

·       Of course, you know the answer is ‘yes.’ He’d likely been kneeling right there, bucking into his fist while you were locking still the doors. But you wanted to hear him admit it. “Answer me, Harry.”

·       His voice is trembling when he replies, speech lust-slurred and sluggish “Yesss, Ssweetheart”

·       Tsk, tsk. Maybe I shouldn’t let you cum after all.” You place a hand on his hip, stalling his movement. He’s strong enough he could just shake you off, keep going until he finds his release, but he doesn’t. That’s not the game you play. Instead, he shudders under you hand, trembling as his release slips away from him, the pleasure fading to a dull throb between his legs.

·       “No!” His cock pulses, the precum shiny and wet against the tip. “Please, I-I’m sorry. I jus’ wanted to be ready for ya’, I didn’t mean to break the rules.”

·       “I know.” You pat his cheek affectionately. “I understand. It’s hard to be a good boy when it’s in your nature to be a filthy little whore.”

·       Harry’s chest heaves as he comes back down from the edge. His ego chafes under your degradation, but his body shudders with the thrill of it. He rolls his head back, shooting you a sideways glance, “You’re so mean, you know that?” Though his words are anything but, both his expression and his tone are utterly adoring.

·       You peck his cheek, “You love it.”

·       “I do.”

·       You stroke his cheek gently with the back of your hand “Can you start again?”

·       Harry rolls his hips forward, experimentally. His teeth fix into his lower lip almost instantly, but he nods. You can tell the break wasn’t quite long enough, but that’s okay. You’ll just need to keep a closer eye on him to make sure he doesn’t slip over the edge before you’re ready to let him.

·       Your hand finds his hip again, slowing him to a stop. “I think we’ll play a different game this time. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.” You glance down at the rough denim, “Or chaffed up.”

·       Your hand slips into his jeans and grips his cock firmly around the base. He cants up into your hand almost reflexively, heating flesh sliding against your palm. You smile, “Oh no. None of that. You’ve gotta stay still this time, baby. In fact,” You give his cock a gentle pump, causing him to buck into your hand despite your instructions. You pull you hand away. “If you move, I’ll stop. Understand?”

·       Harry’s knuckles go white in the carpet as he struggles to keep himself under control, but he nods. “Good. Now,” You wrap your hand around him once again. “I won’t make this easy on you.”

·       He grins, “Wouldn’t be any fun if ya’ did.”

·       You can’t help but grin back, an expression of your adoration for the man before you as you begin to move your hand. As promised, you set a brutal pace, your grip tight around his feverish flesh.

·       His head falls back, eyes going wide, “Ohh, fuuck!” His hands are shaking where they’re dug into the carpet and his thighs tremble with the tremendous effort of keeping still. And though he takes a near herculean stab at following your instructions,  when your thumb swipes gently over the tip of his cock at the end of a stroke, he falls apart. His hips jerking forward into you hand

·       “Ah, ah,” You say, pulling your hand away despite the high whine at the back of Harry’s throat. “I said don’t move.”

·       His breath is coming in ragged gasps, “Let…Let me try again. I’ll be good!”

·       You purse your lips, as though to say, ‘I’m not sure you will be.” But he leans in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and whimpering, “Please,’ against your skin, and you’re almost convinced.

·       Your pulse jumps as his lips press against your skin. The need to put hands on him again bubbles up within your chest until you cannot fight it a second longer. You hand finds his cock again, sliding against his skin which is now positively radiating heat and slick with precum. He’s really enjoying this. You squeeze your fingers around him a little tighter as he twitches in your hand, “Look at you! Taking it so well for me.” He whimpers in repose, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth works against your skin.

·       Swiping your thumb over the head of his cock again, his voice breaks, climbing higher into the back of his throat. Yet his hips remain still. So, you do it again, thumb spreading the slick precum gathering at the tip of his cock across the head. He shudders against you, sinking his teeth deep into your neck. He’s putting up a good fight, but you can tell he isn’t far from breaking. You begin to move you hand more quickly, squeezing your fist tightly around his shaft.

·       “You’re doing so well, baby. But I wonder…” Your other hand hovers just above the tip of his cock. “What would happen if I…” You touch his tip gently, ghosting your fingers over. The combined sensation of the rough pace of your hand and the gentle touch of your fingers makes his thighs tremble. He’s cursing now, a steady stream of ‘fucks’ and half-coherent pleas tumble forth into the hollow spaces between your collarbones.

·       You press a little harder, rubbing a gentle circle around the head of his cock, and he bucks into your hand, pressing the tip hard against your fingers, desperate for more. Through clenched teeth you can hear him chanting, “No, no, no” over and over, clearly frustrated by the betrayal of his own body.  

·       You smirk down at him, “Looks like you’re really sensitive here huh, baby?”

·       Harry doesn’t respond, merely shuddering against you, his head still buried in the crook of your neck. “It’s not your fault though.” You release his cock, stroking you hands soothingly against his trembling thighs. “You know, I think it’s partially my own fault for not touching you enough. But I can fix that.” You can feel the confused frown pulling against his handsome features, one that begins to melt into a look of shocked horror as he realizes what you’re about to do.

·       He pulls away from your neck just a moment before you set upon the tip of his cock. Your fingers making a tight little ring, you squeeze around him. His head jerks back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. You stroke your thumb against the tip, rubbing tight quick circles against his weeping slit. He finds his voice, broken and wavering and cries out your name, begging you for more and to stop in the same breath.

·       His hips buck into your hand wildly, but this time you don’t stop, squeezing tighter, as your fingers slip beneath the head, rubbing relentless circles against his frenulum. His body seizes up, his voice momentarily dying in this throat. When it returns, he’s babbling, nearly sobbing with the pleasure, “Need t’stop…” He whines, “Neet’sssstop or I’ll cum,” His speech is slurred, punctuated with sharp moans and deep gasps for breath.

·       “But I thought you wanted to cum, Harry.”

·       His chest is heaving now, sweat slicking his sandy hair to his temples, “I do, fuuuck, IdoIdoIdo, pleassse, but…” He swallows hard, struggling to grind out the words around the white-hot pressure building in his stomach, “Wanna...wanna be good for ya’, don’t wanna…c-c-cum until you let me.” Despite his words, he grinds down against your fingers, unable to stop himself. “Please lemme be good, FUCK! Please, babyssstop! I’m gonna cum,”

·       For just a moment, you consider letting him. But the beseeching look in his eyes tells you even if you did, though the release would be satisfying, it wouldn’t be good enough. Harry wanted, no, needed to be good for you. Taking pity on him now wouldn’t help.

·       You pull your hands back, and despite himself, Harry sobs, a fat droplet of precum spilling down his pulsing length. Harry shudders as it rolls down his flesh, over-sensitive as though he’d just cum. You realize then, just how close he’d actually been.

·       You take him into your arms, pulling him close and petting his hair gently as he struggles to get his breathing under control. He jitters against you, a low whimper in his throat as your repositioning causes his cock to rub against you.

·       “Christ, I’m sorry,” He says, voice a cracked whisper, “It’s been so long since we’ve…”

·       You shush him, “I know baby, take your time.” His head falls against your shoulder, the weight of his shuddering body a welcome pleasure. He presses soft kisses into your neck, trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

·       He kisses you softly, his lips sluggish against your own, but still no less adoring. He pulls back enough to whisper, “I’m yours.” And you smile.

·       “I know.” You run your fingers down his back, ghosting over exposed skin and he shudders.

·       “No one else will ever belong to you like I do.” Despite Harry’s fragile state, it isn’t a question, rather a statement that isn’t to be questioned.

·       “No one else.”

·       He melts against you, “Then touch me. I can take it.”

·       You push him back, searching his dark eyes. What you find there is the same lust that’s driven you since the beginning of the night. You tug him to his feet, gripping his arms tightly as he wobbles on stiff and tired legs.

·       “Get yourself out of those jeans, and get on the bed. We aren’t finished.”

[felidlycanthrope]

Flow

Word count: ~1k

zuko x reader (first person POV, gender neutral, water bender!reader)

This was inspired by this picture that I saw a while ago:

Go check out the artist of this pic!! They’re super talented!! @polska-tankieta  

I hope you guys like this one :)

A gentle breeze brushed against my clothes, flapping quietly in unsychronized unison with the echo of my footsteps against the cobbled flooring of the path ahead of me. The leaves of the nearby bushed rustled as a sudden gust blew stray cherry blossom petals, swirling them about in a meager attempt at mimicking the destruction of a tornado.

As I slowed my pace, I came to rest at an all too familiar patch of untouched land in the center of the palace walls. Water trickled over the ancient stone of the fountain near the center, babbling happily despite the unusual aura of gloom surrounding it.

Nearby, the tiny pond that it presumably pulled its water from sat undisturbed, with the exception of the tiny waves made by even tinier turtleduck feet swimming about irritatedly. In the middle of their liquid-y home laid the Firelord- dressed in full regalia, staring at the sky.

A small twinge of amusement pulled at the corner of my lips, admittedly. I quickly shoved the feeling back down my throat, letting it settle amongst the butterflies that roamed stomach much more often nowadays.

Despite preparing for his entire life for the position, being a Firelord seemed to imply that the holder of its position be a calm, levelheaded individual. Etiquette lessons and knowledge of cultural taboos could only take a person so far when coupled with a society built upon a genocidal, colonizer-led regime over the last one hundred years. He was only a teenager when he had first taken on the position, and just after watching his sister be whisked away for her own safety and his father imprisoned for the atrocities he had committed.

The world often failed to realize the toll this took on someone who only wanted the best for his people. Even five years later, he still trudged over to the pond after a particularly challenging day of negotiating reparations and citizen pleas and sunk into its cool embrace.

With a flick of my fingers, I willed the water to freeze up- just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be uncomfortable to its current inhabitants. With a small smile, Zuko sat up for a moment. The movement was clearly more difficult than he expected; the sudden burst of cold mixed with the tendrils of the spring breeze barely seemed to phase him when coupled with the surprise of the added soaking wet weight of his robes and untied hair.

“Those robes are probably hundreds of years old,” I scolded him as I removed my shoes, “is sitting in a pond filled with koi-frogs and lilypads really the best idea in the world?”

“Hasn’t stopped me before now,” he mumbled with a chuckle, “definitely won’t later.” He lowered himself back into the water, careful not to disturb the lilypads behind him.

The grass crunched under my feet, made slippery with the dew left by the thunderstorm earlier in the afternoon. I picked a few petals off the shedding tree as I walked over to the edge of the pond.

His hair splayed out in long tendrils as the water flowed with the ebb and flow of the wind. The fading light of the sun cast a golden light over the walls of the garden, warming my skin even without the harsh light of high noontime.

I lowered myself down to the ground, careful not to disturb the equally golden crown that had been dug into the dirt behind Zuko. I raised my hand over his face, letting the cherry blossom petals float through my fingers and onto his face.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to disturb people when they’re sleeping?” He opened one eye- flecks of brown mixed with the same liquid gold that swirled in the evening air- with a half of a smirk.

“If you’re sleeping then how is your big fat mouth making noise?”

“I could have you sent to prison for that kind of tone,” he replied. “Haven’t you heard? I’m supposed to ‘command respect without hesitation.’” The last few words seemed to force their way out of his mouth in an abnormally ‘proper’ tone.

“Well then who would bring you your stupid tea and your stupid headache remedies and your stupid peaches and your stupid-“

“Yes I get it, stupid is the operative word today,” he snapped. His jaw cemented itself in place.

A strange silence draped itself between us.

After a moment, I knew I had to be the first to break it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not yet.”

I let out a sigh as I realized what the only remedy to the situation was. I unclasped my necklace, letting the silk ribbon fall over the crevices of the crown. The clumsily, perfectly carved red stone clinked loudly as it settled at the base of the hairpin.

I started to roll up my pants before realizing what I was about to do. A snort escaped me. I left the other leg unrolled before gently stepping into the water. The slime of the algae beneath my feet was a welcome cleanliness in comparison to the blades of grass that had stuck themselves between my toes on the walk over.

I sunk as gently as I could into the pond, its cool embrace beckoning me from the hot sun above.

His robes brushed against my fingertips, waving as the water moved with the slow, steady movements of his chest. His calloused hand brushed against the side of my own before weaving itself between my fingers.

I didn’t know if minutes, hours, or days had passed before I noticed a pang of hunger audibly make itself known.

“We should probably find something to eat sometime soon,” I whispered, breaking the silence, “and probably dry off before one of us catches a cold.”

“Just a little while longer,” he responded, “I promise.” The dopey smile I loved so dearly crept over his features.

Without another word, I sank back down into the water, brushing my hair out from under my shoulders and settling into walls of lilypad roots and tiny animals.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Day 8: “Is this really the time for jokes?”

This may be the cutest thing I have ever written which is kind of rude to my jercy brain but whatever!

masterlist

I wrote a post for Percy's birthday that had a "headcanon" in it that inspired this fic

canon-compliant

Percy Jackson tucks a small box into his pants pockets, before adjusting the collar of his shirt and making sure the beaded necklace he never takes off still sits at the hollow of his throat, the trident directly in the middle. 

The unusually cool breeze that flutters through their villa brushes the back of his neck, instantly allowing him to breathe more easily. The bright blue ocean spreads out below them, calm and inviting. Like visiting his mother’s house. Or stepping into their apartment after a long day: his girlfriend curled up on the couch with her wire frame glasses propped on her nose, hunched over a book. It is comfort that he looks out on.

