#mixed with the smell of heavy use outside dogs and dirt

[thinkmanythingsofit]

I know the olfactory memory is strong, but gosh am I overwhelmed every time I put on that one old sweater. Just the moment my head is inside I'm transported back 18 years in an instant.

It's the most disgusting, broken, old sweater. I will never throw it away.

[allsassnoclass]

rainy days in california

Pairing: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 2023 Read on AO3

Southy is hiding under the bed.

It takes a while for Ashton to find him, because he hasn't experienced a thunderstorm while living with Michael yet.  The relationship between them isn't new or fragile by any means, but California has long periods of drought and they didn't decide to consolidate living spaces until the beginning of the summer.  It's been dry, and large booms of thunder haven't shaken the house until now.

Ashton reaches out to Southy, fingers gently brushing his fur.  Moose is with him under the bed, laying quietly but not whining like Southy is.  Ashton can't coax him out while the rain is still pounding on the roof, but he can offer some gentle ear rubs and soothing words, for what they're worth.

Michael finds him laying on the floor of their bedroom a few minutes later.

"Hey, Ash," he says, nudging his side with his foot.  "Scared of the storm?"

"Southy is," he says, arm still outstretched under the mattress still.

"He'll be fine," Michael replies, getting down next to him to greet the dogs.  "That's what we have Moose for.  Isn't it, girl?  Who's a good puppy?"

Moose licks his fingers, army-crawling forward to get better access.

"Southy used to cry a lot worse than this during storms.  She helps temper him a little."

Ashton hums.

"Come on," Michael says, sitting up and nudging him again.  "Unless you want to stay up here with the dogs all day, but I feel like you're going to start complaining about the hardwood soon."

"And just leave them?" Ashton asks.  Michael shrugs.

"They'll be fine.  Southy is just being dramatic."

"I wonder where he gets that from," Ashton says with a pointed look.  Michael sticks his tongue out at him, then heaves himself to standing, offering Ashton a hand.  He takes it, hauling himself to his feet and letting Michael lead him out to the main room.  The rain falls in thick sheets outside their windows, cloud cover painting the landscape a deep navy blue.  Michael leaves him by the windows and wanders to the kitchen.  Soon, Ashton hears the tell-tale sounds of the kettle being put on, clanking loud enough to carry over the rain because Michael has never learned to be gentle with the dishes.  Ashton watches the rain and lets the ambient sounds of their home wash over him until Michael presses a warm mug into his hands.

"It's scheduled to keep going all day," Michael says.  "The thunderstorm warning is only until two, though."

Ashton takes a sip of his tea, under-steeped and just a little too hot.  The temperature difference between the liquid and the air conditioning they have blasting makes him shiver.  Michael's hand sliding around his waist and his head on Ashton's shoulder makes him shiver for a different reason.

They pop in a movie, something lighthearted released years ago.  Southy and Moose wander out about halfway through, once the thunder has died down and lightning stops illuminating the sky.  Moose takes her place next to Michael, but Southy tries to worm in between him and Ashton.  Ashton pulls him onto his lap instead, running a steady hand over his fur until he settles.

He catches the end of Michael's fond smile out of the corner of his eye.

Once the credits have rolled through and the main menu is playing on a loop, Michael gets up to put their mugs in the sink.  When he returns he braces himself on the back of the couch and leans down to kiss Ashton before flopping next to him.

"You seem quiet today," Michael says.  "What's up?"

Ashton shrugs.

"I think it's the rain.  It always makes me a little sluggish.  I never want to do anything when it rains like this."

"I love the rain," Michael says, adjusting his position so he can stick his cold toes under Ashton's thigh.  "It's fun. Refreshing.  I like how everything smells afterwards."

"You always were a little weird," Ashton says.  Michael removes one foot so he can kick at him, then returns his toes to under Ashton's leg.

"Lots of people like that smell.  Besides, nothing is as fun as going out and playing in the rain.  It's like going to the water park but better because you can push your friends down into the mud."

"You're so weird."

"Am not!"

"Are too," Ashton says, giving him a lopsided grin.  Michael gets cute when he's teased, cheeks always turning the slightest bit pink and eyes lighting up.  Ashton likes gently ribbing him over unimportant things like this just to watch the way energy thrums through him.

"Fine.  Come on," Michael says, getting up once again and dislodging Moose.  He grabs Ashton's hand, pulling at him until he pushes Southy off his lap and stands.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"Outside," Michael says.

"Really?  Now?"

"Yep," Michael says, popping the last syllable.  "It's not thundering or downpouring too heavily anymore, so it's the perfect type of rain for us."

Ashton could dig his heels in and stop, but part of him wants to see what Michael is so excited about, and the other part of him is willing to do whatever it takes to make Michael happy.

Michael doesn't pause to let them put on shoes, just opens the door and marches out, Ashton's hand still securely in his.  The humidity hits him before the rain does, a heavy presence in the air that has been lessened by the storm but hasn't fully broken yet.  In contrast, the touch of droplets against his skin is refreshing.  It's a summer storm, so the rain is a warm, gentle kiss, dampening his hair and sliding over his face.

Michael tips his head up, pausing with his eyes closed and a smile on his lips.  Ashton watches the rain cascade over him.  After a few moments Michael cracks his eyes open, giggling in delight like a child seeing snow for the first time.  His laugh is infectious, bringing a smile to Ashton's face immediately.

"Come on," Michael says, pulling him forward again.  "Let's find some puddles!  Let's stand in the mud!  Let's stick our tongues out and count how many raindrops we can catch!"

They do exactly that.

The puddle comes first.  There's a dip in their sidewalk that always pools water when the rare rain comes to California and Michael jumps in it with no regard for his bare feet hitting the pavement, splashing Ashton's ankles.  Michael kicks more water at him and it's easy to succumb to the giddy feeling rising in his lungs, laughing as he joins him in the puddle, both of them sloppy with their footwork and nearly bonking heads due to how close they're standing while watching the ground.  

It's fun almost because of how not-fun it should be.  It's just water and them standing too close to each other, but Michael is laughing like a little kid and Ashton is thinking about how much joy there is in finding someone to be ridiculous and kind of stupid with.

Michael pulls them onto the grass, spinning them in a circle.  The dirt is soft under their feet, the blades of grass slippery enough that Ashton has to fight to keep his balance when Michael begins to lead them around in a jaunty dance, singing a nonsense melody with no words attached.

"What are you doing?" Ashton laughs.

"Singing in the rain," Michael sings back, twirling Ashton under his arm and continuing to sashay them both across the yard.  Ashton stumbles along after him, throwing an arm around Michael's shoulders to keep himself upright.  They keep that going for a few minutes until they trip over each other's feet, tumbling down to the grass intertwined with matching yelps.

"This is the 'pushing your friends down into the mud' part, I take it?" he asks, turning his head so he doesn't drown from the rainwater in his mouth.  Michael snorts and begins to detangle their limbs, so Ashton takes the opportunity to shove him back and wrestle a bit.  The rain means neither of them can get an easy grip, tumbling around on the grass with various yelps and expletives until Michael finally gets to his feet, Ashton catching his breath on his back.

"Ha!" Michael yells, pointing at him.  "Take that, Irwin!"

He still helps Ashton up when he asks for it, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

They don't stay out too long after that.  Ashton has grass and dirt all over him, and Michael shivers at one point despite the warm temperature.  They stand with arms out and heads tipped up to catch raindrops on their tongues, then call it a day and head back inside.

Ashton stops Michael in the entranceway with a hand on his wrist.

"We can't go through the house like this," he says.  "Strip and get a shower ready.  I'll throw our stuff in the laundry so nothing stains."

Michael waggles his eyebrows but does as he says, shedding his soaked shirt and shorts and leaving wet and dirty footprints in a trail to the bathroom.  Ashton picks up everything and gets the washing machine started, throwing his own clothing into the mix and shivering in their air conditioning.  Ashton likes keeping it at a lower temperature than Michael does, but right now he can't wait to warm up.

The bathroom is full of steam when he enters, Michael already under the spray of the shower.  Ashton slips in behind him, closing the shower door and accidentally startling Michael in the process.

"I didn't hear you come in," he says, grabbing Ashton's arms and switching their places so Ashton can rinse off, bits of grass and dirt swirling down the drain.

"You're lucky I wasn't a murderer," Ashton says, letting Michael's fingers scrub through his hair to ensure each strand gets rinsed.  "You'd be terrible in a horror movie."

"That's what I have you for," Michael says, grabbing the shampoo.  He squirts a dollop out onto his palm and rubs his hands together to get it to lather, then sets about washing Ashton's hair for him.  Ashton tips his head down and closes his eyes, exhaling.  Michael's fingers rub soothing circles against his scalp, backing him fully under the spray again when it's time to rinse.

He returns the favor, watching the way Michael's eyelashes flutter as he works.  He loves the way that Michael lets his guard down around him, the trusting way that he will let Ashton take care of him, eyes closed and head bowed.  He brushes his thumb over the shell of his ear, smiling when Michael blinks his eyes open at him.

Kissing in the shower is different from kissing in the rain.  They’re more relaxed here, the giddy energy having been transformed to a calm contentment, and Ashton can take his time cupping Michael’s jaw and exploring his mouth.  Michael hums against him, hands seeking Ashton’s waist and disrupting the paths of various water droplets trying to make their way across his skin.

“I love you,” Ashton says when they pull away.

“I love you, too,” Michael says, then grabs the body wash and Ashton’s loofa.

They stay in the shower long enough to enjoy it, but not long enough for the water to run cold.  They change into sweats and comfortable tees after toweling each other dry, piling back onto the couch with the dogs.  The rain has lessened even more now, just a drizzle at the end of the day’s storm, and Michael curls into him in the quiet of their home.

“Did you enjoy it?” Michael asks.  Ashton hums a question.  “The rain.  Does it still make you sluggish?”

Ashton tips his head towards him.

“It’s good,” he says.  “I had fun.  I see why you like it.”

Michael smiles at him and presses closer, leaning up to kiss Ashton’s cheek before resettling.  Ashton listens to the faint patter of rain against their windows and decides that it’s now one of his favorite sounds, second only to Michael’s delighted laugh that only he and the rain can bring out.

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 16: Bloodmoon’s Dawn

Warnings: strong language blood/gore, body horror, dead bodies, fire

Summary: Heisenberg searches for Juniper the morning after the hunt.

Feedback appreciated. 18+

Heisenberg trudged through the village. The sun had just started to rise in the pale dawn, the village trying to regroup after the Hunt.

He’d heard the gunshot, over the screams and howls. It made his blood run cold, fear and worry churning his gut into a mess.

The feeling didn’t leave him as he wandered the somber streets, the smell of blood and shit assaulting his nose.

But, above that, the horrid odor of burning hair and flesh rose with the wind. He rounded a corner to see a collection of men throwing bodies into a fire, the heat of it reaching his skin from that distance.

Most were Lycans, but there were a few dead and mangled villagers added to the blaze. Their fear of the dead turning spurred the villagers to burn both the creatures and the felled alike.

The thought of finding her on the pile….

He shook the thoughts away, trying to avoid the darkness that crept the corners of his brain.

He heard the wails of a woman, mourning a lost husband or son. He didn’t care to listen for details.

He continued along the street, looking into every fire for a familiar shape. His pale eyes scanning the charred bodies for anything resembling a varcalac alpha.

He sighed with relief when none were in the masses. Heisenberg had found her boots and coat discarded in the snow, her compass not far after. He deposited them in a safe location before searching the rest of the village.

The sound of bells echoed through the cold morning. He sneered, watching as the villagers began to flock towards the church. Mother Miranda, no doubt, was there to welcome them with promises of safety.

A few of the villagers stopped, falling to their knees before Heisenberg. Their voices were low and desperate mumbling for a mix or forgiveness and pity.

He reeled back a bit, before hurrying around them. He didn’t have time to waste coddling.

What he was looking for obviously wasn’t here anymore. He set his sights for the stronghold.

He walked the paths, over countless paw prints and bloody drag marks under his boots. The Lycans always retreated to the stronghold after hunts, to eat the dead they stole and to rest.

Heisenberg saw a few on the way, scrabbling around the rocks and tying up body’s for safekeeping.

The smell of gore was stronger as he entered the already opened doors, he could hear the creatures shuffling around within. If the villagers weren’t so fearful, they might have half a mind to torch this place.

He didn’t use caution as he strode through, the sound of his boots echoing off the ancient walls.

In a shadowy corner there was movement, something much bigger than a Lycan, and too bestial to be Urias.

He came forward, eyes adjusting to the darkness. His breath caught with relief: she was here and she was alive…

Juniper was still in her mutated form, laying bunched up along the old stone. Other Lycans and varcolacs were piled around, resting after the hunt.

Heisenberg stepped closer, seeing blood leak from a wound on her arm.

She raised her beastial head, a low growl coming from her chest.

“Hey now bitch, it’s me,” he lowered his voice, showing her his hands, “It’s Karl.”

She pulled her wounded leg closer, head dipping down. Her bloodied lips curled up as her wet nose twitched.

Sniffing at his offered hands, her hackles lowered.

Juniper leaned down and licked her wound gingerly.

Heisenberg knelt down by her, trying to look the leg over. It looked to be a bullet wound. Juniper’s tongue lathed it over, blood oozing out of the hole as soon as she licked it away.

“Got caught?” He frowned.

He could sense the metal still lodged in the flesh.

He reached out and gently touched her muzzle. Her multiple green eyes flicked up to him as she closed her unnaturally elongated jaws.

He scratched the bridge of her nose, easing as he watched her close her eyes.

There was a pleased rumble from her throat as she nuzzled into the contact.

“What I have to do is going to piss you off.” He admitted, worry etching into his features.

“Hies….en…” her voice croaked out, distorted and garbled in her mutated jaws.

He smiled weakly, “Yea, Doll. It’s me.”

“H….urt.” Her eyes of liquid green looked into his.

He squared his jaw, feeling a thorn in his chest.

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” He focused on the metal. Being as careful as possible, he began to dislodge the bullet with his powers.

Her form tensed, muscles bunched under the skin. She made a sound of warning, baring her teeth.

He didn’t waver, his eyebrows bunching with concentration. Suddenly, with a wet sucking sound, the bullet came free.

Heisenberg released it, the metal tinkling against the stone of the floor.

Juniper’s pointed ears came forward at the foreign sound. She sniffed the bullet with interest.

“Now what will we do with you?” He sighed, “Did you eat anyone?”

Juniper stood, shaking like a dog before padding closer to him. Her large head nudged him, causing Heisenberg to fall back on his butt.

She snuffled his shirt, pressing him down onto the stone.

He chuckled, trying to push her massive head away as her tongue came out.

She lapped at his face, her breath smelling of blood.

Heisenberg pushed her head to the side, “Damn, who's the nasty one now, bitch?”

She warbled pacing back into her spot, sitting down. Frowning, Heisenberg scratched his chin.

How to get her home?

He made a makeshift collar out of a piece of sheet metal folded in on itself, hooking a chain through it like a leash. Seeing her collared and chained sent a pang though him.

He frowned, his aggressive handling involving her throat still a stinging thorn in his mind.

He was surprised however how easily she followed the lead.

How much of her mind is left in this form?

He thought. Now that she was tired out and fully fed she was better behaved then the Lycans, padding after him as he led her out of the stronghold. The Lycans outside tilted their heads curiously as they passed.

Juniper’s back tendrils lazily flowed around her, like sea grass in the ocean current. They would sometimes bat into Heisenberg or disturb the snow covered branches overhead.

The trip back took much longer than expected. Heisenberg was forced to avoid the outskirts of the village entirely, making the way back longer anyways. Not to mention, in this form everything smelled new and interesting to Juniper’s sensitive nose. Heisenberg would get stopped every few feet by her shoving her face into a log or trying to scratch around in the dirt. It was akin to walking a large dog, he mused.

With the factory grounds in sight, his patience waned in wake of her most recent pit stop.

“Buttercup, you are really pissing me off.” He hissed, yanking on the chain. She whined, looking at him dejectedly as she padded up beside him.

Her head shot up, sniffing at the air. Her ears perked up as she looked towards the factory excitedly.

Heisenberg chuckled, “Yea, we’re going home.”

Before he could brace himself she went tearing off towards the factory, almost ripping the chain from his hands. He was forced to take a full run to keep up with her.

When they got to the fence he let go as she scrabbled over the top.

Falling off onto the other side with a thud, she looked at him expectantly.

The gate rattled open, as he walked through. He paused to ponder what to do with her now. He had hoped she would have changed back during the journey over, but her mutated form was locked in like a tick. She was also filthy, caked in a layer of blood and grime.

He led her to the back of the factory, practically having to push her onto the larger elevator. This was saved for when he had to transport larger scrap into the underbelly. But she should fit fine.

He took her to base level four.

Once there he hooked the chain to the wall, positioning her over some grates. She tugged at the bonds until she heard the sound of a faucet turning.

He came back brandishing an old rubber hose.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He said as he pointed the nozzle at her.

Heisenberg hosed her off, blood and mud washing away. The dirty water trickled away through the metal grates she stood over.

After he shut the water off, Juniper stood dripping and shivering. Her mane of dark curls, heavy and waterlogged, she resembled a drowned sheepdog.

“K-Ka….rl?” Her monstrous voice eked out. She pulled her twisted legs closer to herself as she shivered.

He frowned, “Yea, Yea…I know the water was cold.”

She gave a small whine like a dog, looking down.

“You should dry off soon, it’s warm here.” He soothed.  He made sure the ventilation system kicked on, forcing dry air though the lower sections of the factory.

He heard a hollow clinking sound, spinning around to find Juniper’s jaws biting at the large pipes. She pulled at them, shaking her monstrous head a bit.

“Hey!” Heisenberg shouted, “Don’t eat my shit!”

One of her many eyes flicked over to him as she continued.

He stomped closer, hearing a growl from deep in her chest.

“Hey!”

She paused for a moment, peering at him before starting to tug at the pipe again. He pulled on the chain, causing her to stumble back a bit with a whimper.

“Juniper, stop it!” He scolded her like a dog. She huffed.

He noticed the tendrils on her back began to recede, pulling into the bubbled flesh. Her scar also looks less angry.

Seeing her safe and starting to calm gave him time to think. Questions pooled around his head:

Miranda had to know Juniper could turn…but why was she testing the limits of it? Did she want to use her as a weapon or was it just more of her sick curiosity?

He didn’t know, but it made him feel sick. He hated seeing Juniper like this, twisted and bloodthirsty.

Seeing her start to get even a shadow of control over this form brought him some relief. If she could control it fully she’d be much less of a danger to herself.

Was it hunger related? Or just moon patterns, maybe?

The bloodmoon had definitely affected her much more deeply than any moon faze had prior. He scratched his beard, deep in thought.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ I'M GONNA PROTECT YOU ❜

with Angel Reyes, and reader as Che ‘Taza’ Romero' daughter.

Request: Oooh Could it be where you are a younger sibling to one of the guys or a daughter to either the older three? And you and Angel are somewhat good friends? Well one day you are alone at your house and you hear a noise outside and it freaks you out so you grab your gun and call your brother/dad and they are busy at the moment but they send Angel to check it out and he comes and turns out it's someone trying to break in. Anyway the guy runs away and it ends in some Smut? Then your relative comes!

BY @firebenderwolf

Warnings: brief violence described, I think.

Word count: about 1.8k

Aurora says: I wrote it listening a cover of ‘La Llorona’, by Natalia Doco, so I recommend you to listen this song while you read it. This writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: @angels-reyes

Masterlist.

You can subscribe to my broadcast list, to be notified whenever I post a writing!

The barks coming from the open field, next to the barns, suddenly wakes you up. Your dogs never barks in the middle of the night. You don't give them much importance, lying back on bed again, until they start to howl. Getting up and sticking your head closer to the window, you find some big figures cutting part of the wire fence with a pair of shears. Grabbing your phone, you call your father while leading your feet to his room, to grab the gun under his pillow. A nine millimeters semi automatic, enough to chase them away. Taking off the safety and raising your arms to the high of your eyes, you hang up the call. Probably, Taza will be at Vicki's house getting drunk with Bishop and Tranq, so you type Angel's number by heart. Going downstairs, your eyes looking straight forward, trying to make the least noise possible while you hear the howls and barks getting louder.

