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jezebelblues · 12 days ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐔 ‘𝟗𝟐 | 𝐇.𝐒 ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐮, ‘𝟗𝟐. (a summer love he’ll never get back).

𝐂𝐖: allusions to smut+18 (piv), sadrry :( exrry, angst, unedited, fem!reader, time jumps between 1992-2012

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 4.5k

❏ i need to take a break from angst fr i’ve been putting toooooo much of it out lately. this fun was to write tho. love doing lyric based things. anyway! thanks for reading :*

masterlist

sometimes the heat made every breath stale. you’d inhale, and the air would hit the back of your throat in a dry, sun-scorched blow—hot and sharp as a blade through your nose. it’d coat your tongue in something arid enough that the words couldn’t bear the weight of themselves anymore. they were caught there, chafing against the tip of your tongue, dragging to a sputtering death before they even touched your lips.

but the air was saccharine, cotton candy floating from pink clouds and lingering in the breeze. every now and then, the waves would lap gently enough that it sounded like a lullaby—the sand just warm silk between toes, soft enough to fool you into thinking the world could be kind.

harry didn’t know YN, not at all. not before that summer.

the summer she fled from the midwest like it might collapse behind her, leaving only dust and cornfields and parents who thought love was autocratic.

the same summer harry visited the states for the first time, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, still trying to find himself in a world that felt too vast.

a summer, that’s it—fleeting, but heavy enough to settle against your sternum until your chest caved in. like the season tried to resuscitate that feeling over and over again until ribs would splinter under the pressure.

now it just left a hollow.

the airport was no less stale than the air outside—now just bathed in white fluorescents, cold and sterile like a morgue, buzzing flies and all.

he kissed her anyway, and she swore it wasn’t goodbye, but harry knew better. he could taste the finality on her lips—something unresolved laced with something copper, sanguine, tragic. maybe she bit her tongue to keep things together, or maybe she bit it back to prevent the three words they should’ve said to each other but didn’t.

he still remembers the tang of it; still wonders if she bled for him that day.

she didn't have the money to stick around, not for long, anyway. her whole life packed into a bag, she tore through the season like a comet. motel rooms when they could scrape together the cash, but mostly they lived out of harry's borrowed car.

a piece of shit, really. the kind of car that rattled when it hit fifty and burned your thighs on the vinyl seats. but to her, it was perfect. she loved it most at night. they’d park somewhere desolate on the shore, right in the sand—the waves crashing in whispers, the windows fogging up just enough to bare evidence to the way she’d ride him in the backseat, claiming the length between his thighs as her own.

he didn’t have as much tattoos then as he had now, but his favorites weren’t inked—they were the ones she left herself—bruises kissed into his neck, dark as midnight, tender as promises.

and the motel 6 that was on the corner of palm canyon and serra bore the imprint of their young, naive vows—right in the pavement.

the sky was painted lavender and steel blue that night, bathing them indigo underneath the cool, flickering light of the motel sign.

harry remembers her laugh—airy and light, like it came easier than breathing. she pulled him under yellow caution tape toward the fresh concrete.

“isn’t this bad for our skin?” harry muttered, glancing over his shoulders warily as the two of them kneeled down. “‘nd what if we’re caught?”

she laughed, the sky and the sign and the silver glow of the rising moon coloring her in like art. “don’t be a wimp, h.”her smile broke him, it really did. her shoulder brushed his as she pressed her hand flat into the wet cement.

the concrete was cold to the touch, thick and dense like dead flesh as she held her hand flush against it.

he followed, YN’s kiss on his shoulder pushing him forward. his handprint was so much larger than hers, like they weren't even made for the same world.

he had tried to wipe his soiled palm against the dew of the grass as YN wrote their initials underneath the imprints of their hands with her index finger, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide.

“there.” she murmured, leaning her cheek against harry bicep. “now it’s forever.”

he believed her then. he believed it in the way you believe the sun will rise, like the natural rhythm of breath—like it was written in stone.

but now at the age of thirty-nine, he knew better—knew how cement dried, how it cracked, how time eroded things. perhaps he should’ve known it was a bad omen the way it was solidified in cold petrichor, left to dry and harden just as they did.

as the years wore on, harry would come back once every blue moon, if he had the expense for it. the quiet part of the beach where they'd park his car wasn't so quiet anymore. it basked in fairy lights and neon glow, in the bustle of seaside shops; the sand stamped with footsteps of tourists that came and went.

sometimes, when he got drunk enough, he'd try to walk the path back to where they stayed. but the tire tracks in the sand were long gone, and the waves crashed farther up the shoreline than they did twenty years ago.

he could remember the way she'd slip out of the car, the door creaking faintly as it swung open, and how the dim light from the moon framed her face. her hair was a mess of salt and wind, strands clinging to the curve of her jaw and the hollow of her throat, and his sweater hung off her like it was never meant to belong to anyone else. it was too big, swallowing her, the sleeves pushed to her elbows. his name clung to her, silently.

she turned back to him, holding the door open, bending at the waist slightly as she leaned in. she tipped her head, her eyes catching the light just enough to glitter as she threw him a look—all flushed cheeks and teasing lips. “c'mon, lover." her voice was a breath. an invitation, an inevitability.

and harry didn’t hesitate. he never did, not with her.

he slid across the cracked leather seats in the back, his shoulder brushing against her arm as he dipped out, the soft brush of fabric on skin setting something electric humming in his veins. he slammed the door behind him, the sound loud against the hush of the waves.

he remembers the way the way her giggles bubbled, how the backs of her thighs felt pliant in his hands as he lifted her like she weighed nothing—like the earth itself would let him defy gravity for her—setting her atop the hood dusted with grains of sand blown awry from the wind, clinging right to her skin.

her fingers were in his hair before he even kissed her, tugging gently, threading through the curls like she was mapping him out. when his lips found hers, she tasted like summer—like sun-warmed strawberries and sugar and something he couldn't name but would chase for years. he nipped at her bottom lip, teeth pulling it back enough to meet her gaze—just to find her looking at him like he was the only thing real in the universe, like he’d been carved from air and fire and the aching edges some long-forgotten dream.

she’d wrap her legs around his waist, his chest bare and his shorts still damp from the ocean during sunset.

her fingers tightened, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp as she tipped his head back to reveal the curve of his neck, the column of his throat.

and she had pressed her lips there, a searing kiss where his throat dipped, where his pulse beat unsteady beneath his skin. her lips were softer than they should've been, her teeth sharper than he expected as she left the marks he loved so much.

he remembered the way his laughter cracked as her teeth grazed the curve of his shoulder, his hands tracing up her thighs, his dimples cutting deep. “people are gonna think m’yours if you keep leaving ‘em.” he smirked, tilting his head back down as she ran her hands down his chest, glancing up at him.

“aren’t you?”

“am i?”

she nodded, tracing the lines of the butterfly on his tummy, the wings fluttering with every breath. “until you aren’t.”

her words had knocked a breath from his chest. they weren't cruel—she wasn't cruel—but there was something devastating in the simplicity of them, the way they slipped so easily from her mouth. like she'd already made peace with whatever came next.

he narrowed his eyes down at her, watching her intently as her gaze remained distant, fingers gliding along edges and lines of his muscles he didn’t know existed until she found them.

the three words sat right on his tongue that night—sour, heavy, unspoken.

after a beat, she stilled her tracings, looking back up at him with her eyes so full of something he couldn’t quite name yet. she had pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him gently, only knocking him off balance enough to rock on his heels while she let out a breathy chuckle. “you’re overthinking it.”

he parted his lips to speak, but YN was already sliding off the hood of the car, brushing past him with a faint pat to his bum, her smile almost too small to catch.

she had lifted his sweater over her head, revealing her bare chest, her nipples tightening in the breeze, arms stretching upwards before she let it fall into the sand.

next was the bikini bottoms she had been wearing since their swim, sliding down her thighs so easily he wished he had done it himself.

she walked in reverse, shooting him a teasing look before she spun on her heel, jogging toward the water that reflected the moon and stars above, twinkling in the blue.

“move it, styles!” she shouted, dipping her head beneath the surface, her hair slicking back once she rose again. “we’ve got another thing to cross off the bucket-list!”

and again, harry hadn’t hesitated.

the motel 6 wasn’t there anymore either. it was demolished in 2007. serra retreat, it was called—an overly expensive peaceful reprieve for the rich, flanked by huge mansions that sat perched in the rolling hills, overlooking the water.

but harry and YN still existed there, only there, right in the worn, cracked pavement.

and in a way, the corner of palm canyon and serra road would always be theirs—a testament, a vow, a grave.

the weeks after she left he went back home to cheshire, a shell of the young man he was before he left. he came back a heartbroken, blubbering mess that cried for his mom.

he remembers it vividly, because then, it was the first time he sobbed into his mother’s shoulder for comfort since childhood.

and anne would try to remedy his pain, she really would. she’d wipe his tears and make him tea, listen to the stories he’d whisper if he felt up to it—memories spilling out of him in fits and starts, mumbled right into his bent knees.

for a while, he’d save up money from the small checks he’d earn at the bakery to buy calling cards. at first, he’d get at least four a month—one international call each week. she answered occasionally, maybe once or twice.

but he did it again, and again and again—whether it was her that answered or the sound of her pretty voice layered over static in the background.

hey, it’s YN! reached the right person at the wrong time—you know what to do after the beep. later!

and as the time stretched enough to let silence sit between the spaces, he’d walk over to the community library with an obstinacy soaked in hope—saturated so heavily that it would weigh down on him like the threat of an executioners blade.

he didn’t go there to study, or to read, or to pray in the small chapel nestled into the basement of the building, the exact room his grandmom had told him about after seeing only tired, distant eyes since he had come home.

“he’ll listen, sweetheart. he’ll take your sadness bit by bit and offer you solace in place of it.” she promised, (although she didn’t really have the authority to) her voice weathered with age, concern woven between each syllable.

but harry would press his lips into a tight line as he nodded politely, tuning her out after that.

he’d wear the (something he felt was no longer his) silver cross pendant against his chest every day as if it was attached to him. but, at that point, he wondered if it was just a force of habit rather than a symbol of faith.

because the less she answered, the more hopeless he felt—and the silence began to wrap around him like a noose waiting for the ground to give out.

instead, he’d go straight for the row of clunky white computers that whirred so loudly it ought of been told to hush by the librarian. his leg would bounce while it would dial up, his hands clammy as he typed in search of what he came there for—what’s the time difference between cheshire and ohio?

he had taken out his little notepad that was tucked into his back pocket, writing the answer down in the spotty blue ink just so he could do the mental math for every time he called.

and, eventually, (even after he took the time to consider time differences) it dwindled down to only buying one calling card for the month—because her answers were just becoming more and more scarce.

for a while, he’d call on the third of each month like clockwork (it was her favorite number—three). so much so, that during that summer, after one too many cheap beers they bribed the clerk to let them buy, him and YN got matching tattoos. she had gotten a small three on her left wrist, right along the curve of the bone; while harry got a small little shamrock in the very same spot—her number, his luck.

“in concrete and skin.” she smiled, the two of them walking out of the small parlor, leaning into his chest as she laughed.

“careful,” he smirked, nudging his hip against hers as they continued down the jagged sidewalk. “sounds like you’re making a vow there, angel.”

“isn’t it?”

he’d sit down atop the kitchen counter, his feet dangling as he pressed the landline to his ear. it would ring, the trilling brrrttt a taunt that sounded awfully similar to the whispers that’d pick and pry at his brain—you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame, you’re part to blame.

that’s what he thought, at least. maybe if he had just said i love you at the airport they wouldn’t be separated by an ocean, both the atlantic and a sea of regret.

the sound of her voicemail only answered again.

nearly twenty years later in july, (three weeks ago) he found himself in malibu again. it was like an attachment he couldn’t let go of, an addiction that wouldn’t set him free.

he held onto this unrealistic idea that he’d see her again—kneeling into their handprints, retracing old memories marked into the ground, as if it’d bring them to life again—just as he was.

harry knew it was delusional.

he visited the pavement every time he came, grass and weeds starting to sprout through the cracks in their initials—but it was still there.

he’d visit it like one visits a headstone, mourning what once was.

when he was back in london, in his own house now, he did something stupid. he did something impulsive, he did something he wish he had never done in the first place—he’d call her again.

it had been over ten years since he gave up calling YN. what the hell was he expecting? for her to pick up? for the number to even still be hers? he didn't know why he was doing it. maybe it was the date he'd just come back from—nice enough, but nice was the kind of word people used when there was nothing else to say.

she wasn't her, and it was starting to feel as if nothing would ever compare to the way he felt at nineteen.

he cracked open another beer, the neck of the bottle slick in his palm. he held it too tightly, his knuckles turning white as he stared at his phone. his heart slammed hard enough in his chest to make him dizzy as he dialed the number ingrained in his memory.

this was stupid—pathetic, mostly. and deep down, he hated himself for it. twenty years of heartbreak over a fucking summer, over a girl he had known for basically only four months.

he took another sip.

but it’s ringing, the trill looping and looping—meaning the number was still connected. it wasn’t empty, he wasn’t calling into the void. so, despite himself, he didn’t hang up.

he’d be calling a stranger either way he cut it: either someone he had never known answering, or the older version of a girl he had fell in love with two decades ago. stupid. pathetic. pathetic—

“hello?”

his beer slipped, the bottle thunking hard against the counter. he barely caught it in time, his grip unsteady as the voice on the other end sent a jolt through him.

his lips parted as his jaw went slack, the words caught somewhere at the top of his throat. his hand shook, his thoughts racing. she didn’t sound all that different, older, yeah, but still her.

she said it again, a little sharper this time, like she might hang up if he didn't respond. "..hellooo?"

his stomach churned and his breath wavered as he forced her name out, “Y–YN?”

there was a pause on the other line, faint shifting and rustling in the background like she was leaning into the phone. “yes, who is this?”

he could barely get his own name out. “harry.”

silence.

it stretched thin and tight, his pulse pounding in his ears. he swore he heard her suck in a breath, heard her lips part.

there was a breathy stutter, as if she was fighting the words she didn’t quite know how to articulate. “how–how are you?”

and all he could do was stand there, clutching a half-empty beer and shaking like a kid, because for the first time in twenty years, he heard her voice and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

but, he exhaled a laugh, though it came out more like a nervous puff of air, and scrubbed his hand over his face. god, how would you even begin to answer that after twenty years? "uh, i'm–m’good. yeah, good." he lied.

the bottle in his hand felt suddenly too heavy, so he set it down, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter instead. "and you? how've y’been?"