“Pers?” Annabeth calls from the bathroom.

“Yes Wisegirl?”

“Do you mind grabbing my heels by the bed, the blue ones.” Her voice bounces across the room.

He moves away from the mirror in the corner and gets onto his knees near the bed to find the shoes. Hidden between the side-table and the frame are baby-blue satin heels. Ribbons hang from the ankles and he knows they’ll look godly wrapped around her golden legs.

“Found them?”

He steps into the bathroom with a soft smile on his face, and hands them over. He takes her in and all the breath screams out of his lungs. His heart jumps in protest but he can’t bring himself to inhale. He’ll choke on her beauty.

She is wearing a soft, silk dress that hugs all the hard plains of her, and stops mid thigh. Her generally unruly curls are barely contained in a low bun, small strands already springing out and falling around her face. Her ears, usually decorated in her signature owl earrings, now adorn small jewels in her two lobe piercings. One he recognises as the earrings he got her for their fifth anniversary. Her helix piercing is still the same silver hoop they both bore after a drunken decision and a 24 hour tattoo shop. Percy’s mother was not impressed, but she wasn’t nearly as angry as the tattoo debacle.

“You ready?” His girlfriend squeezes his hand, looking at him with appreciation and love in her grey eyes.

“For anything.” He squeezes back. They had faced enough in their years that the words held more weight than most people could bear. But their shoulders had held the sky, and together they would hold the world.

“Where did you reserve a table?”

“At the restaurant we got to when we came here the first time. That one where you snorted your orange juice and we both laughed so hard the waiter thought we were dying.”

A giggle erupts from her and it lights up the room like neon sunshine. ‘I remember. Oh gods we were an absolute disaster.”

“I thought it was very cute of you to spurt orange juice through your nose and onto my white shirt.” He grins.

She shoves his shoulder and squeezes his waist. Her head brushes his cheeks, the heels giving her height on him she didn’t usually possess. He loves it. It makes it easy to kiss her. And he does. Long, and hard, and with enough affection to drown them both.

She pushes away eventually, “We’ll never get anywhere if we carry on like this. And i am not wasting another pretty dress.”

“Is it really a waste if i got to see you in it?” He pouts.

“Yes.” She raises a perfect eyebrow, giving him that look that says ‘i dare you to argue with me’, but there is so much light glittering in her eyes.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go Wisegirl.”

So they step out of their little slice of paradise for the week and onto the cobbled white streets of Athens. The night air is fresh, and full of ocean breezes, and pretty memories. He hopes to make a few more before they leave in two days.

The restaurant is not far from their hotel so the walk is short and filled with lingering touches and comfortable silences. Annabeth looks like a goddess as the moonlight strikes her dress at all angles and gives her an ethereal glow. The ribbons of her shoes wrap around her legs and make them look impossibly longer. He is sometimes struck so inexplicably by her beauty he feels like his ribs are splitting from his spine.

A waiter greets them and leads them to a table in the back where the lights are low and the candles are bright. The crimson tablecloths drape elegantly and Percy has to remind himself that he is not the undeserving little kid who wasn’t allowed to even look at things that cost more than fifty dollars. He is a grown adult, making his own money, deserving of all the things he has gotten and achieved in life.

As if sensing his hesitation, Annabeth gives his arm a gentle squeeze and then sits down at the chair he’s pulled out for her. One of the many lessons his mother insisted on drilling into him. Walk a partner to the door. Open the car door for them. Pull out their chair. He may be chaos in motion but he is respectful all the same. He is his mother’s child through and through.

“Can i get you something to drink?”

He looks at his girlfriend, smirking as they both recall the orange juice, and with one voice order the infamous drink. Along with lemon water and celebratory cocktails. Today they’ve been together seven years. Today he is twenty five years old. Today they are alive. Today they deserve to live.

He feels the little box in his pocket and he hides a grin. There are no nerves thrumming through his veins. He has never been more sure of anything in his life.

“I can’t wait to go to Onassis Stegi tomorrow,” Annabeth sighs, a faraway look in her eyes. “I hear they have the most beautiful exhibitions and their work is monumental.” He senses he’s lost her to architecture so he grabs her hand and gets lost with her.

“They’ve just completed a project to light up the Acropolis. Oh Pers it’s so beautiful we must make time to see it. I’ve been fascinated with it’s structural integrity ever since I was eight years old.”

He doesn’t hide his amazement at the fact that Annabeth was researching the structural integrity of anything at eight years old, but he doesn't interrupt her either. She has that look, cheeks flushed, grin wide, and hands animated that tells him she’s been dying to gush about this.

When he had first surprised her with the holiday she had burst into tears because there were so many things she hadn’t gotten to see the first time they had come to Athens. Whereas before they were tourists, with ancient roots in this beautiful city, now they are simply architect and boyfriend, social worker and girlfriend, Percy and Annabeth.

Their evening proceeds in a similar fashion: her gushing, him listening, trying to keep up; him joking, her laughing. When they drain the last of their cappuccinos and he feeds her the final bite of brownie, they are live wires dangling over cool water.

“Want to go for a walk along the beach?” He nods towards the walkway, where the ocean dances under the light of the moon.

She stares at the beach, a calculated look on her face. She glances at him and something crosses her face that he doesn’t have time to read. Even all these years later he is still figuring out the enigma that is Annabeth Chase.

“Lets.” She holds onto his shoulders, and unties the ribbons at her ankles.

Immediately she shrinks to her usual height at his shoulders , and he can’t help but place a kiss to the top of her golden head. She offers her shoes to him, before lopping her arm through his and tugging him along. They step onto the sand, which sinks underneath his feet and suddenly she is running towards the sea, curls flying, dress fluttering, and her hands rising to touch the sky.

“Come on Seaweed Brain!’ She yells. And he can see the happiness radiating of her.

Tugging off his own shoes, and socks, he races after his girlfriend, vaulting onto her back. With a grunt she wraps her arms around his legs and takes off at a sprint, feet splashing on the shore. He laughs into her hair and her reactionary smile lights his soul on fire. It is then that disaster strikes. 

Annabeth trips over a small rock, and they both go flying towards the sandy, shore. She lands on her stomach and he rolls right over her head and onto his back. They are a mess of limbs and wet sand and laughter like ringing bells.

“Guess you’re really falling for me,” He grins.

She wipes grains out of her eyes and pins her grey gaze on him. “Is this really the time for jokes, Seaweed Brain?”

“There’s always time for jokes Wisegirl.”

He hauls himself into a kneeling position, pretending to adjust his clothes, as she gets up and wipes off the fall from her now wet dress. The cream silk clings to her even more, and her hair is caked with ocean sand and tiny shells. She looks beautiful. 

He pulls the box out of his pocket and looks up at her. She is still distracted by her clothes and the water lapping at her bare feet.

“Wisegirl,” He says softly.

She looks to him, fire crackling in her eyes as if she’s preparing to frown at him for another joke. Her legs visibly shake at the sight before her.

“I have loved you since the day you stood over me and told me i drool in my sleep.” He smiles, and it echoes hers. “I will love you until we’re old and more grey-” Their eyes flick to the twin streaks in their hair. “And i get to tell you you drool in your sleep.” 

She rolls her eyes but there is mirth dancing on her chest.

“You are my best friend, the greatest warrior i have ever fought beside, and the only person that can choke on orange juice at the same restaurant three years apart.” Their laughter catches in their throat. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

“Only if i get to say something first.” She smiles delicately. He nods. She continues, ‘I have heard sirens tell me my deepest desires, I have rebuilt Olympus, i have found the Athena Parthenos and held up the sky. We have even gone to Tartarus together. But my greatest adventure, and my most beloved pride, has been standing by your side.”

There are tears in both of their eyes; the drops land in the ocean and find their way home.

“Yes Perseus Jackson, I will marry you.” She leans down, cups his cheeks, and kisses him like time is merciless. “Over and over again. I will marry you and fight by you and love you, over again.”

“I love you Wisegirl.” He slips the sapphire ring onto her finger.

“I love you Seaweed Brain.” Annabeth Chase kisses him again. “Together?”

“Together.” Percy Jackson smiles. And their next adventure begins.

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

Tags:

@nishlicious-01​

@leydiangelo​

@spoopylucy​

[pynkhues]

hey! sorry to bother you! will you be updating ‘see you in the light’ ?

Hey! It’s not a bother at all, anon! I am! Finally! Haha.

I was pretty mortified recently to see that it’s been a year since I posted the first part. 🙈

I’m hoping to post Chapter 2 and 3 more or less back-to-back (tentatively aiming for a week in-between?) As a result, I’m sort of writing them back-to-back, which is unusual for me. Chapter 2 though is mostly finished, and Chapter 3 is getting there, and w ith any luck, I might be able to have it up in the next week or so.

For your troubles (and the long wait!), you can have the first scene of chapter 2 if you like!

-

“Don’t turn around,” Laura says, leaning in conspiratorially, still nursing the too-sweet espresso macchiato he’d picked her up from the deli on his way to North Elm Elementary. “But we’ve got an audience. Three o’clock.”

And yeah, Rio thinks, resisting the urge to sigh. It’s not like he’s even gotta look.

He’d felt the guy the second he’d pulled his car into the lot, had seen him wind down the driver’s side window, felt his gaze lock on him and Laura before he’d looked everywhere around and between them, like Elizabeth was hiding behind a light post or a shrub, some passing ship for his barnacle ass to cling to. But hell, the gormless look in this clingy fucker’s eye wasn’t what was botherin’ him.

What was bothering him was the car.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Rio says, raising his own coffee to his lips to take a sip, his other hand still wrapped around the steadily cooling cup which was meant for Elizabeth. He swallows thickly, sucking in his lips a little as he lowers his drink. “He’s Elizabeth’s ex.”

It’s instant, like he knew it would be – the hundred looks that cross Laura’s face, her eyes widening, her lips spluttering – and then she does the exact damn thing he was avoiding, which is throw her lanky arm out and wave Dean over across the North Elm Elementary School parking lot, and just - -

Shit.

He lets his eyes briefly close in irritation.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go down.

What was supposed to happen was that Laura and Elizabeth and him were supposed to have a little sit down at the coffee shop on Third, do the get-to-know-you bullshit before they toured the schools for the kids, only Laura had been runnin’ late, and Elizabeth had gotten held up on some customer business (of the legitimate kind) at the dealership, and somehow it had just been Rio orderin’ coffees to go.

He rocks his jaw, blinks hard, seeing Dean’s wide-shouldered shadow lumber up to them, and Rio stacks Elizabeth’s coffee on top of his own and pulls out his cell. She’s gotta be getting close now, he figures, checking for a missed call (there ain’t one), before opening up the messenger app, like there’s any chance he could’ve missed it, when Dean’s nasal voice cuts through his thoughts.  

“Hey, yeah, uhhh, so Beth told me we should go in without her? She said she probably won’t make it. She’s having some problems with a customer, something about the brake pads in a Honda? I told her she should just - - you know - - pass it off to the mechanics or whatever, but you know Bethie.”

Which - -

Rio shoves his tongue against the back of his teeth, blinking hard, staring down at the last message he got from her, but there’s no mention of being anything other than late, and a part of him thinks this dumbass ex of hers is talking out of his ass, but his eyes dart back to the car again and Rio knows he ain’t.

She called.

She just didn’t call him.

Rolling his shoulders back, Rio makes a show out of checking his phone still, like Elizabeth’s message wasn’t the one he was waitin’ on, like he’s got much more important shit to attend to than this (which he does just as much as he doesn’t), and he can feel both Laura and Dean’s gaze on him, something in his back winding tight when Laura suddenly pivots, and says:

“Laura, by the way. I’m Marcus’ mom.”

“Right! Dean,” he gestures to his chest, sways a little on the spot, and Rio’s eyes snap back up sharply. “The dad. Of the rest of the kids. Not yours obviously.”

The thick chuckle he offers wrangles an amused sound out of Laura, and Rio lets his focus slide back to her as she pops an eyebrow back at Dean.

“I feel like I’d have remembered that.”

Fuckin’ PTA icebreaker bullshit – Rio inhales sharply. Feels the late spring air prickly at his neck, and he’s just gotta get through this, right? Three school visits, get Marcus and Elizabeth’s kids enrolled, Laura happy, Elizabeth happy, Dean he really couldn’t give less of a fuck about, and then it’s done. At least until school actually starts in the fall, but for Elizabeth to be happy, he knows she’s going to have to see the place, and to see it - - shit.

This was her idea.

He feels his jaw rock, feels his eyes flit back to that fuckin’ car, and suddenly it’s like he’s a windup toy – something has been wound in him, over and over, and when it’s released, his hands work fast over the keys of his phone.

You coming or not?

It’s only a minute before her number blears up on his phone screen in reply with a message of her own:

Start without me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Then:

Don’t forget to ask about the pool for Kenny. Ultraviolet pool cleaner = less chlorine exposure!

And fine, maybe his mouth hangs for a minute, maybe he wets his lips, maybe he blinks too hard, and when he looks up at Laura, her own mouth is tight, and maybe Dean is babbling, oblivious beside her, looking anywhere but at Rio, an awkward tension setting his limbs at angles, and right, Rio thinks.

Right.