“Angel, there's two guys trying to come into my house, and my dad doesn't answer”.

“I'm going, mami. Hide and don' fuckin' move”.

The adrenaline was running through your body, and until you listened to his voice, you didn't notice that you were actually terrified. Gulping, you just hope that they don't hurt your animals. Keeping your phone muttered in a pocket, you hold the gun with both hands. The logic act would be calling the cops, but that is not an option for someone like you, nor your father. Crossing the huge and open living room, you decide to hide yourself into a wardrobe behind a folding screen that your great-grandfather made with his own hands.

Your heart races jumping inside your chest when you are able to hear their voices. Mexicans with a terrible american accent. Sticking your left ear to the door, you try to glimpse if you know them. And it is possible. Biting your bottom lip really nervous, you begin to text your father telling him what's happening, until your body shakes violently when a lot of small glasses fall to the floor after a heavy racket. The thieves are now entering into your house. And actually, they're not going to find anything. Your father is too intelligent to keep his money and valuables belongings inside there. But you're actually terrified because, yes, you know how to fire a gun; but you have never done it to defend yourself. And the only thing you can do right now is to wait. Your father is also coming with the older part of the crew after reading your text messages.

The barks outside don't cease, but your dogs are locked taking care of the animals, and you prefer it. You don't want them to get hurt. And the different noises of more glasses crashing, and different pieces of furniture falling to the floor are turning you anxious. The tears filling up your eyes and your shaky breathing don't help to stay calmed. Resting your back against the wall, with the gun raised to the door, you think that you are ready to fire it as soon as someone opens it.

Gulping a bunch of saliva, when you stop to hear them whispering curses in spanish after some minutes, the heavy steps upstairs call your attention; as the continues buzz of an engine getting closer to the ranch, speeding up in the moment it crosses the main fence. In complete silence, you step out from the wardrobe, with your trembling fingers securing the weapon between them. Checking that there's no one around you, your feet run to the main door to open it. Angel is already there. Without taking off the helmet, the man passes you away with his own gun lifted up in front of his dark eyes. Following him to the stairs, each other take up a side of the wall, waiting for them to go downstairs. The first one appears asking the other to leave, after not finding anything, but before he can warn his sidekick, Angel is already pointing at him, making him a sign to stay silent.

“Mario, where are you?” You hear from the top.

Taking off the gun from the thief's hands, you leave it over the table. But making a false move, the mexican manages to punch Angel, starting to wrestle with him.

“RUN, ANTONIO! MAYA—MAYANS ARE HERE!”

Your mind goes blank by the shock of seeing him fighting, and the weapon sliding itself over the floor, in the meantime the other man runs away jumping through a window and using the bindweeds around the house as stairs. Watching how the other tries to beat the oldest Reyes, you point at them with trembling hands.

“Leave him, pend—”.

Because of the nerves running through your veins, your forefinger presses the trigger shooting the thief by his back. A painful grunt floods the living room. Angel pushes him away, while the mexican writhes between tears and growls. Grabbing the gun from your hands, to not fire anyone else, your friend places an arm over your shoulders to turn you, giving your back to the thief. At the moment he tries to fight again, almost standing up, Angel shoots him again. Twice. Straight to the chest. Clinged to his body, you can't help but break into cries, hiding your face in his neck.

“Look at me… Look at me. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He mumbles, leaving away the weapon, so he can cup your cheek in his hands.

You just nod swallowing, feeling his lips pressed on your forehead, before stretching an arm to the wall to turn on the lights.

“Com'ere, baby”. He says, urging you to slightly jump into him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your tears wet the franel shirt he's wearing inconsolably, leading his steps to the kitchen, away from the dead body staining the floor with the blood gushing out of it. Helping you to sit over the island in the middle of the place, Angel hurries up to bring you a glass of water, not knowing how to calm you down more than with leaving some caresses in your hair. You try to swallow but your throat is hermetically closed, coughing some times, while the salty tears keep flowing onto your lips.

“Did I… Did I ki—killed him?”

“No, no, no”. He says, putting the ringed fingers by both sides of your face, affected deeply by the look of horror in your orbs. “I did it, okay? You hear me? I did it”.

You know him from seven years ago, having a special connection from the beginning. You have been through a lot of shit together, but you never expected something like that happening. Putting the glass away from your trembling fingers, Angel holds you against his body, tightly hugging you, trying to make you feel somewhat better while the crew come to the ranch.

“Please… Stop crying… It's okay”. He mutters with a broken voice, not used to feel you so terrified. “I'm here, baby… I'm gonna protect you”.

“I'm sor—sorry, Angel”.

“Don' be silly. You don' have to be sorry 'bout nothing”. He chuckles softly, leaving a kiss on your right cheek. “Am your superhero, remember?”

The Reyes finally breathes when he hears you laughing with a low, low tone.

“I would never let anyone hurt you”. Sticking his forehead on yours, he closes his eyes for a second, feeling how your fingers get intertwined in his shirt.

You just nod, trying to catch back your breath, almost drinking his. The strokes by his thumbs over your skin helps to maintain a calmed pulse, beating your heart with a low pace; only focused on his touches. Your mind plays a dirt trick on you, making you lean forward some inches until his lips are being pressed by yours. But Angel isn't surprised, and doesn't have any intention to pull himself away, strengthening his fingers on your neck. Your mouths look like two pieces from a puzzle, destined to fit perfectly. Settling himself between your legs to be closer, your hands travel to the back of his head, as your lips start to move softly, tasting every single inch of his. Sliding his tongue inside your mouth to find yours, you can't help but feel a mix of feelings about it. Now you are confused about the fact that you don't know if you're doing it because of the horror lived, or because you really wanted to do it since long ago.

Running out of air, Angel continues kissing your cheek up to your temple with short and gentle gestures, clinging his arms around your body. You have never felt so serene, even if there's a dead body in the middle of your living room and the buzz of some engines are getting louder. He is warm, and seems like he smells better than never, resting your face on his chest with closed eyes. Angel's heart beat is like a hypnotic melody that could make you fall asleep just like that, as if you two were completely alone and you haven't been about to kill a man, for the first time, some minutes ago.

“BAB—HOLY SHIT! BABY! BABY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

As soon as Angel pulls away himself from you, your legs jump down to the floor, running to the place where your father's voice comes from. Your body collides with his surrounding him, breaking in crying again when you feel him finally holding you. Bishop, Tranq and Riz are also there, examining the man lying on the floor with no breath of life in him.

“¿Estás bien? ¿Estás herida, mi amor?” (Are you okay? Are you hurt?) Taza is desperate, looking at you with reddened eyes as you nod in silence. “What happened?”

“There were two men. This… son of a bitch's name is Mario. The other ran away by a window. Antonio, I think he said”. Angel explains under the gaze from his brothers. “Man… they knew where they were getting into”.

“Why?” Bishop asks.

“They knew we are Mayans”. Angel shakes his head slightly, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. “And they were mexicans”.

“I think I know him”. Tranq is squatted close to the dead body, narrowing his eyes as he studies his face. “Vatos or Coyotes, I am not sure, Bishop”.

“Figure it out and put in on the table”. Taza demands with the rage consuming him, hugging you tightly under his arms.

“Let's go”. Bishop moves his head to the main door, making the others know that they must go. “Angel, calls the guys. Take care of the trash”.

“Come here, mi vida”. Your father whispers carrying you into his arms upstairs, not wanting you to continue there. “We're going to take some clothes and leave to the club, okay?”

✨ Tag list:

@starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​@sassymox @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @destynelseclipsa @sheeshgivemeabreak @abbiesthings @knowles-morgan @lady-pswrld @minnicelli @marquelapage @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @jadesamhart @mycupoffanfiction @claytoncardenasbabymama @thesandbeneathmytoes @phoenixhalliwell @thewarriorprincessxo @sugary-x-sweet @multiyfandomgirl40 @imanerdychubbyqueen @iambabyharry @firebenderwolf @itsanofrommesir @noz4a2 @peaches007 @edonaspanca @irenne-stans @skyofficialxx @that-chick212

[dragonnan]

Small teaser of the new fic for 2021 that I’ve started working on.  This is in memory of my own dad - someone I loved dearly even if I never knew as much about his as I’d always wished.  He was not someone who ever easily shared abut himself - that just wasn’t his way.  But I knew he loved me and my mom and siblings.  That was never in question.

It maybe goes without saying but the character of Stephen’s dad, while maybe having some surface similarities (the skills and history as a farmer) that are shared with my dad but he isn’t meant to be a proxy.  In the end, this is a story about father’s and children and the complexity that can come from those relationships.

A final disclaimer - other than names and where they lived I know nothing about Stephen’s parents.  Everything I write in this fic will be my own interpretation - not the least of which that I’ve chosen to have Stephen’s dad still be alive.

_____

Untitled Doctor Strange Fic teaser:

Nothing had changed.

And that was both startling and expected... in a way.  But mostly it was comforting.  Years... decades... centuries had passed him by and yet the same post office sat on the corner.  The same family-owned general store was across the street – windows still painted with specials that had been special since he was a child.  The same movie theater with its peeling marquee – the same bakery filled with overpriced and over-baked pastries – the same department store stocked with garments a good decade out of fashion.  Still dark but there was no lack of traffic as owners and employees made their way to shops and businesses.  One older man – Stephen thought his name was Danny... no, Donald, waved and smiled before unlocking the front door to a carpet and flooring shop.  

He could lift any day from his childhood and it would look just like this.

His exhale carried visibly through the air – the chill setting off a shiver and making him miss his robes – the cloak in particular.  This wasn't the sort of adventure where a cloak was needed, however, beyond warmth of course.  In fact the only arcane item he'd brought with was his sling ring.  He could be anywhere in the world in seconds, if needed.  So why was he walking? Certainly Wong had been the small voice in his head asking the question for the last five minutes.  But, truthfully, he needed this time.  He wasn't certain what sort of welcome he'd find at the end of his walk and, if he took enough time, there was always a chance he'd be summoned back to the Sanctum well before he arrived.  

He wasn't sure if that wouldn't be better, overall...

Stephen was half an hour beyond the town, sticking to the verge and surrounded primarily by fields, when he revisited the wisdom of his choices.  He was vibrantly aware that a slip of the ring could have him at the end of his journey.  He should have left later in the day.  To be fair it was easy enough to forget when the sun rose in Nebraska.  It was easy to forget a lot of things – even with an eidetic memory.  

Why was he doing this?

The watch on his wrist was a far cheaper model than the one, sitting on his bedside table, back at the Sanctum.  However, it had the benefit of actually functioning. Nearly 6:15, now; the sun would be up in a little over an hour.  His destination, however, was at the end of the driveway just ahead. Stephen blew on his hands before starting down the gravel path.

Carefully cultivated red pines lined either side of the narrow road.  They'd begun to go a bit wild, though, in the decade since his last visit.  Outside lights, ahead, gave him glimpses of the two-story structure that had changed color ever four or five years when he was young.  First white, then an unfortunate yellow, then finally red.  One last turn and he could finally take in the entirety of the property.

The apple trees had grown.  That shouldn't have surprised him and yet...  And each branch was heavy with ripe fruit – some already scattered on the ground.  God he could still taste Mom's pies.  He could remember the tradition of canning them every Autumn... right around this time, actually.  Steam adding a weighty humidity to the kitchen – his mother's arms red from the heat that rose around glass jars suspended in the hot water. The smell of fruit and spice.  Stephen plucked an apple – brushing it against his shirt before biting into the flesh.  Juice dribbled down his chin and he squinted at the tart twist of flavor – cool sweetness following and he wiped at the stickiness caught in his goatee.  He chewed as he walked – bypassing the house for the barn near the back woods.

Once upon a time cattle had moved through the pastureland set just beyond the fencing that separated it from the trimmed lawn.  But cattle hadn't roamed the hills since before he'd achieved his doctorate.  Too much income lost between disease and predation.  Tossing his core towards the treeline, Stephen was lifting his hand to the massive sliding door when sudden barking made him hesitate.  There had always been dogs on the farm but he was a stranger, here, and he felt that realization cut sharp through his belly.  A muffled voice quieted the dog.  Work boots clumping across concrete carried through the thick wood and, moments later, the smaller side door creaked on hinges that likely hadn't been oiled since Stephen was a child.

An enormous black dog darted out onto the packed dirt surrounding the barn.  Stephen couldn't help smiling – recognizing the breed as Newfoundland.  Typical of the breed, the big animal approached amicably – tongue lolling out with no trace of aggression.

“Hey, boy...”  Kneeling, Stephen twisted his face away from the tongue that swiped towards his cheek – though it managed to lap across his ear.  A few rubs on the shaggy head and he pushed up again – aware of the silent form watching him.  Finally he returned the look.

“Hi, Dad.”

Eugene Melvin Strange looked at the son whom he hadn't spoken to, face to face, in nearly a decade.  Three years away from eighty but one wouldn't know it from his features. Only his hair gave it away – almost pure white save for some lead grey streaks near the temples.  Well after the moment between them had become awkward, he gestured towards the house.

“I could use a cup of coffee.  You planning to stay a while?”

Stephen nodded – one hand still stroking across the large dog's head.  “Yeah.  I was, uh, hoping we could...”

“Great.  Lock up the barn, would you? I'll go put the pot on.”  And with that, Eugene whistled the dog to his side and the two of them headed towards the house.  

Well that could have gone worse. Rather than simply lock the door, Stephen allowed curiosity to lead him inside.  Gone were the smells of animals – the wild mix of warm fur, hay, and oats that had always been so appealing.  He used to nibble at raw oats – the taste like seeds and fresh grass.  In its place was the powerful sharp tang of varnish and furniture stain; enough to trigger an involuntary sneeze.  Rubbing his nose, Stephen pressed forward – back towards the stalls that used to house the cattle as well as one disgruntled boar.  Now those spaces had been filled with tools and furniture in various states of completion.  A second sneeze was brought on by the sawdust that still hung in the air where his father had been at work with a table saw – trimming down lengths of wood that had some eventual purpose that he couldn't quite discern.  On the other side of the barn, completed pieces stood behind sheets of plastic that had clearly been hung to keep contaminants from settling on the freshly varnished surfaces.

Stephen could remember his father always having some interest in furniture building.  He'd build a secretary for Stephen's mother for their 25th wedding anniversary.  Beverly Strange had used that secretary often – both as a place to draft letters as well as work on her stories.  She had never quite managed to publish anything but she had completed five manuscripts before she had taken ill.

Another sneeze hit sharp across his sinuses so Stephen called an end to his explorations – locking the outside door and following the path to the house.

[jaimesam]

Sawtooth

We woke up on the morning of our fourth day in the Sawtooth wilderness feeling spry. It can take a day, or two, or three before the rhythm of backpacking— wake up, wolf down some instant oatmeal, slurp up some instant coffee, shoulder a 35 pound pack and start the day’s climb—begins to feel right. This was our morning.

A miracle: the skies had truly cleared of wildfire smoke for the first time since setting off from Grandjean. Good timing, too: our day ahead would be perhaps the best of the trip — up and over Cramer Pass, beneath “The Temple,” down past the Cramer Lakes and up again to Alpine Lake, reputedly a gem. We hit the trail with bounce in our step.

Three, four, five miles into our hike we were still having fun, even as we began to wonder — was it possible that Hidden Lake was, in fact, so hidden that we wouldn’t see it from the trail? When would we hit the killer climb up to Cramer Pass? Slogging through overgrown brush and clambering over deadfall — all of which felt oddly familiar — we encountered a group of five friendly outdoorsmen from Seattle.

“Morning.”

“Afternoon.”

“Am I right that we’ve got a climb ahead?”

“Oh no, it’s all downhill from here.”

“Hmm.”

“Where are you trying to get to?”

“Well we were aiming for Cramer Lakes…”

“Oh you’re a long way from there. This trail goes down to Grandjean.”

“Oh my god.”

Jaime caught up.

“We took a wrong turn.”

“I thought so.”

“It’s a bad one.”

“How bad?”

“The good news is that we’ve been making great time. Covered a lot of miles.”

“And?”

“That lake was Elk Lake. This is the trail we hiked in on our first day.”

“How…”

“Five miles ago. Missed a turn.”

“God damn it.”

“Actually more like five and a half.”

Oh yes, there were signs. Including literal signs made of actual wood. Two of which we somehow blew blindly past, and a third: seen but egregiously misinterpreted. Also the creek we had crossed thrice, which, had we been paying close attention, we might have noticed was flowing in the wrong direction. Or beautiful Smith Falls, which we had passed two days before. Or the 2.4 miles of the South Fork of the Payette Trail we had hiked on day one — the most grueling and unattractive stretch of trail we had yet encountered — you would think we might have realized something was amiss. And yet.

“We could just hike out.”

“It would be eleven more miles.”

“So we backtrack.”

“Five and a half. Uphill.”

“We’re spending an extra night out here, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“Do we have extra food?”

“We have enough food.”

“I hate this.”

So we backtracked. An eleven mile detour, all told, with 1500 feet of elevation lost and then gained agin, for no reason, on unremarkable, overgrown, valley trails with views of nothing but dense forest, overgrown with scrubby mountain brush. The last few miles, a steady and grueling climb, brought us back to where we had missed our first sign, six hours before. We collapsed at the intersection, refilled our bottles, and snacked on salami — the promise of which was all that had gotten us up the hill. Mosquitoes and black flies swarmed, and the sky, which had begun the day clear, turned a pinkish gray as wildfire smoke began to dim the sun again.

“Why do we do this?”

“Good question.”

Onward to Hidden Lake, not so hidden after all. After dragging ourselves over 14 miles — 3 miles of forward progress from our last camp — we collapsed on a grassy shoreline, and rinsed our scratched and bruised bodies in the glassy frigid water. The lake sat beneath two pointed cliffs, side by side — one of red stone, the other gray— and the sun set early in the narrow valley. Trout jumped, snatching flies from the water’s surface, and pair of mergansers jetted around the lake, snatching the fish in turn. Exhausted, we fell asleep listening to hermit thrushes whistling their fluting ethereal song over the quiet rush of cascades tumbling down the cliffs, filling the lake.

We woke up, wolfed down some instant oatmeal, slurped up some instant coffee, and began the day’s climb. Up and over Cramer Pass, beneath “The Temple,” a tower of red sandstone capped with a knobby monolith that might well have been the icon of some desert religion. We descended again to the three Cramer Lakes, each one cascading to the next, down further to cross a rushing stream of snowmelt and spring water. We dipped our hats and bandannas in the almost-freezing water to drip down our necks and backs in the hot afternoon. Then we’re climbing again, this time twice as high, twice as far, to Alpine Lake, a pristine tarn carved into the side of the slope, a fine place for a salami break. Then higher, sweating our way up to the day’s second pass. We looked down on the Baron Lakes, where we would camp for the night, and across the lakes to Warbonnet Peak and Monte Verita, grey and purple in the late afternoon shadows.

“This is why we do this.”

“Yeah.”

One reason, anyway. The most obvious reason. If you did a survey of the people who somehow ended up at the top of the pass above Baron Lakes, this would be the number one reason cited for braving the insects and the varmints, dealing with the aches and the rashes, and slogging up a mountain with a heavy pack: the views, the vistas, the landscapes, the panoramas. The drama of the mountains. It’s like cooking your own meal — it tastes better when you’ve worked for it, earned it, done it yourself. The view from the pass is more beautiful for the sweat and exertion dragging your body and your pack up the climb.

We got more the following day as we descended from the Baron Lakes, our final day on the trail. An oceanic valley opened up beneath us, ringed by steep cliffs and rockslides of red and grey and purple, Baron Creek turning into a 30 foot waterfall. You can’t find this outside the mountains, this sense of three-dimensional space. Of looking down a valley two miles wide as it falls away from your feet, three thousand feet down. Like standing in the greatest of civilization’s cathedrals, but one with enough open space to park a carrier group, with more room for a fleet of attack submarines below.