"i'm... alright," she said, though there was a hesitation, a weight to the word that made him suspect otherwise. her voice had softened in that way people's voices do when they're not quite sure how much to say.

the line hummed with static as he searched for something—anything—to say that wouldn't sound absurd. twenty years had passed. two decades. and all he had was how've you been? pathetic.

"you still in ohio?" he asked finally, hating how desperate he sounded to know something, anything about her life now.

"no." she replied quietly, and he could almost hear the faint shake of her head in her tone. "no, i moved. i'm in jersey now.”

the word hit him like a quiet ache. not malibu. not where it all began, not even back home in ohio, the whole reason she left in the first place. "right." he murmured, running his thumb over the edge of his counter. "makes sense. sounds...jerseys nice."

a faint laugh filtered through the line, and he almost forgot how much he'd missed the sound of it. "yeah, it is. what about you? uk still?"

"yeah, london now. still-still england." he struggled, tripping over his own tongue like a schoolboy.

"good." she sighed softly, but it hung there like an echo, as though she didn't quite know what else to add.

silence stretched out between them, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with all the words they weren't saying.

finally, she broke it, her voice lighter, almost cautious. "harry... why'd you call?"

his heart thudded, the question slamming into him with the weight of every regret he'd carried since the day she left. why did he call? he didn't have an answer that didn't sound like an excuse or a confession. "i... i dunno." he mumbled honestly, and his voice cracked just enough to betray him. "i just... i wanted t’hear your voice, i guess."

another pause. he could hear her breathing on the other end, steady but shallow, like she was processing something she didn't know how to hold.

"it's been such a long time.” her words were as much a statement as they were a question.

"mm-hmm.” he hummed quietly. "too long."

and there it was again—that silence, louder now, the weight of two decades pressing against them. his grip on the phone tightened.

"you didn't have to wait this long, you know—to call, i mean." she murmured, almost like an afterthought.

his stomach twisted, guilt tinged with frustration unfurling like a vine through his chest. "you stopped answering.”

her breath hitched faintly, and for a moment he thought she might hang up. but instead, her voice returned, quieter, more guarded. "yeah. i–i guess i did."

he swallowed thickly, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something too fragile to hold. "do you regret it?"

she didn't answer right away, and when she finally did, her voice was heavy with something he couldn't quite place. "do you?"

his throat tightened. he could lie—should lie—but he couldn't bring himself to. "every day."

another breath of silence, and then, "me too."

for a moment, harry could feel the years peeling away, leaving them bare again, like they'd been when they were young. when it was simple. when it was summer.

but it wasn't. it wasn’t 1992. they weren’t teenagers anymore, and they definitely weren’t in california.

"it's funny," she breathed after a while, her voice a bit steadier now, though there was something in it— some hint of resignation—that made his chest tighten. "i hadn't thought about malibu in... i don't even know how long. and then you call, and it's like i'm eighteen again."

he closed his eyes. eighteen. nineteen. it cut deep. "i've never stopped thinking about it, YN." he admitted delicately, his voice low, rough. "about you."

her breath caught, barely audible, but he heard it.

"harry." she sighed, a warning in the way she said his name, like she was afraid of where this might go.

"do you remember?" he pressed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "the beach? our bucket-list? our promises? us? how we said—how we said we'd never forget it?"

she was quiet for a long time, long enough that he thought maybe he'd gone too far. "of course i remember. how could i forget?”

and for a second, it felt like he could breathe again. like the two decades of distance between them weren't so insurmountable after all.

but then her tone shifted, growing firmer, almost bittersweet. "harry, we can't go back. you know that, right?"

his chest ached. "why not?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked.

"because it's been twenty years.” she lamented, and there was something final in the way she said it, like she'd been rehearsing this conversation in her head for years. "because we're not the same people we were back then."

"so what?" he rushed, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. "so what if it's been twenty years? so what if we've changed? does that mean it didn't matter? that it wasn't real?"

"it was real, harry.”she countered, and he could hear the emotion building in her voice now, raw and unsteady. "it was the realest thing i've ever had. but that doesn't mean we can just pick up where we left off."

"why not?" he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "why can't we try?" he felt pathetic.

"because," YN insisted, then there was a pause, and he could hear her struggling to find the words. "because i'm not yours anymore, harry. i haven't been for a long time."

his heart dropped, the weight of her words crashing into him like a tidal wave—no, worse than that. "what do you mean?"

there was a long, shaky exhale on the other end of the line. "i'm married.”

he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“i have a husband. a life. a... a house here in jersey."

he froze, his hand tightening around the phone. "a husband.” he repeated numbly, the word foreign and strange on his tongue. "you're... you're married?"

"yes.” she frowned, and he could hear the apology in her voice, even though she hadn't said the words. "i didn't think you’d ever find out—or need to.”

his head spun, lips threatening to tremble. "does he make you happy?" he asked after a moment, his voice shaky and quiet, almost a whisper.

there was a pause, “yes.” and it sounded like the truth, but it also sounded like something she was still trying to convince herself of.

he nodded to himself, even though she couldn't see it. "good..” he trailed off, his voice hoarse. "that's—um. that’s good."

"harry..." she started, but he cut her off.

"no, s’okay.” he croaked, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "i mean, of course. what did i expect, right? twenty years is a long time."

"it is…" she said quietly, and he could hear the pain in her voice, like she hated this as much as he did.

"you've got everything now, huh?" his voice trembled, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "money, a nice house. someone who probably doesn't spend two decades thinking about a summer that's long gone."

"harry, that's not—“ she paused, clenching her jaw. “that’s not fair.” her voice was a bit sharper now, but he just shook his head, his eyes glassing over.

"no, you're right," he said flatly, "s’not fair. none of this is fair."

silence fell again, heavy and suffocating, and he closed his eyes, letting the weight of it all settle over him.

he thought he heard a sniffle on the other line before it crackled. "i…should go, harry. m’sorry, i can’t.”

"yeah," his tone was short, his throat tight. "yeah, you should."

"take care of yourself, harry.” YN murmured, and then the line went dead.

he stood there for a long time, the silence of his empty house pressing in around him. twenty years, and all he had left was the ghost of a memory, the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in two decades, a stupid fucking vow sealed into the earth half way across the world like a taunt.

in twenty years she had forgotten malibu—but harry hasn’t left since.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles angst #exrry #sadrry #harry styles x you #Spotify

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

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Ian McDonald's "The Wilding"

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Ian McDonald is one of those absurdly brilliant novelists that just leave me wondering the actual fuck he manages it. How does he cover so much ground, think up so many compelling characters, find so many gracenotes, conjure up so many complicated emotions?

McDonald burst on the scene in the late 1980s, with the 1988 novel Desolation Road and then his 1989 Out On Blue Six, a slick, stylized cyberpunk-meets-Orwell tale that overflowed with beautiful prose, technomysticism, and sly jokes that hid sneaky truths that hid even more sly jokes:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/01/20/out-on-blue-six-ian-mcdonalds-brilliant-novel-is-back/

By my count, McDonald has now published twenty books – mostly novels, but a couple short story collections (and the most amazingly demented, Tom-Waits-inflected teddybear murder comic imaginable, 1994's Kling Klang Klatch):

https://irishcomics.fandom.com/wiki/Kling_Klang_Klatch

McDonald's work is truly globespanning. While he's made his mark on the Martian soil, and overtaken the moon with the Luna trilogy (his definitive rebuttal to Heinlein's Moon Is a Harsh Mistress) he is widely adored and much-awarded for the glittering, futuristic versions of Brazil (Brasyl), Tanzania (the Chaga series), and India (River of Gods).

Indeed, McDonald's imagination has roamed so far over the Earth and the solar system that it's possible to overlook his fantastic reimaginings of Ireland, the land where he was raised. There's his Philip K Dick Award-winning 1991 novel King of Morning, Queen of Day, a swirling, mythopoeic novel of Celtic mysticism:

https://www.baen.com/king-of-morning-queen-of-day.html

And then there's 1992's Hearts, Hands and Voices, which is lowkey one of the best novels I have ever, ever read – a scorching science fictional allegory for The Troubles, but with the gnarliest biotech weirdness you can possibly imagine:

https://archive.org/details/heartshandsvoice0000ianm/mode/2up

McDonald's books cover so much goddamned ground, but one feature they all share is a prose styling wherein every sentence is at least 20% poetry, a fraction that somehow, impossibly, rises to as much as 150% in certain especially shiny passages.

Like this passage, which opens The Wilding, McDonald's new horror novel that marks his first return to Ireland since 1992:

Autumn lay on the great bog in silvers and tans, late purples and duns.

The sun rose above the tall ash saplings and feral sycamore. It called the birds into full voice. Stabbing shrills, tumbles of notes, the flutes of dove-call, frantic ticking hisses, song upon song. In hedgerows and copses, among the pale foliage of the birches, in the weave of deep willow and the bramble fastnesses, each bird called and was heard. In this season the peatland held the day's warmth through the night and on the bright, clear mornings rivers of mist formed, filling the subtle hollow places in the exposed cuttings, the bogs and fields. High sun would dispel it but at this hour half of Lough Carrow lay mist-bound. Each blade of grass hung heavy with dew, the clumps of sedges were already browning, the bracken curling and crisping.

A pair of horns lifted above the willow scrub and out-grown ash hedges of the Wilding. Polished tips caught the low sun and kindled as bright and keen as spears.

https://www.gollancz.co.uk/titles/ian-mcdonald/the-wilding/9781399611503/

Oof.

I would drop everything to read Ian McDonald's grocery lists but after that opening, I wasn't going to put this one down, and I didn't, reading the whole thing on yesterday's flight home from my gigs in Atlanta this week.

The Wilding is (I'm pretty sure?) McDonald's first horror novel, and it's fucking terrifying. It's set in a rural Irish peat bog that has been acquired by a conservation authority that is rewilding it after a century of industrial peat mining that stripped it back nearly to the bedrock. This rewilding process has been greatly accelerated by the covid lockdowns, which reduced the human footprint in the conservation area to nearly zero.

The story's protagonist is Lisa, a hard-case Dubliner who came to the bog to do community service after a career as a crime syndicate driver for hire, a woman who never met a car she couldn't boost and pilot in or out of any tight situation. After years in the bog, she's ready to start a new life, studying Yeats at university, indulging a late-discovered love of poetry that has as much to do with her redemption as her years in the wild.

Lisa's last duty before she leaves the bog and goes home to Dublin is leading a school group on a wild campout in one of the bog's deep clearings. It's a routine assignment, and while it's not her favorite duty, it's also not a serious hardship.

But as the group hikes out to the campsite, one of her fellow guides is killed, without warning, by a mysterious beast that moves so quickly they can barely make out its monstrous form. Thus begins a tense, mysterious, spooky as hell story of survival in a haunted woods, written in the kind of poesy that has defined McDonald's career, and which – when deployed in service of terror – has the power to raise literal goosebumps.

There's a lot of fantasy that deals with Celtic mythology, including McDonald's own King of Morning, Queen of Day, but the vibe of that stuff tends to the heroic and romantic – sure, there's the odd banshee, but in the main, it's mischievous wee people, pookas, and leprechauns. More fey than fear.

But Irish mythology in its raw form is terrifying. The monsters of Irish storytelling are grotesque, mean, remorseless, and come in every shape and size. Some authors have done well by going back to the bestiary for the deep cuts. When I was a kid, I must have read John Coyne's Hobgoblin fifty times (mostly because it was about D&D, which I was obsessed with). I haven't read this one since I was about 12, and I have no idea if it'd hold up today, but it left me with a deep appreciation of the spooky multifariousness of monsters who dwell in Ireland's bogs:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hobgoblin_(novel)

The Wilding is a suspense novel, which means there's no way to really sum up the plot without spoiling a lot of the affect, but suffice to say that McDonald brings large swathes of deep Irish lore to the surface, and it had me reading as fast as I could and wanting to put the book down and hide.

What a writer McDonald is! The fact that this is the same guy who wrote last year's stunning secret-history/solarpunk/uncategorizable wonder that was Hopeland beggars belief:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/30/electromancy/#the-grace

Read you some Ian McDonald novels, is what I'm trying to say. This one is only available in the UK, if that's not where you are, consider mail-ordering it. Looks like they've got stock at Forbidden Planet for £19 plus £18 shipping to the US. Worth every penny:

https://forbiddenplanet.com/424306-the-wilding-hardcover/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/25/bogman/#erin-go-aaaaaaargh

#pluralistic #books #horror #science fiction #ireland #fantasy #gift guide #reviews #climate #rewilding

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fursasaida · 1 year ago

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Tumblr won't turn the URL into a link card for whatever reason, so, here's a Washington Post article about Israel using white phosphorus in Lebanon. Some key points here, full text under the cut:

White phosphorus is technically legal when used to obscure military activities and at a distance from civilians. In this case it was directly targeted at homes in Dheira, a village near the Lebanese border with Israel. 4 homes were incinerated and 9 people injured in this particular attack on 10/16. Residents have been displaced.

Amnesty International has called for this to be treated as a war crime.

The white phosphorus munitions are US-made according to unnamed weapons experts, Amnesty International, and the Post itself. They appear to have been manufactured in 1989 and 1992. The Biden administration claims not to have included white phosphorus in arms transfers to Israel since 10/7.

The IDF claims these were used to create obscuring smoke and not to target civilians; they possess safer munitions that would do the same thing without contaminating bodies, soil, and buildings, but did not use those.

A part that deserves highlighting in full: "Israeli forces continued to shell the town with white phosphorus munitions for hours, residents said, trapping them in their homes until they could escape around 7 a.m. the next morning. Residents now refer to the attack as the 'black night.' Most fled the town when the shelling stopped, returning during a week-long pause in fighting and leaving again when it resumed. Uday Abu Sari, a 29-year-old farmer, said in an interview that he was trapped in his home for five hours during the shelling and was unable to breathe because of the smoke. He suffered respiratory problems for days after the attack. 'Emergency services told us to put something that was soaked in water on our faces, which helped a bit. I couldn’t see my finger in front of my face,' he said. 'The whole village became white.'"