But before he can open his mouth to reply, or pull himself together, another, more familiar car rattles into the parking lot, and okay - - no, he thinks, a fresh seed of dread planting in his gut, right as his phone buzzes again. His gaze flicks down.

I sent help!

It’s scored by a disbelieving scoff from Dean beside him which quickly shifts into a groan, and then Laura’s looking between them, and when Annie stumbles out of her car and swaggers over between them, Laura brightens:

“Elizabeth?”

Rio won’t even remember who corrects her.

[justoneday-namjoonii]

Don’t Breathe 4.5 | teaser

»Genre: hitman!au || stalker!au ||

»Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, obsession, themes of potential Stockholm syndrome, mono-phobia, mature elements, yandere at some point (? i think ), themes of depression, redemption, they fall in love, lovey dovey, fluff, Disclaimer: I do not condone nor suggest stalking/kidnapping or anything of that nature, this is purely fiction ok.

»Summary: He doesn’t get shaky hands, he never forgets his gloves and he never leaves a trail. He was paid to get rid of everyone who witnessed the exchange between a gang lord and a politician, they were picked off, one by one. He found out a month later, he missed one. A young writer who attended the event where the exchange took place. He has to kill her. Can he do it?

✤ pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.2.5 - pt.3 - pt. 3.5 - pt. 4.0 - pt.4.5

author’s note: coming soon

taglist: @tangledsparkles @just-another-fangurl21 @impartoftoomanyfandoms @komorebi-unnie​ @tangledsparkles​ @yes-sol-not-soul (sorry :( tumblr won’t let me tag you) if you’d like to be added to the taglist please comment on this post💜

The sun is setting like a dream, you can’t say you’ve ever seen it shine so beautiful. The sky looks like a peach painting that shyly fades into a heavenly deep-blue. It’s a perfect evening, the air smells of the flowers growing on the porch and it delights your senses. He’s chasing you barefooted across the grassy yard, like two children playing tag at the peek of spring. Out of breath, he finally catches you and you fall back into the checkered blanket, too tired to run off again.

After seeing you enjoy the balcony so much, he introduced you to his lavish  backyard. Aside from the large stone patio and pool attached to it, the yard expands at least an acre and it’s well-groomed. Early in the evening, you moved to spend some time on the patio, a pencil and paper in hand. Taehyung had some work to do so you had a few hours to yourself, you used that time to think and write. After a few hours, you could no longer resist the urge to take a dip in the crystal clear oasis.

With a t-shirt and underwear, you eased into the cool water and breathed a sigh of relief. For what could have been an hour or two, you weren’t counting, you swam on your back, staring up at the clear sky, wondering if you’ll ever feel peace like this again. When your eyes shut, your thoughts seem to align, and for the first time since you’ve been here, you felt like you were where you were supposed to be. As much as you cherish your life alone, your independence and innate desire to prove that you can make it on your own—it seems Taehyung is worth giving that up.

That would have sounded crazy weeks ago, but it’s how you feel. That night that you confessed that you wanted to be with him, you meant it. You don’t know when it happened, maybe when you kissed him and he picked you up, when you woke up to him fast asleep with a pillow in his arms. Or maybe it was when he suggested you help him bake, since he knew you wrote so much about food in your articles, you’re not sure. But somehow, some time after learning his name, you think you fell in love.

When you were with Jin, you had similar feelings to this. You knew you were in love when you had the urge to smile even when you were hurting just to make him smile. That feeling of unexplained self-sacrifice, something as small as smile, you’d force it out if you knew it would help him. With Taehyung, it seems like he will do anything to make you smile sometimes, even when you know he’s keeping stressful things from you. Is that love? You think so.

You sigh, still feeling a bit wet from your swim a while ago but you’ve dried mostly. He fussed at you for not showering straight away but you said the sun would dry you well enough until your shower tonight. It’s dusk now, and your out in the grass, laying happily on the blanket with him. Only a few minutes ago did you find out that he had pretty lights adorning the patio. He said he’s had them for a while but hadn’t turned them on until today. It casts a warm light out into the grass, you tell him he should turn it on more often.

”You should shower before you catch a cold,” He stresses for the second time. You find his worry endearing but negotiate five more minutes, and he caves. It’s been a while since you’ve been outside like this. He knows this, that’s why he’s laying shoulder to shoulder with you as you gaze up at the night sky. “Sorry I had so much work I had to do today, hope you weren’t too bored,”

”It’s fine, I was writing anyway...”

”Really?” He turns on his side, curiosity piqued. You nod, hands searching for the pencil and pad you had on the blanket.

”I used to write poetry when I was in high school. I wasn’t very good and some of it is kind of cringe now that I look back at it, but I enjoyed it. I haven’t written in so long, I thought I’d give it a shot,” You grab the notepad and look up at it, eyes skimming over the gray hue from all the erasing. You catch him trying to peek over and you hold it to your test. You grin, “Don’t look, it’s not good,”

He pouts, hand moving to intertwine with yours.

“Come on, you’ve never shared your personal writings with me before,” He pouts, leaning closer to you in hopes that you might succumb to the allure of his gaze. “Pleeease?”

”Fine,” You sigh, “but you have to read it yourself,” You lift the notepad, handing it to him.

He sits up and the feeling of anxiousness comes to a halt when you realize one important fact; it’s Taehyung reading this. Not a supervisor critiquing your rough draft or a teacher judging your ability to recite your understanding of the class’s latest assignment. It’s him.

I’ve been given a universe, all for me. My very own stars in your eyes, I can stare at you forever. The remnants of your every gaze births a galaxy and I draw up the constellations by the reminisce of the pattern of your touch on my skin. I, too, have given my universe to you. Though I’m innocent to the stars in my eyes, the constellations I paint on your skin, all for you. No event is there more beautiful than the moment our eyes meet, our nebulae collide. A merging occurs, giving life to new stars that are our own, creating a galaxy that holds a shape that can only be defined by fate. In that sweet moment, we create an intertwined constellation, a design filled with millions of our old and new stars, shining brighter than ever,

“in your universe, my universe...” He reads the last lines softly. Setting the pad down with an expression that you can’t quite read, he just looks at you and you start to feel nervous.

“I just,” You bite at your lip and look up at the night sky that’s beginning to show the stars, “I had this idea about space, it’s a little different but it took me hours to come up with...I’m rusty.”

He props himself up and leans over you, gaze searching for yours with a tender close-lipped smile. He holds his hand to his heart, “That was so beautiful.”

You cringe, pushing his chest so he can roll back on his back. “Oh stop, now I wish I wouldn’t have showed you,” It’s hard to tell if he’s praising you or teasing, it seems like it’s one in the same sometime.

“I’m being serious, I can feel the emotions you’re conveying in your words, I really get it...” He looks a bit surprised that you’d think he was teasing you about this, he leans back over you. 

“You mean it?” You look into his eyes, wondering how anyone could be capable of making you feel so special, like you’re the only person in the world. Without a word, he presses a firm kiss to your lips and you sigh, he means it.

*  *  *

“How’s the investigation going? Jin told me you reached out the other day,”

The busy lawyer sits his freshly ordered coffee in his cup holder as he drives off to his highly-decorated firm.

“I did, the case is more complicated than I initially thought,” Yoongi poured the subpar coffee in the Styrofoam cup, it’s 6am and he’s trying not to be grumpy, “if I’m right about my suspicions, it’s a fucked up situation.”

“What’re you thinking?”

Yoongi looks around, seeing that the only person around was the woman at the desk. “The girl, along with the other individuals at that conference, were targeted. I got the names of the parties at the conference, they’re politicians of course but the details of the meeting was never released. I have a theory,”

He lowers his voice, looking around one more time before sipping his coffee, “I think someone at that conference had those other reporters killed. I went over each autopsy file and those people died from unusual things, but not unusual enough to suspect at first-glance. Most of them dies from too much of a medication that they were already taking, things like that. But this girl, unlike everyone else, she was abducted and I don’t know why.”

Jungkook makes a thoughtful noises. “What’s different about her that not like the others?”

“She went missing a little over a month after the others were found dead. It looks like a mistake to me,” He paces, “I don’t know if I’m being too outlandish, but I have a feeling she’s alive, we just need to find her,”

Jungkook responds with how he feels about it but Yoongi has to cut him short when Eunwoo walks into the station.

“You’re here early, Min,” Eunwoo smiles, beckoning Yoongi to follow him to his office, “I have some good news, and some bad news, which do you want first?” Eunwoo leads Yoongi into his office and sets his briefcase down so he can pull what he needs out.

“Surprise me.” He deadpans.

“Well, last night, we found out that the infamous Hwan Group could be apart of this. You know that group, they’ve been under the radar for years, you can’t catch’em. But there’s a chance they could be the force behind this, they have assassins for hire from what I’ve heard,” He takes a seat, opening one of the Manila folders.

“And the good news?”

“It took a lot to pin him, but we’re bring one of the parties in for questioning today,”

“Good, I think they know something that they’ve been trying to keep under the rug.”

“Yeah, I agree.”

Yoongi gets up, hand tight on the flimsy cup, “If you could give me a call after the questioning, I’d appreciate it. I’m gonna do a little digging into this Hwan Group, see if I can get some info that’ll help,”

Yoongi leaves the building with a to-do list but little does he know, detective Na Jaemin, knocking on on Eunwoo’s door.

“Come in,”

“Hi,” Jaemin slips into the room, an unusual grin on his face, “how are you?”

“Um,” Eunwoo looks around, not understanding why he’s approaching him like this but he shrugs, “good, is everything okay, detective?”

“Everything's fine,” Lies, “I just had a question about that PI, Min Yoongi,”

“Shoot,” Eunwoo awaits his question.

“Why is he so adamant on keeping this case open? I mean, I’m a detective on the case and I think we should start searching for the body,” His tone sounds innocent but he’s trying to sneakily plant this idea in Eunwoo’s mind, “we could be wasting precious time, the family deserves closure and we’re just dragging it on.”

“Detective Na,” Eunwoo stops looking through the folder, “given the other related cases, we have reason to believe she might be alive. Not every abductee is killed, even if that tends to be the case.”

Jeamin swallows, trying to think of how to save himself, “I know, I’m not saying that we should be pessimistic but realistic, rather.”

“I get what you’re saying, but on what prescient you’re saying it, I don’t know. I, and many of the others on this case, have reviewed the evidence and compared it to the other cases, it doesn’t add up. After the questioning today, we’ll talk, until then, your efforts need to go towards finding her alive and well,” Eunwoo walks past Jaemin and the detective gets the memo to get out of the office, “Understood?”

With a feigned grin he stands up straight. “Absolutely, sir,” 

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this New York Times story:

Here at 12,000 feet on the Continental Divide, only vestiges of the winter snowpack remain, scattered white patches that have yet to melt and feed the upper Colorado River, 50 miles away.

That’s normal for mid-June in the Rockies. What’s unusual this year is the speed at which the snow went. And with it went hopes for a drought-free year in the Southwest.

“We had a really warm spring,” said Graham Sexstone, a hydrologist with the United States Geological Survey. “Everything this year has melted really fast.”

The Southwest has been mired in drought for most of the past two decades. The heat and dryness, made worse by climate change, have been so persistent that some researchers say the region is now caught up in a megadrought, like those that scientists who study past climate say occurred here occasionally over the past 1,200 years and lasted 40 years or longer.

Even a single season of drought is bad news for the Southwest, where agriculture, industry and millions of people rely on the region’s two major rivers, the Colorado and the Rio Grande, and their tributaries for much of their water. Dry conditions also shrivel crops, harm livestock and worsen wildfires.

But droughts, even long ones, eventually end, when the natural variability of climate results in a few “good,” meaning wet, years in a row. So after a relatively cool and wet spring last year followed by a decent snowpack in the fall and winter, there was some optimism that 2020 might be remembered as the year the long Southwestern drought started to fade.

But then came April and May, which were warm and dry, leading to rapid melting and runoff.

[the-stick-scribblers]

you will not be spared

The light has changed; middle C is tuned darker now. And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. - This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring. This light of autumn: you will not be spared.

“Where's your lover boy?”

He looks up at Margo through his bangs, bleary, and looks right back down again at the table, shaking the cocktail mixer until the ice sounds louder than the beats. She doesn't take the hint.

“Ron? Scooby? Thelma?” Margo's hair is tumbling out of her bun in artful curls, three hours into the party, and the sheen on her forehead could be sweat or highlighter. She's either having a great time, or she snuck away to the bathroom at some point to make it look like she is. Hard to tell. “Watson? Sam?”

He snorts. “That one's made up.”

"Really." Margo's immaculately smudged eyelashes blink at him. ”Wait - really?”

Eliot stares back at her with matching incredulity, although it's less about her and more about...whatever the last pill was he took. Or the laced hors d'euvre from Josh. Or the French 69 he downed right before. Which, yes, but now the house needs more grapefruit. He snags the closest frosh and sends them out into the rain to the store to fetch, locking the door behind them with a satisfying click.

“I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you?” Margo is still raising her sharp eyebrows and talking behind him, and he presses his forehead against the door's old wood to help him focus. It isn't cool. In fact, it's hot, and wet, from the party and his sweat or someone else's, but the pressure of it is soothing.

Margo pokes him between the shoulder blades, and he groans. “Lord of the Rings?”