After five nights and six days, we have become the land. Smeared with the dust of an arid country, we blend in with the rock and dirt. And despite our daily dips in the alpine lakes of the Sawtooth, we smell like it too. That first shower will feel great. The first meal — Jaime’s been fantasizing about a tuna melt and French fries, Sam has been inexplicably craving pancakes — even better. This is also why we backpack. It feels awfully good to have done it.

More than just the relief and indulgence of returning to civilization, a week in the mountains offers a welcome reset on city life. I am a city person. I like living in a density of people, living within a stroll of most everything I need, nearby neighbors and friends. But I crave the balance offered by nature, by a week in the woods, a month in the mountains. We’ll return feeling refreshed, glad to be back, awed by the commonplace luxuries of modern urban living: a world’s worth of cuisines, at my doorstep in 20 minutes; humanity’s complete works of recorded music, in my pocket. We’ll be very glad to have done it, for all its ups and downs. And, more immediately, we’re glad to be done.

“I’m sore.”

“Me too.”

“My blister just popped.”

“Ew.”

“I feel great.”

“Me too.”

Leaning on the car, we ease off our boots. The horseflies are back at this lower elevation, and their buzzing takes us back to last week when we tightened our laces and adjusted the straps on our pack in preparation for starting our trip. We had arrived at Grandjean just a few hours behind the first wave of wildfire smoke. Hiking in July, we thought we’d beat the wildfires to the punch; no such luck. So we started our hike in a haze - literal and figurative - wondering if we’d be walking up mountains for 54 miles with the reward of smoggy vistas waiting at the passes and peaks.

The first day’s hike didn’t lift that haze. The trail was overgrown, not often used, with deadfall lying across our path requiring us to clamber over dead trunks or bushwhack through brush to get around. Horseflies dogged us, buzzing and biting. As we climbed, sweating, copses of trembling aspen yielded to a forest of ponderosa pine, white spruce, douglas fir, and horseflies yielded to mosquitoes. Six miles up the trail, we encountered two fellow hikers, who informed us that the first good campsite was another eight miles ahead, and that they were churning out 20 miles in a day to get out of this godforsaken wilderness pronto. Terrific.

Fortunately, they were wrong, and we soon found a very fine place to pitch a tent next to a small waterfall. The Payette River’s headwaters split and cascaded down on either side of a great red rock, and every few seconds, the waters surged and a shower of snowmelt would surge over the rock itself, spraying into the air.

A western tanager — electric yellow body, reddish head, and jet black wings — flitted through the campsite. So did chipmunks, rushing around frantically to spread the good news that a pair of slovenly campers had finally arrived, and the summer’s harvest was here at last.

“Look at the cheeks on that little guy.”

“He’s just dying to fill them up with our trail mix.”

Joke’s on us. His cheeks were already full. We turn around, and our bag of trail mix has been chewed open, our week’s supply of almonds, cashews, chocolate, and cranberries pawed through and looted.

“Oh no!”

“Tou thieving little bastard! You bandit! Son of a bitch!”

He was long gone, and presumably the life of the party in whatever chipmunk den he had retreated to. Not wanting to contract whatever rodent virus the chipmunks might have left on our nuts — and not wanting to reward their banditry — I fed our entire supply of trail mix to the fish, swearing profusely as each morsel washed downstream. We have enough food without it, I think.

Our second morning, we awoke to what appeared as a fine morning mist; the pines in the middle distance enveloped in a grey cloud; the ridgeline hazy. But central Idaho is a dry country, this time of year. There is no mist. The wildfire smoke has thickened, and an image of peace transforms to a vague and grim picture of threat and foreboding. We shoulder our packs and resume the climb; eleven more miles on the trail, plus half a mile vertically.

As we walk we get our first glimpses of sawtooth silhouette. Steep rocky cliffs capped with jagged ridgelines, hazy and dark in the smoke against the grey sky. We cross a cold stream, boots off, sandals on, almost knee deep in the rushing icy water. We stop to rest — our first salami break of the trip! — beside Smith Falls, a roaring cascade.

“Do you have the hand sanitizer?”

“I thought you had it.”

“Nope.”

“Where’s the soap?”

“Packed with the hand sanitizer.”

“We’re disgusting.”

The day has gotten hot, and our final mile is a savage climb, switchbacking up the rough talus slope of Mt. Everly. Closing in on 9000’ feet of elevation, we stop to catch our breath every few steps and soak in the panorama behind us: smoky and grey, but astounding nonetheless, with miles of views into wilderness valleys ringed by sawtooth ridges.

Finally, we climb high enough that a lake reveals itself as a sliver of blue, and then it’s at our feet. Everly Lake is a sapphire droplet, water clear to the bottom, the gently rippling surface sparkling azure in the late afternoon sun. It sits beneath the east face of Mt. Everly, a scree cliff dropping a thousand feet to the water’s edge, across from where we set up camp. We haven’t seen another soul all day, and we have this lake very much to ourselves.

Why do we do this? An interesting question because, in case it’s not obvious, backpacking trips involve a considerable quantity of suffering. We do it for the satisfaction and rejuvenation of completing a trip, certainly. And obviously the views — even when they’re gray and hazy. But this — this is really why we hump heavy packs up rocky cliffs, put up with clouds of insects and wildfire smoke, endure blisters and aches and altitude sickness. There is freedom in solitude (dual solitude, in our case), and real solitude is a hard thing to come by. Hot and sweaty and ragged from the climb, I splash into the glass-clear snowmelt of Everly Lake, naked as a wild animal.

When telling people about our big trip west, our route through Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, the most frequent first response was “ah, you’re doing the parks.” Meaning the National Parks, those natural American wonders with scenic byways leading drivers to the parks’ iconic sights, visitors’ centers full of gifts and amenities and fun facts, and influencers dangling their immaculate bodies over sheer cliffs to rack up the likes. Not so. We are, in fact, avoiding the Parks at all costs, instead seeking solitude in forests and wilderness — the likes of the Sawtooth.

In March, we took a trip to Great Smoky Mountain National Park, hoping to hike and revel in some of the finest scenery you’ll find east of the Mississippi. The joke was very much on us. Day one, we spent two hours in the car, inching toward a trailhead, in a miles-long snake of cars and trucks and RVs. In July and August, Yellowstone National Park transmutes from the largest national park in the lower 48 into the biggest parking lot on the North American continent. People sleep in their cars on the road to Zion, in the hopes of snagging a shot at a sunrise selfie.

It’s been fifty years since Edward Abbey wrote Desert Solitaire, which I’ve been reading on the trail. The book is an account of his summers as a ranger in the park that would eventually become Arches. He lamented road-building in National Parks, and proposed banning cars altogether, a fine idea. Many of our Parks did alright for decades, even with their roads and scenic byways; today’s plauge, clogging those roads and viewpoints and even some of the trails, is known as Instagram. The secret is out about the natural beauty of the American west, and the hoards have flocked.

Of course, not everyone out here in nature is seeking solitude. That’s fine. Certainly, every person has a right to see and experience earth’s great wonders. But even for the casual nature tourist, I would posit that the Grand Canyon would be better enjoyed with enough room to swing one’s arms. What to do about it? Who knows. The French are de-marketing their national parks, advertising the flaws and shortcomings of the country’s great natural sites; another fine idea, maybe there are others. At any rate, Abbey is lucky to be dead; the sight of hoards of selfie-snappers crowding for the perfect pic at Mesa Arch would kill him over again.

For those who do seek something approaching solitude, it’s harder and harder to find. We’ve avoided the National Parks, but even many of the forest campgrounds are full beyond the brim. We’ve spent evenings driving around the backwoods, trying in vain to find a good place to camp that isn’t already clogged with RVs. And I’m not here to tell anyone how to enjoy nature, but I am here to tell you that the RV is a blight upon American wilderness. Pulling into a campground in a forgotten corner of the Black Hills, and listening to a fleet of generators run for hours is, shall we say, irritating. If your idea of exploring America’s natural beauty involves parking a bus that costs as much as Lamborghini in the woods and running a generator 16 hours a day to keep your A/C running and your TV on, why not save yourself the trouble — and do the rest of us a favor — and stay home?

As one friend likes to say, gazing up at a spectacular mountain view and taking a contented sigh: “We mean nothing.” In the city, it’s hard to see yourself outside the contemporary, the immediate, the urgent. Put yourself in nature, in the shadow of a great peak or at the bottom of a colossal canyon, and it becomes possible to see your ego and your consciousness in a more accurate perspective: transient, insignificant. There’s freedom in that. And peace.

The chipmunks of Everly Lake share the thieving attitude of their cousins down the mountain. As we sat absorbing the last of the orange sun’s rays, we heard a rustling behind us, and caught one in the act trying to seize our sesame crisps. Rather than chewing through the bag and filling his fat cheeks with whatever they could carry, this greedy fellow had his tiny arms wrapped around the entire ziploc bag, attempting to make off with the whole kit and kaboodle. Not today, chipmunk. We learned our lesson. Our food bag didn’t leave our sight the rest of the trip.

We awoke the next morning to the smell of a campfire burning outside our tent. Poking my head out into the grey predawn light — no campfire, just a thick cloud of wildfire smoke. The far shore was shrouded in haze, and our sparkling blue lake had turned dull; a grim sense of foreboding gripped us as we wolfed down our instant oatmeal, slurped up our instant coffee, and shouldered our packs to descend from Everly.

We hop from lake to lake through the southern Sawtooth, and, mercifully, the cloud of smoke thins as we go. Not a soul on the trail, as we dip our toes in lakes with wonderful names — Ingeborg, Spangle, Ardeth— and some quotidian names — Rock Slide, Vernon, Benedict. I regret leaving my binoculars in the car, we try to ID our avian companions anyway. Most will end up in our books as LBBs (little brown birds), curious peepers and cheepers. We do grow fond of the white-capped sparrow, which looks like it’s wearing a bike helmet and sings a song that sounds like the opening refrain of Baby Shark. Funny little fellow.

We arrive at Lake Edna, our camp for the night, and the skies have cleared. We are treated to sunset over a glassy indigo surface. We watch the sun fall behind the same mountain that it has set behind for hundreds, thousands of summer evenings previous. It’s harder and harder to find pristine nature like this, unaltered by humanity. If some other person had felt compelled to make the same hike, climb the same hill 500 or 5000 Julys ago, they would have seen the same thing, heard the same birds, enjoyed the shade of the same trees. There is magic in that.

We woke up on the morning of our fourth day in the Sawtooth wilderness feeling spry.

This essay borrows liberally and consciously in structure and style from Messrs. Edward Abbey & John McPhee.

[mskinkyafro]

Stormy Nights (M!Sam x MC)

A/N: This story is more focused on my MC, Desiree Fine’s relationship with the twins than it is Sam but there’s a pinch of Sam x MC romance/fluff. I’ll probably write more fics with Sam x MC as the center focus down the line. Either way I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: When a thunderstorm wakes the boys late at night, they seek out the comfort of their nanny.

Rating: G

Background Pairing: M!Sam x MC 

The heavy sound of pitter-patter on the window relaxes Desiree as she walks out of her bathroom toward her warm king-sized bed. She wraps her hair up in a silk hair scarf as she collapses on the center of the bed and sighs in relief. It had been nothing short of an eventful day with the twins. First, she had the boys clean up their room. This is usually a hard sale to the two seven-year-olds on a Saturday morning, but with the incentive of getting extra dessert after dinner, a deal was made. After a thorough inspection, the three ate breakfast, got showered, and dressed for the day’s outing to the Central Park Zoo. She secretly hoped Sam was able to join them but with him being called into work unexpectedly with the high chance of staying late, it was out of the question. Desiree brushed off the twinge of disappointment and instead focused on the busy day ahead.

Once they arrived, the excitement on Mickey and Mason’s face warmed her heart as they both eagerly pulled her all over the zoo. The three spent the entire afternoon bouncing from exhibit to exhibit. During the ride home and over dinner both boys couldn’t stop talking about all the fun they had and the cool facts they learned. Looking back on today, it brought a smile to her face even in the wake of her newfound exhaustion. As she settles into the comforter and lays her head on the silk pillows, she closes her eyes and welcomes the persistent fall of rain to lull her to sleep. Not long after as her breathing slows, the bellows of thunder crashing outside cause her eyes to fly open.

Turning on her bedside lamp Desiree sits up and lays her back against her headboard and sighs,

“Guess, I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon. At least the boys-- ”

Her bedroom door creaks as it opens slowly. Desiree turns to the direction of the noise and notices the silhouette of a ruffled head boy casted on the wall.

“Hello?” she calls out.

“Umm...mmm…” the small nervous voice answered.

“Mason, is that you? You can come in.”

Just as the words left her mouth, another round of roaring thunderclaps. The sandy brown hair boy pushes the door open further, rushes into Desiree’s room, and stops a few feet short of the foot of her bed.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked, surprised as he pushed his glasses from the bridge of his nose.

“Lucky guess. You’re supposed to be asleep, mister. Are you okay?”

“I know I am. And no-- not really.”

“It’s the thunder isn’t it?”

A streak of lightning flashes and causes Mason to jump. The boy whimpers and inches so he’s leaning directly on the bed.

“Yes. I’m a big baby aren’t I?” he asks sadly.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Well, Mickey is still in our room. I tried to get him to come with me, but he said only babies are scared of thunderstorms.”

Desiree patted the spot next to her and then stretched her outs out to Mason. Without hesitation, he climbs into bed with her and nestles into Desiree’s right side.

“Now Mason, don’t listen to your brother. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re scared. Actually, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

Desiree leans closer to Mason and whispers,

“I’m scared of thunderstorms too.”

“Really,” he looks up at Desiree with shock evident in his eyes.

“Yep. And I’m not a baby, am I?”

“No way! You’re one of the bravest people I know! But Mickey is going to tease me about being a baby still.”

“I doubt he will, if he did he’d have to tease himself,” Desiree reassures as she rubs his arms.

“What do you mean?”

Knowing how different yet similar the twins can be, Desiree has an inkling that Mickey might be just as affected by the storm as his brother. Not even thirty seconds after Mason spoke, another sound of the booming thunder shakes the room. Mason shrieks loudly and pulls the cover over his head while from the hallway pounding feet is heard. Desiree coaxes Mason from under the cover just as Mickey skids into the room. The boy dressed in the plaid green pajamas leans on the wall as Desiree smirks to herself knowing why he’s come.

“Hi, Mickey. Is the thunder bothering you too?”

The proud boy crosses his arms and shakes his head.

“No way. I just couldn’t sleep with the baby screaming.”

Desiree shoots a pointed look as she scolds him.

“Mickey, don’t be mean to your brother like that. It's not nice. Apologize.”

Mickey looks to his brother with a shameful expression mutter,

“I’m sorry, Mason.”

“It’s okay.”

“You know Mickey, did you know I’m scared of the thunder too,” Desiree tells him.

“No. Are you really?”

“I sure am. But I’m so glad Mason came here. Now I don’t have to be scared alone. When you have someone with you, it makes it all a little less scary.  

“Yeah, that makes sense I think.”

“Well, Mason didn’t mean to scream and we’re fine. You could go back to your room.” Desiree says slyly.

Mickey's voice wavers as he responds,

“Back in my room? By myself?”

“Yeah. Unless you want to stay in here with us.”

Mickey looks down at his bare feet and kicks a speck of invisible dirt as he answers.

“If it’s less scary to have someone with you when you’re scared, then if I’m with you both it would be even less scary.”

Smirking, Desiree says, “You’re absolutely right, Mickey. So does that mean you’re gonna stay in my room?”

“Yeah!”

Mickey then runs and launches himself onto the bed, settling on the left side of Desiree and makes himself comfortable by laying his head on her lap. She chuckles at the sudden added weight.

“Woah! Comfy I take it?”

“Mhmm-hmm.”

“What now?” Mason asks.

She looks to the alarm clock on the other bedside table and sees the numbers 11:15 illuminated in red lighting.

“What’s next is me getting you two back to sleep. It's way past your bedtimes.”

“Awww! Do we have to?” complained Mickey.

“Yes, you do. Your dad won’t be happy when he comes, if you two are still up.”

“Can we sleep here?” Mason asks with pleading eyes.

Desiree was planning to let them sit with her for a few minutes before walking them back to their room. However, still hearing the persistent rumbles, heavy rainfall, and being pestered by puppy dog expressions from the boys she reconsidered.

“Okay. Just this once you two. But you have to go to sleep.”

“You’re the best!” the boys exclaimed.

The two get extra comfortable as Desiree starts to move to give them more space when they reach to stop her.

“No, don’t get up,” Mickey says.

“Please stay, Desiree?”

Smiling, Desiree relaxes back against the headboard and puts her arm around Mason, rubbing his back in soothing patterns, and with her left hand, she starts to playfully run her fingers through Mickey’s hair.

“Better, you two?”

The two murmur soft replies as Desiree’s movement guides them to sleep.

“Desiree? Will you sing to us?”

“Oh, you two don’t want to hear me sing, Mason.”

“Sure we do. We can hear you when you’re cooking in the kitchen. You have a pretty voice.” Mickey chimes in.

“Alright. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything.” the twins say at the same time.

They snuggle even closer into Desiree as their eyes fight to stay open. She thinks for a second before her angelic voice takes over.

“Look at me. I’m as helpless as a kitten

And I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud

I can’t understand, I get misty just by holding your hand...”

Gently singing, she loses herself to the point that she didn’t notice the soft snores of the boys nor the light footsteps quickly approaching from the hallway. As the last note falls from her lips and having the warmth from the comforter plus the heavyweight of the boys securing her in place, Desiree can’t help but doze off. Her breathing slows and pulls her further away from consciousness.  She barely feels the added pressure of more weight, or the smell of the mixed aroma of black coffee and musky cologne, nor a light feathered kiss left on her forehead. Shutting off the bedside lamp, Sam trails silently out of Desiree’s room, smiling at the sight before him as he leaves. The sight of his two--  three favorite people sleeping peacefully.

[keichanz]

Another Day in Hell || Part 2

.....uh....i can explain.

except i really, really can’t. fuck.

note: this is not based on The Walking Dead. i haven’t seen the show, but i’m thinking about maybe starting to get a few ideas because i have no idea what the fuck i’m doing.

another note: the need for code/nicknames will be explained in the next chapter or possibly the one after.

also: part 3 of Move Your Body will be posted tomorrow.

Read on AO3.

Ch. 1 || Ch. 2 || Ch. 3

It was a struggle, but after Kagome fell asleep, Inuyasha finally managed to tear his gaze away from her after an embarrassing amount of time – long enough that had she been aware, he was fairly confident she would had called him a creeper for it – and went about tidying the space for lack of anything better to do. Well, better than standing there like an idiot for an undetermined amount of time gawking at the slumbering woman in his bed. Not only would she call him a creeper, but he’d feel like one so that was off the list of things to do, so distracting his mind with meaningless cleaning it is.

It wasn’t very large, perhaps the size of the standard studio apartment, the walls were brick, the floor was cement, and it suited Inuyasha’s needs perfectly. Sure it was chilly more often than not, it smelled funny, and sometimes he saw a rat or two, but none of that ever bothered him and besides, it was better than nothing. And he was proud of his little shelter. He’d transformed it from a wrecked and dirty building into a safe zone, using what he had at his disposal to make his life a little easier. It was only a bonus that it had working plumbing and untouched food and supplies in the back, suggesting that he had been the only one to survive long enough to venture further in and discover it all.

He had found the place a couple months ago and claimed it as his own, eliminated all the undead inside, dragging their bodies outside in front of the shop, and making a clear statement that this particular shop was off limits. It worked for the most part; occasionally he’d get the odd demon sniffing around for shelter or a curious human searching for supplies, but he always managed to chase them off or if he had to, maim or kill. Humans that had lost their sanity and regressed into nothing short of a slaughtering madman were nearly just as rampant as the undead fuckers that walked around with a hunger for human flesh and he’d eliminated his fair share of them.

Inuyasha hadn’t lied to Kagome earlier; he really hadn’t killed another human unless they tried to kill him first. He didn’t like killing needlessly, especially when there were so few demons and humans left after the world went down the shitter and became a living hell. It was a dog eat dog world – he fucking hated that analogy if he were being honest, but it was accurate – and Inuyasha did what he had to do to survive. It was never easy, it was by no means pretty, but it was necessary and he’d accepted that long ago.