"White phosphorus fell onto several homes and ignited fires, incinerating furniture and stripping appliances to scorched metal. Remnants of the sticky, black chemical littered the ground 40 days after the attack and combusted when residents kicked at it."

US officials, as usual, expressed "concern" and an intention to "learn more," which of course means nothing.

As a reminder, this is not a unique attack on Lebanese soil since the slaughter started. "Israel has used the munition more than 60 times in Lebanon’s border areas in the past two months, according to data collected by ACLED, a group that monitors war zones. Lebanese Prime Minister Najib Mikati said on Dec. 2 that Israel’s use of the munition has 'killed civilians and produced irreversible damage to more than 5 million square meters of forests and farmland, in addition to damaging thousands of olive trees.'"

By William Christou, Alex Horton and Meg Kelly

Updated December 11, 2023 at 3:48 p.m. EST | Published December 11, 2023 at 6:00 a.m. EST

DHEIRA, Lebanon — Israel used U.S.-supplied white phosphorus munitions in an October attack in southern Lebanon that injured at least nine civilians in what a rights group says should be investigated as a war crime, according to a Washington Post analysis of shell fragments found in a small village.

A journalist working for The Post found remnants of three 155-millimeter artillery rounds fired into Dheira, near the border of Israel, which incinerated at least four homes, residents said. The rounds, which eject felt wedges saturated with white phosphorous that burns at high temperatures, produce billowing smoke to obscure troop movements as it falls haphazardly over a wide area. Its contents can stick to skin, causing potentially fatal burns and respiratory damage, and its use near civilian areas could be prohibited under international humanitarian law.

Of the nine injured in Israel’s attack on Dheira, at least three were hospitalized, one for days.

Lot production codes found on the shells match the nomenclature used by the U.S. military to categorize domestically produced munitions, which show they were made by ammunition depots in Louisiana and Arkansas in 1989 and 1992. The light green color and other markings — like “WP” printed on one of the remnants — are consistent with white phosphorous rounds, according to arms experts.

The M825 smoke rounds, fired from 155mm howitzers, have legitimate use on the battlefield, including signaling friendly troops, marking targets and producing white smoke that conceals soldiers from the eyes of enemy forces. The rounds are not intended for use as incendiary weapons.

The weapons are part of billions of dollars in U.S. military arms that flow to Israel every year, which has fueled Israel’s war on Hamas in the Gaza Strip, launched after the militants attacked on Oct. 7. At least 17,700 people, many of them civilians, have been killed since the Israeli operation began, according to the Gaza Health Ministry.

Following publication of this story, National Security Council spokesman John Kirby said Monday the administration is “concerned” about the use of white phosphorous munitions and that they would be “asking questions to try to learn a bit more.”

Tensions along Lebanon’s southern border between Israeli forces and Hezbollah, the Iranian-backed militia, have boiled over from a simmer to near-daily exchanges of fire in the weeks since Oct. 7.

Dheira, a town of 2,000, has become a focal point for fighting. Just across the border from an Israeli radar tower, it has been used as a staging ground for Hezbollah’s attacks against Israel. At least 94 people have been killed on the Lebanese side of the border since tensions escalated, according to data released on Dec. 5 by the Health Ministry — 82 have been militants, according to Hezbollah. In addition, at least 11 Israelis have been killed, most of them soldiers.

Photos and videos verified by Amnesty International and reviewed by The Post show the characteristic ribbons of white phosphorus smoke falling over Dheira on Oct. 16.

Israeli forces continued to shell the town with white phosphorus munitions for hours, residents said, trapping them in their homes until they could escape around 7 a.m. the next morning. Residents now refer to the attack as the “black night.”

Most fled the town when the shelling stopped, returning during a week-long pause in fighting and leaving again when it resumed.

Uday Abu Sari, a 29-year-old farmer, said in an interview that he was trapped in his home for five hours during the shelling and was unable to breathe because of the smoke. He suffered respiratory problems for days after the attack.

“Emergency services told us to put something that was soaked in water on our faces, which helped a bit. I couldn’t see my finger in front of my face,” he said. “The whole village became white.”

White phosphorus ignites when in contact with oxygen and burns at temperatures up to 1,500 degrees, which can cause severe injuries. The chemicals left in the body can damage to internal organs, sometimes fatally, according to a Human Rights Watch report.

It is unclear why the Israeli military fired the rounds into the evening, as smoke would have little practical use at night and there were no Israeli troops on the Lebanese side of the border to mask with smokescreens. Residents speculated that the phosphorus was meant to displace them from the village and to clear the way for future Israeli military activity in the area.

In a statement, the Israel Defense Forces wrote that white phosphorous shells launched by Israel are used to create smokescreens, not for targeting or causing fires. It said its use of the weapon “complies and goes beyond the requirements of international law.”

Israeli forces possess safer alternatives, such as M150 artillery rounds, which produce screening smoke without the use of white phosphorous.

The U.S. origin of the shells was verified by Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International. The same manufacturing codes also appear on white phosphorus shells lined up next to Israeli artillery by the city of Sderot, near the Gaza Strip, in an Oct. 9 photo.

The United States is under an obligation to track the behavior of its partners and allies who receive its assistance in order to comply with U.S. law, humanitarian law experts said. The use of white phosphorus smoke is permitted if used for legitimate military operations, but like other weapons, its misuse can violate laws of armed conflict. Rights groups have warned its use should be restricted around civilians because fire and smoke can be spread to populated areas.

“The fact that U.S.-produced white phosphorus is being used by Israel in south Lebanon should be of great concern to U.S. officials,” Tirana Hassan, the executive director of Human Rights Watch, wrote in an email. “[Congress] should take reports of Israel’s use of white phosphorus seriously enough to reassess U.S. military aid to Israel.”

The United States is not conducting real-time assessments of Israel’s adherence to the laws of war, Biden administration officials said.

“Anytime that we provide items like white phosphorous to another military, it is with a full expectation that it’ll be used in keeping with...legitimate purposes and in keeping with the law of armed conflict,” Kirby said.

It is unclear when the United States delivered the munitions to Israel. The U.S. has not provided white phosphorous munitions to Israel since the Oct. 7 Hamas attack, Pentagon spokesman Maj. Gen. Pat Ryder told reporters Monday.

“When it comes to our relationship with Israel, we’ll continue to communicate to them the importance of mitigating civilian harm,” Ryder said, adding that the department could not yet verify the weapons were from U.S. stocks.

White phosphorus fell onto several homes and ignited fires, incinerating furniture and stripping appliances to scorched metal. Remnants of the sticky, black chemical littered the ground 40 days after the attack and combusted when residents kicked at it.

In 2009, Human Rights Watch documented Israel’s use of U.S.-made white phosphorus munitions in violation of international law in its 22-day offensive in Gaza. At least one of the shells found by The Post in Dheira was from the same batch of white phosphorus used by Israel in 2009, according to lot production codes.

In 2013, the Israeli military pledged to stop using white phosphorus on the battlefield, saying it would transition to gas-based smoke shells.

Israel has used the munition more than 60 times in Lebanon’s border areas in the past two months, according to data collected by ACLED, a group that monitors war zones. Lebanese Prime Minister Najib Mikati said on Dec. 2 that Israel’s use of the munition has “killed civilians and produced irreversible damage to more than 5 million square meters of forests and farmland, in addition to damaging thousands of olive trees.”

Tyler Pager aboard Air Force One, Missy Ryan in Washington and Mohamad El Chamaa in Beirut contributed to this report.

#israel #lebanon #white phosphorus #contamination

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mydaddywiki · 1 year ago

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Bobby Bowden

Physique: Average Build Height: 5'9"

Robert Cleckler Bowden (November 8, 1929 – August 8, 2021) was an American college football coach. Bowden coached the Florida State Seminoles of Florida State University (FSU) from 1976 to 2009 and is considered one of the greatest college football coaches of all time for his accomplishments with the Seminoles. Bowden was first among active coaches for winning percentage in bowl games at the time of his retirement, and is currently second for all-time bowl wins and second for bowl appearances.

The beloved Hall of Fame coach led FSU to an National Title in 1993 and a BCS National Championship in 1999, as well as 12 ACC championships. But fuck that shit! He was sexy southern guy who is just adorable at any time in his coaching career that got me giddy. Giddy? Yeah I said giddy.

The beloved, folksy Hall of Fame coach led FSU to an National Title in 1993 and a BCS National Championship in 1999, as well as 12 ACC championships. But fuck that shit! He was sexy southern guy who is just adorable at any time in his coaching career that got me giddy. Giddy? Yeah I said giddy. A devout Christian, Bowden didn’t smoke or drink, and “dadgummit” seemed the sharpest word in his vocabulary. Which some how makes him hotter to me.

Sadly, passed away Aug. 8, 2021 at the age of 91, after a battle with cancer. The Birmingham, AL native and his wife had six children, including two who became college football coaches, former Clemson coach Tommy Bowden and current University of Louisiana at Monroe coach Terry Bowden. I would probably toss a dick to all four of his sons, particularly Terry. Good genes I guess.

But back in the 90s, DAMN Bobby was scorching hot and I would have loved to make him cum. Accept his Christian faith wouldn't have allowed that. But I could dream.

Head Coaching Record Overall 377–129–4 Bowls 21–10–1

Accomplishments and Honors Championships 2 National (1993, 1999), 12 ACC (1992–2000, 2002–2003, 2005), 2 ACC Atlantic Division (2005, 2008)

Awards: Bobby Dodd COY (1980), Walter Camp Coach of the Year Award (1991), Amos Alonzo Stagg Award (2011)

College Football Hall of Fame Inducted in 2006 (profile)

#Bobby Bowden #mydaddywiki sports figures #football coach

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mysticstronomy · 1 year ago

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HOW DO ASTRONOMERS DETECT EXOPLANETS AND DETERMINE IF THEY COULD SUPPORT LIFE??

Blog#335

Wednesday, September 27th, 2023

Welcome back,

On March 21, NASA announced the confirmation of the 5,000th planet outside our Solar System. From scorching-hot gas giants nestled near their parent star to rocky worlds that may host water on their surface, there’s a variety for scientists to study.

But finding these strange new worlds is a science in itself.

We’ve only been able to definitively detect planets of any kind for a few decades, and even at that, there are challenges in detecting such a small object at that distance in even the most powerful telescopes.

Inverse spoke with Marie-Eve Naud, an exoplanet researcher and outreach coordinator for the University of Montreal’s Institute for Research on Exoplanets, to tell us more about how astronomers find these worlds and the considerations for each method.

While there are numerous methods, the ones cited below are the most common.

THE TRANSIT METHOD

Astronomers have discovered most exoplanets using the transit method, notably with NASA's Kepler telescope launched in 2009. This method observes planets as they pass in front of their stars, causing a slight dimming of starlight, which photometers can detect. This approach works best in space due to minimal atmospheric interference, favored by missions like ESA's Cheops and NASA's TESS.

To confirm exoplanets, multiple transits are necessary to rule out sunspots or dust as causes of light fluctuations. Typically, two or three transits are required to gather substantial data.

Once a planet is detected, astronomers can estimate its radius, while mass is often determined through the radial velocity method. The combination of mass and radius helps classify a planet as rocky or gaseous, impacting its potential habitability.

Factors like proximity to an active star and radiation levels also affect habitability assessments, as seen with TRAPPIST-1's uncertain habitability despite hosting seven Earth-sized planets in its habitable zone.

RADIAL-VELOCITY METHOD

The radial velocity method is commonly used to discover planets, particularly with instruments like HARPS at the European Southern Observatory’s La Silla 3.6m telescope in Chile.

Planets and stars both orbit around their center of mass. A star with a planet exhibits a slight motion. Multiple planets can lead to complex motions.

This method involves analyzing the star's spectrum. When the star approaches, its light shifts towards red due to compression. When it moves away, the light shifts towards blue.

The planet's motion slightly affects the star's spectrum, creating a "barcode" of the star.

The first detection of a planet around a Sun-like star using this method was in 1995 when Didier Queloz and Michel Mayor found 51 Pegasi b. Prior to that, in 1992, planets were detected around pulsar PSR B1257+12, using changes in the pulsar's radio signal. This showcases the diverse scientific approaches to discovering distant worlds.

Originally published on www.inverse.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, September 30th, 2023)

"WHAT IS THE BLOCK THEORY??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #universe #spacecraft #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography #dwarf planet #planets #come to the dark side #dark energy #cosmology #cosmos #big bang comics

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adore-laur · 1 year ago

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SUNSTRUCK

— a sensual addition to southpaw 🌞

——

TODOS SANTOS, 1992

Palms slick with saltwater spread atop the surfboard floating in Mexico's turquoise ocean, its waxed surface scorching to the touch as it sparkles underneath the smoldering sun. Heaving himself up with taut and tanned arms, Harry switches out the cool engulfment for a beating heat that strikes his skin just right. Droplets cascade down the toned muscles of his back. Freckles that have come out of hiding dot his face in scattered clusters. The ultraviolet rays of June naturally bleach his tufts of baby hair blond.

He's unequivocally thriving, surrounded by a yellow aura gleaming brilliantly in the daylight.

Lying on his stomach, he manually paddles over to where Sawyer is supine on her pink inflatable raft. With a caramel-colored complexion and slim, silky legs that shimmer from the start of a sun-drenched summer, she resembles a solstitial vision for the ages. She has never looked more relaxed in all the years he's known her. Her limbs, which soak up splashes of vitamin D, are loose and not tense from working stationary hours at her office desk. There's no wrinkled crease of frustration between her eyebrows that needs to be smoothed out, nor is there a troubled frown pulling at her lips that needs to be lifted. She's in her own bubble of iridescent ecstasy.