“Dismal response time on a homoerotic classic. I'm cutting you off.” She does, in fact, taking the newly-filled wine glass from his hand and downing it in one go before snapping her fingers and sending the entire boozy setup to fuck knows where. He groans again. “Back to the point: Quentin. You’ve seen him?”

“No,” he lies. “Why?”

Margo doesn't huff, but the tightening of her lips and the stilling of her shoulders indicates if it were just the two of them, she would. “Because Alice is over in the corner chasing everyone away with murder eyes, which is so not the vibe I arranged for today, and because you've had eyes for him like a damn tracking spell since the day he got here.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that - sweet Prince's ass.” The current DJ, stationed as she is on a platform at the side of the hall, has been steadily inching her equipment away from Alice's literal rain cloud for the past five minutes and is now making a hasty retreat with the whole setup as the rain turns to little droplets of glass. Someone enchants a worn out stuffed bear to replace her; Margo raises her voice with admirably little effort to match the sudden explosion of EDM. “My point is that I need to go find this party a better DJ. And you could use some fresh air.”

“You want Quentin to DJ?” It's such a preposterous idea - Quentin with his hair pulled back and frowning at the sliders, Monsters and Men and Evanescence intermixed with tasteless nineties rap, eyes creased in adorable, if mistaken, concentration  - that Eliot giggles. His curls, startled briefly awake, flop away from his eyes with less grace than Margo's but exactly as much sweaty determination. “Hard pass.”

Margo's fond glare turns steely. “I wasn't asking.”

“I wasn't agreeing.”

“El,” she snaps. “Out.”

"Fine. So bossy.” He rolls his head back to clear his eyes so he can glare at her and doesn't bother grabbing an umbrella, just unlocks the door and shrugs his vest straight. Margo, exhausted but regal, watches him go with glittering eyes. As soon as his heels cross the threshold, he's locked out.

The storm is unusual for New York, but not for Iowa. The heavy water suits his headache better than the house and for the first time since the fight this morning he lets himself relax into it. He's drenched within thirty seconds. It's the surest sign he's not an urban native, and a gesture he'll deny if anyone's still sober enough to see him from the cottage, but right now being soaked is a necessary allowance. He stands in the yard, face up to the shards of gray sky, until both the anger and the drugs dull and his thoughts stop sounding so much like fog. Then he starts walking.

Visibility is long past poor. If it weren't for the occasional flashes of lightning at the edges of his vision, he'd decide he must be blind. But it doesn't matter - Margo was right. He could find Quentin blind, with his eyes shut, backwards, from a different world, blindfolded, from sense alone. He lets his feet take him through the mud on autopilot and is grateful for the annoyance. Any stronger feeling is a guaranteed fucking catastrophe, and that quota was full last Tuesday.

Quentin is, as predicted, at the Wall. More accurately, he's lying on top of it, one leg dangling off the far side, apparently still deciding whether this will be the night he jumps. The air here smells more like dirt and stones than whiskey, but it leaves Eliot with the same heady sense of wrong, the same ugly desire to flee somewhere warm and small and maybe not comfortable, but safe. Out of sight, out of mind. Whose sight, whose mind? Who knows? But his shoes are already ruined. He hikes up the hill and settles on the Wall next to Quentin's feet.

Neither of them look at each other.

Instead, Eliot looks out. Brakebills sprawls behind them like a map on fire; New York, always a season behind, touches the horizon the other direction. There, it's mid-summer. The heat coming off the millions of people pounding thousands of yards of pavement casts the city as a mirage - heady, overwhelming, the only good thing to ever make Eliot feel small.

Quentin, on the other hand, is violent in his vastness. Eliot aches to look at him. But looking is all he can do - Q is too busy smoking to talk and the rain is stopping and Eliot has to fill the silence or he'll go back to drowning by himself, so he rips off the scab and pokes his pride where it hurts most.

“I'm sorry,” he starts, because why not. “I shouldn't have used your shampoo.”

Q doesn't move.

“And you weren't wrong about the TV schedule, and it's my fault Penny's tacky crime show got deleted. I'm sorry I used all your tea lemons for tequila shots when we ran out of limes.”

Nothing. But that's fine, Eliot has been fucking up his whole life. He can keep going for as long as this takes. Or until Margo relents and lets them both back inside. Either way, it could be a while.

“I'm sorry about the water bill last month, although I'm not sorry for turning the stairs into a Jacuzzi slide; but I am sorry for not warning you before I pushed you down them even though I think you ended up having fun. I'm sorry for thinking your Law and Ethics notes were the student handbook and using them to mop up when the toilet clogged. I'm sorry for lying about doing that and for blaming it on Todd.”

From the corner of his eye Eliot sees a bit of Q's mouth quirk. The blue smoke that escapes transforms itself into a ship and loops a languid voyage around Eliot's head before heading off to the fairer day of Manhattan.

It's metaphorical, and enough like forgiveness that he should stop now and enjoy their tentative peace, soak it up and keep it under his skin and let it make a home there. Unfortunately, because he's him, he can't.

Maybe it's the drugs, or maybe it's inevitable - he and Q have so much in common. The way they dismiss sadness with sarcasm. The way they talk about their lives exclusively through vignettes of self-deprecation. The desperate, pathetic need to belong to something other than where they've been. It makes sense even to his foggy brain that they share this rambling sense of loss, too. The apologies tumble out of him darker and faster, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the weak afternoon sun and so he can't see Q watch him tear himself apart.

“I'm sorry for fucking it up with you and Alice. I'm so, I’m- I’m sorry. I'm sorry things are so goddamned fucked up right now. I'm sorry you're here for it, for me being such a fuck-up for, and for Mike, for- I-”

He's fumbling at his chest pocket, chilly silk scraping against trembling callouses, coming up empty. His breathing should be muffled by the heaviness of the wet earth but it's not, it's jagged, ugly and too loud in his own ears. A stray ember nestled in Q's smoke drifts past his shoulder and stings his neck like a brand, and now his ears are ringing, his veins like ice, and-  Then he's got it, the soggy cigarette he lets everyone think is for show, and he shudders with relief. He snaps his fingers.

Nothing happens.

Again - a jolt in his trembling fingertips, but.

No flame.

Nothing happens. He's somehow fucked up even this, even a year one spell. Oh god.

Words keep bubbling up his throat but he grits his teeth before they can escape so they choke him, instead, and suddenly he can't breathe. Tremors spread from his fingers until his whole body is shaking uselessly and he wants to run and he wants to let himself fall but he can't do either. His mouth is disconnected. His fingers belong to someone else. He is drifting, drifting, out of control, off to the side. The cigarette drops into the dirt. He can’t breathe.

Pressure on his left thigh brings him back to himself.

Someone's leaning over him, anchoring him, holding a lit cigarette to his mouth. He sucks at it on instinct, and as the smoke fills his lungs he feels himself settle back into his skin. The coughing isn't graceful, but it's proof of…something. Not being dead yet, maybe. “Q?” he rasps.

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” Fingers dig further into his thigh and Eliot opens his eyes. There’s a smudge of ash on Q’s jaw and he wants to reach out and wipe it off and wipe off Q’s worry lines, too, but he doesn’t trust himself to stop there.

Instead, Eliot takes another drag.

Q is still looking at him, forehead creased. “El?”

Right. Words. He exhales, and the smoke curls soft around them both. “Yeah.”

“I’m-” Q starts, then huffs, then he lets go of Eliot’s leg and abruptly leans away. But before Eliot can miss the touch he’s back, hands shoved away in his pockets but huddling close despite it. Eliot wasn’t cold before. But now everywhere Q isn’t touching may as well be ice for all he notices it, completely numb next to the fiery sensation of Q’s shoulder against his, his wrist against Q’s, the startled synchronicity of their combined pulses coursing through him and electrocuting his heart with each painful thump.

He passes the cigarette back. Q takes it, not greedy but no hesitation either, and in the sunset Eliot watches shamelessly the way his lips hold it steady as he lingers on the inhale like he’s filling himself up, like he plans to become forest fog himself. When he exhales it’s almost on accident - smoke slips out through the corner of his mouth and hovers in the air so they both look smudged and a little hazy. That fits. Eliot feels a little hazy, too.

And lightheaded.

It’s probably fine.

Quentin is here. It’s good.

He shuts his eyes, and takes another drag of smoke.

((AO3))

[boarix]

Wraith in the Ruins: A Fallout 4 Story Part XIII

Let Me Go

Trigger warnings: canon language/violence/gun, drug and alcohol use. Suggestive/mature content

Bloody mess warning!

Game spoilers!

Please enjoy

 “My dad’s old Highwayman would’ve come in handy right about now. Are we sure we’re still on ninety-five? I figured there would be a little more asphalt than this. ”

A week out from Sanctuary, Wraith’s caravan had been traveling in almost nonstop rain and the road was thick with mud.

“Was that a truck? I’d think we’d need some big tires for this slop, ya feel me?”

“Nothing can stop a Highwayman!” Wraith did her best impression of the spokesperson but then frowned to herself when she realized she was the only person to have actually ever heard the original commercial.

“I’d rather have a vertibird… fly above all… nngh… stupid… wet… CRAP!” Falling over sideways, MacCready lay defeated and motionless as the ever helpful Dogmeat licked his face.

Deacon fished him out, smiling at the cork-like pop, “No thank you, I’d rather not.”

“How long, in a car would this trip have taken anyway?” Hancock crouched slightly, “You want me to give you a piggyback ride, MacCready?”

“Naw man, I’m all gross and… oh… very funny.”

Laughing at them, Wraith snapped her fingers, “I don’t even have the heart to tell you. A Blitz would have gotten us there like that.” She smiled as she reminisced, “Plus they had those really cool gull-wing doors!”

“What kinda doors?”

Raising her arms out to either side, Wraith bent her elbows and spread her fingers like pinions on a wing, “Like this.”

“I know what it means, sunshine. Wanted to see if you’d make a silly pose.”

“I’m not silly! I’m a majestic shorebird.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as Deacon enjoyed listening to and occasionally joining the trio’s banter. However, while maintaining the Harley character he had to be careful about breaking into his establish Deacon-the-funny-guy routine; laughing too loud or too frequently. Successfully gaining enough muscle mass to almost completely change his physicality, along with a full, red beard and without his glasses, he was completely unrecognizable even since Valentine’s wedding. Hancock, MacCready and Wraith had been consistent with calling him by his alter ego and he along with the five synth refugees all remained safely anonymous.

“Yes general, this is the highway. Behold your tax dollars at work.”

“Well… I’m gonna write my congressman…” Wraith slowed to walk next to Deacon, letting Hancock and MacCready move ahead. “Are we going to be able to stop in Baltimore? Or… whatever it’s called now. Or do we have to skip it like Philly?”

“There’s not a whole lot to see if we do stop; there’s some small trading stations that pop up in the summer but we might be early yet.” Deacon’s smile broadened as Hancock, noticing Dogmeat struggling in the mud, hefted the pup and carried him against his chest like a child, “We might have left too early in general… General. I haven’t seen spring rain like this in ten years.”

“Are we… talking about the weather like old people?”

“The weather will do more than… dampen our spirits. Time is a concern.”

“We wouldn’t want to get sick… being under the weather would slow us down.”

“If L&L sent a party after us… their rain of terror would…”

“Ugh, no! That’s stretching.” Wraith play-punched his arm.

“Oh? Couldn’t think of another one? I guess I won that round.”

Careful! Harley wouldn’t be this familiar. Tune it back…

Making note of the sudden shift in Deacon’s body language and tucking her chin, Wraith whispered her concern from the corner of her mouth, “L&L, huh? I thought you found the last two…”

“Later.”

 MacCready had found a small rise that was relatively dry and despite the fact that it was still a good two hours until sunset, the caravan stopped for the night. After making sure the brahmin were sound, everyone was being fed and watch shifts were selected, Wraith broke away to meet with Deacon.

“Hey, that’s my trick!”

Wraith doubted that she had actually been able to sneak up on him. “You’re being kind.” Folding her slender legs under her, she propped her back against a wretched-looking tree, “How much will you tell me?”

Seating himself on the opposite side of the trunk, Deacon’s voice was low, “My contact in Underworld is Tulip. Captain Sally and The Bruiser are still at large.”

“I thought Hancock’s network had found them.”

“Shit happens.”

Not for the first time, Wraith berated herself for leaving the Railroad, “I should have stayed. Should have finished…”

“Not everything that happened or will happen is your fault, Pippa. Fuck’s sake!” Genuinely annoyed, Deacon leaned around the oak to glare at her, “Dial down your ego for two seconds and you’ll realize the Earth doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

“Holy shit! What the fuck was that for?!”

With Wraith’s angry frown inches from his own, Deacon had an impulse to kiss her. Letting the image carry him away for far longer than was healthy, he felt heat on his face.

Shit! FUCK! SHITFUCKDAMN!

“…are you?” Clearing her throat, Wraith sat back on her heels, “What was that? Please, tell me what…”

“No, Wraith.” In one fluid motion, Deacon rose to his feet, turned and melted away into the evening shadows.

 The insects were becoming a problem. The rains had finally let up but the further south the caravan progressed the warmer it got and the swarms of bugs were insufferable. Ranging in size from annoying to lethal there was a growing concern over the amount of ammunition being spent.

“Goddamn bugs!” Hancock seemed especially agitated and would routinely spend his daily allotment of shells, “Someone take my gun from me; I can’t help myself!”