Often Inuyasha wondered that if it hadn’t been for his friends, he would have gone down a very similar path as the human murderers and allow his demon blood to overwhelm him, turning him into a bloodthirsty creature with no remorse and no mercy. It was a terrifying thought so he never dwelled on it for long, merely shaking his head and offering his silent gratitude to whoever would listen.

Stooping to grab Tessaiga up off the floor and shove it back into his belt loop, Inuyasha sighed and started collecting the trash to take to the dumping site tomorrow, tossing the bloody rags, Kagome’s ruined shirt, and plastic bags he’d filled earlier in the week with miscellaneous rubbish into the bin. He’d learned the hard way that leaving bloodied clothing and rotting food outside behind the shop attracted all kinds of creatures with a keen enough nose to smell it. After dispatching a hoard of investigating deadies for the fourth time in a single week he’d decided enough was enough and started dumping his trash into a large pit about a mile’s walk away.

Pausing, Inuyasha turned to glance at his occupied bed once more and frowned. He never minded the walk, and most of the time even preferred it, but perhaps this time it would be a smart idea to use the ATV. He kept it hidden and hardly ever used it because gas was a precious commodity, but the thought of leaving Kagome alone for any stretch of time unsettled him. He didn’t like the idea of taking her with him either, especially with a useless arm, but at least if he left her here she’d be safe and he’d only be gone for a maximum of ten minutes anyway.

Kagome sighed and shifted in her sleep, a little frown puckering her brow briefly before it smoothed out and she settled down again. Realizing he was staring, Inuyasha once more tore his gaze away and decided he should go over inventory to see what he needed.

Growling at himself, he grabbed the notebook he used to keep tabs on inventory and started with his weapons stash first. Ammo was a given and he jotted that down, for his Glock and the rifle with the scope he kept on top of the bookshelf, used for long range shooting. He still had three boxes left for his Sig so he didn’t have to worry about that. He was running low on mineral oil for Tessaiga, though, so he added that.

Food wise, he was good on non-perishables, but made a note to get bags of ice, a case of water, and after a brief pause, more ramen. Medical supplies were stocked. Flicking a glance at the haphazard box of clothes, then to Kagome, he wrote down women’s clothes and other. He figured she’d tell him what she needed so he didn’t bother listing any feminine products, and he was counting on Sango or Ayame maybe having a few things they could donate. He had no idea how long she’d be staying with him or even if she would – he didn’t know her story, if she’d been separated from family or what – so for now he thought it safe to assume she’d be staying for a while, which meant eventually she’d be meeting everybody after she was healed and had regained her strength.

Inuyasha grunted and scanned his list, idly tapping the pen against the notebook. Matches, lighter fluid, gasoline, firewood, and blankets he was good on, but he marked off flashlights and batteries as a critical need. He checked how much was left of the ingredients for homemade bombs – the things were incredibly useful when going up against massive hoards of undead – and added those to the list. He’d gotten lucky yesterday and found a bag filled with toiletries and other random items that he knew the girls would appreciate so he crossed that off his list.

Looking it over one last time, Inuyasha conceded that all in all it wasn’t that bad. The items most difficult to retrieve would no doubt be the ammo and water, but Inuyasha wasn’t afraid to play dirty if he had to. It was a kill or be killed world, and he’d be damned if he was offed by one of those undead fuckers or a mere human with a possessive streak.

“Fuck my life,” Inuyasha muttered as he dropped the notepad onto the table and wandered over to the washer-turned-cooler to grab a beer.

Alcohol was also a rare commodity, but he was lucky enough to have an entire back room full of the stuff. He wasn’t a huge drinker to begin with – getting drunk during these times was dangerous and just downright foolish – but every once in a while he didn’t mind kicking back with a cold one, take a moment to breathe and thank god that he’d survived another day.

Kagome chose that moment to make another soft sound in her sleep and Inuyasha found himself once more staring at her as she grunted before abruptly rolling onto her stomach, squirming around and wrapping her good arm around the pillow then going still.

Inuyasha stared, cursed, and then abruptly gave up, stomping over to the puke-green armchair and plopping down with a heavy sigh. Stretching his legs out and getting comfortable, he uncapped his brew, knocked back a few mouthfuls, and settled back into the worn cushion as he propped his head in his hand and crossed his booted feet at the ankles.

Kagome... His eyebrows dipped into a thoughtful frown as he studied her, claws idly tapping against the chilled glass of his beer. Her face, relaxed in slumber, was directed toward him and his eyes tracked her features, to her small nose, delicate jaw, and full lips. Despite looking a right mess, her hair a tangled mop on her head, dirt smudged onto her skin along with dried blood, she still managed to look beautiful to him. She was trim, physically fit, and she’d weighed hardly anything when she’d been in his arms. He recalled the deep brown of her eyes, fathomless pools of rich chocolate that glittered with an odd mix of apprehension, confusion, and relief when she gazed at him.

Taking another swig, Inuyasha wondered what she had been through before they’d met. She’d told him about the psycho with the gun, but what about before that? Where was her family? Were they even alive? Did she have any friends? Why was she alone without any means of protecting herself? How the hell had she survived for so long?

He had so many questions and he’d wanted to bombard her with them tonight, but after seeing how exhausted she was, nearly falling asleep sitting up, he’d decided they could wait so she could get the rest she so desperately needed. He surmised she’d sleep for a good ten hours or so, and in the meantime he should probably catch some z’s himself, but with his mind a whirlwind of activity, he doubted he’d be getting any sleep tonight.

Inuyasha had no idea why he brought her back here. Well okay, that wasn’t entirely true; while his enemies and even at times his friends had called him many less than positive names, he wasn’t a heartless bastard. He hadn’t been about to leave a helpless woman alone, obviously frightened for her life, to a hoard of hungry zombies – and possibly her psycho trigger-happy friend that gave her that hole in her shoulder – when there was something he could do about it.

But still, it had been an impulse, a last second decision, and during the single hour he’d known her he’d been wondering if he was going to regret it. Aside from the obvious of whether or not he could trust her, he’d just loaded onto himself and the others another mouth to feed, a liability because he was pretty damned sure she knew jack shit about defending herself for wielding any sort of weapon.

That could change, though. He could teach her. Show her how to hold and aim a gun, how to brace herself, even teach her a few basic self-defense moves after she was back to full health. She would be a quick learner, Inuyasha surmised. Kagome had the drive to survive, a strong enough spirit to hold her own, and a fierce determination he’d caught a few glimpses of in her eyes. So he could turn that liability into an asset, train her, show her the ropes and he knew without a doubt that she would fit right in to their merry little band of misfit fighters.

And therein lay the crux of the problem because Inuyasha didn’t do that shit. He didn’t train people how to fight, how to accurately protect themselves, how to hold a goddamn gun or block an attack. He may own a goddamn dojo dedicated to teaching martial arts, but that didn’t mean he taught any of the students enrolled.

He knew what the others said about him and, hell, he agreed. He was temperamental, defensive, anti-social, and his patience was notoriously limited, so training somebody like Kagome, who looked like she hadn’t roughhoused a day in her life, would not be a good idea. No, he left that up to Miroku and Sango, his instructors that worked for him. Well, used to, before the world went to hell in a hand basket.

Yeah, sure, he could have someone else do it. Inuyasha was positive he could drop her off at S and S, explain the situation, and then go about his usual business of being a temperamental grump and avoiding everyone. She’d be in good hands; Sango and Ayame would immediately bond with her since they always complained about being the only two women among their group of twelve. They were talented fighters and he trusted them wholeheartedly to have his back in a fight.

The thing was, though, while he trusted everybody impeccably in their group to have his back – and yeah, even his bastard of a half-brother – for some stupid ass reason having somebody else train and teach Kagome didn’t sit well with him. It was completely asinine, but he only trusted himself to teach her how to properly protect herself, how to punch, kick, aim, block, know when to dive in, and when to retreat.

It made no goddamn sense. He didn’t have time in his day to devote to training somebody, and yet the thought of anybody else doing it, getting that close to her, even if it was Sango or Ayame, had his chest tightening and a growl to well in his throat. It wasn’t a secret that Miroku’s hands wandered, and fucking Kouga thought he was god’s gift to women. The girls would spend more time gossiping than training, the runt was too young, Sesshomaru was an asshole – when he actually bothered t show up, anyway, and wasn’t off doing his own thing – and Ginta and Hakkaku were idiots.

So no, it had to be him. And besides, he’d been fighting since he was a brat and had plenty experience. Kagome would be in good hands with a competent instructor like himself, and no, that wasn’t arrogance. Damn wolfshit had enough of that to cover everybody in their group ten times over. Besides, he was the one that found Kagome, so she was his responsibility. He would make sure she knew what to do during an ambush, what to look for, teach her every survival trick and tip he knew, and he’d make damn sure could protect herself.

Of course, the whole goddamn thing would be moot if she didn’t stay. There was a chance, after she was fully healed, she’d say thanks and go back to wherever she’d been staying before, maybe with family or friends, and why wouldn’t she? He was a stranger and sure, he’d saved her ass, but she didn’t know anything about him, just like knew virtually nothing about her other than her name, her age, and that she’d been an office worker. Inuyasha didn’t even know if she’d volunteer any information other than that when asked – it was clear she had some trust issues, with good reason – and it annoyed him that he knew so little about her, which was fucking ridiculous.

He’d just met the damn woman, of course he knew jack about her, and she was in no condition to share her life story anyway. And he told himself that it made sense, that he accepted the fact that she’d have to find out for herself whether or not he could be trusted beyond treating her wounds and providing safety while she slept, but he knew it was more than that.

For some fucking reason this tiny slip of a woman, within the simple hour he’d known her, Kagome Higurashi had managed to get under his skin, the urge to protect someone else other than himself roaring through him stronger than it ever had before. Maybe it was how she’d looked when he’d first found her; bloody, frail, and looking and smelling utterly terrified before her flight or fight response kicked in and she bolted from him, but whatever it was, Inuyasha found that he...didn’t entirely mind the thought of her hanging around. It had been instinctive, to go after her, a primal and purely male part of him screaming protect and he’d thoughtlessly obeyed.

And now Inuyasha was wondering if maybe it would be better if she didn’t stay and what was even worse, he really, really hoped that she did.

“Fuck my life,” he groused again, just barely above whisper, and finished the rest of his beer with several deep pulls.

The radio on the table crackled to life and Inuyasha was already standing it up to retrieve it when a familiar voice spilled from the speaker.

“Monk to Ash, come in.”

Ears flattening and darting a quick look to the slumbering woman on the bed, Inuyasha snatched up the radio and depressed the switch.

“Copy,” he murmured into the mic and with one last look toward Kagome, he started heading toward the ceiling doorway. “Standby.”

He didn’t receive a reply but hadn’t really expected to as he reached up and with a hard shove, pushed the door open. The ceiling was just low enough so he could grasp the edge and haul himself up into the square opening with minimal difficulty. Instead of standing, however, he settled on the edge and let his leg dangle inside while he braced the other on the floor, knee bent as he leaned back on his hand and brought the radio to his mouth once more.

“Ash to Monk, what’s your twenty?”

“S and S,” the voice responded a second later and Inuyasha relaxed. “Back at you.”

“The shop,” Inuyasha replied. “Status.”

“In one piece,” his friend said and added on, “you?”

“Stupid question.”

A low chuckle came over the speaker and Inuyasha had to grin.

“Glad to hear you’re still alive, asshole,” Miroku, aka Monk, told him and the half-demon snorted. “You know it wouldn’t hurt to check in every other day or something. We worry about you.”

Inuyasha rolled his eyes. “Don’t waste your energy. I’ve been doing this a helluva lot longer than any of you, idiot. And besides, checking in every other day will just drain the batteries for a pointless conversation that wouldn’t even last thirty seconds.”

“Yes, but that’s what the chargers are for.”

“Which uses electricity, which is only possible because the dojo has a private generator, which uses fuel to keep going, and as you know, fuel is scarce. Use your head, moron.”

He could practically hear his friend roll his eyes on the other end as he drawled, “I sincerely doubt that giving power to the chargers makes that much of a difference, Ash.”

“I’m not checking in.”

“I—”Miroku’s voice was abruptly cut off and then an irritated female voice came through the speaker, “Make the idiot happy and check in, asshole, because you know if you don’t, he won’t stop until you respond, thus draining the battery even more.”

Inuyasha scowled. “Fuck off, Slayer.”

“You know I’m right,” Sango, aka Slayer, replied and then must have handed the radio back to Miroku.

“I mean,” his friend said and the laughter was evident in his voice. “She’s not wrong.”

Suddenly tired of this conversation, Inuyasha abruptly changed topics. “Anything new to report?”

“Possibly,” Miroku replied and Inuyasha knew the fucker was grinning. Idiot. “Cane is out patrolling with Iris, Smokey and Bandit are on clean up, the lovely Slayer is sparring with Kid. However, I like to believe Rogue showing up out of nowhere to drop off Fawn and Toad before disappearing again raises a few red flags.”

Inuyasha frowned. “When?”

“Two days ago,” Miroku supplied and then because he knew the half-demon would ask, continued,“He didn’t provide an explanation and when I asked Fawn, all she said was he was looking into something. Toad wasn’t any help either but that’s not a surprise. It was very strange.”

Inuyasha had to agree. While it wasn’t uncommon for the bastard to wander for days on end without any word from him, it was unusual for him to go anywhere without Rin. Fiercely protective of the child, Sesshomaru didn’t trust anybody but himself to ensure her safety and so for him to leave her behind suggested something was up. Inuyasha would have to ask whenever the bastard deemed to grace them with his presence again, and that could be anywhere between a few days to a fucking month.

“Fucking fantastic,” Inuyasha grumbled and thrust a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “How’s Fawn?”

He was actually quite fond of the little ball of sunshine and it came to as shock to everyone that he was in turn one of her favorite people. And although it still boggled his mind why she preferred the asshole’s company to staying where it was safe with plenty of food, water, and a warm bed to sleep in every night, he’d long ago stopped questioning it because she’d always give the same answer, accompanied by a bright, genuine smile.

“I belong with Sesshomaru.”

He didn’t understand it, and probably never would.

“Seems fine. Playing with Scout,” Miroku replied. “She was very tired when she arrived, however, and I suspect that might be part of the reason why Rogue dropped her off before leaving. I’d imagine it’d be difficult to get enough sleep when one travels as much as your brother.”

“Half-brother,” Inuyasha automatically corrected, frowning. “Yeah, maybe. It’s that, or he’s going someplace where he deems is too dangerous to bring her with him. Anywhere outside is dangerous, though, so where the hell could he be going?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, my friend,” Miroku returned and the shrug was obvious in his tone.

The two lapsed into contemplative silence for several moments and Inuyasha was staring down into the square opening, wondering what the hell his bastard of a half-brother was up do, when the radio in his hand crackled to life again.

“Anyway,” Miroku said, sounding like his usual upbeat self, “how about yourself, Ash? Anything noteworthy happen?”

Inuyasha blinked at the radio then turned his gaze to the floor again, approximately where a certain dark-haired woman was sleeping peacefully beneath the shop. He grimaced.

“Monk,” he said dryly, “you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had today.”

“Oh?” His friend sounded genuinely interested, and with a sigh, Inuyasha recounted the day’s events to him, staring with last night when he’d found that bag of toiletries (“Oh, Slayer and Iris will be thrilled,” he’d opined) to how he’d brought Kagome back to the shop and treated her wounds. Because Miroku was his best friend and one of the few people he could trust with anything, he also expressed is doubts and concerns about the entire situation and he was grateful when Miroku listened attentively and didn’t interrupt.

When he was finished, Miroku didn’t say anything for several minutes and Inuyasha let him gather his thoughts as he stared listlessly at a pallet socked with cases of water that he’d compiled himself. He’d be bringing some of them back with him to S and S in about four or five days when Smokey and Bandit showed up to take this place.

The two-way crackled to life, breaking the silence and interrupting his thoughts. “You haven’t told her about us.” He didn’t sound accusatory or anything, but merely curious.

Inuyasha sighed. “No. I barely got her to eat something before she passed out from pain and exhaustion.”

“Do you think she’s dangerous? Can she be trusted?”

The half-demon actually snorted at that, recalling the weak punches she’d thrown at him while trying to escape earlier.

“Trust me, Monk,” he drawled, “she’s about as dangerous as a kitten.”

“Then I don’t see the harm in bringing her here,” his friend said, completely serious. “It sounds to me like she could really use some help, Ash. Even if she was separated from her family or friends, I wouldn’t feel right sending her back out there alone to find them herself so at the very least, we could assist her in locating them and escort her. And who knows? Maybe by doing so we can expand our band of merry misfits and get them to come back with us if where they are staying isn’t secured. The more people we have, the better chances of survival.”

“And the more mouths we have to feed and clothe and protect and shelter,�� Inuyasha fired back without missing a beat.

“You don’t really believe that, Ash, so don’t try and tell me otherwise. I know you.”

The half-demon grimaced and didn’t bother to comment. Sango liked to tease him that he was nothing but a big softie and dammit, sometimes he thought she might be right. Scout and now Kagome was a prime example of that.  

“Smokey and Bandit will be there in five days,” Miroku told him, accurately taking his silence for what it was. “In the meantime, and I know I don’t have to tell you this, but try and get some more information on her family and her thoughts on joining us. I presume you are going to be seeing to her training if she stays, yes?”

Inuyasha snorted into the mic.

Miroku laughed on the other end, but hit the switch on the two-way afterward so the half-demon didn’t hear it. “I thought so. Let me know so I can tell the others. I’m sure the girls will be thrilled to have another woman to talk to.”

Sighing, Inuyasha tipped his head and stared at the ceiling, golden eyes unseeing.

“Ash?” The two-way crackled. “Do you read?”

He hit the switch and raised it to his lips. “Yeah,” Inuyasha murmured and dropped his gaze back to the floor, seeing through it to the oblivious woman sleeping on the bed. “Yeah, I read you.”

“See you in five days, my friend.” A pause. “Try not to die before that, alright?”

Inuyasha’s lips twitched and he chucked, depressing the switch and returning, “Same to you, idiot. And tell Scout not to eat all my fucking ramen.”

Ch. 3

buy me a coffee? :)

[intergalactic-nebula]

Till Kingdom Come

Chapter one

Rain. That's the first thing that her senses process. The sound of heavy rain on a leaky roof. Rey blinked a few times before realizing she was curled up in her makeshift palette on the abandoned art studio floor, the brunette female huffing quietly before closing her eyes once more and snuggling down into her scratchy blankets.

She didn't want to wake up.

She didn't want to wake up simply because that meant going outside in the wasteland that was once a city many, many years ago, but after the war with the pale beasts, and losing, most towns were ruins. Deserted ruins that barely held any life whatsoever anymore. To put it in a certain sense, Rey was in a neutral zone of sorts. A place where the pale beasts barely bothered to venture out to because it was not up to their standards and they didn't see a point to leave their more bountiful lands where they had livestock waiting for them. Livestock. The thought made Rey's eyes open as she sneered, the young woman sitting up and letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She had blacked out the windows months ago with tape, except for small cracks just so some light could come in, just to be safe, just to make sure no one could peep in and find her hiding place.

She didn't exactly need to hide, per say, but once a scavenger, always a scavenger, and survival was the only thing that mattered to her. Rey sat there for several minutes as she just stared at the wall as the rain hit the roof, her hazel eyes burning a hole into the yellowed, practically brown now, white paint. "...BeeBee, where are you?" Rey finally called out and a loud bark resonated from within the next room, Rey sighing in relief as she stood up and stretched. A large ginger colored retriever came running into the room, the dog barking once more as it ran a singular circle around her before stopping in front of her. "You slept okay, buddy?" Rey asked softly as she kneeled down and gently rubbed his head, BeeBee barking once in response before smiling one of those famous dog smiles. She had found BeeBee wondering the streets only three months ago, the dog having miraculously showed up out of nowhere. It was concerning at first, yes, but Rey took him in none the less. If Rey had to guess, the dog's owner must've died from starvation and BeeBee must've wondered off after his owner hadn't responded to his whimpering and barking.