This hush-hush getaway has rejuvenated their souls. The lush ocean breeze and visually flamboyant architecture lured them like they were a message in a bottle destined for the shoreline. Harry finally has uninterrupted time to spend with Sawyer in private in a nestled town where no one knows his name. Domesticity has already begun blooming in the desert bungalow where they're staying. Whispered confessions of love and gratitude were spoken around the rims of coffee mugs. Waking up with her in his snuggly embrace is a luxury he's still getting used to. Kisses followed by wandering hands careen lazy mornings and sleepless nights. Their relationship is flourishing every day, and it feels like paradise.

As Sawyer tans like a sun goddess, Harry grows increasingly bored. The sluggish waves weren't nearly powerful enough to triumphantly catch, so he resorted to catching some rays instead. It didn't pan out too well because now his back is burning and his girlfriend isn't paying attention to him. It's a deadly combination he needs to fix immediately.

"Sawyer," he says, peskily flicking water at her. "There's a shark behind you."

Opening her pretty brown irises, shielded with cat-eye sunglasses, she flips him off and grouses, "You're not funny."

Harry smoothly straddles his surfboard and points past her. "I'm serious. Don't move, okay? I can see its fin circling."

It only takes a single second for her precious face to drop. She timidly shifts her sunglasses to the top of her head and stares at him in terror. "Is there really?" she whispers, as if the non-existent shark is eavesdropping on the two lovers. "What do we do, Harry? Oh no, what do we do?"

To not crack a mischievous grin severely tests his might. "I'll grab you and take you to land. Don't worry, baby."

"We can't!" she tells him urgently, her voice rising to a whisper-shout. Thankfully, she doesn't dare turn around to see if they're actually in grave danger. "It'll follow us if we move. We have to be smart about this."

Harry dramatically looks off into the distance, like he's in a film playing a determined survivor lost at sea. "If this is the last time we see each other," he declares with faux valor, "I want to die knowing I tried saving you."

Sawyer gawks at his morbid statement. He thought it was romantic. "Are you out of your mind? Don't say things like that!"

There's a slight growl to her tone, and she appears borderline petrified, so he abandons his silly prank. He's close enough to her raft to stretch his body forward and lift her, so he does, but not before humming the menacing Jaws theme and wiggling his fingers in her direction. She looks bewildered as he grips her waist and carefully transfers her to his surfboard. Once she's sat in front of him, he clings to her like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, his perspiring chest pressed flat against her back.

"Hi," he murmurs, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. "There's no shark. I just wanted to be near you."

Sawyer stills, then hastily unwinds his arms from around her. "You're so annoying," she whines, harmlessly slapping his thigh and grabbing her raft so it doesn't drift away.

Harry cups her jaw and tilts her head toward him. "You love me. I annoy the hell out of you, yet you can't get enough of me."

Glancing at his lips, she situates herself on his lap and smiles. "It's true. My sunray makes me happy even when he's a complete ditz."

Harry suddenly doesn't know how to speak, too enraptured by her natural beauty paired with a doe-eyed gaze that melts him like an ice cube on a sizzling driveway. Those brown eyes could get him to do anything she desired. Does she know that? Does she see the influence she has over him? Does she know nothing made sense in his life before he met her?

Unable to express his undying commitment to her without stumbling over his words, he utters a simple and sincere, "I love you."

Sawyer places her hand over his heart. "I know it."

Eventually, the rolling tide brings them back to the shore. The Baja California Peninsula's tip possesses powdery sand grains that carry on for miles. This particular beach, Punta Lobos, is a hidden gem, and no tourists infest the area during the week. Rocky bluffs border the water, and the occasional hiker will admire the oceanic view from their advantage before retreating down the trail behind the cliffs. Other than that, there's no one lurking around and disturbing the peace.

Harry and Sawyer lie side by side, sand sticking to their wet skin as the foamy waves barely reach their toes. Their fingers instinctively interlock; their palms are smoother due to being immersed in saltwater for hours, and something about it sends a firecracker shooting off in Harry's heart. Sawyer's skin after sunbathing is always gorgeous—golden, silken, and stamped with secret birthmarks only he knows the locations of.

He suddenly feels hot all over. Blazing sunbeams mixed with coursing dopamine are making him antsy. Trying to ignore his straying thoughts only worsens the constriction.

Looking over at his girl, Harry swallows and swipes his thumb across her chin to garner her undivided attention. She squints and beams angelically at him, a sheen of sweat gracing her cheekbones.

"Pretty girl," he says, his knuckles tracing the shape of her jaw. "What's on your mind?"

"I'm thinking about where our next destination should be."

"Nowhere. Let's stay here forever."

Sawyer ruffles his wavy hair. "And do what?"

A thousand scenarios whip around in his brain, and he ends up settling on asking his favorite question. "Wanna make out?"

Her plump lips instantly melt into a blissful smile. She rolls over on top of Harry's body, her syrupy skin adhering to his as she clasps his cheeks with her hands. She grants him his wish, coaxing warm and salty kisses from his mouth. His greedy hands roam the back of her thighs, trailing them up and down her sun-kissed flesh. Her ankles prop up and cross over each other, and she hums into his mouth as their craving kisses deepen. The pendant with his first initial that rests perfectly between her clavicles reminds him she's not going anywhere, as does the ring he gifted her that's settled on her finger, the cool metal neutralizing his flaming body temperature.

The unfortunate cause of their breakaway isn't because their love-filled lungs are deprived of oxygen. It's because, after all, they're on a public beach, and the sound of distant chatter has them pulling apart as quick as a zap of lightning.

Sawyer stands, briskly adjusting her bikini straps and glancing around like what they were doing was a scornful obscenity. She's adorably flustered. On the other hand, Harry sits up and nonchalantly adjusts himself while pinching his swollen bottom lip. He would be lying if he said he hasn't noticed excessive PDA isn't something Sawyer is necessarily comfortable with now that they're dating. She shies away from it, while he's quite the opposite. It's almost impossible to suppress the urge to touch and kiss her like there's no tomorrow, so he doesn't feel awkward about the innocuous disruption.

As he snatches his floral-patterned button-up that he left stranded on the sand and begins putting it back on, he spots his camcorder nearby. He brought it along to capture memories, which so far have mostly been of Sawyer in her feminine element—sunbathing on the poolside lounge chair with a magazine in her lap, curling her eyelashes in the bathroom mirror, dancing and singing to "Venus" by Bananarama on the bungalow sofa.

She's the center of his universe. The summit of beauty and love.

His gaze flits between the device and Sawyer, who is now red in the face. It's amusing, so he brings the viewfinder up to his eye and presses the record button. He purses his lips to hide his growing smirk as he zooms in on the small group of people strolling to the coastline and then on her rattled reaction.

It doesn't take long for her to notice. She jogs over to block the lens with her hands, fretting, "Stop it! This is so humiliating."

Harry laughs, lifting the camcorder to a height she can't reach. Sawyer is looking at him unimpressed, her arms crossed, and her head tilted to the side. The people most definitely saw them being handsy and smitten out in the open, but what's there to be sheepish about? Love is meant to be shown to the world.

"Are you embarrassed?" he teases, dragging out the last word.

She raises her eyebrows and nods. A hint of a smile plays on her lips, but it doesn't seem genuine. It appears insistent, one of hidden discomfort.

Harry isn't a total space cadet, so he takes it as a cue to quit messing around and acknowledge her unspoken signals. He stops recording and drops the camera in the striped beach bag slung over her shoulder. He then tucks his surfboard under his armpit and offers Sawyer his free hand. The energy between them has shifted by a smidge, and he doesn't like it one bit. The grains of sand beneath his soles somehow turned into eggshells within minutes.

"Ready to leave?" he asks. Sawyer nods again, still ominously silent, as she ignores his hand and fetches her deflating raft. "'Kay. Let's hit the road, then."

They arrive at the rental car, a vintage orange convertible that made his pockets hurt. Sawyer wanted it, and he couldn't refuse her. The hood is up in case of unpredictable weather, so Harry straps and fastens his surfboard to the top while Sawyer hops in the passenger seat, throws her raft in the backseat, and shimmies back into her daisy dukes.

Harry sits behind the steering wheel, his lanky limbs struggling to comfortably fit in the restricted space. The engine rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition, and he rolls the windows down before reversing out of the vacant parking lot. He peeks at Sawyer a few times as he merges onto the highway winding along the coast. She's staring at the desert landscape ahead that's saturated with a golden haze from the forthcoming sunset. Cacti and dead brush sizzle under the evening sun. Mountains tower over the feathery clouds. Vultures circle in the sky as roadrunners scurry along the pavement. It's stark scenery, but nonetheless transcendent.

None of his surroundings matter, though, when his favorite person to talk to is overtly ignoring him. He tries to convince himself that maybe she's just tired. No, that can't be right. He knows her. She's affectionate when she hits a wall and cuddles up to him sweetly, clinging to his arm like a sloth on its beloved branch.

The truth is that he messed up.

Before he can dwell on every misstep he took in the past ten minutes, an earsplitting boom cuts through the atmosphere, followed by a rapid whooshing sound. Harry firmly clutches the wheel as the vehicle suddenly loses equilibrium. Without outwardly panicking, he takes his foot off the gas pedal and lets the car naturally slow down before pulling it off to the side of the road and braking lightly.

"Shit," he hisses under his breath, his heart thumping erratically. "Goddamnit. I think one of the tires just blew out."

Poor Sawyer has her eyes pinched shut and a death grip on his bicep. Harry snaps back to reality and kills the engine, listening for any odd sounds. Before he steps out, he gives the top of Sawyer's head a gentle, comforting noogie and murmurs, "It's okay. We're okay."

She shakily gets out with him and leans against the passenger side door, anxiously biting her polished fingernails, while Harry perplexedly settles a hand on his hip and assesses the external damage. The front right tire looks like one of the clocks in Salvador Dalí's The Persistence of Memory—sad, melted, and a surreal depiction of an unfavorable outcome.

He looks up and down the highway, finding no signs of any buildings, vehicles, or humans. Something he does see, however, is a broken beer bottle a couple of yards behind where they were driving a mere minute ago. Most of the shards of green glass are scattered along the edge of the road, yet a few stray pieces are lying in just the right place for any vehicle that comes racing down the highway. It's the perfect puncture for a not-so-perfect boyfriend already on thin ice. Karma must have a vendetta against him today, but he won't let it clip his wings. When life gives him lemons, he knows how to make a delectable pitcher of lemonade.

So, Harry does what he's best at: distracting his girlfriend. He can quickly turn this misfortune into something fun and make Sawyer forget about how sour the day has turned.

Swiping his sweaty forehead with his wrist, he huffs and gets to work. He's changed a few tires in his life, so it should be done in no time. First, he takes his shirt off so he doesn't get heatstroke. The humidity outside is brutal, causing sweat to bead by his hairline and on his back. He makes a show of slowly unbuttoning it and slinging the fabric over his shoulder. It's obvious Sawyer's gaze is locked on him. He's willing to admit he possesses vanity over his physicality, and it doesn't help that the girl watching him constantly feeds his ego.

Next, Harry takes his sweet time and saunters to the trunk, where the rental agency told him the spare tire is located. Lifting the trunk and flexing his arms, he opens the well to reveal the tire. There's also a jack and lug wrench that'll come in handy.

After gathering everything, he kneels on the blistering road, loosens the tire's lug nuts with the wrench, and then places the jack under the vehicle's frame. He stretches his arms above his head before using the jack to slightly lift the car off the ground. After removing the lug nuts, he removes the ruined tire, momentarily glancing at Sawyer as he breathes heavily from his body's exertion in the unbearable heat. She's in front of the car now, looking at the sunset that paints elegant splashes of pink and orange across the horizon.

Harry grunts as he tosses the tire aside. Sawyer glances back, and he doesn't miss how her eyes flick down to his abdomen, now slick with a sheen of sweat.

"Wanna learn how to do this?" he calls out, grunting again when he picks up the pristine spare.

He's given no response as he lines up the holes and pushes the tire into the wheelbase. His biceps flex with soreness, and when he peers up again, Sawyer still looks at him, her eyes communicating something obscure. They have a little stare-down until he can't take it anymore and begins replacing the lug nuts. His jaw is clenched as he works quickly to try to get to the bungalow as soon as possible so they can untangle this yarn of bizarre tension.

Once the tire is secure, the old one is thrown in the trunk, and the tools are all put away. Harry walks over to Sawyer. She's perched herself on the car's hood, picking at her cuticles. Standing in front of her, he places his hands on either side of her thighs, his shoulders taut as he watches her eyes dance over the sky behind him. He kisses the tender spot below her jawbone, tasting and smelling the residual coconut tanning lotion left there. Goosebumps rise across the expanse of her neck like a swelling tidal wave, and Harry can't help but bury his face in it and whimper pitifully. He's like a needy puppy when she ignores him, pawing for the tiniest bit of love and attention.

"It's so hot out," he complains before sighing dramatically. "Let's head back."

Sawyer doesn't push him away, which counts as progress. "I want to watch the sun go down," she says, lost in thought. "Who knows the next time we'll be able to see it on an abandoned desert highway."

He won't argue with that. He doesn't need to or necessarily want to. If Sawyer wants to soak in the sunset, he'll endure the feverish weather if it makes her happy. Besides, she's right; little precious moments, such as experiencing the sun dip below the horizon, leaving behind a new, wispy portrait of captivating colors each day, are worth pausing life from time to time.

Sealing a kiss on her forehead, Harry hops on the hood and settles beside her. "I'll never learn how to say no to you."

☼ ☼ ☼

Back at the secluded bungalow, an unorthodox band of tension is still waiting to be snapped.

Sawyer has started cooking dinner with the miscellaneous ingredients she purchased from the downtown market yesterday morning. Canola oil is popping and sizzling in a frying pan, and julienned bell peppers of various colors are ready to be sautéed. Harry took a quick shower to wash the ocean and sweat from his sunburnt skin and has since changed into a white long-sleeved button-up tucked into teal trousers. He also has a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to help relieve spending hours in saltwater and squinting under the blinding sun.

Sawyer is in a tight, cropped blue camisole with low-waisted silk pajama pants. Her hair is down, golden beach waves reaching the middle of her back as she maneuvers around the kitchen area. Harry observes her from the dining room table, not quite knowing how to initiate a conversation without stretching the metaphorical elastic too far. Or worse, past the point of no return.