“You could always just stab them…”

“Hey, that’s right!” Brandishing his beloved combat knife, the ghoul licked the blade with a mad light in his eyes.

“Or, or you could take some Day-tripper and we could strap you to a brahimn for the rest of the trip.”

Hancock made a show of being torn between ending all bug life at the end of his knife, or enjoying a nice high, “Gee, Harley how will I ever choose?”

Surprised that he would play along, Deacon’s confusion mounted when the lanky mayor draped an arm across his shoulders, “What’s got you so… friendly?”

“Wraith’s been lower than brahmin udders since she snuck away to chat at ya.” Hancock pulled the other man close to whisper in his ear, “And you’ve been even lower, brother. You kids feuding or what?”

Alarmed to know that his mood was affecting his body language, he straightened his back. Feeling uncomfortable under the ghoul’s arm, mostly because he enjoyed the contact, Deacon shrugged and was able to side-step away. He chuckled, “Damn, you are just as dangerous as she is.” Still feeling the weight of Hancock’s touch and angry that he had liked it, he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “I told her about the L&L setbacks; the false intel… more or less.”

“You tell her ‘bout the mole? About how I killed that fucker?”

“No Mr. Mayor, I didn’t. Because she’s not supposed to have to know about the Railroad and where I’m at or about whatever it is that I’m doing. I’m trying to give her one less fight and one less worry.”

“Well, you’re doing it wrong. Lyin’ has never worked with her.”

Annoyed, Deacon talked through his teeth, “Well, how exactly would you go about it?”

“Fuck if I know.” Folding his arms behind his head, Hancock walked away while whistling Keep a Knockin’.

 Hancock was whimpering. It wasn’t unusual for him to battle his demons in his sleep but it still made Wraith’s heart hurt. She pulled him closer to her and his eyes opened briefly. He smiled, thankful to be rescued and he laid his head against her chest.

“Fighting ninjas again?”

“Heh. Not this time, sunshine.” He yawned and nuzzled her breasts through her shirt, “MacCready and Dogmeat still on watch?”

“Yeah. I’ve gotta get up soon. We’ll do a swap-out so you won’t be alone for long.”

“Stay with me for a couple more minutes.” His voice carried a surprisingly high level of anxiety.

She kissed his head, “A bad one, huh? I can stay a little longer.”

“I’ve told you I love you, right?” His voice wavered, almost as if he had been crying.

“Yes, of course!” She squeezed him tightly, “And I love you. What was it?”

“Don’t wanna trouble you with it.”

“It’s no trouble. It was just a dream, right?”

“I… MacCready didn’t want to leave th’ Capital and you decided to stay with him. I… I lost you both.”

  “That you, Wraith?” MacCready was staring intently through his night scope, “You picking up anything on your fancy wristwatch?”

“No. Why?”

“I… my neck hairs are up… I don’t see anything but…”

“You feel.”

Lowering his scope, MacCready’s shoulders slumped, “That’s from that book again, isn’t it? You enormous nerd.”

Wraith gave Dogmeat a pat, “Puppy here seems to be relaxed.” She stuck her hand in MacCready’s back pocket to give his butt a squeeze, “Now, now. We have been through this; if you know what I’m talking about then you’re just as big a nerd.”

Returning the scope to his eye, he pretended not to notice her hand, “Darn it! I feel like I’m being stalked. Harley isn’t out there being a… messing around, right?”

“He’s out and about but he’s taking this all very seriously.” She checked her Pip-boy again, “I still don’t see anything. You sure it’s not just a case of the jitters? Tell you what; I’ll go do a quick sweep. The bad vibes are coming from the east, right? Hang tight.”

Moving silently through the scrub, Wraith calmed her mind for peak focus. Stopping every few yards, she strained her ears to listen for any minute change in the night sounds around her. Crisscrossing back and forth, she moved east until she reached a swamp and ran out of solid ground. Slowly standing in the moon-cast shadow of a large bolder, she held her breath and closed her eyes.

You never thought that maybe Mac would want to stay. You never thought that up until a couple of years ago his whole life had been in the Capital Wasteland and maybe he prefers it. What if Duncan refuses to leave and Mac doesn’t want to traumatize him by forcing him? What if Carol and Greta convince him not to take his son? What if he had been in love with Morningstar and when he sees her he’ll realize that you’re not as good? What if…

Dangerously close to hyperventilating, Wraith was able to snap herself back… just as the deathclaw hit her.

 “Light, GET SOME GODDAMN LIGHT OUT THERE!”

“How?! We don’t have a generator with us, Mayor Hancock!”

As soon as he heard the deathclaw’s roar, MacCready had raised the alarm and he and the dog sprinted off into the night. Now, Hancock was left to organize the pursuit and was terrified that his nightmare was coming true.

“Lanterns! Torches! Fucking sake! Let’s GO!” When Deacon made as if to follow, Hancock stabbed his finger at him, “Not you! Stay and protect the camp.”

His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth but he complied.

 Get up! Getupgetupgetup!

Able to gather her legs beneath her despite her lungs being devoid of air, Wraith ducked and dodged as the monster did its best to bifurcate her. She felt hot blood streaming down her face and she realized she had forgotten her armored hood back at camp.

I am such a shitshow!

The moon was full and so afforded her enough light to evade the monster’s swinging talons. Injured as she was, Wraith knew that she would tire quickly and needed to get on the offense. She expected that her companions would hear the beast’s bellow and attempt to come to her aid but she had traveled fairly far from camp. Even with the moon’s light it would take time to find her. Options seemed to be limited…

I need to slow it down. I don’t know how deep the swamp is but if I can get it stuck in the mud…

Weaving through a small copse of trees, she gained enough distance to grab a syringe of med-X and the bottle of Buffout from her pack. Bolstered by the chems, she unsheathed Kremvh’s Tooth and sprinted straight at the creature. Diving between its legs, she slashed its Achilles tendon as she passed and rolled to her feet behind it. Ducking under its tail as it spun around to pursue her, she sprinted for the water.

Leaping to a fallen tree, Wraith ran along its length and turned to mark the deathclaw’s progress. It seemed oblivious to the fact that its left foot hung by a strip of hide and she watched in horror as it gathered itself to jump to her log.

I’m drowning here! The only way this could be worse is if there were two…

A second deathclaw bellowed from her left.

Oh. Swell.

 Trying to keep up with Dogmeat, MacCready paid no mind to the branches whipping across his face. He was terribly worried that he hadn’t heard gun shots and he was attempting to convince himself that it was because she preferred melee weapons and not because she had been killed.

Has she lost her mind? Didn’t she learn anything from the last time?!

Man and dog rounded the bolder just in time to see the second deathclaw rear back and bellow its challenge. They then both watched in horror as the injured deathclaw leaped to Wraith’s log. She was catapulted through to air to land with an enormous splash, where she sank like a stone into the swamp’s dark waters.

Snarling as viciously as Dogmeat, MacCready quickly doubled back and climbed the bolder. Rifle in hand he sent shot after shot to the second deathclaw’s right knee as Dogmeat led it in circles around the rock’s base. The sniper cut through the beast’s leg like a lumberjack felling a tree and it collapsed heavily to its side. Dogmeat continued to worry it, preventing it from getting up and MacCready changed his target to the monster’s left knee. As soon as it was destroyed, the former merc whistled the canine away and tossed a grenade; finishing it off.

 Although her flight had been ungainly, Wraith had seen the deathclaw coming and so had been able to steel herself before being launched into the water. Unable to see through the silt, she swam to the bottom and headed back toward the shore, hoping to flank her foe.

The deathclaw had somehow tracked her progress and so dragged itself through the muddy water after her. Wraith surfaced right next to it and it lunged at her with its mouth open. Pulling her .44, she unloaded a full clip into its gaping maw. Her angle was bad however and so even though the wounds she inflicted would prove to be mortal, the monster wasn’t dead yet.

Frantically doing the backstroke, she was able to find footing enough to leap at the deathclaw with her blade leading the way. Landing heavily on its head she pushed the dagger through its upper jaw and pinned its mouth closed, roaring defiantly into its face.

The deathclaw plunged and shook; crow-hopping to try and dislodge her. With one hand on her weapon and the other on one of its horns, Wraith held on for dear life as the monster thrashed. Her substantial strength still augmented by the Buffout, it should have come to no great shock when the creatures horn came away in her hand. Losing her grip on her weapon’s blood-splattered hilt, she was once again flung into the water.

Moonlight reflected through the great spray of blood, clearly defining its crimson hue. The deathclaw stood with its head raised and arms spread wide, almost as if it was appealing to the moon for mercy. Then with a deep, mortal groan it fell dead.

MacCready stood motionless in complete shock. When Wraith surfaced, sputtering and cursing he realized he had been holding his breath, “Are… ARE YOU OKAY?!”

“GrrrrrrrAWWRRR!” Splashing and growling, Wraith kicked at the beast’s head before retrieving her dagger. Then, suddenly spent, she flopped onto her back in the mud, “Ugh. I think so.”

Dogmeat ran to her and setting his nose to her head wound, whiffled unhappily.

Wraith sheathed her weapon and reached up to run her fingers through the dog’s neck ruff, “I’m okay buddy. I… I think.”

“NO! YOU ARE NOT! YOU ARE BLEEDING!” MacCready had his med kit out in a flash.

“You have a flare gun, right? Do that first, okay?”

 The relief Hancock felt when he saw the flare was dashed when he saw MacCready hovering over Wraith as she lay on the ground. Unconsciously gripping his chest over his heart, he walked with slow, heavy steps to stand next to Dogmeat. “MacCready…”

Taken aback by Hancock’s stricken look, the young man waved his hands, “She’s alive! She’s a crazy monster but she’s alive.”

“Who’s a monster?!”

“Have you ever seen yourself fight?” MacCready bent to kiss her, his slight shiver evidence of his fear, “My knock-out, monster woman…”

Hancock kneeled in the mud and placed a hand on Wraith’s blood-caked forehead, “Did you pick a fight with two deathclaws all by yer lonesome?”

“No… I’m ashamed to admit they got the drop on me.”

“I distracted you. Got in yer head. Shouldn’t have told you ‘bout that dream.”

“It’s not your fault! Don’t… just don’t, please.” Wraith caught MacCready’s hand, “Don’t bother stitching me up; I have a couple of derma-fuses at the camp.” She sat up as the young man bound her head. “It’s a shame Bear isn’t with us; I’d have him skin these two… deathclaw armor would be super cool.”

“The one I got was an albino too. That’s pretty rare.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Hancock turned to one of the Minutemen escorts, “How ‘bout it Lloyd, you wanna help me set yer general up with some swanky new threads?”

“Do you have the right kind of knives for that?”

Placing his hand on his chest as if she had given him the greatest of insults, Hancock raised his voice to a falsetto, “Do I have the right kind of knives? ME?! You’re asking ME?!”

 It was the last night before the caravan reached the designated rendezvous at relay tower Kx-B8-11. MacCready and Wraith lay together in her bedroll and a nervous Wraith had not slept at all. Her mind was tormenting her with Hancock’s dream and she couldn’t shake the image of MacCready’s back moving further and further away from them.

“Wraith, you keep sighing…”

“Oops, sorry!”

Gathering her gently into his arms, MacCready kissed her temple, “What’s the matter?”

“What’s Morningstar like? Fahrenheit calls her a ‘beautiful giant’ but I don’t think it’s a complement.”

“No, probably not.” MacCready laughed, “It’s accurate though. She’s about as tall as Hancock but like two of him across. Maybe three…”

“Were the two of you friends?”

“No...” The pregnant pause suggested otherwise and it was his turn to sigh, “Maybe… It’s kinda complicated.”

“Tell me a story, Mac.”

“Sure, fine. It’s not like I’m gonna get any sleep anyway.”

“Yay.”

“Nyx is a nosy, goody two-shoes. She’s a busybody who can’t seem to leave sh… stuff alone.” He rolled away from her onto his back and stuck an arm behind his head. “She came to Little Lamplight so she could get into a vault. I helped her out and then I couldn’t get rid of her. She said that she owed us. I told her to… leave us alone.”

“You told her to fuck off?” She could see him smile in the dark.

“Verbatim.” His smile grew larger, “She didn’t listen, of course. She would bring supplies; food and clothes and stuff. When I turned sixteen and left she offered me a job but I was… stupid and told her ‘no thank you’.”

“Fuck off, part two?”

“Yeah. I thought I could make more money, faster with the Gunners. Looking back… I acted like such a idiot kid.”

“Mac, you were sixteen! That is a kid.”

“Not in the wasteland.” His smile gone, he looked sadly backward in time, “Then I found out that she had cleared Lamplight out and set up an orphanage in Megaton. I was so angry… but I don’t know why. Honestly, it was pretty amazing what she did for those kids. She gave them a chance to be... well… kids. That didn’t stop me though. I went and told her exactly what she should do with herself.”

“The return of fuck off, part three the sequel?”

“After Duncan was born, Lucy…” MacCready swallowed, hard, “Lucy said I needed to make peace with her. I… refused.” A rim of moisture gathered at the corner of his eye, “I was still being…” Unable to continue, a large tear traveled down his cheek.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to keep going.”

He sniffled and reached out to pull Wraith to his chest, “No, it’s okay. After I lost Lucy, I got… dark. I would drop Duncan off at Underworld and take missions that… I don’t think Charon would’ve done.”