"Let's go out today, yeah? Go try and find food? We could try that diner again." Rey hummed with a smile and BeeBee thumped his tail against the cement floor. "Alright, let me get dressed and ready." Rey laughed quietly before standing up and walking over to the other side of the room where a heap of clothes lay. They weren't filthy, she had found that there was a certain faucet that still worked in a bathtub in a decaying apartment building not but a few blocks from where she was, and she made a trip there once a week to wash her clothes with cleaning products she finds on her scavenging hunts. The last time she had been incredibly lucky to find lemon dawn soap that had been hiding under a sink in an office building bathroom for what she guessed to be fifty years, but the lemony scent was still vibrantly there and she couldn't stop smelling her clothes for at least a good few days. She picked up her usual wear, tattered, baggy blue overalls, firefighter jacket, and white tank top. It was a strange combination of clothes, yes, but the overalls fit snug and she didn't care if they got filthy, and the firefighter jacket was thick enough to protect her from rusty metal looking to scrape her unwilling sunkissed skin.

"Alright, BeeBee, I think we should head east today. We headed north last week and we were lucky enough to find those two cans of beans, but we're going to be more thorough this time. Let's surpass our goal of two cans and try for three!" Rey projected confidently as she quickly got dressed, BeeBee barking excitedly in response as she tied her hair up in an extremely messy (and tragically tangled) bun. Rey had a comb she used, but because it was so fragile (the plastic was brittle and weak as it was melted in numerous places and has countless cracks marring it) she only used it after she just washed her hair.

It wasn't but fifteen minutes later, after Rey had munched on canned beans, and after giving some to BeeBee, that she stood by the door after putting her goggles on and wrapping a red scarf around her head as well as pulling on her tattered combat boots and thick leather gloves (which served the same purpose as the firefighter jacket). The amount of dust everywhere mixed with floating dirt particles had always irritated Rey's senses since she was a child, allergies she assumed, and she had found that covering up significantly helped a great deal amount.

It wasn't but thirty minutes later that her and BeeBee were already a mile and half away from the art studio, the young woman humming softly as BeeBee stayed high and alert for any specific scents or sounds. It was normally almost always quiet though, then again, apocalyptic cities are almost always quiet, aren't they? Rey barely encountered any other life in the rusted ruins that was once Houston, Texas, and when she did it was only shadows of other survivors that knew better than to approach and try to befriend her.

There were no friends in survival, there was only you. Rey learned that a very long time ago as a child, and a shudder ran up her spine as Unkar Plutt crossed her mind. "He's not alive anymore, Rey, it's over," Rey breathed quietly to herself as she absentmindedly hurried her footsteps. "It's over." She breathed once before pausing on top of a large piece of broken cement, BeeBee pausing beside before looking up at her with what one would describe almost eerily as a confused expression. This happened sometimes. Rey would disassociate and not even realize it until fifteen, twenty minutes had passed. BeeBee barked and huffed before gently tugging on Rey's sleeve with his teeth, Rey blinking rapidly for a second before looking down and smiling softly. "Thank you." Rey smiled a tad bit more and BeeBee huffed once more before moving forward, Rey quickly following him.

It was another good hour and a half before Rey and BeeBee reached the diner she had found a few weeks ago, the brunette quickly hurrying in with the retriever hot on her heels. "C'mon, c'mon, I couldn't have taken everything...!" Rey frantically hissed under her breath as she made a beeline for the kitchen and started tearing through the cabinets ravenously. Sometimes, hunger can make you an animal, and Rey knew this very well. She tore through all the cabinets within minutes and she had started to feel defeated before a gleam of silver caught her eye in a cabinet above her. "Is--is that...?" Rey gasped softly as she slowly reached up and pulled it out from behind a few cracked plates, the brunette's hazel green eyes blown wide as she stared down at it in awe. Soup. It was Campbell's soup. Rey practically let out a choked sob of delight as she eagerly hugged it to her chest, a wave of gratitude washing over her. The last time she had had soup was when she was small, she couldn't place her age exactly, and even now she didn't quite exactly know how old she was. She assumed eighteen or nineteen, but for all she knew she could easily be in her early twenties.

"BeeBee, soup! Soup!" Rey grinned excitedly as she called out to BeeBee and BeeBee yipped happily in response as he slammed his paws on the ground as he got in a playful position. She put the soup can in her jacket pocket before combing the kitchen for more non perishables, only to find a can of beans within her hour search. "Well, the soup is a plus, huh?" Rey sighed as she and BeeBee started walking back towards the art studio, her pace quick as she noticed the sun would be down soon. It was dangerous to be out at night, it always had been, and there was no chance in hell Rey would be outside when the sun's rays no longer licked the dusty pavement.

She made it back to the art studio just in time, the brunette slamming the door behind her before feverishly undoing the scarf on her head and ripping the goggles off as well as ripping her gloves off. She leaned her forehead against the door as she closed her eyes tiredly, her stomach loudly grumbling in protest of not eating at that very moment. "Hush, I know...I get it..." Rey muttered in exhaustion as she forced her eyes open, BeeBee already off and about sniffing the apartment to see if any scents had changed while they were gone.

She forced herself to eat the beans, having put the can of soup lovingly in a cabinet and saving it for a special occasion, as she sat on the kitchen counter quietly. The bags under her eyes were preposterous, downright ghastly, but the poor girl couldn't help that she had insomnia. She perhaps only got an hour or two of sleep a day, going to sleep around twelve in the afternoon only to wake up at one or two, sometimes even three if she was lucky. Nothing felt...real. Sitting on the kitchen counter didn't feel real. Chewing and tasting didn't feel real. Was she dreaming? "No," Rey announced sternly as she put the cracked bowl down, the brunette wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. "No, I am not dreaming, I am here. I am real." She breathed shakily, but it sounded like she didn't believe it. She didn't, in all honesty, for there were days where she was convinced she was dead and this was limbo. Those were the worst days. "I'm--I--I need sleep," She choked on her words slightly as she jumped off the counter, the girl rushing to the main room and quickly burrowed herself in her palette.

The blankets were scratchy and, at one point, gave her hives, but it was all she had. It was the only blanket she had ever owned that she had found herself. It was hers, and so she dealt with it. "BeeBee, guard the door," Rey's words were slurred as she felt exhaustion take over, her eyes fluttering closed as blackness captivated her vision.

What she didn't see was the man on the glass roof staring down at her with wide red eyes, rain drizzle sliding down his ivory cheeks and kissing his tresses.

[vxldemar]

𓆣𓆣𓆣

some are born for what they do. 〖 a concept backstory scene for quaestor valdemar. 〗

a child with big brown eyes and light brown skin, adorned in white; a ruffled shirt, cotten pants, and black flat shoes, stares through the firm, great iron gate of a dull school. if you asked them, they’d say the exact details of such a place are much too hazy to remember. it’s a large gate, it’s an obstacle meant to tame whatever they have inside of them, so details don’t matter. they wistfully brush over it with their fingertips.

this gate stops others, and normally it’d stop them.

in the distance, past the rich green that lies outside the gate, along a country path, across the grey cobble streets, like the details of a journey in some childrens fable, there is an edge to this paradise that someone so small could only dream of touching.

a card was handed to everyone at birth, and it had a man on it, a man with a dog, dressed in white.

on this side of the school, it is quiet. they know that. but they never expected to be taken this far by their own legs, they’d never sat here alone, with no other children or teachers around. it was a chance, it was an opportunity, some may even see it as fate.

with tiny talons, they rake through the dirt, and they’re good at it. too good at it. they’d find it easy to dig through any surface with such force and drive, even coarse sand on a sad islands seashore. even through the ashes of bone. desperation fills them. this tiny prisoner, then, makes it to the other side.

even while wearing shoes, the grass feels more lush here, it is fresh, it’s breathing and it is alive. they can smell it. but this isn’t what they’re looking for.

they begin to walk, head in the clouds.

some people actually navigate using the sky. pirates. those who travel by sea. but not by cotton on a blue backdrop, they strung all the stars together and made a system out of it. this didn’t require that. they didn’t need a map.

high in the air, a single thin murky cloud of smoke in the far distance; a grey slit against the bright blue sky. even if it wasn’t there, they somehow felt like they’d know the path anyway.

walking and walking, nothing, for once, filled their mind. it was books, it was letters and numbers, perhaps too much for someone who can’t be over the age of 10, yet this was what they were, and here is what they are becoming. hopefully, they would have a mix of thought and instinct in that head of theirs when this was all said and done.

until their legs ached, the cobble beneath their feet felt like yet another obstacle, but when you’ve come so far, pain bothers you less, still, their lips narrowed into a thin line as they traversed; yes, you’re a human, you feel pain, but it doesn’t stop you.

approaching, the smoke got thicker, and filled their nostrils. it smelt like cooked meat. suddenly, they felt ravenous. so enthralled in their journey, they had cancelled out the screaming. just as they did when the children playing got too loud.

joy and pain overlap a lot more than one might think. you can confuse the two easily. the truth often overlaps with a lie in a similar fashion, sometimes they become so intertwined nobody can tell the difference anymore.

a set of screams, men, women, a few children, filled the air, fire set brown, wide eyes alight. a series of figures in long robes stood in front of a bonfire, a large wooden spike stood tall and firm in the middle of a messy pile of wooden planks, garbage, and dead farm animals. including a rather large shire horse, it’s eyes open and staring in a never-ending glare of pure hatred. a group of people were haphazardly tied against the spike, in a hurry, it seems. the metal chains ran across their bodies in all different directions, binding them all together, forever, until they didn’t look like individuals anymore. an amalgamation of burning flesh. it almost looked holy. one even had metal covering their eyes, it popped and crackled and melted onto their face as the fire intensified. another had chains that ran past their teeth, across their mouth. they bit down on it to stifle their cries of pain.

the spike, when mirrored in the child’s eyes, created an odd, slit like shape on their dark pupils when combined with the reflection of the flames.

beauty comes in all different forms, maybe a being out there, whatever higher power, favoured those who found beauty in unexpected things. but this was more than beauty. it was art. it was a reason for living.

the fire and its vapors disrupted the colour of the village and the sky surrounding it, everything was tinted in greys and reds, it consumed all around it in a cloud of heavy smoke.

a robed person slowly paced towards the child, who utterly ignored them and stared up at the fire still, not showing any sign of looking away as screams and the furious cackling fire raged through the air around them.

they had a mask on. it was black, filthy, blood soaked through to the inside. among the scent of sizzling flesh, a faint waft of lavender caused the child to break out of their trance, they blinked and turned to face the other with a hardened frown.

“and who are you to interrupt me ?”

their expression eased when they noticed the mask, the black goggles prevented them from making eye contact. the rim around the eye lenses was white, a way to tell this particular person apart from the other “doctors”. a long, long beak almost poked against their cheek as they leaned in further to inspect this irksome, demanding little beast.

“you’re not a peasant.”

turning their nose up at the other, they looked back at the bonfire. the figures had stopped screaming. skin dripped off their face, and the wonderful human skull underneath was visible under heavy coatings of blood.

“what are you doing here ?”

it was the kind of smell you’d remember eternally. the kind of sight you written into the deepest parts of your memory.

abruptly, a large sack of pus from one of the lesser burnt bodies burst, vile yellow liquid stained the cobble in front of the child, and a bit splattered against their face.

they went to step closer, the other raised an arm, the arm and the childs chest crashed together, the younger one growled.

“what on earth are you doing ?” they hissed,

“you can’t get any closer, do you want to burn to death ? or catch the disease ?”

disease ?

“what disease ?”

behind their goggles, the figure blinked owlishly.

“perhaps your school hasn’t told you. i can tell from those clothes that you’re a scholarly child.”

“tell me or i shall bite this arm of yours off.”

the “doctor” stared at the child, and they scowled. their expression was somehow more heated than the flames were. slowly, they lowered their arm.

“this village has the disease, we’ve just burnt another little area like this down recently. damn near all of them have it. it progresses slowly, first it’s a faint coughing and sneezing, then large sacks of pus cover the whole body, they sting, burst, become infected...”

a skull fell off one of the corpses, bashing against the ground and rolling forward, landing in front of the young childs feet, they stared, mouth agape, delighted.

“and then, they die. this is a trade village. can’t just let them cart themselves off to god knows where, can we? still, it does a good job at annihilating all proof that these grotesque little villages ever existed at all.”

a sharp squeak could only faintly be heard over the roaring flames, it scurried up to the skull. filthy, covered in blood, patches of its fur were gone, indicating that it was also diseased. it sniffed around the cranium, nibbling away at sections of remaining flesh.

“i cannot fathom how this is happening though, ah, perhaps─”

as the two gazed up at the fire, the child took a moment to look down once more. the rat itched itself, its clawed hands scratching behind its ears. the pink ears were now blood-red due to the excessive scratching.

they knew how it felt to have an itch you could never quite get rid of.

until now. for they had a nasty little idea about what they could do about it.

a chuckle left the masked figures lips.

“perhaps, this is... a sign from god ?”

people ignore the truth even when it’s right in front of them.

the rat hopped away, it circled past the two of them, and worryingly skittered out past the village onto the dirt path, and it ran as far as it could. in search of people. where there was people, that meant food.

the child wasn’t listening to the others baseless ponderings, the embers flickering in their wide eyes again.

you can cut to a thousand years later, maybe less, maybe more, and the sight can differ in the details, but it’s essentially the same.

there’s a figure, standing in front of a bonfire, with wonder, and a smile, they take in the smell of charred flesh and take in the screaming. it’s like a theater performance ! no no, more than that; it’s art. it’s art and they’re viewing it. it’s the meaning of life, and they’re living it !

some are born for what they do, and thus you change the card given to you.

[2hrs2nevada]

a short story i wrote!

Vrediteli

The air of the new village was hot and thick with insects. To avoid getting bitten, because they knew that the midges carried deadly diseases, the villagers covered their bodies from head to toe and draped cheesecloths soaked in callicarpa juice over their faces. Even still, the bugs slurped on Zala’s blood as if it were a foreign feast.

The air in the new house was hotter still. The wood was swollen, making opening and closing doors a frustrating feat. Tall trees surrounded its walls, shielding it from the harsh August sun, but even in the shade the village was dreadful.

Zala missed her old house. In the winter her old town was blanketed with snow, and even in the summer an occasional cool mountain breeze would make the heat bearable. But her mother’s new husband lived down the mountain and across the Witches Woods, so that was where they moved to, much to her dismay. Here dogs panted, whimpered, and died. Birds twitted lazily as their offspring whined, unwilling to venture out of their familiar nests.

Zala tried to miss her father, but she hated him more. She thought he was an idiot for taking the family out in the wagon on such a stormy day, and on such a treacherous path. What was the point-- to go to the market? As if they needed more skins and wool. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was his fault, not hers.

The memory made her shudder. The rain, the mud, the heart-stopping snap of the wheel, the clamber of flesh; the shove; the scream. She clenched her teeth. Stupid, stupid.

Even still, a sickening, timid wave of relief would always accompany the recounting. She rubbed her wrist, where the ghosts of deep bruises still haunted her. She regretted it. She did not regret it. She wanted to vomit. A mosquito landed on her leg, and she flicked it away.

The first few days in the new house were suffocating and slow. Zala spent most of her time in the garden-- it was hotter inside the house than out, and she liked to watch the bees through the purple-stained grid of her cheesecloth mask. Her old clothes were far too heavy for the new climate, so she was put to work sewing and hemming, sitting in the shade of the beech trees with a basket of organdy and linen. The routine became tolerable, unlike the constellations of stings on her hands, where her skin was exposed to the elements. Her mother would slather them with salve every night before she went to bed, but the effort was in vain, and all night long Zala was plagued with an incurable itch.

One day, when she had just finished sewing herself a long white skirt that one could see right through in a certain light, something caught Zala’s eye from across the garden. A quivering mass of brown fur was hiding behind a clump of carrot greens. She stood up slowly-- it was a rabbit, she realized with a grin. She hadn’t seen one since the move. The sight was oddly comforting. She stayed stock-still, mimicking the creature’s behavior. Its black eyes blinked and its whiskers twitched. Eventually, when Zala smacked a mosquito dead on her hand, the rabbit bolted, its hind legs flashing white as it disappeared into the brush.

“Mother, do you know what I saw in the garden today?” Zala asked that evening, blowing on her bowl of painfully hot shkembe.

Her mother did not answer. She was talking to her new husband about the state of the floorboards.

“I saw a rabbit, Mother. Can you believe that?”

No answer. Zala sighed and stirred her soup. She never liked tripe much, but it was better where they used to live.

***

The next day, the rabbit was back. Zala decided to name it Tsveta because of a white patch on its hide that was shaped like a flower. She watched it hop among the vegetable beds, nibbling on the fresh shoots. She figured she should probably shoo it away, but for some reason the thought of doing so made her very sad, so she let it feast on her mother’s crops without intervention.

The day after, much to Zala’s delight, another rabbit appeared in the garden. She named this one Rositsa for no reason in particular. It was bigger than Tsveta, and much bolder.  

“Where do you come from?” she asked Rositsa, when it hopped close enough to be in what Zala assumed was earshot. The rabbit looked at her silently.

“I’m from the mountains.” She pointed upward, but the trees blocked the view, so she let her arm fall. “You would like it up there.”

Rositsa wiggled her nose and blinked.

“Maybe I’ll take you there someday. You could meet my friends and eat all the carrot greens you wanted.” She was talking more to herself than the rabbit.

By the end of that week there were eight rabbits that Zala could identify. Besides Tsveta and Rositsa, there was Ivan, Rabil, Zornitsa, Yasen, Anna, and Gavrail. Around halfway through, Zala had decided to name them after her old friends.

When the eighth rabbit showed up was when Zala’s mother finally began to take notice. “Vrediteli,” she grumbled. Pests. “Look what they’ve done to my carrots!”

That afternoon, Zala tearfully watched her mother throw handfuls of black pepper across the garden. “Moya lyubov,” her stepfather crowed.“You sadden the child.” Zala just glared.

But that night a storm swept over the village, and the rain washed the pepper away. The next day, Zala counted ten rabbits, slurping on the raindrops that had collected on the leaves of the cabbage. She named the new ones Neli and Hristo.

Zala’s mother mixed blood meal in with the pepper that night, and sprinkled it so generously that the vegetables were the same color as the soil. “Velika, dear, will that not ruin the taste?” her husband whined, but she paid him no attention. Zala shut herself in her room.

That night a tornado blew across the town. Every window in the house rattled as the wind shook the foundations. In the morning, the plants were clean as day, and fifteen rabbits munched happily on their leaves. Zala was delighted. Her mother marched into town to buy more blood meal and rabbit traps. Storms racked the village every night, and the sun shone hot and bright on the closed, empty traps every morning.  

Finally, no more than a week later, Zala could no longer keep track of all the rabbits that inhabited her garden. She had stopped counting at thirty, and at least ten more had shown up since then. She had to start naming them after close acquaintances, and eventually teachers and relatives.

Biljana, a plump young rabbit with one floppy ear, was Zala’s favorite. She was brave but gentle, coming close enough to Zala that she could touch her, only to curl up by her feet and go to sleep. Zala would pet her softly, and her mother would yell from the kitchen, “Don’t touch those things, skŭpotsenna. They’ll make you ill!” Zala paid her no mind. She loved Biljana. She loved every one of her little rabbit friends.

One evening, when Zala was finishing up a red linen frock, she noticed one of the shyer rabbits hopping warily towards her. The sun was setting, but even in the dim light she could see it was Zornitsa-- she had a scar on her nose that was easily recognizable.

Zala held her hand out. “Come here, sladurche!” she whispered. Zornitsa inched closer.

And suddenly, before Zala knew what was happening, the rabbit’s teeth were around her wrist and then it was bounding away, Zala’s hand in its mouth.

Zala wailed. Blood spurted from her stump and peppered the newly sewn linen frock on her lap. Her mother rushed outside at the noise and screeched when her eyes fell upon her daughter. “Bozhe moĭ, Zala, what happened?” she cried, rushing to tend to the wound. Zala could only sob. The rabbits had fled. Blood was dripping onto the dirt below her.