He watches Sawyer tilt the cutting board over the pan so the peppers fall into it. They immediately crackle when introduced to the heat. She then takes a wooden spoon and stirs the vibrant vegetables, turning on the overhead stove fan so the smoke doesn't set any detectors off. She's still ignoring him, entirely focused on one task, and pretending there's not an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed before the night concludes. Harry knows if he brings it up, she'll shut it down, say everything is fine, and insist she's not angry. She's a terrible liar, so he'll save that tactic for another argument.

As he stares at the back of her head, he realizes he doesn't like her version of the silent treatment. It's okay if she won't talk to him, but acting like he doesn't exist is ruthless. So, he walks over to her and wraps his arms around her slim waist. She tenses but continues mixing the peppers in silence.

Okay, that's definitely not the reaction he wanted. Not even an ounce of acknowledgment when he begins kissing her neck, taking his time loving on the beautiful ridges carved there.

"Slow dance with me," he murmurs pleadingly, squeezing her.

"I'm busy right now."

Now, don't get him wrong; he likes her stubbornness. He even finds it incredibly endearing, to a degree. But when it's directed toward something he's clueless about, he finds himself having to coax an answer past her adamant walls of defense. Being candid doesn't always end well, so choosing the proper approach is crucial if he wants to crawl out of the hole he's dug himself into.

Harry reaches around her preoccupied figure to flick the stove's heat off. The blue flame vanishes, and the sizzling ceases, causing Sawyer to sigh heavily as she sets the wooden spoon off to the side. She still doesn't turn around, even when Harry moves her thick hair over her left shoulder and starts planting warm kisses further down her skin, slower and more intentionally. She smells like the ocean breeze at the height of summer, sweepingly refreshing and pure. He doesn't know how he went so long without touching her like this.

Light from a dying yet persistent sunset pours through the slanted ceiling window. The nearby radio quietly plays a mariachi song that doesn't fit the fraught mood. Upbeat and punchy, the music is supposed to evoke happiness and camaraderie. It falls short this time, but like before, lemons can always be turned into lemonade.

"Do you know how to salsa?" Harry pipes up while stepping away, giving her room to breathe.

"How to make salsa?" Sawyer replies distractedly. She's begun garnishing the semi-cooked peppers with fresh oregano.

"No, how to dance the salsa."

She drizzles more oil into the pan. Her hand hovers over the stove's knob to light the flame again, but she retracts and mutters, "Um, not really."

Harry rolls his sleeves to his elbows and tosses his sunglasses onto the counter. "It's all in the hips, isn't it?"

She glances back at him for a split second before leisurely spinning around and crossing her arms over her chest. "Did you need something?"

"Sí, muñeca."

The almost invisible twitch of her lips doesn't go unnoticed by his attentive nature. "What is it?" she asks impatiently. "I'm trying to make dinner. You know, I've realized you always decide to be a pest when I'm not paying enough attention to you."

Busted. Well, at least she's talking to him now.

Harry begins clapping his hands to the song's rhythm in the background and swinging his hips in a terrible presentation of what's supposed to be salsa dancing. Sawyer arches her eyebrow and blankly stares at his uncoordinated movements. He's making an absolute fool of himself, but honestly, he just wants to see her smile. He'll go to the greatest lengths.

Shuffling closer to her, he caresses her limp hands and tries to get her to loosen up. "Let's dance."

“I'm not in the mood to dance."

He frowns dramatically, widening his feet to be the same height as her. "What's going on right now, hmm? We were having so much fun earlier."

Sawyer slides away from the stove and leans against the adjacent kitchen wall. A psychedelic painting of a gecko in the desert hangs above her. "It's not that hard to figure out," she says, looking everywhere but at him. It stings just a tad.

One of Harry's hands rests flat on the wall beside her, his thumb faintly yet purposefully touching the shell of her ear. He leans in and murmurs, "Are you still upset with me?"

The stubborn girl he knows and loves dearly steadily nods her head. "I'm furious. My body is on fire."

He bites his bottom lip with his front teeth as his piercingly intimidating gaze hungrily travels downward and lands on her exposed stomach. The silver bellybutton ring shining against her golden skin sets him on fire in an entirely different way. She's a delectable feast for the eyes.

Harry doesn't believe that her blood is boiling to the extent of fury, but he'll entertain her flair for dramatics. He says, "I'm sorry for shoving a camcorder in your face when you got embarrassed."

Sawyer gives him a puzzled look. "Huh? Oh, I don't care about that. I'm over it."

"Okay, then tell me why you're so furious." He's being thrown for a loop, and it's making him dizzy.

It's clear she's internally contemplating her response based on how her posture becomes less stiff. After rubbing her arm awkwardly, she says, "Because you're not nice."

Harry blinks slowly. Once, then twice. "What?"

"You were being a jerk by teasing me while fixing the tire."

It takes a while to realize his plan totally backfired. His innocuous teasing wasn't supposed to make her even more mad at him, and now he's stuck in a maze of figuring out exactly what he did wrong. Girls are so complicated!

Unless…

"Is that what this is about?" he asks, his lips quirking in amusement and slow realization. Perhaps the little show he put on for her had the intended effect after all.

Sawyer scoffs. "Stop smiling!"

He grins like a lovesick fool. "I'm not smiling."

"Yes, you are! Your eyes smile before your mouth does." She goes to tuck her stray baby hairs behind her ears, and when she does, Harry traps her fidgeting fingers with his hand still resting beside her head.

"Yeah?" he goads, his pulse throbbing faster. "When did you notice that about me?"

"I've always noticed it. It's so easy to tell when you're about to smile. Your eyes glimmer, and then you scrunch your nose."

"You like watching me?"

"Cállate. We're not finished with this argument."

"Go on, then."

Sawyer waves her free hand around as incomplete sentences get caught in her throat. "I- you- we can't keep doing this!"

Harry's heart falters at the vagueness of her confession. "What are you saying? Be gentle with me."

She gathers her crumbling composure, then carefully says, "What I mean is... we can't keep fueling this fire if we're not going to do anything about it."

The fire she speaks of has been wildly swirling in his stomach for a long time. He's managed to tame the carnal flames by waiting for Sawyer to declare her desires first, since her comfort level is always his top priority. The opportunity has now risen, and he's lucky she has opened up so much so that he can jump in and kickstart the colloquy they've been hesitantly dancing around for months.

"Is this about sex?"

Pink spiderwebs of heat spread across her face. Harry's thumb presses down on the apple of her blushing cheek; her skin is delightfully warm. It's nice to know a little fire has also been burning in her stomach. It's just a matter of tending to both of them. Kindle the flames until they roar with lust.

"Sort of," Sawyer mumbles, her eyebrows plunging with an unknown emotion. "Maybe. Yes. I don't know. All I know is that I don't want to tiptoe around it anymore." Her hand reaches out to rest on his neck, her pleading body language igniting the embers again. "Harry, it's killing me. I can't hide it."

He cups the side of her head. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, baby?" His voice has stooped to a deep, gentle rumble that shelters her with compassion.

"I didn't want to rush into things." She drapes her arms over his shoulders and plays with the outgrown curls at the nape of his neck. "I want to take my time with you and soak you in day by day. Take slow sips of your sunshine."

Knees weak, Harry whispers, "Don't. Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"With those eyes, Sawyer. Don't look all innocent when your words are the opposite."

She's completely clueless about how her imploring brown eyes can hold such seductiveness. Amber flecks swim in her irises, which are the color of dark chocolate. Rich. Exquisite. Tempting. Harry wants to break her off between his teeth like peppermint bark and swallow her silky, revivifying sweetness.

The tip of Sawyer's nose trails along his jaw, her lips brushing a path against his hot skin and setting fire to his loins. "I'm just tired of being patient. Does that make sense?"

Harry gives her a slight, truthful nod, then slumps his forehead against hers. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. There's no need to be shy around me. I'm your boyfriend."

"What if you don't want the same thing? That'd be so embarrassing."

"Sawyer Alejandra, you are so goddamn stubborn. Do you want me to just give it to you straight? Because I will." He takes a deep breath before blurting, "I want to have sex with—"

She clamps her hands over his entirely-too-bold mouth. "Shush!" Pinching her eyes shut, she whines and grumbles, "Forget I said anything. I have to finish cooking dinner."

If there's one thing he knows about Sawyer's personality, it's that the second she feels an ounce of mortification, she immediately backtracks. He'd usually let it slide, but this topic of conversation is a tricky one to simply forget about and move on from, like nothing happened.

Harry unwinds her hands from around his neck and keeps them cradled in his grasp. Then, while staring into her devastatingly gorgeous eyes, he says, "This tension between us isn't going to just magically disappear. Either we do something about it or ignore it. Your choice."

Sawyer swallows thickly. "I want to, so badly. But I'm scared."

"Why?" he asks, trying to open her blooming petals. They're singed with uncertainty.

"It's an incredibly vulnerable act, dufus." She cutely wrinkles her nose.

"And we're incredibly vulnerable lovers, so what's the sitch?"

She brings their conjoined hands up to her lips and kisses his knuckles. Against his skin, she mumbles, "How do we even go about this? I've made it awkward."

He shakes his head in disagreement. "You didn't. Do you trust me to take the reins?"

"Of course."

"Then follow me to the bedroom."

Sawyer points to the stove. "But what about dinner?"

Harry pinches her cheek and starts dragging her down the hallway. "I know just the cure for an appetite."

☼ ☼ ☼

The queen-sized bed has sheer canopy curtains draped around it. They were too lazy to make it this morning, so the sheets are still crumpled, and pillows are strewn about. Sunlight streams through the open bay window, making the room glow a tender hue of honey.

It's alluring and equally terrifying.

Harry went into the master bathroom to mentally prepare himself, even though he told Sawyer he was just freshening up. His reflection in the mirror peered back at him pensively. He fixed his hair about ten times, swiped another layer of deodorant across his armpits, and then gave himself a hushed pep talk before swinging the door open and putting on a cool, calm, and collected face.

Yet the butterflies in his stomach currently contradict everything he's trying to convey, especially when he finds his sweet Sawyer sitting against the headboard, the puffy duvet covering her bare breasts. The sun casts light on her stunning face and accentuates her apprehensive features. She's innocently staring at him as if she didn't knowingly climb into bed without any clothes on and sit there patiently waiting for him like the good girl she is.

And... he's hard already. Well, that's one less thing to worry about.

Harry clears his throat and strips down to his boxers, then slides into the space next to her, waiting with bated breath. Neither of them looks at each other, too hesitant to make the first move. They've both had sex with different people before, so it's not like they're blind leading the blind, but now that they're actually in the bedroom, all confidence has apparently flown out the window.

"We could start with, like, kissing or something." So much for saying he'd take the reins. He can't even speak properly right now.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Sawyer nod hastily. "Sure," she says, quieter than ever.

"Okay. Are you comfortable doing it naked since you're already... naked?" She laughs, and Harry smacks his forehead. "Sorry. God, I'm so nervous. You're making me feel like a teenager all over again."

Silence lingers long enough for him to finally gain the courage to glance at Sawyer. She locks eyes with him, then slowly, almost teasingly, lets the duvet drop and pool around her waist. Harry's mouth goes dry as he takes in skin he's never fully seen before. She's soft, shapely, and undeniably tempting.

Sawyer crawls on her hands and knees until she's straddling his lap. She still has her underwear on, lace boy shorts that hug her hips deliciously well. With blood rushing to his brain (and other places), his reaction is a bit delayed until his hands eventually find their place on her waist. He's breathing deeply, nostrils flaring as he ravenously wonders how she will look naked underneath him, pleasure etched on her face.

"You're divine," Harry whispers while toying with the flimsy hem of her underwear.

"So are you," she replies, rubbing a coquettish hand down his chest. "Hey, let's maybe skip the kissing part? I'm kind of impatient."

"Damn, all right. We're diving straight in."

She presses her body against his torso and hooks her arms around his neck. "I want to feel you. I've dreamed about it."

A desperate groan sounds in his throat. "You're lying."

"I'm not. Then I'd wake up, and you'd be kissing me like you knew exactly what I needed. And your hands would get so close to where they were in my dream, but never close enough."

"Yeah? Where were my hands in your dream?"

Her eyes flutter shut as if she's recalling the fantasy. "Mm... everywhere. Warm and heavy between my thighs. Sliding up my stomach." A lazy, sensual smile creeps onto her lips as she adds, "Around my neck."

Harry is tired of waiting a second longer. He flips her over so he's on top, his silver necklace with the "S" pendant swinging over her collarbones like a pendulum. "Let me make you feel good. I'll give you the real deal."

Sawyer twists the chain around her pointer finger and tugs him closer. "Please. I want it more than anything."

"Dig your heels into my back," he instructs before shuffling down her body until his head is lined up with her thighs.

She complies, and the pressure on his shoulder blades makes him choke on a moan. Her bent legs effortlessly fall open, granting him access to the single layer of fabric that comes between him and paradise. He stares at her from his position, his hands hooking around her knees. She stares back at him, a vehement fire in her eyes.

"It's all yours."

Her readiness is enough for him to lose his last shred of self-control. He leaves a suckling love bite on her inner thigh, then murmurs, "Lift your hips for me."

She raises the lower half of her body, and Harry slides her underwear off. She assists him when it reaches her ankles by kicking it across the bedroom. He focuses back on the inviting sight before him. A shiver trails down his spine when he takes two of his fingers and circles them around her entrance. She's dripping wet.

Sawyer's jaw goes slack as she scratches her nails across the expanse of Harry's sturdy back. He hisses past his clenched teeth, loving the luxurious burn. Tingling and tantalizing sensations course through his system as he tests the waters, slowly sinking his middle finger past her drenched opening. He vigilantly gazes into Sawyer's eyes the entire time, gauging her expressions for the faintest flicker of pain or unease.

"Talk to me," he says.

"It stings a little, but keep going."

"You're doing good. So, so good. Tell me if it's too much, okay?"

She nods with a raspy whine, so he adds another finger, then uses his thumb to press against her clit and rub halo shapes onto it. Her thighs tremble and tighten around his head, with tiny gasps escaping past her lips. He leaves bruising, biting kisses on her skin as he skillfully works his fingers, which are now soaked with her arousal. Filthy thoughts invade his fuzzy brain—thoughts of dreams he's had himself. Vivid images of doing what he's doing right now, except they'd always be cruelly cut short by the breaking of dawn.