“Charon is Morningstar’s… bodyguard? Actually I’m not sure what their relationship is.”

“Complicated. I think at one point she owned him. They might be a couple but I honestly don’t know.”

“Owned?! Like… not like a slave?!”

“Like I said, complicated.”

“Oh… no.”

“After Duncan got sick I promised him that if he could hold out until I got a cure, that I would be a better person. I finally went to Nyx. She never even hesitated, just came to help me as if we were best pals. I took it completely wrong, like she was using this as another opportunity to show how much better she is. Ugh, I was such a bastard!”

“Stop being so hard on yourself.”

“You don’t understand. If you knew all the things I’ve done…”

“Hancock says that too. You both know perfectly well all the horrible stuff I’ve done.”

MacCready shifted himself and sat up, taking Wraith by the shoulders and looking in her eyes, “You two are different. You guys did that stuff to help other people. You both made sacrifices and hard decisions so that they could be saved. I did terrible things because I hated everything. I was joking when I called you a monster. I’m the monster.”

Matching his stare, Wraith cupped his cheek with her hand, “I don’t know if you’d ever want to tell me everything but I want you to know that I would listen. I love you. I always will.” She kissed him and gently set her forehead against his.

They sat that way, quietly for a few seconds until MacCready pulled slightly back. He stared, smiling into her eyes. His look morphed from adoration to lasciviousness and he ran his hands from her shoulders down her back.  Setting his lips against hers in a needful kiss, he tucked a hand in the waistband of her jeans to squeeze her butt.

“Mmmm, Mac… We have to… stop…” As her lover’s hands and mouth traveled across her body, Wraith barely had the presence of mind to protest.

“Think so? I can be quiet. I can be good and quiet.”

“Huugh… It’s even… more fun… oh mmmm… when you’re loud…”

 “Beacon has been activated… Harley.” Wraith was genuinely regretful at not being able to make a rhyme.

“Acknowledged, general. The Morningstar escort should arrive in less than twenty-four hours. Was there anything else?”

“No. Thank you soldier, you are dismissed.”

Wraith frowned as she watched him walk away. She had made several attempts, during the last days of travel, to engage with Deacon. She understood the need for his alter ego but was disappointed that he was no longer allowing himself to be friendly.

I make jokes and laugh with all my people. Probably more than what’s appropriate but… This is so different than any other mission. He’s so different… even from when we left Diamond City.

 “General, Morningstar has been spotted. She should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, Lloyd.”

The sun had barely risen the following morning but Wraith had been up all night. Both Hancock and MacCready had tried to calm her but her anxiety had turned Nyx Morningstar into some sort of boyfriend-eating gorgon.

And then she was come.

At well over six feet, she was perhaps the tallest woman Wraith would ever see. Morningstar wore heavy combat gear with a custom, lion-like helmet that was heavily inspired by gladiatorial armor. Lifting an arm, she waved as her group crested the hill. When she removed her helm her impressive mane of blue-black hair poured forth like liquid night. Her large, gold eyes smiled in a truly friendly manner as they surveyed Wraith’s group.

“Hey there, butt face.”  

MacCready stood, flanked by Hancock on his left and Wraith on his right, “Hey mungo.” Swaggering up, he stuck out a hand. Nyx clasped it firmly, then to his shock, pulled him to her and swept him off his feet to spin around in a whirling bear hug, “AAAAAAHHHH! PUT ME DOWN, YOU BEHEMOTH!”

After a couple more revolutions, she set him back on his feet, “I’m sorry R.J. It’s just so good to see you!” She turned her sun-beam smile onto Hancock and offered him her hand. “John Hancock, you old raisin! How are you?!”

Shaking her hand firmly he smiled, “Still sweet and wrinkly! You’re impressive as always, Morningstar. Speaking of impressive, may I have the pleasure of introducing Wraith, General of the Minutemen?”

Wraith lifted her chin and secured her face into her best I-need-to-win-over-this-jury smile, “I’m honored to meet you, Morningstar.”

“The honor is mine. And please, call me Nyx.”

“Only if you will call me Wraith.” Wraith turned her attention to the silent, tall sentinel standing slightly behind Nyx, “And you must be Charon. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” The entire hill top seemed to freeze as Wraith extended her hand to the mountainous ghoul.

To everyone’s shock he took her hand and offered her the tiniest of quarter grins, “The pleasure is mine.” Charon then turned slightly to Nyx with a slightly larger, tiny grin and a wink.

When Nyx saw Dogmeat her eyes widened and she took a knee, “Hello old man.”

The German shepherd sat and placed his paws on her leg. The two stayed in silent communion for several seconds before woman and dog rose to their feet.

Turning back to Wraith, Nyx was all business, “We should move soon. It would only be natural for my group to assist yours breaking camp. Lots of moving bodies can be confusing to those who may be watching.”

It suddenly occurred to Wraith that six of Nyx’s group very closely resembled Deacon and his five synth refugees. Nodding, she joined the throng of people and brahmin. Then, completely imperceptible to an outside observer, the two groups swapped costumes, as if by magic.

As the large caravan headed south, Nyx and Wraith walked together. Wraith’s mind was a whirl of questions but afraid that she’d be a pest, wasn’t sure where to start.

“Danse isn’t with you.”

Wraith jumped slightly, startled by the broken silence “No. I did ask him if he would like to come but I think he feels this chapter of his life is closed. Did you know him?”

“I know everyone.” Nyx’s smile somehow softened the egotistical declaration, “Not well, but I did meet him before Maxson whisked him away. I have a letter for him from former scribe Haylen.”

“Ah. She did end up quitting then.” Wraith somehow felt even more awkward, “You might find this a strange question but, is she… okay?”

“Wraith, to be clear; I am connected to the BOS but I myself am not an active member. I have an understanding with the elder. To be blunt, they owe me. A lot. As such, they understand that certain towns, settlements and people, are under my protection. Places like Underworld. People like the ghouls living in and around the Capital Wasteland. People like my super mutant friend, Fawkes. People like Haylen.”

The large women had unconsciously picked up her pace and Wraith had to practically jog to keep up with her, “Did they threaten her?!”

“Not at all. That whole… debacle, was a huge embarrassment and setback for the Brotherhood. You remain public enemy number one but Haylen will be fine. I have her doing medical research for me and she seems to be happy.”

“Speaking of medical research, I have a gift for you.” Wraith, eager to change the subject, passed her a derma-fuse, “It’s Institute tech designed to close lacerations.”

Nyx’s eyes took on a greedy gleam as she accepted the device, “Fascinating! How does it work?”

“I don’t actually know how it works but what it does is localized cellular regeneration. Dermis only, hence the name. I actually brought you two; one to use…”

“And one to ruin, trying to figure out how to make more?” The two women shared a laugh.

“Well, glad to see you are getting along.” Returning to the group after scouting ahead, MacCready flashed them a roguish grin.

“What of it, R.J? Why wouldn’t we? I happen to be a super-fun person!”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, right. What were you two talking about?”

“About how you’re a huge dork.”

“Oh, I’m huge alright. In all the right places!”

“Does that explain your enormous head?”

“Big brain.”

“I think you mean big ego.”

Despite the harsh volley of words, MacCready seemed to be enjoying himself, “Well, you would be the expert on gigantism and egos.”

Wraith, feeling out of place, dropped back to her more normal walking pace. Suddenly finding herself side by side with Charon, her feeling of awkwardness intensified to new heights.

“So, I assume this is normal? For them, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Not to say it isn’t funny.”

“Sure.”

“Well. I um… guess I’ll go check on… brahmin stuff.”

 Wraith’s passage through the Capital Wasteland left her feeling nostalgic and sad. The ruins of The Mall were particularly emotional. Her nerves frayed by the journey and the imminent face-to-face with Duncan, she held Hancock’s arm as they walked.

“You’re gonna be fine, sunshine.” The ghoul kissed the back of her hand, “We’ll be back, all together in Sanctuary before you know it. One big, happy family; lots of weird aunts and uncles for the kids.”

MacCready sought them out just before passing through Underworld’s doors. “Whew! Here we go.”

The caravan members distributed themselves between The Chop Shop and Underworld Outfitters as MacCready, Hancock, Dogmeat and Wraith climbed the stairs to Carol’s.  Just beyond the door, flanked by his ghoulette aunts stood Duncan.

“Daddy!” Giggling, the small boy threw himself into his father’s open arms. “Daddy I’m a big boy! I poop in the potty and can come with you now! Auty Carol says so! Daddy… are you ‘kay? Daddy?”

MacCready had tried his best to hold back his tears, afraid that his crying might confuse or scare his son. Caught somewhere between sobbing and laughing he was making strange noises in his throat, almost as if he was being strangled.

“It’s ‘kay, daddy. Crying is ‘kay too.” Duncan had pulled back slightly and was now patting his father’s tear streaked cheek, “Daddy, does your tummy hurt?”

“He’s just very happy to see you, honey.” Tears ran down Carol’s face as well, “I’m Carol, you must be Wraith and Hancock. This is my wife Greta. Welcome to Underworld.” The ghoulette did a double-take, “Is that… that can’t possibly… Dogmeat?!”

“Look, Daddy! There’s a doggy! It’s a good puppy?”

“He’s… yeah buddy. He’s the best puppy.”

  Deacon sat at a barstool waiting for Tulip. After their tearful reunion, MacCready and company had settled down for the night and he had separated himself to wait for his contact to close her store.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Mine’s in the shop.”

“Harley, everything is all set. The packages will be distributed by Morningstar’s courier service starting tomorrow.”

“Well, all things considered that went remarkably smooth. Kinda waiting on the other shoe…”

“It’s funny you should say that. I need your help.” Tulip lowered her voice and set her hand suggestively on Deacon’s thy. “Follow me back to the shop.”

Maintaining character, Deacon slung his arm around the ghoulette’s shoulders and leaned into her as if too drunk to walk straight, “Ohboy, I thought you’d never ashk me!”

Morningstar’s imposing presence seemed to fill the store and she leaned toward Deacon with a predatory look that reminded him of a hunting lioness, “The L&L gang is here! They’ve killed Watts.”

“Victoria…” Deacon’s mind whirled, “Who’s running the show?”

“I want you to.”

It made perfect sense. He hated it. His mind reeled back from it, “Why can’t you…”

“Don’t do that. You know why!” Nyx folded her powerful arms, “I’m way too high profile. It wouldn’t have to be permanent. We need you to whip us in to shape like you did for the Commonwealth branch. Tulip has her hands full and,” She cast an apologetic glance to the ghoulette, “she has no leadership experience. It’s you. Take a protégé if you want. Train them… but it’s you.”

“You… you got me over a barrel.”

“I promised General Wraith that I would make sure Duncan MacCready makes it safely back to Sanctuary. I will not go back on my word. I will go… you will stay.” Her eyes softened at the pain in Deacon’s pale blue eyes, “I know you and Watts went way back. I’m sorry to throw this at you now but it just happened a couple of days ago.”

“Hancock’s network had been closing in. We knew they left but we had been misdirected north. Goddamn it…”

“You’ll do a lot of good for us here. I will make sure you’re provided all necessary resources.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Squaring his shoulders, Deacon turned to leave, “No time like the present. I’ll be off to…”

“Headquarters are still at the late, great Manya Vargas’s. Let me know when you change location… cause I know you will.”

“You’re not going to say goodbye.” All three flinched as Wraith stepped out of the shadows.

Nyx turned and took a menacing step, hands raised and ready to attack, “Bad move, General…”

“Wait! Wraith is Railroad! Or… she was…” Deacon placed himself between them, “Whisper! Wraith was Whisper!”

Nyx calmed immediately. Looking back and forth between them, she seemed to have an epiphany, “Let’s go back to the bar for a bit, Tulip.”

“Fine. If you two fight, don’t go wreaking up my shop!”

The silence was heavy, like the pressure before a thunderstorm.

Don’t… Wraith, don’t…

“Am I a child to you? Do you honestly believe you can protect me from… why wouldn’t you have told me? Hell, lie to me about the reason but fucking tell me that you’re leaving!” Wraith still had her fists clenched.

“You’re giving me permission to lie?”

Don’t… I can’t…

“I...” She seemed to deflate before his eyes, “I guess you’ve always come and go as you please.”

“You told me to leave. You told me once…”

“That was a mistake! I fucked up. Had I known better what I was doing…”

“No! You were right! You did everything and more for the Railroad… for me. You were done. Turning your focus to the Minutemen was the best decision you could have made. Just look at everything you’ve accomplished!”

Wraith shook her head, “Look at all the lives I’ve ended…”

“STOP FUCKING DOING THAT!” Deacon’s eyes flashed fire and he took an unconscious step toward her, “STOP! Don’t belittle yourself. You are the single greatest thing that’s happened to the Commonwealth… and to me.”

“You… you have no intention of coming back. Do you?” Tears streamed down her face.

“You don’t need me, Wraith. You have to let me go.”

“You’re like my brother! We… you’re my family.”

“The time has come for us to part ways.”

She lifted her arms as if to embrace him but he backed away.

Don’t hug me Wraith. I’ll… I’ll shatter. I’ll break if you hold me.

“You… you’re my friend. I love you, Deacon.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“You don’t know me, Philippa. My name is not Deacon.” His face empty of emotion, the nameless man turned his back, opened the door and walked away.

Lie. Lie. Lie.