She slept with the stump of her arm wrapped in bandages that night. The next day, she did not dare go outside, but when she peeked out the window, Zornitsa was nowhere to be found. She breathed a sigh of relief-- or, at least, that was what it was meant to be. Biljana sat by the window, looking lost. Zala pressed her good hand to the glass.

That night Zala went to bed early, her stomach full of her mother’s Güveç. She had begun to grow accustomed to having one hand. She thought, maybe this isn’t so bad.

The next morning she woke up missing a foot. Bloody paw prints snaked across the floor from her bed to the kitchen and out of the house. Her sheets were soaked a dark purple-red. Her mother put her in a chair and fastened pieces of cloth to the bottoms of the legs so it could be easily pushed around. Zala spent the morning fashioning a floral-patterned bandage wrap for the stump of her leg, and the afternoon sitting by the window, her left calf swaddled in blue and purple cloth stained with burgundy. Gavrail was gone, and the pawprints trailing out of the house that her mother was busy scrubbing away were uneven. Gavrail had a limp.

Zala cried herself to sleep that night. She had not been outside in two days, and the sweltering house smelled of blood and salve. Her bloodstained sheets flowed and flapped on the clothesline outside her window. Another storm was coming to wash away the repellent. Zala wished the sky would let her rest.

She woke up one-legged, and was barely surprised. Anna was gone, and so was Ivan. My leg must have been heavy, Zala thought bitterly as she hoisted herself out of bed and into the chair. Suddenly an explosion of pain shot through her bloody hip-stump, and she fainted, falling to the floor with a sickening thud. She woke up to her mother waving smelling salts under her nose, the pain still there.

Her mother brought her to the village doctor. He asked if she had been around any witches recently. She said no, she hadn’t. He asked if she had done anything to warrant a curse. She said no, of course not. No. Of course she hadn’t. Bile crept up her throat, but she held it down. “Bŭdi vnimatelen, child,” he warned. He gave her an ointment made from the sap of a local tree and told her to get lots of rest.

***

By the end of the week, Zala had lost all her limbs to the rabbits. Her mother was relieved that the garden was nearly rid of vermin, but Zala was miserable.

Her torso had to be taken in two trips, and then Zala was just a head, her mother having propped her up on the mantle so she could still feel like part of everything. When her mother and stepfather left the room, Zala would sob, tears dripping down her face, down the stub of her neck, and fall four feet until they hit the floor. She missed her body. She missed her heart. She missed her father.

That night, unable to sleep, she watched the door creak open, a sliver of moonlight bathing the house. A tiny creature hopped silently across the living room and climbed onto the mantle with surprising haste. Zala let out a choked cry. “Biljana,” she whispered. “Please. Ostavi me na mira.” Leave me be. Biljana blinked, and Zala stared deep into her beady eyes with a pleading, tearful gaze. The rabbit chomped down on her hair and hopped down from the mantle in a single leap, letting Zala’s head thump against the floor. Zala screamed and cried as Biljana dragged her out of the house, across the garden, through the Witches Woods, and towards the mountains. Thump, thump, thump, went Zala’s head, bouncing on the cold nighttime grass, and then soil, then stone.

Suddenly her blood went cold. “Biljana,” she choked, “where are we going?” The landscape was becoming horribly familiar.

The rain, the mud, the heart-stopping snap of the wheel, the clamber of flesh; the shove; the scream. The memory was fresh and raw in Zala’s mind. It was her fault. She pushed her father out of the wagon and off the cliff. It wasn’t an accident. She knew that now; she had known all along. The road grew closer. She could picture a ghostly image: the wagon beginning to fall, her father next to her in the back, and then dangling over the edge as she scrambled to safety, and then…  

Even as her head was slammed against the ground, Zala could see what was ahead, the moonlight illuminating the road clinging to the side of the muddy precipice. Rain began to pepper the ground. Beyond the cliff was the mountain on which Zala used to live with her mother and father. She thought of her friends: Yasen, and Anna, and Zornitsa and Gavrail. She wondered if they missed her.

Something caught her eye on the edge of the thin road-- at first she thought it was a person, standing stock-still, but then…

Zala’s mouth went dry. Her eyes went wide. If she had legs, they would have given out. If she had a heart, it would have frozen. If she had a stomach, she would have been sick.

For she did not have a stomach because it was here, right in front of her, along with all the rest of the organs and appendages she had lost throughout the week, all mashed and lumped together into the oozing, grotesque shape of a girl. A strip of her nightdress, soaked through with old blood, was draped over the headless torso of the hideous figure. Between its legs was a gaping hole. Bright red thread was stitched through its skin to attach the parts to one another. Zala recognized it as the thread she had been using the day Zornitsa ripped off her hand. It was sewn with the handiwork of a child, or an inexperienced man.

The thing was propped up on a tall wooden stake, and looked like it was meant to be looking over the cliff into the valley, but Zala couldn’t tell which way it was facing. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She could only stare as Biljana hopped towards the beast, her jaw still clamped firmly on Zala’s hair. A wolf howled somewhere closeby. The trees rustled in the warm, spitting rain.

Biljana scaled the creature on the stake and placed Zala’s head on its shoulders. From there, Zala could see that the landscape was teeming with rabbits, surrounding her in quivering, blinking waves. She sobbed a prayer to the gray-blue sky. “Otche nash, Ti, koĭto si na nebeto…” She was barely a believer. The rabbits hopped closer still.

WHAT HAPPENED HERE? A terrible voice whispered, louder than a gong. It came from everywhere and nowhere. Zala shut her eyes and whimpered.

UBIETS. The voice grew louder, sending an awful chill across Zala’s scalp. KILLER. KILLER. KILLER. WHAT HAPPENED HERE, ZALA?

Now Zala was screaming the prayer into the night. It caught in her throat and she gagged. “Otche nash…” It was the only one she knew. The rabbits were forming a great circle around the stake upon which she was propped. “Zashtoto Tvoe e tsarstvoto, i silata, i slavata voveki…”

HERE IS WHERE YOU KILLED YOUR FATHER. HERE YOU WILL STAY. Zala could feel the voice, deep in her ear canals, flowing across the mountains. Biljana was on the ground in front of her. She was facing away from the cliff, but she knew what she would see if she weren’t; her father’s body, still and misshapen at the bottom of the valley, lying next to a splintered wooden wheel. She had seen it before.

“Da doĭde Tvoeto tsarstvo; da bŭde Tvoyata volya, kakto na nebeto, tŭĭ i na zemyata…” She blubbered the prayer out as if the empty words would make the animals disappear. The moon was growing low in the sky, and she thought she could see a sliver of sunlight peeking over the horizon.

GOODBYE, ZALA, the voice whispered, and she could have sworn it was the voice of her father, bidding her farewell like he did so many times before.

“Wait,” she cried, “where are you going? Let me down! LET ME DOWN!”

The rabbits began to retreat. The voice was gone.

“Let me down,” Zala wept, but she was alone on the edge of the mountain, the sun beginning to rise, the rain ceasing. Sensation began to creep into her limbs, sliding down her spine like trickling blood. She screamed, then fainted. When she came to, the sun was blazing above her. Birds warbled and snakes murmured from the woods. Every contorted muscle in Zala’s body was taut with agony. “Otche nash, Ti, koĭto si na nebeto…”

***

“Wait here, detsa,” Gavrail urged his children as he began to make his way down the mountain. The old road had been blocked off for decades, ever since the accident-- it was deemed unsafe for travel, so he had to descend the mountain on foot. In his hand was a small wicker basket. It was his wife’s birthday, and he wanted to collect the berries she liked and give them to her as a gift. The only place to find them was the entrance to the Witches Woods.

As he reached the foot of the mountain, a sound reached his ears that made him freeze on the spot. A voice was wailing the Our Father from somewhere closeby. A chill snaked down his spine-- it was a horrible voice, a familiar voice, but he couldn’t place who it belonged to. It continued to howl the prayer, over and over, skipping the amin in every repetition.

Gavrail turned and clambered back up the mountain as fast as his legs would carry him. His children asked him where the berries were; he told them he couldn’t find any, that they would have to come up with another gift. They complied with twin smiles.

[impossible-ancient]

Autumn Hunt

---Chapter Two---

-A Girl’s Name-

[Read Chapter One here: “Don’t Lose”]

{Exactly 2800 words}

             Loud rumbling is heard from a group of men running down wooden stairs.  Pratt steps to the side of the hallway to allow them to pass, since they seem to be in a hurry.  The one man in front with blond hair peeking out of a hood, stares back at Pratt on his way down the steps.  He and the others hold sniper rifles, but this man has two.  

“Are you Pratt, also known as ‘Peaches,’” the blond man asks the young deputy.

“Yeah.  That’s me.”

             The blond man tosses him a large .50 caliber sniper riffle.  Pratt analyzes its silver coating and it barely even has a scratch on it.  He turns around to look where they’re headed, and they all stop to stare at him.

“Well, come on,” the blond man nags with a thick southern accent.

             Pratt follows the group outside of the Veteran Center.  The sun is so bright that everyone squints their eyes.  It’s like that little stinging in your eye from the sun reflecting the morning snow, only it wasn’t winter quite yet.  

“Oh shoot,” the blond man says as he looks around him, “wrong exit.  I still get confused in this place.”

             Pratt tries to hide his laughing.  The same man begins to walk around the home towards the front of the building.  Behind the home is an open courtyard full of giant cages.  The group of men pass close by one of them and Pratt sees a woman asleep on the cold ground, with a bowl of meat scraps in front of her.  And, when the deputy looks around, he sees a man in another cage, sitting and facing the group.  The blond man and the others barely glanced at them.  Pratt slows his walking, faces the blond man again and asks, “why are these people trapped in cages like that?”

             He doesn’t stop walking.  His hooded head never turns around, but he quietly replies, “don’t worry about them dang sinner!”

             The group walks through a narrow walled-off alleyway on the side of the house, and finally reach the front driveway.  They approach a large red SUV with thick tires and the windows rolled all the way down.  The blond man tells Pratt to stand to the side for a few moments, and the other men begin to load equipment into the vehicle.  Pratt recalls the man with dark curly hair from earlier this morning, and that man pulls a cardboard box out of the trunk.  He yanks out a pocket knife from his pocket, opens the box, and pulls out a set of orange vests covered in plastic wrapping.  

“Oh shoot, Rick,” the blond man exclaims, “these huntin’ vests are brand new!”

             Pratt had no idea that anyone was planning on hunting today.  But he watches as the curly-haired Rick and the blond man open the rest of the bags, and they hand them off to the others.  Rick hands Pratt an orange vest and it smells like fresh plastic right out of the factory.  It’s Velcro pocket closings where met with a set of key rings on the sides.  Rick announces that Jacob will be joining them shortly, and that he’s finishing a conference call with his family.  Part of it could be heard over the intercom system by mistake:

“Can you even use a computer, Jacob?”

             The group of men look around as they hold in their laughter.

“If you’re going to invite the father,” one of Jacob’s brothers says, “then send…eh…Jacob…why is there an echo?”

             A rustling and a loud clicking noise soon followed.  The group of men chuckled as they look up towards the house’s second floor.  The poor man didn’t know how to even use half of the crap sitting in his office.  He usually just has someone make appointments and send emails for him.  

             A few minutes pass.  Jacob comes walking out of the Veteran Center towards the SUV, holding his red-painted sniper riffle in his pale scarred hands.  He now wears a dark gray and red vest with a few buckles on the sides, and his regular gray shirt beneath it.  His dog tags and lucky rabbit’s foot are somewhat visible through the partially zipped vest.

“Hello Jacob,” the group greets collectively as if he is their commander, which he technically is.

“I’m sure you guys heard my baby bro whining on the phone.  My mistake,” Jacob jokes.

             He then opens the driver door and steps to the side, letting Rick seat himself behind the steering wheel, before Jacob closes the door for him.  Jacob then opens the left rear door and a shorter man with a red hat hops in first. The blond man steps to the side and tells Pratt, “after you buddy!”  The deputy enters the back of the vehicle and shoves the rifle into any free space he could find, before the blond man hops in and shuts the door behind him.  Rick tells the group to sit their riffles against the seats, pointing downwards for safety reasons.  Jacob hops up into the passenger side.  His feet kicking the guardrails, and his long legs bending before closing the door.  The big man looks back with a short grin and shouts, “Ready for some good ol’ huntin,’ guys?”  The men in the car cheer loudly and Pratt joins in on it, only because he doesn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb. The engine starts and the big SUV pushes forward in a rough jolt of an acceleration.  Rick slams the breaks and looks around.

“Woah,” Jacob shouts after keeping his head from flying forward.  He turns to look at Rick and stares at him for about five seconds, and then continues, “if you can’t drive a stick then you shouldn’t be up here, Rick.”

             Rick opens the door and offers up the driver’s seat to someone else.  He switches places with the man in the red hat and the SUV begins to move again, and much smoother this time.  They approach the main gateway to the Veteran Center and the four guards on the sides wave at them.  Jacob begins to go into detail about their destination: An open woodland area just off Clagett Bay.  The SUV drives on the blacktop road for quite some time, then rolls onto some harsh dirt and gravel trails.  Crossing old creaky bridges and crushing over sticks and dead logs, and the drive alone was a great start for this little outing.

“Hey Jacob, isn’t this where your old friend lives,” the blond man asks.

             Jacob looks back in his seat and from the corner of his eye, replying, “he’s not a friend anymore.  He hasn’t been for a while now.”

             Pratt looks at the visible side of Jacob’s seat in the front, and asks who he’s referring to.  

“Uncle…I mean…Eli.  He wouldn’t join the Project, so he started his own thing called the ‘White Tail Militia.’  Something like that.”

             The group silently looks around admiring the view of the woodland area, searching for Elk near the waters.  The open windows let in a rushing cold draft, but it’s scent of woodland pine sap was worth shivering.  Neither of the two guys up front ever bothered the radio.  Knowing Jacob, the radio would either play his favorite old tune, or be shut off completely.  He doesn’t care too much for the Sunday Church mix that his siblings kept on repeat all day long.  Pratt is always hesitant to start a conversation, fearing saying the wrong thing, or attracting the wrong kind of attention.  He’s extremely surprised that he isn’t in one of those cages, or even dead by now.  He is one of the marked enemies (or at least he was originally).  Maybe he’s beginning to gain some of Jacob’s trust, but he still senses that heavy barrier between them.  Yet, the deputy tosses out a quick kind word.

“Thanks for the shirt and vest, sir.”

“Yeah,” Jacob replies barely even paying attention, looking out of his open window for any wildlife.

             A voice comes from the driver’s seat calling out to Pratt.

“Hey man!  Hey,” the man calls out.  Pratt looks at him and then into his smiling dark eyes in the reflection of the rearview mirror.  He continues, “Muh name’s Rain.  Like ‘Rainfall.’”  Jacob and his group are actually sort of, well, kind.  Better yet, they seem to be fun to travel with.  But a paranoid Pratt doesn’t trust Jacob either.  

             A little more ways up the slope and the SUV finally rests its engine at the Clagett Bay Resting Area.  Everyone hops out.  Pratt looks around and waits for Jacob to be the last one to join the group.  He finds it strange that everyone barely even moves until Jacob either leads or commands them.  Jacob instructs the group of men to keep their orange hunting vests on at all time.  Next, he separates everyone into two groups.  

“Oh, my name’s Deveraux, by the way,” the blond man finally tells Pratt, “but just call me Dan.”  Both give each other a quick smile.  Jacob pairs Pratt with Dan while Rick and Rain go with Jacob.  There are to meet back here in 30 minutes whether they had caught anything or not.

“You guys be safe out there,” Rain tells them with a smile.  

             The two men go their own way along a dirt path, up and over hills.  Little feet patter with pebbles crunching under their shoes.  Dan wears a hoodie and utility belt with his dark cargo pants, that of an Eden’s Gate hunter.  But, today he carries a rifle like the rest of the gang.  The air up there is so cool and fresh this early in the morning.  The two climb over a huge log covered in vibrant green, damp moss.  Pratt steps back over to it just to observe the wavy brownish mushrooms along the rotted fallen tree’s side.  Dan turns around a few seconds later as he realized Pratt had stopped.

“Aye there,” he shouts and then walks over to Pratt, “Nah, I want you to be in my sight at all times. You seem like an alright guy, but Jacob wants me to keep an eye on ya.”

             Pratt nods his head in agreement.  The two men continue their trek.  Dan was no idiot.  He doesn’t know much about the deputy, and he’s not going to let Pratt out of his sight holding that sniper riffle either. They continue walking again side by side.  

“So, do ya like go to college or anything like that,” Dan asks Pratt.

“I graduated a few years ago actually,” Pratt replies.

             Dan looks around for any Elk or other fauna in the area, as he asks, “What kind of job ya got?”

             Pratt’s breathing gets heavier and his heartrate begins to quicken.  He quickly tosses out a lie that won’t have to come with more questions that he couldn’t answer:

“I’m a…helicopter pilot…tour…guide,” he hesitates to piece together.  Well, it was sort of true anyway.          

             The wind kicks up blowing Pratt’s un-moussed long hair into his face.  The two trek deeper into the woods kicking through dead leaves.  Dan spots one of those hexagonal hunting treehouses, which are the metal platforms high up in the trees.  They reach the rusted blue ladder and Dan let’s Pratt climb first. Both of them sit on the platform and wait for any sign of wildlife to enter the area, remaining alert with rifles in their hands.  Pratt notices Dan glance at a silver and bronze-plated wristwatch on his arm, before pulling his sleeve down.  He warns the deputy that they have about fifteen minutes before they needed to head back to the Rest Stop area.  The young deputy begins to ask Dan questions about his life in general, hoping that he can begin to understand why they had joined The Project at Eden’s Gate.

“Do you know who the Father is, Pratt,” Dan asks.

“I heard that he’s some sort of preacher.”

             Dan chuckles showing his teeth in a smile, turning his head and then looking up into the woodland canopy.  He shakes his hooded head, and then adds, “The Father is our light.  He opens our eyes and speaks the truth.”

“What about your life in general,” Pratt interrupts, having more interest in Dan than in their leader.

“I usually don’t piddle around in that,” Dan replies, “but since you asked; I used to be an electrician…slash…mechanic…slash, a few different jobs here and there.  I ain’t even 30 yet, and the Seed family offered me an early retirement if I work for them.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“I’m mainly a hunter and sometimes a cook,” Dan answers, “I get paid a few hundred for the week.”

             Pratt nods his head, and asks, “So, what does “the Father” do that the mayor can’t?”

             Dan tilts his head to the side, turns his body to face the deputy, and then smiles.  He begins counting his fingers one by one, and says, “Ain’t gotta pay for gas, ain’t gotta pay for any food in Jacob’s house, free water, no rent, barbecues every weekend, no bills, free cable, everybody got a job around here, which means no unemployment, free school for the little kids, John Seed represents you in court and even pays your hospital bills…”

             Pratt had to interrupt Dan just to get him to stop.

“But, what about those who don’t like him…those who disobey,” Pratt questions.

“The Father chooses those worthy.  He chooses those who must be cleansed.  And, if they cause any trouble…then they won’t be around anymore.”

             Something peeks its head through the shrubs on the ground.  The leaves rustle loudly.  It’s the head of an elk feeding and sniffing around.  Its hooves pattering around on the crunchy leaves.  Dan slowly picks up his sniper rifle and steadily aims it at the animal down below.  Pratt does the same.  The elk looks around and turns its head almost 180 degrees, as it checks for predators. Dan realizes something which causes him to hesitate.  He tells Pratt to put down his rifle.  The elk moves much slower than usual.

“Do ya see her belly? It’s swollen,” Dan tells Pratt, “she’s got babies.”

             The hunter sets down his rifle and instead of scaring it, he waits a few minutes until it wanders away.  The two men climb back down the ladder attached to the tree platform.  A black folded wallet falls from Pratt’s baggy plaid shirt pocket, slipping out from beneath his orange hunting vest.  He doesn’t even notice it as he walks back down the hill towards the SUV. Dan stops walking and picks it up and opens it.  The blond man doesn’t take anything, not that Pratt had any money anyway, other than $30 and a few commuter train one-week passes.  He reads Pratt’s driver’s license.  He then jogs to catch up to Pratt and begins walking with him again.  Pratt watches as Dan takes a cigar from a plastic gray bag in his pocket, before hearing the sharp clicking of the flickering lighter. Dan looks to Pratt on his right, and asks, “I got an extra if ya want one.”  Pratt kindly declines the offer.