Harry grinds his hips into the mattress, alleviating the ache, while his kisses move closer to where his fingers are. Sawyer's panted breaths motivate him to ask, "Do you want my mouth?"

"Yes, please. Eres tan bueno conmigo."

The foreign praise rolling off her tongue enchants him enough to dive into her sweet, sticky heat. He laps up her wetness like melted candy; the taste is dangerously addictive. He hums insatiably, his palms spreading on her lower stomach as he swirls his tongue inside of her. His cheeks are ablaze with sex drive as his eyes train themselves on Sawyer's face. Soft, sensual sounds trickle out of her mouth, fueling the intensity with which he pleasures her.

Pulling away for air, Harry whispers, "I can't get enough of you," before replacing his mouth with his fingers. They slide past her clenching walls so enticingly, so perfectly.

"Harry," Sawyer moans, fisting his hair and tugging at the strands. "I'm almost there. It's so strong."

He removes all body contact while sucking his fingers clean, then catapults off the bed to quickly grab a condom before she loses her approaching climax. He sifts through his duffel bag, finding the box he secretly packed in case something happened on this trip.

Maybe he manifested it. Or perhaps his girlfriend is simply braver than him.

Making his way over to the bed again (tripping on Sawyer's unplugged curling iron in the process), he bounces back on the mattress and hands her the foil package. Her skin is glowing with an angelic radiance, but sinfulness cracks through when she pushes on his chest to get him to lay back. She straddles him and rips open the package with her teeth. The arch of her back, the excitement in her movements, and the slickness of her arousal are all he sees. She has no idea how heavenly she looks.

Sawyer's fingertips walk down his abdomen and brush over his length, which is straining against his boxers. "Can I?" she asks politely, her eyes wondrous.

"Go ahead, sweetheart." Harry cradles her head and brings it down for a fond kiss, her hair tickling his face. "Feeling okay? Not in pain or anything, are you?"

She shakes her head. "No. I feel like I'm floating."

"Same here." He breaks into an aching smile, coming to the realization of how special this moment is. "I love you so much. I'm going to remember this forever."

"Me too." Sawyer slides his boxers off, their harmonious breathing mixing together. Harry's cock breaks loose and rests against his happy trail, reddened and throbbing. "Woah."

He laughs at her reaction. "Don't act so surprised. It's all your fault, baby."

She blushes and carefully rolls the condom on while Harry stifles his moans by biting his knuckles. He won't last very long, but he'll make it worthwhile for her. He'll take his time, just how she likes it. Soak her presence in. Slow sips.

He sits on his knees, then motions for Sawyer to recline and spread her legs. Once she's in position, he settles an arm on either side of her body and hovers over her. He tucks her hair behind her ears and leaves a hungry kiss on her lips. "Ready?"

"Yeah," she exhales. "You?"

"Totally."

"Change my life, sunray."

Grabbing the base of his cock, he lines it up with her entrance. He reminds himself to go slow as his tip sinks into her, and he keeps it there as he watches Sawyer's face. Her shiny lips are parted, and her eyebrows are pushed together. Her legs squeeze him while her hands hold onto his biceps. The muscles of her cheekbones twitch. God, she's an angel.

"I've got you," Harry says, a thrilling knot forming in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck, you were made for me."

He sinks further into her wet warmth, one hand grasping her leg to bend it more. She's tight, yet he's able to fit himself all the way in. Gasps leave both of their mouths at the feeling of him bottoming out, and it's like everything is moving in slow motion, the golden haze in the room adding to the delicacy of the moment.

"Mierda. Oh my God, Harry. Oh my..." Her fragile voice, leaking with whispery weeps, shatters his poise as he begins thrusting in and out. Sawyer's limbs are weak, her feet slipping down to the dip of his spine. It's all hot breath and swallowing each other's noises with sloppy kisses. Being inside her is a level of intimacy that electrifies every part of his soul. It's unfamiliar territory that binds him closer to the girl he wants forever. The orange flames they stepped around for years are now a cool, sapphire-blue.

Their hips reconnect with each thrust, a beautiful sound fused with their satisfied moans. Harry's pendant sways forward, his neck straining. Sawyer's nails pierce crescent moons onto his back, followed by more scratches that make him shudder.

"Goddamn," he chokes out, his cheek pressed against hers. "You feel stellar. I'm close. Give me... Christ, give me something to dream about."

"I'm there," she says. "I love you. I can't hold it any longer."

"Let it go, Sawyer. C'mon."

Arching her back off the mattress, she orgasms with a cry of release, and the vision of her has Harry immediately spilling out into the condom. It's powerful, otherworldly, and absolutely life-changing. He pulls out and lays on top of her, embracing her in a hold of overwhelming adoration as he whimpers into the pillow beside her head. They both melt into each other, sweaty and happy, coming down from their individual climaxes.

Every minute that passes, the room grows darker due to the moon painting the sky black with stars. Only the wind and their breathing fill the space, with cool and heated gusts reciprocating. Harry can feel Sawyer's lips against his temple, curving up with a smile every so often. He's got a permanent smile as his fatigued gaze stares at the ring on her finger. He feels like sunshine is bursting from his pores and serotonin is being absorbed.

Sawyer is the first to move. She uses her remaining strength to get up and tightly wrap the sheets around her naked body before stepping out onto the balcony. With the door open, he can see the full moon illuminate the expanse of the flat desert, with cacti and palm trees looming as far as the eye can see. The lack of humidity at night causes a balmy breeze to encircle her body, whipping her tousled hair.

"Can I tell you a secret now that we've had sex?" Harry asks from his place on the bed. His voice is sore and hoarse.

Sawyer turns around and bites her lip with a giddy grin. "Shoot."

He disposes of his condom, then puts his boxers back on and joins her, not caring about the chilliness. He still feels warm inside and out. "Do you remember our phone call last September when I was in South Carolina with a broken wrist?"

A flash of remembrance crosses her moonlit face. "Yeah. I was so worried about you."

He cradles her cheeks and pertly kisses her nose. "You took such good care of me when I got back."

It's the absolute truth. All the tagalongs to physical therapy, icing his wrist while cuddled on the couch, being a shoulder to cry on when he got frustrated—he couldn't have done it without her.

"I hated seeing you in pain," she says, looping her arms around his torso. "It hurt my heart."

"Never mind that." He inhales deeply and pushes forth his confession. "You... when you said you missed me during that call, a feeling came over me. Something in your voice made me weak. And something happened to me that had never happened before. I don't even know why I'm telling you—"

"Spit it out, Harry."

His head tilts back as far as it can go. "Fuck's sake. I got hard, Sawyer. Your voice made me hard."

Her mouth hangs wide open. A well-timed gust of wind passes like an awkward moment in a cartoon. "Um, wow. I'm not really sure how to respond to that."

"You don't have to say anything. I just thought you should know now that we've done the deed."

Sawyer giggles, hiding her face in the space between his pecs. "First off, please don't call it that." She looks at him and continues, "Secondly, you thought I should know that you got hard in South Carolina?"

He starts laughing, too. It's contagious around her. "I should also probably tell you that I jerked it out in a crummy Holiday Inn shower. It was quite pathetic and sad."

She sputters out a boisterous cackle that echoes across the barren desert. Harry's cheeks flush instantly. "I appreciate your honesty."

"On a more serious note," Harry starts, gripping the balcony railing with one hand, the other on her hip, "I appreciate how you forced a confession out of me the next day. I don't know if I've ever told you that."

Her expression turns sorrowful. "I didn't mean to pressure you. It had been building up inside me for so long, and you looked so beautiful that night. My heart spoke for me, and—"

Harry cups her jaw and kisses her unexpectedly, making her squeak. It reminds him of that night in the rain when his blue raspberry lips collided with hers for the first time. He pulls away slowly, fitting his nose over her own and swaying her slightly. "You did everything right. I was a coward who was frightened of rejection. The thought of ruining what we already had was nauseating."

"You thought I would've rejected you?"

"I never really know what you're thinking. That pretty brain of yours holds so many secrets."

Sawyer steals a ripe kiss. "Can I tell you one right now?"

"Always."

She kisses him again before saying, "I see forever with you. I want to wake up in your arms every day. I want to laugh with you until our sides ache. I want to kiss you until I get dizzy."

"Sawyer," Harry whispers, his eyes softening.

"I mean it. No one will ever make me feel this type of love again."

"I feel the same. You're all I need."

"Te quiero. Mi alma es tuya."

He nips her neck, slow and tender. "If you keep speaking Spanish to me, we're not getting any sleep tonight."

"Sí? Quieres más rasguños en la espalda?"

"Gonna tell me what that means?"

She gracefully traces the tattoo on his abdomen and says, "I can show you instead."

Harry's stomach suddenly grumbles with hunger, ruining the intimate moment. He peers at the twinkling sky above and laughs at the inconvenient interruption. "I would love that, but I'm absolutely starving right now. We skipped dinner."

"There are cold peppers on the stove."

"Delicious," he says sarcastically, shifting his gaze to her again. A few seconds pass before something he wants to mention pops into his thoughts. "Hey, did you know this month marks five years since we first met?"

Sawyer gapes at him, genuinely surprised. "No way. Five years?"

"Crazy, right? Five years since you almost gave me a concussion."

"I still feel terrible about that," she admits with a pout.

Harry remembers everything about that day, even when his brain got jolted by a killer volleyball serve by the prettiest girl on Cocoa Beach. Her brown eyes were up close, holding gentle concern for a stranger. That sassy hand on her hip thing she still does today. Clementine fabric against caramel skin. Orange juice in a bottle. Summerboy.

"But if that never happened," he says quietly, "then we might've never spoken to each other."

Her dreamy hum tells him she's musing about it too. "That's true. Isn't it mind-blowing how the tiniest of decisions can affect the entire course of your life? I like to think that every past choice of mine led me to you."

He admires the way her voice gets wispy when her mind wanders. "Word. Does post-sex make you all philosophical and shit?"

She shrugs. "Maybe."

"Cool." Harry backs away while holding her hands until their fingers eventually slip from each other's grasp. "Well, while you brood about Plato's teachings, I'm going to snack on your world-famous half-cooked peppers."

"Have fun with that."

"I will. Love you." Halfway through the doorway, he suddenly stops and rushes forward, giving her a suffocating hug, his lungs breathing everything about her. "All jokes aside," he murmurs, "I also believe everything I did brought me to you. And it just makes sense to be in love with you. Okay, bye."

He's off and running toward the kitchen before she can say anything else, not even the shadows of night on the floor being able to darken the natural luminescence he leaves behind.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles #adore-laur #sunstruck #southpaw series

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gaysindistress · 1 year ago

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When Night Comes - Sixteen

Summary: Who would win in a staring contest? New York’s resident mob boss and master of the side eye Bucky Barnes or the daycare teacher who really wants to go home and smoke?

pairing: Mob!Vampire!Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: cursing, smutty times but I like my porn with plot, talks of sex/sexual things, Vamp!Bucky loses his cool,

Word count: 3.9k

a/n: My husband left me home alone last weekend with his card and now that I'm done with school, it only made sense to watch every vampire movie in existence. Bucky might be a tad Dracula-coded this time around so you can thank Dracula (1992) and The Invitation (2022) for that.

Fifteen | masterlist

tag list: @cakesandtom @elizacusi-blog @unaxv @hidden-treasures21 @buckybarnessimpp @vonalyn @thebuckybarnesvault

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on Google/Pinterest

“Shit,” Y/N breaths as she slides across the floor and nearly falls before catching herself on the wall. She pushes off it and keeps running towards her room. Two stairs at a time, she climbs as fast as she can while Bucky casually stalks her. There’s no need to chase her or even threaten it because they both know he’d be upon her in seconds. So instead he stopped running when she disappeared into the house and opted to stroll to her room.

Of course it’s not that simple.

“Dragă,” that honey voice calls out quietly, “Dragă”

The sweet sound grips into her with its claws of promise and she barely clears the top step in her distracted moment.

“My gorgeous Dragă,” it gets closer as his shoes collide with the stairs, “are you going to be a good girl for me?”

Y/N finally makes it to her door and scrambles inside, locking it as quickly as she can before shoving ant and all furniture in front of it. She can hear his dark and deep chuckle at the feeble attempt to keep him out. She doesn’t really want that though.

She wants him to come in.

She wants him to break the door down and move the dresser like it’s nothing.

She wants him to be disappointed that she tried so hard but failed.

She wants him to prove his desire for her.

She wants him.

“Dragă, did you really push your dresser in front of your door? You know that can’t keep me out,” he mocks her from the other side, “did you do that to make me mad? Because if you did, Dragă, I suggest you move it before I have to. You won’t like my methods.”

Y/N searches her room for anything at all to define herself if worse comes to worse. A rosary on her nightstand catches her eye and she snatches up the back and gold chain.

“Open the door, Dragă,” his voice is starting to grow more and more impatient the longer she takes to respond, “I’m not asking again.”

“No,” she finds her voice albeit shaky.

The air shifts, tensing and it’s as if a fog overcomes the room. Cold air wraps around her scorching body and the deep breaths he’s letting out seem to shorten her own breathing pattern.

“No?”

She confirms and climbs onto her bed, pulling her clothes off as she does so. The rosary finds a place around her neck while she starts to take her sweatpants off but not before the door handle starts to rattle. Her body tenses but something urges her to keep going and despite her anxiety, she starts to peel her shirt off too. The rattling starts to intensify. His patience has worn down to absolutely nothing and it’s evident in the way the rattle suddenly stops.

Y/N takes relief in this false sense of security and leans back into her bed, her hand slipping down her body at the same time. Lost in her own head and desire, she doesn’t immediately hear the rattle of another door knob, this time closer than before.

“Dragă,” the lack of control drips from his saccharine voice but she ignores it, “I can smell you. Let me in. Now.”

A precautionary measure is how he justified putting her in a room that had an adjoining door to his.

“I need to be able to get to her quickly if something happens,” is what he told himself but he knew it would be for this moment and this moment alone.