  Thank you so much for reading! Like what you read? Looking for more? Please search my Wraith in the Ruins tag in my bio. There is a link-tree master post with all of the chapters. Questions/comments/concerns, my ask is open (anon too). I appreciate any feedback. =^..^=

[imaginetk]

Meet & Greet

 Anon asked: Hey B! Love your imagines ❤️ Could you write one where Tom and main character meet in a meet and greet of one of TH’s concerts and he immidately likes her so much, and wants to be closer with her?

~ Thank you for the request. Enjoy! ~

The fans were all crowded at the center of the room. The conversation was a very easy going one and the guys as well as the fans felt particularly relaxed during this Meet & Greet with your favorite band, Tokio Hotel. As always, some fans were more talkative than other and you, this time, felt more like observing the guys instead of talking and asking the same questions as everyone else. After a few minutes observing the whole event, you noticed you were capable of seeing things the other fans couldn’t. You saw how Georg, smiled sweetly and in an introspective way every time someone said something about their beginning years as a band; you clearly saw him getting lost in his memories and you loved the calm look in his eyes. You could see how Gustav’s eyes and cheeks would shine every time he got an opportunity to talk about his new small family. Unlike Georg that was looking into the past with a sweet nostalgia, Gustav was looking at his future with the hope of a new life with his wife and baby girl. Bill’s smile was more transparent than ever, giving away the gentleness in his heart he sometimes tried to hide with a ‘cool attitude’.  You could see all this because you chose to look rather than seeing. There was only one thing bothering you and that was Tom. He seemed blurry, as if he was not allowing anything from his true self to spontaneously show in a gesture, a smile or a look. He was the only one you could not figure out.

The Meet & Greet had already finished and the fans were finally leaving the room. I was honestly happy to see them leaving because I was terribly tired and I simply wanted to be alone and rest. I was about to leave myself when I saw the profile of a girl I hadn’t noticed before during the meeting. Her hair fell gracefully caressing her cheek, her lips were red like two spring flowers, her eyes were not looking at me but that just increased the feeling of mystery she had so quickly aroused inside of me. She was not different from the other girls but I saw in her a delicate beauty that transformed her in an unattainable absolute of perfection. She mesmerized me.

Tom quickly tried to go after you, but failed to go across a small group of fans without being stopped by them, asking him to take a last selfie. When he managed to finally get out of the room and follow the way you had taken a few minutes ago, he could not find you. His hopes that had aroused so swiftly before now faded just as fast with the sight of an empty lobby and a grey sky outside the hotel where the M&G had taken place. Frustrated, tired and not in a very good mood, he decided to go for a cigarette in the loneliness of the back alley.

I needed a break, a cigarette and specially some time alone. I had to get out of the hotel for just a moment. I felt so overwhelmed by something I could not name and that made me even more frustrated. I could not get her out of my head and especially how I had missed her when she was so close. I just needed the opportunity to say a few words to her and it had slipped off my hands. Damn, what an idiot.

I opened the door and the cold air hit my face. “Ahh…” I closed my eyes taking a deep breath and noticed it had started raining, it was so beautiful. I lit my cigarette and tried to take in the beautiful feeling of loneliness the rain always awakens in me when I saw a moving shadow to my left. 
It was her. She was alone, resting her back against the wall.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Tom said feeling unusually nervous and vulnerable.

“Don’t worry, I was leaving anyway.” You said taking hold of your bag and walking away from him.

Tom…Tom Kaulitz was standing right there, beside me. I guess this sudden encounter drove me to absurdly and impulsively run away from what I most like and admire. No cameras were around, no bodyguards, no other fans…everything felt so real and that was scarier than anything else. I looked at him and he looked so simple, not like that unreachable superstar I had seen in the M&G, he looked, well…he looked just like Tom. His mask from before had faded away and he stood plain and simple beside me, just as surprised as I was. Facing reality is scary, so scary I felt the need to leave. I kind of didn’t want to meet him like this, I was afraid he was not going to be the Tom I had imagined.

“Please don’t. Don’t leave just because I’m here. Besides, it’s raining.” He smiled and looked even more earthly. “I just needed a break.” 
he let out a deep breath and the smoke coming from his mouth and nose veiled his perfect face. 
“What were you doing here?” He asked smiling
.

“I…I thought I would wait for the rain to pass but it seems to be getting worst.” You both looked up the dark grey sky in silence, the sound of the falling rain on the glass roof above your heads filling it. Tom walked towards you, leaned against the wall and looked at you with curiosity.

“So, you are a fan, right?” The smoke in his mouth moved slowly across his lips.

“I am, yes” you blushed, thinking he was going to assume you were just another crazy fan.

“Well that’s weird.”


“What’s weird?” you asked


“I don’t remember you talking, asking questions or even taking photos during the Meet & Greet. You behaved so differently, why?” his voice was gentle and gaze direct. You smiled almost to yourself, he assumptions were interesting to hear.

“I guess I chose to listen and look rather than talking and making noise. Don’t assume we are all the same Tom.” You crossed your arms inf ront of you as the rain kept falling on the surface of a small puddle beside your feet. “I mean, yes, we all like you and your music but some of us know how to respect you and ourselves.” You looked at your watch and realized it was almost time for you to go home, your bus was going to leave in less than 15 minutes. Tom was now silent and you felt his eyes all over you. You didn’t know why but he kept looking at you with curiosity and a sort of wonder.

“Well nice to meet you Tom.” you said putting on your jacket and getting ready to walk under the rain.

“What, you’re leaving?” He got closer to you and by instinct, grabbed your hand. “At lead wait for me to finish my cigarette. Plus you are going to get all wet.” He didn’t let go of you. His grasp was gentle and firm. He truly didn’t want you to leave.

“I can’t stay. If I do, I’ll miss my bus.” You smiled at him and you saw his cheeks blushing against his will. “Plus the rain has almost stopped now so I won’t get too wet I think” you tried to reassure him.

“But…” Tom looked down and his voice suddenly didn’t sound as confident as it did before. “At least let me give you something then.” You frowned not understanding what he meant by that. He suddenly threw his cigarette on the sidewalk and went back inside the hotel. A few seconds later he came back and handed you an umbrella. “It’s the least I can do. If you get wet you might get sick and we don’t want that.” Suddenly, the Tom you had missed before during the meeting reveled himself now before you. As you took the umbrella, the simple and real Tom you had just met showed you in that genuine gesture his unique and precious gentle heart.

I truly didn’t want her to leave, she was…different. She smiled at me and looked, I felt, into my very hidden and unknown feelings. Her eyes, only hers, had managed to cut across my façade. Now I understood why she chose to remain quiet during the meeting; because he was capable to look passed my fake self and into a ‘Tom’ I thought was long forgotten and lost to my very self. She brought that back. It seemed as if she saw in me the same thing I discovered in her. She came closer and sweetly kissed me on the cheek. 

“Thank you Tom.” She stepped back but I held her hand.

“Just promise me one thing.” I was not going to let her go, never to see her again. I could not.

“What is it?” she was surprised and a bit nervous, I would dare to say.

“Promise me that you’ll be here tomorrow at mid day.”

“Why?” I smiled and had to look down to the wet floor. The weak light of the day gave this whole moment a feeling of tranquility and hidden hope.

“Because, first of all, I will be needing my umbrella back. And second, because I want to see you again, that simple.” She took a deep breath and squeezed my hand tight in hers, almost as a reflex.

“I promise, but now I really have to go Tom. I’m sorry.” I grabbed her arms and stared at her.

“I’ll be waiting then. I…I have so many things it want to talk about with you.” 


“Ok” she said shyly with a smile and finally walked away from me. 

As you walked away from the hotel, you looked back and, behind a thin courting of falling raindrops you saw him, now across the street. You stopped to take in this moment and suspend it in your memory and heart. You smiled involuntarily and, just as if he had been able to see your smile across the grey glow from the puddles on the sidewalk, he waved goodbye at you. How strange, you thought to yourself as a faint ray of sun cut through the thick clouds transforming the rain into a golden stream from heaven, you had never thought this Meet & Greet would turn out like this.

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Beach Campfire - Andy Hurley x Reader

Summary: Any chance at something fluffy with Andy? We need more of him!! A/N: YES

Word count: 2 121

When Andy had asked you to join him and his friends for a late campfire at the beach you had been uncertain. Yes, Andy was your friend and all his friends from the band seemed pretty nice, but you hardly knew them or their partners. Additionally to that, you were a shy person, not the one who would easily start a conversation. It took him almost twenty minutes until you finally gave in to his whining and agreed to join the group. If you could have chosen between the meeting with all the other people or a campfire alone, you would have definitely chosen the campfire alone, with Andy of course. You liked Andy. He was your friend. He was smart and funny. Talented. Caring. Loving. Adorable. Cute. Beautiful. Hot. Hell, if you could choose, you would choose to be more than friends with him, although you never admitted that to anyone, most of the time not even to yourself. Objectively you probably would even have a chance with him. He was always a flirt, intenting to make you blush, tickling you or poking your side, whenever you were not paying attention. Actually he even tried to encourage you to flirt back, without making it too obvious, of course, but you never noticed. Too caught up were you in the idea that someone as amazing as Andy would never like you in that way. Your shyness and the rejections from your past probably did not help either. So while you tried to keep a good friendship with Andy, thinking it could never turn into more, he desperately tried to do exactly that.

It was a hot day, even though it was only spring the temperatures were shooting through the roof. You had spent most of the day inside, keeping the roller shutter down and the house cool. You had been shopping in the morning and noticed how hot it was going to get. Sure the hot weather was a welcome change to the freezing temperatures from a few weeks ago, but it was supposed to be spring, not midsummer, right?

You had just finished packing your bag with vegan marshmallows and chocolate, some lemonade and a big blanket, when there was a honking outside your door. Quickly you took a look at yourself in the mirror. The light blue shorts and the bright red tank top made you look like summer instantly. You sighed quietly as you slipped into your shoes and grabbed the bag.

Outside Andy was waiting for you already. His window was lowered, music played through the speakers and he had his head poked outside.

“You ready?” He pushed his sunglasses into his hair before getting out of the car to give you a hug.

“I think so, yeah,” you smiled. There was no need for him to know that in fact you were terribly anxious to meet three of his friends and their partners.

“Great,” he smiled back at you and helped you put your bag in the trunk.

The ride took a little more than an hour, but the last miles were only small roads so Andy had to drive extra careful and slow. The music was gently playing in the background, as gentle as thrash-metal can be. Andy and you were discussing everything that came to mind, mostly catching up with each other, about everything that had happened since you had last seen each other. And you really were catching up on everything, after all you had been separated only for three days. You leant back in the soft car seat, relaxing in the hot wind in your hair, the familiar sound of the radio that always made you think of Andy and shot a sideway glance at him every now and then. His hair was shorter and darker than when you had met him for the first time. Now he wore a beard, ginger hair mixing with the first strands of grey. His blue eyes were fixed on the street as he carefully stirred the wheel. You sighed quietly again, it seemed to be s specialty of yours, and focused back on how Andy told you about what had happened in the supermarket the other day.

The first two cars you saw after more than twenty minutes were parked at the end of the street, if you could still call it that.

“Oh, Joe and Patrick must be here already,” Andy commented and pulled up next to the cars. He turned off the motor but hesitated to get out. “They’re all really cool people,” he assured you. “Patrick is really shy himself, so he knows how you feel and the rest of the guys really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, so they’ll probably do everything to make you feel at home.”

So you had not been as good at hiding your uneasiness as you had thought. Wait- when had Andy placed his hand at your knee?

You looked up into the blue eyes of the drummer and forced a smile.

“I just want you to have a good time,” you answered. “And if that includes me being there, then so be it.”

A soft smile spread over Andy’s face and he patted your knee.

“I’m with you all the time, okay?”

You nodded. “Yup.”

“Then let’s get started!”

Andy jumped out of the car and grabbed not only the bag he had brought, but also yours.

“That’s what I do weight lifting for,” he kept insisting.

You giggled and followed him down the small path to the beach. Not far from where you stepped out of the bushes, a group of people had collected already. You recognized Joe with his fuzzy hair immediately.

“Hey guys!” Andy drew the attention of his bandmates on you, as you walked closer. From here you also recognized Patrick, for once without his hat, and Joe’s and Patrick’s wives. They welcomed you with hugs and cheers, offering you to sit down around the arrangement of wood they had prepared. You almost ended up between Marie, Joe’s wife, and Patrick, which made you feel incredibly uncomfortable at the mere thought of it, but Andy came to your rescue and pulled you to his side, making sure you sat closer to him than Joe, who sat at you other side.

After some minutes of friendly banter, to which you mostly listened, Pete and his companion appeared as well, proudly carrying the grill lighters you had been waiting for.

The sun was setting as a big, red glowing ball and the sky turned into a watercolor painting of red, pink and orange. The water of the sea was calm and reflected the light of the sinking sun as thousands of tiny diamonds that blinded everyone who was trying to look at it. Gentle waves washed up on the beach, wetting the fine, white sand. The cracking of the fire had an almost hypnotizing effect on you while at the same time you tried to follow the conversation that was going on around you. The smell of burning wood and salt filled the air, making your head spin.

Andy almost performed a dance of joy when he found out you had brought vegan sweets just for him. When he settled back down, he sat so close to you that your shoulders were touching and after some time of internal debating, you rested your head against him.