“’Staci Pratt,’” Dan mocks as he begins to climb a steeper hill with the deputy, “that’s different.”

“What?”

             Dan makes a quiet wheezy chuckle and asks, “Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

             Pratt rolls his eyes but answers, “It’s like Casey or Kelly.  It can be either boy or girl.”

“I was just playin’ around with ya,” Dan jokes while handing the wallet back.

             When the two return to the SUV they see Jacob and Rain already there, with the windows rolled down, ready to go.  Rick had put the rifles in the trunk and waves to Pratt and Dan to hurry up.  The two men jog the rest of the short distance up the path.

“Did you guys catch anything,” Rick asks.

“We only saw a momma holdin’ babies,” Dan replies in a muffle with a cigar in his mouth.

“Nah, we can’t kill a momma elk like that.  It wouldn’t be right,” Rick replies, “We didn’t see anything out here either.”

             Rain hops back into the driver’s seat and starts up the SUV.  But then he begins to hum a tune.  Rick begins to sing that tune wording out, “Only You!”  And then, Dan soon after begins singing along.  Pratt smirks and looks at how silly the guys all look as they sing in the car.  They seem so playful like a family on a road trip.  Jacob looks behind his seat out of the corner of his eye.  And, when Rick and Dan sang one of the high notes, Jacob laughed and covered his mouth.  The deputy couldn’t believe it: Jacob Seed…just…laughed.

[raindrop-on-a-spiderweb]

Pisces

Bonus chapter/Bad End. Continues from Chapter 21.

***

Patience placed a hand firmly on his chest and shoved him back. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

But Salvatore wasn’t paying attention to her. This was between him and Leonardo. Leonardo who wasn’t looking livid or offended, but smiling placidly.

“Are you going to let her talk that way to you?”

His words suddenly shocked her. They weren’t directed at Salvatore in any condescending way, but were spoken in a soft, simply curious fashion.

Salvatore smarted. “She doesn’t—that’s no fuckin’ business of yours. She’s my girl, not yours—she’ll do whatever I say.”

“I most certainly won’t,” Patience spat, kicking him. “You shut up right now, you no-good son of a bitch—“

“Shut up.”

Salvatore’s voice was guttural, and as he stared at her, she saw the enmity directed towards Leonardo begin to slowly redirect towards her.

Leonardo’s voice spoke in the background, almost like an afterthought. “We Sicilians say that the woman rules the home, does she not? It seems like this woman rules you even outside.”

“That’s not true. I’ve fucked her enough times that she should know that by now. She needs to be taught a lesson.”

She felt Leonardo shift closer to her, so close she could smell his sweet cologne. “Sal the Bull,” Leonardo said. “I know we’ve been at odds during our… career. We’ve clashed. Both Borghese men and Di Scarpetta men have died during our disagreements. But I admire you. We’ve gotten off to a bad start. You’re genuine in a way none of the other bosses are; you care about your men. You’ll get right down in the dirt and the muck with them."

Salvatore snorted, but she could see the tenseness in his shoulders easing, but not leaving completely. “Somethin’ you’ve never done in your pampered life.”

Leonardo smiled softly, not offended in the least. “My strengths lie elsewhere.”

Patience sat between them, her hands sweaty and gripping the red velvet. The high wail of the soprano wafted through the silent opera compartment. She felt as if she were in between two tigers, ready to pounce

“Salvatore,” said Leonardo. “We have far more in common than any of the other bosses. We’ve collaborated on the Florida deal. Under the noses of Sharky and The Cardinal, I might add. We are the future. After all, we’re young. Sharky and The Cardinal, they are stuck in the past. The world is constantly changing. And you know that us, our thing, cosa nostra, can only survive if we look to the future. “

Salvatore said nothing, but she could tell he was thinking. Patience felt a sick sort of beat erupt in her heart.

“I offer you a truce, Salvatore Bruno Mallozzi. Become my partner. We will take out Old Man Bianconi and Alberto Cardinale. It will be us who rule over Garland City’s underworld; and its drug trade. Between the two of us, there is nothing we cannot accomplish.”

The tenseness in the compartment was too much to bear. Her breaths came in shallow and high, her spine stiff and cold with the slow doom and anticipation.

Wordlessly, Salvatore reached forward to grip his hand.

***

Patience erupted in fear. “What are you doing?” she wailed. She pushed Salvatore away from Leonardo. “You promised me you would help take him down!”

“Change of plans, sweetheart.” Salvatore’s voice had the same lazy baritone it had had in the restaurant. “I’ve found a more lucrative gig.”

Tears swam in her eyes. She wanted to tear her hair out. “You no-good cocksucker. You betraying bastard. I’ll—“

“There she goes, mouthing off to you again,” broke in Leonardo softly. “You said she needed to be taught a lesson, didn’t you? Why don’t we put her mouth to better use?”

Salvatore eyed her, a particular hostility in his eyes. “You know what, Leo Angelino? That sounds like a good idea.”

The growl in his voice was like a slavering dog, cornering her with his pack. And really, wasn’t that what was happening? He wasn’t her ally anymore. He—and Salvatore—were a pack now.

And she was their prey.

Salvatore gripped her hair with his rough hand and forced her head downwards. She tried to her head back, but he gripped her hair so hard it tore her scalp, and with tears in her eyes, she opened her mouth as he worked down his fly.

The hot sensation of his cock against her lips made her gag, but not as much as when he forced it into her mouth.

She was crouched, halfway on the sofa, halfway sitting, and so Leonardo gripped her legs and swung her fully onto the couch. She was now crouched like a queen being mounted by a tom, with her bottom in the air being securely held by Leonardo, and her front half subdued by Salvatore.

Salvatore’s rough fingers slid down the straps on her dress until her small, sensitive nipples poked above the fabric. He pinched them so hard she winced, the rough pads of his fingers twisting them into bright red nubs.

His cock was pulsing in her mouth as he shoved it deeper, the head nudging against the back of her throat. She felt a gag rising up in her, threatening to spill bile, but she knew that if she vomited he would hurt her more, so she swallowed her nausea.

Preoccupied as she was, Patience did not notice the dress being slid above her waist. She did notice when her panties were yanked down.

She gave a muffled cry and tried to kick out behind her. But finely manicured nails sunk into the underside of her pale leg, and Leonardo held her firmly, spreading her legs.

Salvatore was moaning under his breath, steadily thrusting into her mouth, and she could barely move a muscle with his grip on her. One hand was wound around her hair, and if she didn’t suck hard enough, he yanked it. The other one was taut around her shoulder, shoving her breasts forward to touch the base of his cock.

Her lungs were screaming. She could barely breathe.

She heard a distant clinking. “What the fuck are you doing?” barked Salvatore accusingly.

Leonardo’s voice was smooth as a cat’s. “Well, you’re not leaving me out, are you? I’m her lover too. And didn’t you say we needed to teach her a lesson? Dominated by two men at once… wouldn’t that be the ultimate lesson to teach a woman?”

She wasn’t sure Salvatore heard them, because his breaths were becoming more shallow. He was caught between his pleasure and his fury, and his pleasure won out.

The instruments rose to a crescendo outside the compartment, and she knew that the audience was enraptured by the gorgeous opera performance set out before them. But all she could think of was her little corner of hell, right here in this compartment.

How strange, some part of her thought, that something so beautiful should happen, right when her life had reached the pinnacle of despair.

The corner of the sofas arm was sharp. Sharp enough, she thought, that she could gash her wrist open.

She entertained that thought until Leonardo slid into her hard. The sudden invasion made her spine stiffen and her breath short out.

“What the hell you stopping for? Keep suckin’.” Salvatore shoved her head forward again, impaling himself inside her.

Leonardo held her waist in a vice grip, his pants bunched around his knee. His cock rammed forward, then slowly dragged out until the red, pulsing head remaining inside her body. He paused, as if he were savoring the moment, and slammed back into her.

The blond man’s hands were wound around her waist, playing with that little bundle of muscles, and his body was laying across hers, his skin warm and his breaths expanding against her back. The steady rhythm of his cock, sliding deep inside then withdrawing, made her unwillingly start to build to climax. His hard, pulsing member inside her, coupled with the other one thrusting down her throat, made a confusing mixture of pleasure and misery erupt inside her.

Patience smelled his cologne, sickening sweet like a rotting body, mixed with the sweat from Salvatore. She would never forget that smell. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to die.

Finally, she could no longer take it anymore, and his relentless stimulation made her lose herself. Both cocks inside her were stimulating some deep-seated need inside herself. And as much as she didn’t want it to, they pushed her over the edge to orgasm.

The trembling, heightening pleasure washed over her like a wave, leaving her shaky-legged and gasping.

The soprano continued her aria. Tears dripped silently down Patience’s cheeks, glittering in the light of the lanterns.

Salvatore gave one last, heavy thrust, and something hot and salty spilled into her mouth. Patience gagged and tried to spit it out, heaving like a fish out of water. But he forced her jaw closed, and she forced herself to swallow the mixture of puke and semen that had biled up inside her throat.

It will all be over soon, said some distant, naïve part of her that grew up in the sunny Massachusetts rivers. Then you can go back home. Back to Flora. Back to…

White trickles dripping from her mouth she began to sob as she realized she would ever be returning home again.

Leonardo put a leg over the back of the couch and gave one more hard thrust inward. She felt his thick, white seed filling her, soaking her cervix, his hips strong and bruising against hers.

With his body trembling, she could tell that he relished her cry of despair.

“Oh, shush,” said Salvatore, sounding distracted. “Cara mia, I’ll take you out after this. I know a good restaurant I can take the three of us to.”

The three of us. Patience had the feeling that it would be the three them more than ever. A man on either side, caging her in.

Leonardo exhaled slowly and withdrew, running a hand over her quivering backside and tucking her dress securely under her.

“I think this is the start of a good partnership,” Leonardo said in a businesslike manner, pulling her back up to sit beside him. He kept an arm securely around her, stroking her arm as Salvatore struggled up and began zipping himself up.

“It is,” agreed Salvatore, sounding jovial, his pale face flushed as he watched the end of the opera. “We’ve got a bright future ahead, Leo Angelino. For all of us.” He cast a glance at her that might have been called loving in any other circumstance.

Patience sat there trapped by her two jailers, sobbing heavily as despair overwhelmed her. Her parents’ revenge, Benjamin, Michael. She did not want to let them go, but they were fading, farther and farther out of reach.

The red curtain of the opera drew shut, and the raucous cheering of the people overwhelmed her as her life spiraled into hell.

[dazzlingfantasiesblogs]

Hurricane P41

Happy x Reader.

Warnings/Triggers: 18+ Only. If under 18, kindely un-follow me please. 

Tags: @moodygrip @mywhitehatisbigger @camobighairnboots @trippinjenni @jenny885

Notes: Oh man.. heartfelt chapter. I wanted to scare you all and say it was the last chapter... I didn’t have the balls to do it.  (I am not ending it sweeties! Maybe I should.. but I cant just yet. I still have ideas!!! >_<)

Pics and gifs are not mine

Waking up the next day, your head was stinging. You stretched your arms and seen Happy was gone. You expected this seeing as Montana didn’t just call the mother charter out for no reason. After showering and throwing on some makeup you slid on your business outfit for the day. Kozik wanted you hear to de-stress but Jerry had mentioned to you he would like your help for their mechanics shop after Jax went on a rant of how there place was too busy not that you marketed it. Wearing a dark red shirt with a black pencil skirt and black high heels you walked down stairs. Researching coffee places on your phone as you did.

Seeing Trina and Sammy awake and chatting with smiles on their faces warmed your heart. “Morning ladies.” They seen you and stood up. You all hugged and said you normal hellos. “I am going to get some decent coffee. Care to come with?” “Naw, Jax and Chibs are taking us to breakfast after church.” “Oh la la! Well be safe.” You rummaged around in your laptop case taking out a handgun handing it to Sammy. “There is a reason Charming is here. Take it and be safe. If your nervous, give it to Jax or Chibs.” “We have shot a gun.” You smirked to your best friends remembering when Kozik and you took them to a gun range.

“Kozy baby lets go get some coffee.” The dog got off the couch, following close to you.  Walking out of the clubhouse you seen all the boys sitting outside talking. Instead of disturbing them you headed to your Jeep. “Y/N!” you looked back to see Happy walking up to you. “Whats up?” you turned around, facing him. He pressed you up against your jeep, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Assholes keep talking about last nights performance.. plus this business outfit.” He looked you up and down. You looked around Happy to see the boys stairing. “Lets give them something else to talk about..” you winked towards him. You turned him around shoving him against the Jeep. The smirk that spread across Happys face was one of sin. Your hand on his chest, your ass slightly poked out. You licked from his lips to neck, kissing it. He slapped your ass smiling at you. “I love when you get possessive.” He grinned. “Well hunny, now they see I want no one but you.”

“Where are you and Kozy going?” He seen the dog sitting next to you two in the shade from the jeep. “Going to get some good coffee. Can you join?” Happy nodded waiving to the boys. They nodded to him. You opened the door for Kozy. Walking around to the drivers side, Happy held the door open for you. You smelt something off in the jeep and recognized the smell. “Happy get Kozy out now!” Happy looked at your face of fear. Opening the back door he grabbed the dog as you slowly stepped away from the car. “What is it..?” “Gas…” you mumbled. Kneeling down you seen red blinking light. Undoing the tape you held it in your hand. “That’s a fucking trigger bomb.. if you would have started the car.” Happy couldn’t believe it. So that ment the wheel wasn’t an accident as well. “Jax!” Happy yelled out. Jax stood up and the boys following. You held on to the bomb, thinking on how close away from death you were. You heart beat fast, just thinking about it. Jax looked at the item in you hand.  “Y/N… what the..” he looked at it shocked as well. “Someone is trying to kill me..” you mumbled. “Go inside.. I need a moment..” you spoke out to Happy and the boys. “Juice, Opie.. take this apart and see what the hell and who the hell made this..” Opie and Juice nodded to Jax grabbing it from your hands. The boys started to walk away, Happy walking a bit ahead of you. You opened the door to your jeep smelling a hint of something sweet. Something you couldn’t put your finger on. Grabbing your purse and laptop bag and anything else valuable you shut the door. When you did you hurd a fast beeping sound “Run!” you screamed out. Without thinking, the boys did as told. You sprinted, your heels being left behind. Soon you felt heat shower your back and gravity throw you to the ground.

“Y/N!” Happy yelled, making Kozy stay. He looked to see your body sprawled out on the dirt road not moving. The clouds of black smoke and fire behind you caused his heart to stop. He ran towards you, trying to grab you. He managed to lift you up and seen the blood drip on the dirt. Your blood mixing with the sand below. He rushed you into the club house laying you on the reaper table. “Call an ambulance! Now!” Happy yelled at the top of his lungs. His hands gently on your face trying to wake you up. This was the same thing that had happened to Chibs long ago. Who the hell wanted you dead? Kozik ran into the room seeing his sister covered in dirt and ash from the Jeep. “Y/N!?” He yelled pushing Happy out of the way. “Sis.. please..oh no no..” he grabbed your hand, moving your hair out of your face. He noticed the stiches reopened on your forehead. “Ambulance will be here in three minutes..” Jerry ran in telling Happy.

Sammy and Trina walked in seeing your lifeless body on the table. “What…” they ran over to you, both of them starting to cry. They couldn’t remember a time when you so banged up. They held onto your arm, both of them shaking at the sight of you. The ambulance came in, everyone moved out of the way. “Name.” Was all an EMT said. “Y/F/N, Y/L/N” Happy spoke roughly to him. His eyes never leaving you. “Birthdate.” “Y/BDay.” Happy and Kozik followed behind the EMT. After all getting in the ambulance, they drove you to the hospital.

“Y/Age Female, Last name is Y/L/N. Head injury from previous car accident and car bomb that went of today.” A nurse spoke to the doctor that wheeled you into an emergency care room. He grabbed scissors and cut up your dress and seen some small bruises starting to form where you hit rocks on the dirt. He carefully looked at the back of your head and seen the huge cut. Making quick work he had it cleaned and bandaged in under and hour. Fixing the one on your forehead as well.

Ordering an MRI he seen that your brain functions where normal. You where breathing on your own and you legs still moved slightly. HE sighed a bit walking into the hall to go talk to your makeshift family.

“Y/L/N.” Happy, Kozik, Trina and Sammy stood up. Kozy tagging along behind them. He brought everyone to a waiting room to sit down. “Good news, her body is still functioning, she is able to move her limbs and arms. She lost quite a bit of blood and from the previous concussion it looks like she might have aswell. Two blows to the head in two days is a tremendous amount of pressure to put on the head and brain. The bad news is.. she is in Acoma. We tried waking her up but no luck. We will keep monitoring everything an making sure she is stable. For now she will rest. You are all welcome to go and see her.” The doctor got up and left after shaking everyone’s hand. Happy slid his face into his hands. Why? Why when he finally got your back did things have to hit the ceiling. Why couldn’t he just be happy with you.. His chest rumbled as tears slid down his face. He couldn’t hold it n anymore. Trina and Sammy seen this and went on either side of him, hugging him tightly. No matter what wrong he did, in their eyes Happy was still family.  Kozik kneeled infront of him, tears in his own eyes. “She is going to kick this in the ass like she kicks everything else Happy.. you know this..” as he spoke he tried so hard to hold back the tears.

“Happy, Yona, dinner!” you yelled from the kitchen. Kozy jogged in sitting on the kitchen floor since it was cold. Your daughter ran in and gave you a side hug. Her facial structure was strong like her fathers, her hair your color and his dark eyes. She was stunning. “Mom, can I go to the dance with Trevor..?” She asked randomly. “No. No you cannot. Remind me to remind your uncles to be on high alert for that fucking punk.” Happy growled as he sat on the chair. You went to grab the food from the stove and he seen it was heavy. He stood up again to carry it to the table. He slid his hand over your small baby bump as he set it down. “Mom.. he is being irrational..” your daughter pouted to you. “Honey… your in 8th grade.. I don’t know..” you eyed Happy to give some leeway into the situation. “Please mom, dad just think about it. I grew up with him.. he is a great friend!” Happy tsked at that. “Better him then some kid we don’t know Happy. After all Trevor is your “nephew”.. I am sure Kozik would be elated to have his son with her.” Happy sighed and simply nodded his head. “Thanks for cooking hunny, you should not be cooking and working all the time. You gotta be careful for.. the baby.” Happy said with a concerned look. You smiled at your over protective old man. “I will be sweety.” “I agree with dad, mom. I want my baby brother to be safe.” You beamed at your daughter for how sweet she was. “How have you been feeling mom..? Hurd you vomiting this morning..” you sighed a bit. “With you I had no morning sickness. None. With this little guy.. well..” you shrugged.

After dinner your daughter and Happy cleaned the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. They had a soap fight in the kitchen for about twenty minutes till Happy called quits. You daughter calling him a chicken. You got up to walk to your bedroom and changed out of your business clothes. Looking in the mirror you frowned a bit at your body. You knew you had a kid on the way, but you were worried about your kids being so far apart in age. Happy walked in seeing the look on your face as you looked in the mirror. He came behind you setting his chin on your shoulder. “Why the frown?” He rasped out. “Because… What… What… if… I don’t know.. the kids being so far apart in age is a bad thing.. should we have had another..” your worries where evident in your eyes. “Baby.. look at me. Yes we should have this baby. I was so thrilled when you told me the news. Just means Yona can go ahead and make sure her brother is safe aswell.” “We are getting old Hap..” “Oh hush.. we are not. Your as beautiful as the day I met you hurricane..” you smiled at that. “I didn’t say anything about my appearance.” “You had the look on your face my love.” He spoke kissing your nose. He slid his hands over the small bump. Running his hands over your tummy. He pressed a kiss to your neck as you leaned back into him. “Hap.. don’t start what you cant finish..” you moaned out. “Oh my love.. I can do more than finish it..” Smirking he picked you up laying your on the bed. “Don’t worry, I locked the door.” He winked.