It still might be a precautionary measure even now because the absolutely ungodly urge to burn the house around him to get to her has consumed him.

One hand on the handle and the other on the door, Bucky leans his head against the wood to calm himself. The first time they had sex it was about the desire to feel safe and express the trust that had just bloomed between them but this time, it’s the work of an entirely new beast.

This time it’s about raw attraction and pure devotion in the most biblical way imaginable.

Well as biblical as a Strigoi and doppelgänger witch can be.

A moan rips him back to her and he thrusts the door open, almost sending it flying off the hinges. Aside from the heavenly sight of Y/N touching herself, the first thing that he notices is the shimmer of the gold rosary in the amber lights from the fireplace.

A deep growl rips through his chest and he kicks himself for telling her Strgoi's worst enemy: religious objects. The black beads would prevent him from biting her, a threat that has him more enraged than he’s been since….

“Bucky,” leaves her mouth in a breathless moan and he’s quick to join her on the bed.

Feeling the mattress dip, she opens her eyes to see the black veins seizing his face and she smiles when he roughly yanks at her wrist to pull her closer to him.

“Bucky,” she calls to him again as he tears away at her remaining clothes and his own, “Please.”

Her last plea is met with him sinking into her in one shift thrust. They both let sounds that would make a nun blush and a priest curse. He starts a brutal pace leaving her bruised and aching in the morning but neither of them care. His grunts are matched with her sobs of pleasure and he’s almost satisfied with the way their bodies are joined. The only thing that is stopping him from claiming her body and soul once again is that damned rosary around her neck.

Bucky leans down over her as he demands that she take it off. Too lost in herself, the words don’t immediately register with Y/N which infuriates him even more. He demands again and drives his point into her via sharp snaps on his hips. Her hands paw at the chain and rip it away, sending those black beads and crucifix flying around them. A sinister laugh threatens to release itself from his throat but one particularly loud moan from him stills it.

Doing what he intended, he bites her neck and drinks from her as he had done that night.

The demands of his Strigoi side are not often met because the control needed to execute them properly is easy to lose. Bucky had been this creature for many years and human long before that so he knew how to exercise that control, in theory at least. Only when he had been first turned and met Celeste did he struggle but now?

Now proved to be a temptation that he’d never prepared for, a fight he had not seen coming. Lost in the throws of carnal desire, blood lust, and a bond created by whatever Gods that rule this earth, Bucky finds himself fighting to not completely consume Y/N.

“Bucky, en…enough.”

“Bucky… stop… stop…stop.”

The sun shines behind the heavy velvet curtains however only slivers of its light can sneak through the cracks. That light lays upon her bed and warms their bodies through the thin sheets. She stirs uncomfortably from the weight of Bucky’s body draped over her own and an ache that went straight to her soul. Turning to move him is pointless as that ache pulses with every move and she’s too weak regardless. The sleeping giant of a man wrinkles his nose at her efforts and grips onto her tighter, nuzzling his head into her neck where the ache seems to originate from.

Pain bursts through her when he does that and she yelps, shoving him as hard as she can. Bucky wakes immediately and goes into full alert, black veins flooding his face as he searches for the yelp’s source. His eyes soften and the veins disappear when he sees Y/N holding a hand to her neck and tears trickling down her cheeks. Guilt overtakes him and he’s quick to try and comfort her. Offering her blood from his wrist, he helps her to sit up and encourages her to drink.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice hoarse and quiet.

His face hardens at her question, self loathing becoming his new best friend as he stays quiet. She asks again and his eyes snap to catch hers.

“It was my fault.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Pulling himself away from her, he sits on the edge of the bed with his back facing her. He drops his head into his hands so he doesn’t have to look at her, “I…went too far. I know better than to drink from you, anyone when I’m like THAT but it couldn’t stop myself.”

Y/N sits behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and rests her cheek against the plains of his back.

“I won’t do that again, I promise. I won’t drink from you again.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He scoffs at her foolish words and tries to pull away but she squeezes him tighter.

“I trust you with my life.”

“Well you shouldn’t.” “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were my mother,” she says sarcastically, still holding him against her. She stands on her knees and leans over his shoulder so she can look at him, “My trust in you comes as easy as breathing. You’ve protected me this far and one mishap like last night’s isn’t enough to sway that.”

“You say that like I didn’t almost kill you.”

She shrugs, “It won’t be the last time either of us tries to kill the other.”

“You can’t hurt me,” he says with a small smile and a matching one grows on her face.

“I’m sure I could if I really put my mind to it,” she shoots back while her eyes go to his necklace, “What’s the ring for?”

His smile drops for a moment, “It’s a protection ring. Anyone who wears it is safe from harm.”

She misses that drop and picks it up to inspect it. It matches his, however smaller and more feminine; an onyx gem bordered with silver floral detailing and a flower in the middle of the stone.

Bucky takes it from her and breaks the chain so that the ring may be free. Its weight sits heavy in his palm before he grabs her hand and slides it on her index finger.

“Now you’ll be protected even when I’m not around,” he tells her as he kisses it.

Y/N’s eyes widened at the gesture, “I can’t take this.”

He stops her from trying to take it off, “Yes you can now stop.”

“Are…are you sure?”

Gripping her chin, he confirms what he’s just said, “It belongs to you. Wear it and never take it off, understand?”

After she nods, he gives her a breathtaking kiss.

The ring hums in joy as it takes comfort in finally being with its rightful owner once again.

Anxiety and worry have become the cooks new best friends as she wanders around the garden in search of anything to distract her. Carrots, onions, and potatoes had already suffered her nervous rapture however there are still plenty of other vegetables to be reaped.

“Ana Cristina,” a voice startles her and the cucumbers in her apron tumble to the ground as she drops them. Spinning around with a breath caught in her throat, she visibly relaxes when it’s Yelena who spoke.

“Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologizes and helps Ana Cristina pick up the fallen cucumbers.

Ana Cristina waves off the apology and excuses her jumpy behavior with the situation that brought Yelena here. After all it had been years since Lycan and Strigoi had been in Romania so anyone with a heart would be fearful. Yelena offers a smile and shifts uncomfortably under the eye of the witch and the weight of Bucky’s gun tucked into her waist.

Sensing there is an ulterior motive to Yelena’s visit, Ana Cristina goes back to her garden tending and asks her what she needs. Yelena hesitates but the look from over the witch’s shoulder forces the words out as if it is a truth spell, “I know about Peggy and Alix and I know that Peggy wants you to help her but you and Luca said no but I’m working with Juliette to double cross Alix and we need your help reversing a hex Peggy had on Bucky’s gun.”

Ana Cristina chuckles as she brushes her hands on her apron, “Breath child. Start again and say it slowly. My ears are old.”

“Juliette came to me and wanted me to help her get rid of Alix. She told me everything about Peggy and how she’s been helping Alix this whole time. She also told me that Peggy’s been trying to get your coven involved but you and Luca are refusing,” Yelena confesses and pulls the gun out, “she said that Peggy had someone hex Bucky’s gun and that you could reverse it, a return to sender kind of thing.”

Ana Cristina takes the gun and turns it over in her hands, “out with the rest. What else do you need?”

“You need to tell Peggy that you and Luca will help. Juliette and I can’t take on Alix ourselves.”

“Do Steve or Bucky know?”

“No but….”

“No ‘but’s. They can’t know. It puts them, Wyatt, and the girl in danger,” she warns, “We’ll help and reverse the hex but you do know Peggy will die, are you prepared to take on that burden.”

Yelena drops her gaze to the ground, “She’s put us in danger and didn’t think twice.”

“I’m not asking if it’s justified, I’m asking if you can handle the weight of knowing that you’re going to kill someone you care about.”

“I stopped caring for her when I found out she led Alix right to Y/N.”

“Good,” Ana Cristina places the gun in her basket of garden rewards, “Tell Juliette to be ready for my call. We’re going to need to move fast and without fault. Any mistake will ruin our chances but I trust that you can do it.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Luca whispers to Ana Cristina while they work to reverse the hex, “Thor and Loki will know that something is off.”

“No they won’t. We are the elders, they will do well to listen to us without question.”

Luca lets out a huff of air and frowns, “They’re not going to believe that a spell would require the people it’s protecting to be in the home of those it’s protecting them from.”

“The spell needs Alix to be near our doppelgänger to be effective and the doppelgänger won’t leave the estate. Not to mention that the doppelgänger is who she is after so yes she would be stupid enough to believe that and do what we ask. As for the boys, they’re not skilled enough to do a spell of this caliber let alone do they know how to speak Romanian. They’re not going to know so stop your worrying. It makes you smell like onions.”

“Onions!?” Luca shrieks.

Ana Cristina sighs and turns her full attention to him, “Onions is what you took from that?”

“Yes! No one has ever told me that I smell when I get worried!”

She levels an annoyed look at him and he makes an equally annoyed noise.

“Please just be quiet when they get here. Let me talk to them and you just sit there.”

He nods and takes the gun from her after she holds it out to him. He puts it into a box which gets hidden in the floorboards and returns to her side as Thor, Loki, and Peggy come in through the backdoor. Peggy gives Luca a suspicious look when she sniffs the air but Ana Cristina is quick to throw another log into the fire, the smoke covering anything hit by his anxiety sweat.

“Finally come to your senses?” Loki mocks the elders. Thor attempts to lecture him but Peggy holds up her hand for the both of them to stop talking.

“There’s a way to get rid of Bucky,” Ana Cristina says while still cleaning the vegetables from earlier.

“Did this happen or…?” says Loki but Peggy sends him a nasty look before asking the same.

“No?”

Peggy asks her to elaborate and she pretends to be reluctant before telling them about the spell that’s been “passed down” if this situation ever occured. It would require Strogoi blood from his bloodline,, the cleasning of the doppelgänger, , various herbs, and the power of 4 witches. Thor giggles like a child at the mention of the cleasning of the doppelgänger and Loki takes the opportunity to lecture him with his mechancing stare.

“Well that’s not going to work. Bucky didn’t turn me,” Peggy tries to cast doubts on their plan.

“I wasn’t talking about you. Yelena has agreed to give us hers.” “You told her?”

“No of course not. I told her that the spell would reestablish the ban the coven did for Celeste.”

Peggy wrinkles her nose at the mention of the former lady of the house, “Did you get Y/N to agree?”

“Not yet but like you said, she trusts me and she’s starting to care about Bucky so it won’t be hard for me to get her to do it.”

“I’ll let Alix know. In the mean time, don’t breath another word of this and make Luca take a shower. Bucky or my husband are going to know that something is up if he reeks of onions all of the time,” she hisses at them before she spins on her heel and stomps out of the kitchen. Luca visbibly deflats as soon as she’s gone and the entire time, Ana Cristina hadn’t stopped her work on the vegtetables. Thor and Loki her silence as their cue to leave without another word.

“We’re going to die aren’t we?” Luca asks with his head in his hands.

“It would be stupid to think otherwise.”

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #mob au #bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes imagine #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes and reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #vampire!bucky x reader #vampire bucky barnes #vampire au #vampire #bucky barnes smut

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contremineur · 6 months ago

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Then he saw it. Almost buried at the base of a sapling: a streak of red. He bent and picked it up, turned it over in his hand. The brick was pitted with yellow lichen, scorched by explosives, crumbling at the corners. But it was solid enough. It existed. He scraped at the lichen with his thumb and the carmine dust crusted beneath his fingernail like dried blood. As he stooped to replace it, he saw others, half hidden in the pale grass — ten, twenty, a hundred...

Robert Harris, from Fatherland (Hutchinson 1992)

#robert harris #fatherland #quote #lit #excerpt #alternative history

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help-an-alter · 5 months ago

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hi, i’m a fictive alter (i think) whose looking for help finding my identity. my believed source is dabi from my hero academia, and some general ‘keywords’ are fire, blue, burnt/burning, frosty (in a weird way?? i can’t really explain it) and just kinda darker vibes. i hope that’s enough explanation.

thanks in advance

heyo anon !! we'd be happy to help :D we'll give some names, pronouns, genders, and potential interests

everything is under the cut just to make the blog easier to navigate for followers (as it'll be quite the long post)

Names

blue themed ,,, (these are taken directly from my last post)

Cobalt, Periwinkle, Oxford, CornFlower, Cerulean, Sapphire, Alice, Bleu, Maya, Tiffany, Blizzard

burnt / burning themed ,,,

Blaze, Flame, Fire, Alight, Incinerate, Match, Ardent, Ignited, Kindling, Ash / Ashe, Smolder, Glow, Flash, Flicker, Scorch, Flare

frost / frosty themed ,,,

Ice, Crystal, Verglas, Hoar, Rime, Frigid, Arctic, Wintry, Bitter, Cool, Chilly, Rimy, Icy, Glacier, Glacial

darker vibes themed ,,,

Raven, Damian , Lilith / Lillith / Lilithe / Lillithe, Branwen, Darcy, Cain, Adrienne, Blake, Blaise, Draco, Ebony, Morticia, Amaris, Arachne, Salem, Delaney, Bellatrix, Narcissa / Narcissus, Dusk

pronouns

blue themed ,,,

blu/blue ,, teal/teals ,, ind/indigo ,, aqu/aqua ,, cy/cyan ,, cy/an

burnt / burning themed ,,,

haze/hazey ,, swirl/swirls ,, explo/explosion ,, boo/boom ,, ars/arson ,, arson/arsonist ,, fla/flare

frost / frosty themed ,,,

fog/fogs ,, mi/mist ,, silver/silvers ,, ice/ices

darker vibes themed ,,,

nyct/nycto ,, dark/darks ,, hor/horror ,, death/deadly ,, null/nulls ,, null/nullify ,, bo/bones ,, bone/boney ,, merci/merciless ,, peril/perish ,, peril/perilous ,, peril/perils ,, reap/reapers ,, tomb/stone ,, cof/coffin ,, grave/gravestone ,, grave/graveyard ,, grave/graves ,, gra/graves ,, gloo/glooms ,, gloom/gloomy

potential interests (not separated by theme, rather separated by type of activity)

Research topics ,,,

The Salem Witch Trials ,, Wicca, Witchcraft, or Paganism ,, History of Lobotomies ,, History of Asylums or Mental Institutions ,, Serial Killers ,, History of Cannibalism ,, History of Cults

Movies ,,,

Rise of the Guardians (2012) ,, A Christmas Carol (1938) ,, Original Home Alone Series (1990, 1992, 1997, and 2002) ,, Miss Peregrines Home for Peculiar Children (2016) Paranormal Activity Series (2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2014, 2015, and 2021) [rating from my mum : its just freaky shit that happens - she has apparently never seen any of them, though] ,, The Grudge (2004) ,, Talk to Me (2023) ,, The Others (2001) ,, Burning (2018) ,, Backdraft (1991) ,, Money Train (1995)

TV Shows ,,,

Supernatural (2005-2020) ,, The Original Addams Family (1964-1966) ,, Wednesday (2022-current with a new season confirmed) ,, Stranger Things (2016-current with a new season confirmed coming out in 2025) ,, Peaky Blinders (2013-2022)

Books ,,,

Wheel of Time Series (Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson) ,, Children of the Night (Dan Simmons) ,, Mortal Instruments Series (Cassandra Clare) ,, Miss Peregrine Series (Ransom Riggs)

Games ,,,

Life is Strange (Square Enix) ,, Fran Bow (Kill Monday Games) ,, Little Nightmares (Bandai Namco Entertainment) ,, Little Misfortune (Kill Monday Games)

Please search for trigger warning for any and all media recommended !! /lh

#mod firefly #actually systempunk #syspunk #systempunk #actually a system #survivorsunited #did osdd #system stuff #system community #did system #endos do not interact #endos dni #endos not for you

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fitsofgloom · 7 months ago

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Scorch Your Dreams And What Remains: Scorch, the time-displaced dragon from 1992's "Scorch" on CBS. It was like a live-action Saturday Morning Cartoon replete with secret magical animals, prying neighbors, and wacky workplace hijinks. Yes, I wish that it was all real, and happening to me right now.

youtube

#scorch #ronn lucas #sitcom #cbs #90s tv series #Youtube

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wingsdreamt · 2 years ago

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Rampage was possibly putting it mildly.