The colors of the sky faded into a deep, dark blue and stars started blooming in the night. The hot air of the day cooled down to a comfortable temperature and got heavy with dew that settled on the sand, the blankets you were sitting on and your clothes.

By now you had no idea why you had been so anxious earlier. The six people you barely knew were incredibly nice, they talked about the most unusual topics, but it was fun. Most of the time you were just listening, but you also had the courage to add something, if you felt the need. You loved it, whenever Andy spoke. By now he had his arm wrapped around you, pulling you more into him. When he spoke, his body vibrated with his voice, which sounded so different when you heard it with your ear pressed against his chest.

The last light of the day had faded when Pete suddenly suggested a walk along the beach.

“But someone should look after the fire,” Patrick added.

“I can do that,” Joe offered, but sounded hesitant.

“It’s okay, Joe,” you suddenly spoke up to your own surprise, “You go on that walk, I’m gonna stay here.”

“Really?” Joe looked at you with wide eyes. “That’s nice of you, thank you!”

You smiled at how happy he was to be able to go along with the others.

“I’m gonna keep you company,” Andy decided, tightening his embrace around your shoulder.

“Great, so that’s settled,” Pete cheered and jumped up. “Let’s go!”

Soon the voices of the other six died in the distance, only rarely a cry of surprise cutting through the calm when someone stepped into the water. The sound of crashing waves and cracking fire created a vacuum in your mind in which nothing mattered but the man at your side. You felt him draw small patters into your skin where your tank top had ridden up. You felt completely peaceful, sleepy, but not really tired. These moments seemed like a painting or one of these perfect picture collages that you saw in the media. You watched tiny sparks fly up to the sky where they blend in with the stars and disappeared.

“I’m really glad you came with me,” Andy mumbled, his chest again vibrating against your ear.

“I’m really glad, too,” you admitted, smiling at the sound of his voice.

His body kept you warm from the now chilly breeze that blew from the sea.

There were a few more moments of silence before Andy softly moved. He lifted his head that had been resting against yours and guided his hand to your chin, making you look up to him. The light of the dying fire spread an orange glow on his face, making shadows of his beard dance over his mouth. The other side of his face lay in the dark, barely illuminated by the stars in the sky above you.

And suddenly his mouth was on yours. His lips were hot and soft, his beard prickly and slightly scratchy against your skin. But it was perfect. It was everything you had wanted for the last… what, three years? You carefully answered the kiss, a part of your mind trying to make you believe this was a dream. But no dream could be this good. You had dreamt of this before and never had it felt even slightly as perfect as right now. You hesitated, not sure if you should keep going, but Andy made the decision for you, pulling you closer to him, deepening the kiss slightly. He tasted of lemonade and marshmallow. You wrapped your hand in his hair, coiling it around your fingers. You tried to process what was happening, but failed; it was too much. His hair was so soft and warm, his hand on your back rough, yet caring, his kisses so sweet and deep.

“Hey lovebirds, we’re back,” Pete’s voice ripped you out of the perfect moment, making you jump away from each other like two high schoolers who had been discovered making out. But even before you could miss Andy’s body so close to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back to him.

“Seems like you got your girl,” Joe smirked knowingly, plopping down on one of the blankets.

“Was about time,” Pete sighted.

“Wait, you are no couple?” Eliza raised her eyebrows.

“They sure seemed like one,” Marie added.

Patrick laughed quietly. “I think it’s safe to say they are now.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Andy grinned. “What do you think?” He glanced at you, his eyes already trailing down to your lips again.

“I agree,” you smiled, his glance not going unnoticed by you.

“Fantastic! Now, that the goal of the evening is achieved, who wants more marshmallows?” Pete’s enthusiasm seemed barely stoppable this evening.

“We need a new fire for that though,” Joe remarked.

“As good as done, we still got loads of wood and tons of marshmallows,” Patrick declared proudly.

While the others started piling new wood onto the almost burnt out fire, you cuddled back against Andy’s shoulder. You felt him place a soft kiss against your hair before he gently rested his on yours. You could basically feel Andy’s smile when he whispered: “I’ve been waiting for this since forever.”

[asherahlives-blog]

The Pool of Asherah

The dream started with an ordinary-enough yet unusual situation: I was hanging out with two women friends (I didn’t know these women in the dream) at their home, preparing to spend the night there because I was going to accompany the one named Lynn on a road trip the next day as part of my education. I’m 62 in life, and I was 62 in the dream. 

We talked and laughed and had dinner; while cleaning up after the meal, an additional friend knocked and came in through the kitchen door. In unison, Lynn and Lesley said, “Elizabeth Power!” and dissolved in laughter. I was perplexed. Quite aware of my awake-life in the dream, I remembered a friend of friends named Elizabeth Power. I didn’t really know her, but when I met her once, her humor and wisdom were apparent.  

Together, we laughed uproariously for what seemed like ten minutes when I asked, “What time do we leave tomorrow, Lynn?” and she responded, “3:15 am to get to Memphis on time for my meeting.” Elizabeth Power piped up, saying, “It’s 2:30 now! Already tomorrow, girls!” and we practically shouted with laughter, astonished by  the passage of so much time in such a short space of reality. 

In the dream, I had no doubt Lynn spoke of Memphis, Tennessee, since we all lived in the Nashville area, but once we reached our destination, it didn’t seem at all like the Memphis I’ve visited before. Not in the least. Lynn, Elizabeth Power (we always addressed her by her full name) and I took what seemed like the shortest road-trip ever, even though the trip west on I-40 is about 3 hours long and boring, especially in the dark. But we three ladies, absolutely energized by our conversation and laughter, weren’t tired at all. Elizabeth Power, noting there was plenty of time, wanted Lynn to stop at a friend’s home on the river, so Lynn drove there first. 

Dawn was approaching as we parked and headed down a grassy, wooded path.Somehow, I knew this visit was for me; I knew this too was part of my education. The lessons of the past few years have been anything but exciting (more like excruciating), yet for this lesson, I tingled with anticipation. I realized we walked purposefully into a vortex, Elizabeth Power taking the lead. Like a little girl, she skipped along the pathway covered by large pinkish stones, turning to encourage Lynn and me onward. Clearly, she had been here before and knew what was ahead. Lynn spoke to Elizabeth Power and turned around, returning to her car and the meeting she was due to attend. Elizabeth motioned for me to continue, saying “They’re waiting for you, darling! I’ll be along.” Then I was alone. So, I continued. 

The stones in the pathway were very large and their color simply stunning, a golden-pink with white veins, like worn, unfinished marble. Now, a stream was rushing alongside the path, and suddenly the path opened to a huge room with a natural pool in the center, surrounded by the same pink marble. The path of stones ended with one last stone, more worn than the rest, jutting out in the center of the pool. 

I realized I was young, wearing summer sandals, white shorts and a flowy white blouse. I noticed people all around the pool, and others on the path behind me, gently encouraging me to…dive in? I was incredulous, since my mind knew it was a cold, early morning February day. I saw Elizabeth Power, and she nodded. The warmth in her eyes conveyed a joyful, “Yes!” 

Diving in seemed like the most natural, logical thing I ever did. The water was warm and cooling at the same time. It was healing and nurturing. I turned to look at the next person standing on the diving spot; a very old man, stooped over, wearing his best clothes, clean but ragged and wrinkly. He was poor, yet unashamed because in this healing place, all were made welcome. We floated around together, the lines on his face relaxing, his smile becoming a radiant with bliss.

Someone held out a hand and I clambered out of the pool, dripping, but nobody cared. The floor was slightly elevated toward the center with channels along the edges to direct the healing water back to the pool. My white clothes clung to my body, but I wasn’t chilled. In the company of many others, some wet and others dry, we went into another large room with tables of wonderful, fragrant food and drink. The walls and floor were white marble, not polished, but with a patina of antiquity. I thought of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture, and the way his ideas bridged the outdoors and indoors in a seamless oneness.

A hush came over the assembled people and Elizabeth Power’s voice, quivering with elation, announced, “She’s here!” An unusual electricity swept over me and I was suddenly and entirely dry. My white attire was gleaming. Some of the people darted around furtively, as if  trying to hide from whoever this “She” was. I had the impression that it wasn’t a good idea to look into her eyes.  I was told to sit on the floor in a darkened storage hallway, but then I caught a glimpse of Her. I wasn’t going to sit on any floor after that!

She was a Goddess, and I knew it. It seemed as though her being was encased in an ancient wooden statue. She seemed unable to move freely, but She was alive and powerful, even though encased in the wooden form so old it was petrified. The statue was about six feet tall, with a long flowing dress carved from the wood, similar in fashion to a Grecian goddess, and I remembered the immense statue of Athena on display in Nashville’s Parthenon. And yet, the residual paint on her face reminded me of Durga, a principal Goddess in the Hindu pantheon, and it would not have surprised me to see multiple arms spring from her form. Her form glided around the room, as if looking for someone.

Elizabeth Power motioned to me from across the room, holding my gaze as I began to walk toward her. I didn’t notice who was behind me until I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard Elizabeth Power laughing again. Whirling around, I looked straight into “Her” eyes and she into mine. I heard “I am Asherah, and so are you” and a lightning bolt ripped through my being with a loud crackling sound as “She” crumbled to dust. A woman’s laughing voice said, “All clear, my darlings!” The gathering merrily resumed and I awakened from the dream.

                                       ***

It was one of those dreams that was really a vision, with a clarity and intelligent aura of truth and authenticity well beyond physical reality. I knew nothing of Ashera before the dream. Sure, I had heard the name and probably pulled an Ashera card from a deck of Goddess cards before, but I didn’t remember anything about her except ‘ancient,’ so the research began. From one of the first (and best) articles I found, I was astonished to read the following: “They worshiped Her [Asherah] under every green tree,” according to the Hebrew Bible (the Old Testament). The Bible also tells us Her image was to be found for years in the temple of Solomon, where the women wove hangings for Her. “In temple and forest grove, Her image was made of wood…carved of a tree, and perhaps the image was a stylized tree of some kind.“The archaeological record suggests that Asherah was the Mother Goddess of Israel, the Wife of God, according to William Dever, who has unearthed many clues to her identity. “She was worshiped…throughout the time Israel stood as a nation. Asherah’s image decorated household shrines. [Many images of  Asherah] emphasize Her breasts, suggesting Her role as a fertility goddess, but Her nature [is] as a mother in general.  She no doubt aided in the concerns of mothers, including conception and childbirth, but was probably also the mother of all, a comforter and protector in an uncertain world. Inscriptions from ancient Israel tell us that Yahweh and “his Asherah” were invoked together for personal protection. Her identification with trees suggests that Asherah was also Mother Nature…She was, in other words, everything you would expect from the feminine half of the divine creative duo, a Great Mother. Who was She, this lost Goddess of the Hebrews? And why is She no longer worshiped in the Judeo-Christian religions of today? Asherah’s image was lost to us not by chance.” 

I thought about ‘Elizabeth Power,’ and how Elizabeth, wife of Zechariah, mother of John the Baptist and Mother Mary’s cousin, was an aid to young Mary’s concerns about becoming a mother, how she comforted and protected Mary in her new and uncertain world, how she empowered Mary to become the Mother to Christ and Mother to the World. Additional research connect Asherah with both the Tree of Life and Sophia (Greek) or Hokmah/Shekinah (Hebrew), the Goddess of Wisdom. For example, Proverbs 3:13-19 says,“Blessed are those who find Wisdom, those who gain understanding, for she is more profitable than silver and yields better returns than gold. She is more precious than rubies; nothing you desire can compare with her. Long life is in her right hand; in her left hand are riches and honor. Her ways are pleasant ways, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her; those who hold her fast will be blessed. By Wisdom the Lord laid the earth’s foundations, by understanding he set the heavens in place.”

There is a whole wealth of knowledge about ancient Sumerian, Ugarit, Babylonian, Egyptian, Roman and even Hindu Goddesses, but the stories intermingle and specificity is rare. Many Goddesses were depicted with serpents and many others, lions. Asherah is associated with Ishtar, Astarte, Inanna, Anahita, Sekhmet, Libertas and even Durga, Supreme Mother Goddess of Hinduism. One thing is certain about the Biblical Asherah, however, and that is her banishment from Judaism and later, Christianity. Her name was  removed and replaced with “tree”  or “grove of trees,” and all semblance of Asherah worship, from altar pieces to “Asherah poles” were burned or banned. “Scratch the surface of the Bible stories just a little and you’ll find the serpent staff and the tree worship of Asherah under every green tree, but in official monotheistic doctrine the obvious meaning of these symbols is disavowed. And so we lost Asherah, the Wife of God, the Tree of Life, and the ability to access Divine Wisdom.” It’s time for the grand return of Asherah. We need Divine Wisdom like never before! Stay tuned, because it appears I haven’t begun to scratch the surface of what this is going to mean for me.

Libby Maxey is a Visionary Voyager into the "What If?, wife to her twin flame, minister, mother, nana, writer of books and blogs, transgender advocate and egalitarian. Her book titles I Am Liberty and One Becomes One are available on Amazon.com.

Asherah articles:  

1. Parts I, II and III of https://thequeenofheaven.wordpress.com/2010/10/27/asherah-part-i-the-lost-bride-of-yahweh/

 2. http://www.asphodel-long.com/html/asherah.html

3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asherah