The next morning your head was in the toilet for a good hour. Your daughter rushing in, helping you hold your hair back. After you didn’t puke for a few minutes you assumed you where done. Your daughter helped you up as you sighed. “Sorry to put this all on you..” “Mom shush.” She smiled. “I am so excited to meet my brother!!” you where surprised by this. You always thought having a single kid was going to be spoiled and bratty to the other. However your daughter showed nothing but excitement. Rarely did she ask for anything, always asking how she could help around the house to earn extra cash.

Hearing a knock at the door, you brushed your teeth and slid a robe over your body. Yona followed behind you as you opened the door. “UNCLE LORENZO!” Yona yelled jumping into her uncles arms. “Hello sweet pea!” He kissed the top of her head. Setting her down he walked over to you, hugging you tightly. “Where is the old man?” “Clubhouse working.” You smiled seeing your best friend here. “What are you doing out here?” you asked confused. “Well, Happy texted me you where pregnant. So here I am and they are!” you looked at they confused. You seen a couple guys walk in with presents. “They are just helping me carry things in.” He smirked to you. “Happy texted you.. that is weird..” “Yeah, I think it was more of a FUCK YOU then anything, even after all those years. But, I love Yona like she was mine and I will love this one too!” He smiled to you. “Hell I even love Happy for making you so.. well Happy.” Lorenzo chuckled at his own joke.

Getting dressed you all headed to the clubhouse. Your stomach still stirring from this morning. Gemma was the first to greet you all. She seen your face very pale. “You need to..” you nodded quickly. She grabbed a waste bucket from the TM garage as you vomited more. She rubbed your back seeing your body continually throw up. Lorenzo and Yona walking to the club house. “Dad!” Yona ran up to her father like she rarely seen him. “Hey princess. Where is your mom?” He nodded to Lorenzo. “Vomiting in the office with Grandma Gemma.” Happy kissed her head and headed towards the office. HE seen your head buried in the trashcan and Gemma rubbing your back. “Oh shit.. babe..” He walked over. You lifted your head slightly to see Happy. “Hey B..” you vomited again in the basket. “Happy, she needs something in her stomach. She is just vomiting bile at this point.” “Right!” He nodded frantic. “What do you want to eat baby?” “Mac and cheese…. Fettucine alfrado.. chicken fingers with chocolate icecream…” you kept rambling. He looked at Gemma confused. “I got it on speed dial..” Happy looked back to see Kozik walking in, overhearing the convo. “She asked me to pick up the same order a few days ago when  you worked late for me. Yona!” Kozik called out. Yona came up hugging her uncle tightly. “What do you want to eat?” “Ohh!!! Mac and Cheese and a burger!!” She said with a huge smile. “I got the payment.. so good to see you all. Kozik go ahead and put a huge order in.” Kozik looked behind him to see Lorenzo. He hugged him tightly” “Fucking good to see my brother!” Kozik smiled at him. “No kidding!” Lorenzo smiled back. “Can everyone but my old man, daughter and Gemma get THE FUCK OUT WHILE I PUKE!” you yelled at the top of your lungs. Kozik and Lorenzo chuckled walking out. “Damn her hormones..” “Please was she any different not pregnant?” Kozik retorted.

The baby was three weeks early. However he was perfectly fine. You laid in the hospital bed, Happy laying next to you as you held your son in your arms. Yona was staying with her Auntie Sammy and Uncle Jax and cousin Abel. “Marry me..” Happy whispered to you. You looked at him as he waited for answer. So many times he had asked you in elaborate ways, you always said ‘No.’. Because you two had been so up and down till Yona came around. Then time flew. Even then he asked every year and you said not yet. You smiled gently to him “Yes.” Was all you said. His eyes widened expecting you to say no. He pressed a kiss to your lips. “Why now?” “Because, it was calm and I am ready. You never left me and Yonas side, you never hurt me in the years she has been alive. You’re an amazing father… Yes Happy. I always knew I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life.. I just never knew when I would say yes.” Happy grabbed the little black box in his pocket. He carried it with him at all times and had for years. He slid the ring on your finger kissing you once again.

“I still don’t fucking like him..” Happy looked at Trevor as him and your daughter where getting married. “IT is Koziks kid.. I know we all thought he would be family, but those two have been in love since they met. Kozik is thrilled and so is Lily and I . At least we know everything about him. He knows how to protect her and has. He pushed her to finish college and everything.” Happy grumbled. Small tears welling in his eyes. “But she is my baby girl..” “Oh killer..” you hugged your husband. He was defiantly one to get emotional when it came to your children. Your son smiled to you two as he stood at the alter on Trevors side. He was eighteen now and out of the house. Headed to study business like his mother. Yona often taking after her father with the hard exterior and biker mentality. It was funny to see them two grow up. “Wow… who knew this would happen..” Sammy smiled at you, sitting close. “No kidding..” you held your best friends hand, watching your daughter slide the ringer on Trevors hand. Trina crying next to Sammy. Chibs rubbing her back. “How time flies…” Happy looked at you. “Your still the most beautiful woman Hurricane..” He gently kissed your lips before Trevor and your daughter had their first kiss as husband and wife.

“I miss you mom and dad…” Yona sniffled as she looked at your tombstones. Trevor on one side and her brother on the other. “Its amazing how you really can die from a broken heart..” you brother sighed looking at Yona. “Yeah, the doctor said with in hours..” Trevor said after. It had been the year anniversaries of your deaths. Yona and her brother kissing the top of the tombstones before walking away.

[theaquarianphoenix]

In the pic: Our barn. Behind it is the back 40.

              SATURDAY MORNINGS

It is Saturday morning. And Gargamel is chasing a Smurf. We are sprawled out on the green, living room carpet. In front of the television. All four of us. My two brothers and my sister and me. Transfixed. Mesmerized. Saturday morning cartoons are special. We don’t get to watch a lot of television. So, for us, cartoons are a fantastical world to get lost in. A place to escape. A place we can fly away to. And be happy.

Our favorites are Scooby-Doo, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, The Smurfs, and Jonny Quest. We rise early to watch cartoons, even though they are on until noon. You see, we are not allowed to sit around all morning watching them. Those are my dad’s rules. There is work to be done. And we should be outside. And not lying around the house “on our asses.”

This morning, my brothers need to plant flax. Along the back 40. Behind our barn. A task that is laborious and uncomfortable and hard. To do it, they must take turns driving the three-wheeler over the tilled-up earth. As one drives, the other sits on the back holding an old-fashioned gunny sack contraption around his neck. As the bag hangs around his neck, he must turn a small crank on the side. The crank spreads the seed across the ground. Even though they can rest the bag on their lap, the strap still cuts into their neck. And they hate it.

Right now, as always, I am on edge. Like a guard dog. With my ears perked up. Listening. Observing. Waiting. For the signs. And the sounds. Of my father. Ready to jump. Or dive. Or run. Or lie flat and still like a stone. Ready to do whatever it takes should he erupt and get angry.

On this morning, I can feel it. In my bones. In my blood. We shouldn’t be lying around. Like barn cats on bales of hay. My sister and I should be outside. Anywhere. In the trees. In the tall grass. It doesn’t matter. Just outside. And not in here.

And my brothers. They should be in the field. Working. They should be planting flax.

My father’s movements are like rumbles. Ominous, fear inducing rumbles. Or like hail hammering the roof. Sometimes, I think he is the giant from Jack and the beanstalk in the fairy tale books I read. “Fe Fi Fo Fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”

I hear him now. Stirring. Down the hallway. Back in his bedroom. My senses. My skin. At attention. Pricked. He will be in the living room soon. And he will be angry.

I go. Fast! Out of the living room. And out the door. Down the beanstalk. But they are still there. My brothers. And my little sister. Lying on the floor. I see them in my mind’s eye. Only moments ago. My sister hugging her little pink blanket. All of them, hypnotized by the tiny blue creatures on the television screen that take them away from this place.

I am barely to the front part of our yard when I hear it. The screaming. The giant has found them. And, just like the fairy tale, he’s grinding their bones.

Our yard is big and wide and open. There is no shrub to scuttle into. No tree to hide behind. I am out there. Exposed. So, I stand there. Quaking. Like some newborn lamb. Listening. From inside the house, more screams. The lambs in the slaughter. I don’t need to see it. I know what is happening. My father’s voice. The malevolent giant. Full of rage and dominion. The grinding. So much terrible, terrible grinding.

I hear the door open now. Both of my brothers come flying out. Screaming and stumbling. My father at the top of the porch. His voice a cruel mix of blackness and the profane. His body. The giant. The mean, awful giant. He slams the door. I can hear my little sister in the house. Wailing and sobbing. Witness to the violence that just occurred. I don’t have to see her. Because I can hear her. I am inside her. I can feel her. Her five-year-old body is a flood of terror and tears and trauma and pain.

I’m still standing there. Hanging on the fringes of what just happened. Like some frozen icicle. A crystallization of molecules. Water and oxygen and carbon and tears. But I am melting.

I watch my brothers, wiping their own tears. Hot and burning in contrast. They hustle to the garage. To get the seed bag. They get on the three-wheeler. And head out to the back 40. I’m hidden in plain sight. Some unseen wisp. I watch them as they go. I follow behind. Out of sight. Like a cat. I keep to the edge of the woods. I know all the trees here. I know all the rocks. And each hollowed-out stump. And the folds of the earth. I watch the three-wheeler bounce along the tilled-up soil. A bobber. On a sea of dirt. Up and down. Up and down. I watch my older brother seated behind my younger brother. His legs hanging off the back. His neck bent and heavy with the seed bag.

I stay there. Standing. Veiled. Concealed. For a long time. Watching. The sentinel. The voyeur. My tummy churns. With pain. And hurt. And guilt. Because, I ran away. And, I left them behind. I feel shame. So much shame. I am weak. And I am afraid.

I cover my ears. And I shake my head.

I don’t want to feel this.

I don’t want to feel this.

I don’t want to feel this.

So…

I slip my skin.

And now, amongst these trees, I am a ghost. I am a ghoul. I am a phantom. I am a spirit. I am a wraith. I am a flash. I am a flicker. I am a dot. I am a spec. I am the darkness. And then…I am nothing.

[ninasikorawrites]

Chapter One

The rain tapped its curious fingers on the glass that surrounded her, yearning for the feel of her skin but instead colliding with the clear roof above. She stood there in the thick, green air of the glass house, head tilted back with a small smile, listening to the wild midday downpour raging around her.

Her ash brown curls were weighed heavy with the ten minutes of rain she had trudged through before she had spied this place. The pastel blue of her work shirt had turned a bright azure with the drenching and lingering drops ran down her arms. They coalesced at her fingertips, leaping to pool gently at the pavers beneath her bare feet.

Her shoes, cheap and uncomfortable, dangled from her hand, taken off barely five minutes into her impromptu walk home. The grass at the bank of the road infinitely more comfortable than their worn soles. An odd lump at her hip the only evidence of her socks, stuffed deep in her pocket.

She shivered, the memory of the cold outside still prickling at her skin. Her breaths were haggard from her run across the expanse of lawn, the shelter of the glass house having beckoned to her as she had walked down the side of the far road.

The storm had taken Eleanor by shock. The early afternoon sky had been bright as she had set out, the sun high in the unmarred expanse of blue. The darkness rolling in with the clouds had been another misfortune to add to the list that had made up her already shitty day. Still, she couldn’t help laughing, arms out by her sides ready to embrace the life she had begun to carve out for herself. The feeling of freedom, though exhausting and apparently quite wet, was worth all the misfortune it had cost her.

It was worth the forty-five-minute walk she had been in the middle of when the storm had hit. Worth dealing with the unreliable rust bucket that the ad hidden in the back of the newspaper had misleadingly called a car. Worth every blister on her feet, worth the ache in her back from the monotonous back and forth across a peeling linoleum, hands laden with cherry pies and fry ups.

All of it was worth it, a price she’d pay ten times over to have her future finally uncharted before her. A feeling she suspected was joy swelled in her chest. It expanded up into her throat and down into her belly, buoyant and heavy all at once.  

“Ha!” she exclaimed at the bright lilies growing at her feet. The true recipient of her smug exclamation too far away to hear it.

Thank fuck for that.

Her mother was on the other side of the Irish Sea, and that was still not far enough away.

Lillian Reid was probably in one of her cream pantsuits, pristine and uncrinkled, hair perfectly coifed in a severe bun and man-eater red lipstick touched up to perfection. None of those things made Lillian Reid a villain.

No, it was her actions that did that. Her appearance just happened to match.

Eleanor’s oldest memory swam into the forefront of her thoughts. She had been three, stuffed casually into a dog crate and left in the basement in the dark while her mother entertained upstairs. Once the cocaine had worn off, three days had passed and Eleanor needed to be rushed to hospital for severe dehydration. She had barely survived.

Marta, the cleaning lady, had found her and taken her to the local A&E. She was fired for her troubles and slapped with an NDA by Lillian’s lawyers. At least she hadn’t been rough housed into silence like Dorothy had been.

The matronly cook had tried to take Eleanor away, the bruises on her chubby toddler arms and legs causing the woman too much pain to ignore. Eleanor had spent less than 24 hours with protective services. Dorothy could barely walk when she left their Knightsbridge home. Her left leg had dragged uselessly across the marble hall as she limped out of their lives.

Suddenly Killmouth, with its little rocky beach and single main street, didn’t seem far enough away. The pokey little seaside town had seemed so safe when Eleanor had first driven through, exhausted and dirty from her desperate directionless drive. The only destination she’d had in mind was “away”. A hand-painted sign above the out of place hardware store had beckoned her.

“Room for Rent, cheap and clean”.

The O’Leary’s, a kind elderly couple, had taken a shine to her upon their meeting, even directing her to the Abacus Diner in St. John’s Bridge, a larger town up the coast.

A larger town that had a chain supermarket and a local school but definitely no bridge. They did have a dusty old video store though, that made Eleanor feel like a time traveller whenever she went in. Which was every one of the three Fridays she had spent there, an end of the week treat.  

Faye, the woman who owned the Abacus, had given her the same look Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary had. Pity mixed with a sort of approving respect that only women suspected of running away from their abusive husbands seemed to get.

Eleanor didn’t have a husband. She did have the bruised cheekbone back then though. One she certainly did not get from running into a door.

Whatever misconceptions the middle-aged woman had about Eleanor had worked in her favour. That afternoon had found her wiping down the wooden beads that ran over the dividers between each booth, the name sakes of the place. The promised pay enough that she wouldn’t have to be thrown out of her room when the pennies she’d saved over the past year inevitably ran out.

She was an independent woman. At twenty-three, she was only a few years late to this independence schtick. That filled her with pride.

Shaking off memories of her mother, she ran her fingers over the greenery around her. Lush and so alive. She strolled down the corridors the growth created, letting the colours and smells around her bring back the sense of freedom she had begun to cultivate. The air felt thick with humidity and she pulled it into her lungs, its layered scent bombarding her senses. The sound of the thunderstorm rolling over her made her feel even safer, ensconced away from the bruised sky and heavy rain.

Before long she found herself at the end of the glasshouse, the roof curving down into the earth, forming a semi-circular sunroom. Heavy peonies grew around a plain bench, their fresh scent a balm on the air. Her legs tired from her earlier shift and impromptu walk, she sat down to wait out the rain, her chin soon drifting slowly to meet her chest.

***

He still wasn’t used to the echo his steps made as he walked through the empty house. A snort escaped him at his word choice. This place resembled more of a hotel than a home, the comfortable word ridiculous when juxtaposed with his stately surroundings.

Dean still wasn’t used to the vastness of the dilapidated Burbell House. His mother and father had refused to move out of their sweet little home in Douglas, a choice he had understood, but he had been sick of being under their feet. No longer needed like he’d once been, he decided on moving halfway to Dublin when his great uncle Henry had carked it. It had seemed like a brilliant solution at the time.

He’d quit his bartending gig at the local pub, another in a string of dead-end jobs, sick of the same drunken bastards that swarmed there each night. The thought was that he’d renovate this shell of a manor with his savings and sell it on. Stop living without a future and maybe go back to university. Get a real job. It wasn’t too late.

He winced at the idea of restarting his degree, the thought of being in his late twenties surrounded by eighteen-year-old’s stinging like crazy.  

Pulling himself back to the task at hand, not one to get ahead of himself, he heaved the stinking curtains more securely into his arms. The lopsided front door creaked as he swung it open and the rental skip he had hired as soon as he’d arrived came into view.

Three days into his grand plan, the doubts had begun to surface. The roof leaked in the master bedroom, there were doves roosting in the attic and a swarm of ants had set up keep in the great kitchen. That wasn’t to mention the doors that stuck, swollen with water damage, the peeling wallpaper and the mouldering windowsills. Last night a tile in the shower had nearly conked him on the head.

This place was a death trap.

The glasshouse was it’s only saving grace. His doddering uncle had loved that place at the rest of his estate’s expense. Dean remembered hours spent there as a child, before life got in the way of their family visits and before aunt Pen had passed away.

Henry had never been the same after that, mom and dad finally stopping their visits when he had started to truly lose his mind. Their concern for their children’s wellbeing, his and his younger sister Lacey’s, overpowering their concern for Henry himself.

Twice his parents had bundled Lace and him up, unceremoniously dumping them with their grandparents whilst they set off to talk some sense into his aging uncle. Plans to sell up that old house and move him closer to the rest of their family had floated above his head at the dinner table the nights coming up to their departures, their voices too tense and rushed for his young ears to understand them fully. Both times his parents had returned frustrated, having been thrown out by the old man, who refused their help.

Over the years they’d learned to forget about the bitter bastard until a phone call had delivered the news. The estate had passed onto him, Dean, and him alone. He had been shocked, angry, but when he had seen the glasshouse upon his arrived it had made sense. Lacey had been uninterested, and Mom and Dad had stayed indoors enjoying the grand halls and whiskey.

It was Dean that would sneak out, find Aunt Pen, already old and frail, tending lovingly to her gardens. He remembered looking up once, hands deep in the moist dirt with the old woman’s instructions guiding him to do what she could not. His uncle stood there, watching them with the oddest mournful expression, not uttering a word before he abruptly turned away. Leaving them undisturbed.

That anger he had first felt at the outcome of the will had boiled through him, his sister passed over and his parents forgotten. It had settled when he had realised he could fix it, patching the house up and selling it on, splitting the money fairly. It was another part of the reason he’d packed up his things, tossed them in the back of his truck and travelled all this way. The main part, if he had to admit it to himself.  

But fuck, he had a long way to go.

The moulding curtains billowed through the air as he tossed them into the rental skip, the sound disturbing the evening quiet. The earlier rain had threatened to turn the huge metal container into a stinking swimming pool, the curtains hitting the water with a wet slap.

He wiped his hands on his dusty jeans and cross his arms over his chest, taking in the burning sunset from the front of Burbell. The light was thick in the air, fresh from the thunderstorm that had rolled through earlier. It burnished the lawn and glanced off the glasshouse, blinding him.

Without much thought he wandered forward over the lawn, the open air sweet in his lungs after the hours he had spent working in the looming house behind him. Three days it had taken him to patch up the major holes and to start clearing out the furniture and coverings that were only good for kindle. He felt grime all over his skin, his white t-shirt (a stupid choice) more a miserable sort of brown now that it was the end of the day. After the depressing state of the house, he just wanted to be surrounded by life. Life that wasn’t pests and vermin.

The humid warmth of the glasshouse enfolded him as he shut the door. He closed his eyes, shoulders relaxing at the exotic smells around him. Nostalgia for times that were easier, before life had taught him lessons, flowed through him. Lessons he hadn’t been ready to learn. That’s what this place held for him. Nostalgia.

The light turned from a burning gold to a sleepy navy as he wandered the aisles of ferns and shrubs and flowers. Everything around him a lazy blue rather than green.

He stopped in his tracks, nearly falling over a wayward root at the sight of the woman curled up on the sunroom bench. He froze, shock dousing him like burning fire. Scared to even breathe, he took her in.

You can keep reading The Girl in the Glasshouse here

Instagram   |    Website     |