SOLDIER, infantry, and general office staff alike knew when to give the self-proclaimed Speed Demon a very wide berth, and no time was there quite like now, as he would trudge through the 49th floor, a wild glint to his eye, and looking for one Zack Fair.

Roche didn’t need to ask the inevitable questions, word enough from the pretty receptionist down in the foyer as she would gush and fawn to her desk-mate over his raven-haired superior was all the Third needed to understand this particular SOLDIER was on-site. And he knew exactly where to find this sneak thief.

The training simulator.

There were no room for common courtesies, not when there were answers to be had, and so the blond would barge through that door like a bulldozer on a mission, to find the man in the full throws of his latest little gaming session. Thick soles would squeak against the metalic floor as he would stomp towards the control panel and mashed his fist into the bright red button which would bring Zack Fair’s fictional little world crashing down about his very eyes. He hit the thing so hard, in fact, he would surprise himself later that he didn't shove his hand right through the panel itself...

Though at least Roche would wait - still dressed in his usual oil stained attire adorned down in the bowels of the maintenance workshops - until Zack would remove his visor before fixing him with a belligerent glare only accentuated via the way in which he would shake the now empty toolbox - which had once housed a plethora of snacks and treats collected and archived over a vast period of week - in the Second's general direction.

“You have five seconds to explain this to me, Fair…” Roche was certainly not impressed, indicated at least within the dark, low drone of his tone, and an unimpressed Roche is often a rather flighty and dangerous one…

“... think quickly now!”

An abrupt end to any simulation is jarring. Swoosh, like having the ground dropping away beneath his feet to join the wild flip flopping of his stomach when suddenly introduced to the sensation of freefall in the dithering pixels of darkness between virtual reality and the blank feed of his headset in the real world.

“Uh…” Zack inclines his head in the direction of the voice of a man who has clearly found his prey. His eyes flit down to the empty toolbox hanging from Roche’s hand, then back up to Roche himself and his darkening, ominous expression.

The seconds tick by and Zack’s mouth hangs open. No sound comes out, despite his want for it.

“Uhhhhh….” Longer this time, more drawn out as Zack carefully, slowly edges away from Roche’s approach like a cornered animal while pushing up his visor with one hand to peek out at Roche beneath its lip. “I can explain.”

‘You have crappy taste in snacks’ probably isn’t a very good opening statement. In all honesty– Zack had meant well. The absence of Roche’s hoard of sundries, sweet and savory, were orchestrated with good intentions. Replace the hotel lobby, doctor’s waiting room, and tacky gift counter-standard candies with the good stuff and let his dear friend reap the benefits of enjoying real treats while he tinkered away in the workshop. Zack merely forgot about the most critical step in that plan.

Like replacing the actual snacks.

Alright. He can absolutely maybe salvage this before Roche came up and chomped his head clean off– “I was gonna get you a bunch of stuff from my favorite sweets shop! They have stuff from all over the world, and I thought you’d enjoy it a lot. I hid all your stuff and I was going to replace it all with some of the specialty candies and then…” Zack wilts like a neglected house plant. He stands partially bent over, arms hanging limply in front of him with his head down in shame. “And then…I forgot to actually replace them…”

#scorching-passion #roche.#[ μ ] – εγλ 1992 - 0000.#queued.

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myriadof-fandoms · 2 years ago

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harringrove week - day 4 - i'll never give you away

prompt: How Many Candles on the Birthday Cake: 50 years old

ao3

it's 1984 and steve is looking at billy hargrove with anger coiling in his stomach.

the guy’s been at school for barely a week and he’s been nothing but a fucking pain. first showing up at the party like he owns the fucking place and somehow making that hell even worse, and then being a shithead at basketball.

all in all billy hargrove has made everything worse. and now he threatened one of the kids steve is supposed to protect so, punching him in the face seems like a great idea.

it doesn’t in retrospect when steve’s the one on the floor looking up at him with pain shooting through his head.

it's 1985 and billy is lying on the floor of starcourt mall bleeding out. he can't see a lot. he doesn't feel a lot either besides scorching hot pain. he can hear max screaming. the moment before she's leaning over him billy is looking up and he sees harrington. harrington, standing on the upper floor staring down. amongst the pain billy notices a small searing bolt of anger. anger because he's never going to find out how steve kisses now, he'll never know if his hair is as soft as it looks, and it isn't fucking fair. but then there are hands on his shoulders shaking him and max is crying and begging and billy only knows her and what he's done and all he can think is i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry.

it's 1986 and steve is 20 with no idea what he's gonna do with his life. but billy keeps staying the night and his hair is slowly growing back out after they cut it all off in the hospital. it curls around his neck now and steve likes gently pulling on it.

not knowing what he's going to do once working at family video with robin isn't a possibility anymore is not as scary when billy's on his couch and tells him how great cali is and that kind of feels like a good start.

it's 1987 and billy moves into an apartment with king steve. it’s small, probably too small for two people, and in the part of town where people like steve’s parents would never go, but it’s the first home billy’s ever felt safe in.

it’s 1989 and steve has been saving money for two years, as has billy, and now they’re walking around paris holding hands. billy’s been trying really hard to act like he’s not impressed but steve has seen the way his eyes are literally shining. they’ve taken little trips together before, up and down the west coast, but the trip here has been their first proper holiday and steve doesn’t think he’s ever had a better one.

it's 1991 and billy wakes up from steve groaning in pain. instantly there’s panic running through his veins and he sits up quickly. for a moment his vision disintegrates into specks from the quick movement but then he can clearly see steve curled in on himself on the other side of the bed. billy reaches out and runs a hand through steve’s hair that’s matted with sweat at the roots.

“baby, what’s wrong?” billy’s heart is racing and panic tears at him and he doesn’t calm down for days even when he knows it was just steve’s fucking appendix and he’ll be fine he can’t fucking calm down.

only once billy has steve back on their couch, with a new scar on his torso, does he start to cry. steve holds him through him, and he makes tea for them once billy has calmed down, and they spend a long night talking about the different ways they’ve nearly died.

it's 1992 and when steve comes home there's a tiny ball of orange fur in their living room. he is fairly sure that the ball had not been there when he left for work.

turns out billy had found the kitten behind a dumpster during his morning run. they call her nikky after listening to how she meows through the entirety of “ shout at the devil ”.

billy loves her fiercely and and it ends up being another thing that steve loves about him.

it's 1994 and billy walks max down the aisle when she’s marrying lucas. they’ve spent a long time trying to heal from what they lived through together, and there have been many apologies between them, and between billy and lucas, and yet billy has never pictured himself as someone max saw as this important. his throat is clogged when he kisses max’ cheek and hands her over to lucas who’s freely crying, a fact billy will use against him in the future but pleases him endlessly in the moment. if lucas hadn’t been crying he wouldn’t have deserved max.

billy sits down next to susan and she smiles at him through her own tears and steve holds billy’s hand, because they’re surrounded by family and they can do that now, and billy tries really hard not to cry.

he fails.

it's 1997 and steve is decorating a birthday cake for billy. nikki is sliding around his legs and meows at him from time to time as if she’s muttering instructions and it’s almost ridiculous how she’s entirely billy’s cat.

when steve brings up the cake with its thirty candles to their bedroom he finds billy hiding under their blankets.

“i’m old.”

steve knows there’s a little actual fear in those words, but not too much.

“yeah, you’re ancient, hotshot, now come out of there. i didn’t make you cake for you to not appreciate it.”

it's 1999 for another 10 seconds and billy watches steve drop to one knee in disbelief.

there are gasps and yells and of course robin is whooping somewhere to their right.

“billy, you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met and you have the worst taste in music on top of it, and i love you more than i could ever say. will you marry me?”

the sound billy’s answer gets lost in the fireworks and cheers for the begin of a new century but steve hears him anyway.

it’s 2002 and steve holds his godson for the first time. dustin is almost bursting with pride and it’s mind blowing to see.

when steve looks up he catches billy’s eye and after all their years together steve knows that the look he gets means they’re going to have a long conversation when they get home. they had it before they moved in together, and when they bought their house, and when they got married. before all their important decisions. steve can’t wait for this one.

it's 2004 and there's a tiny human in billy's arms. layla's asleep but her eyes are moving and it’s the most fascinating sight to both her fathers. steve’s arms are around billy's waist pulling both of them close and shielding them from everything else. when he reaches out to cradle their baby's head his hand covers it almost entirely. she's so tiny. billy has never been so full of love.

it's 2005 and billy's crying when steve comes home. their baby is asleep if the lack of sound is anything to go by, but billy's sobbing. tears streaming down his face and chest heaving in a way that makes steve realise he's close to hyperventilating. it’s been a long time since steve has seen him this bad but calming him down is muscle memory from all the nightmares and panic attacks they’ve survived together.

“i don’t wanna fuck her up, stevie.”

his heart breaks a little seeing billy look so helpless, “that’s why you won’t, sunshine.”

a couple of nights with better sleep and some gentle reassurances later billy’s back to laughing.

it's 2007 and on the other side of the bed there's billy with a baby that has his curls laying on his chest. how small sara looks on the vast expense of muscle that's billy's chest makes steve want to cry.

a creaking noise behind him gives layla away so steve's fully prepared for the dip of the mattress behind him and then the tiny toddler hands on his side. she's ruthless and digs her tiny knees in his kidney when she climbs over him. her dark eyes are glowing when she gives him a kiss though.

it's 2009 and steve's eyes are looking right back at him through lucy. deep brown that billy will no doubt start calling bambi eyes any day now. there's something truly fascinating about seeing himself in this tiny human who he's trying to feed right now.

he's spent many hours looking for billy in sara and memorised every similarity already. between the two of them he can see their surrogate mother as well.

he and layla often spent hours watching the babies and pointing out different things. she loves her siblings very much. billy keeps worrying she might feel out of the loop for not sharing some genetics with them. steve started answering with gentle reassurance at first but now he just whacks billy over the head and asks him if he thinks she is somehow less belonging. it works fairly well to make him stop worrying.

it's 2010 and billy has had to do a lot of difficult shit in his life but dropping their little girl off at school might make top of the list.

“you literally broke through mind control, babe,” steve reminds him with a kiss to his head.

it’s 2013 and neil hargrove is dead. steve doesn’t mind much, he’s wanted to kill the fucker so often he lost count. billy’s been crying for days. ugly, violent sobs and crocodile tears. inconsolable and retreating into old habits and coping mechanisms so much so that he smelled like cigarettes for the first time in 9 years and called steve “harrington” for the first time in 14 like it’s not his last name as well now.

their girls are worried, steve is worried and max is worried. but four days after max called with news of neil’s stroke steve comes home from grocery shopping with lucy and finds billy on the couch, his head in layla’s lap and with sara laying on his chest. layla is running her fingers through his hair like she’s seen steve do countless times.

when billy hears them enter he looks up, his eyes are still red and he looks so tired it sends steve back to those first months after the mindflayer. but he’s not crying now and he says hey stevie in that drawl that hasn’t ever stopped making steve’s knees weak.

steve balances lucy on his hip and crosses the room to join his family.

they’ll be okay.

it’s 2014 and billy is sitting in front of a van with steve. the girls are asleep behind them, all of them cuddled up together like they hadn’t spent half the day arguing. steve had been asking for a trip like this for years but something kept getting in the way. they’re somewhere in nevada now and while it’s been exhausting, billy’s glad they finally got around to it. not just because it makes steve happy but because there’s nothing he’d rather do than be in the company of the four people surrounding him.

it's 2016 and steve's about to turn 50. billy’s facing him in their bed and they’re both watching the seconds tick by on the phone propped up between them. there’s some grey in steve’s hair now. he was upset to find it at first, and furiously picked at it, until billy told him he looked hot as a silver fox. growing older would be much harder without billy around, like almost anything else would be as well.

when midnight comes, billy kisses steve softly and smiles against his mouth, “happy birthday, old man.”

steve hides a laugh behind a little scoff, “you’re next, asshole.”

billy laughs too before he kisses him again, longer and the way he knows steve likes.

“seriously, happy birthday. i love you.”

“i love you too. ”

#stranger things #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove #harringrove fic #stranger things fic #mimi's writing #mimi makes things #harringroveweek

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