#so here we go. weekly metal survives. if a bit late

[yellowvixen]

week 10: art i forgot about from last june lol

[andypantsx3]

war paint | 3 | captain

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

The first few weeks of your enlistment were inarguably the worst you’d ever lived.

If not on patrol, soldiers were awakened before dawn every morning and marched to the training pitch behind the castle where you drilled in different formations with various weapons. You were run through exercises that seemed designed to drop anyone with less than iron willpower, then set to menial tasks like cleaning the barracks or repairing any damaged weapons or equipment. The midday meal was the first break in your day, followed immediately by training in basic first aid and survival skills, then by more weaponry drills that took you until the dinner bell.

Between your extra training with Nishimura and the time you had to invest in sneaking off to use the lavatory or a spot to bathe in private, you were hardly resting. Even the time you did spend bathing, you spent in a constant state of anxiety, wondering if a random bunk check would reveal you missing. You hadn't chanced more than a wild, lightning fast scrub down in weeks.

At the end of the first week, you’d collected your enlistment fee with hands blistered from sword work, and it took you longer than you’d ever admit to count it out, stopping every few seconds when your eyes drifted involuntarily shut. You’d been happy to send it off to your family, though, with a short note that told them you were doing well.

Which was, of course, a lie.

You weren’t exactly the most popular among the kingsguard thanks to the show you’d put on when you arrived, and you had the misfortune of dorming in the same room as Nishimura. Despite Captain Bakugou’s warnings, he’d gone out of his way to make life uncomfortable for you, slipping bugs into your sheets and loudly discussing you in less than flattering terms well within earshot.

More than that, you were terrible at nearly everything and it was obvious. Kaminari helped you to the best of his ability, and so did Sero, the guard who’d poked fun at your age at the castle gates. Neither of them, however, could make up for the fact that as a woman, you were somewhat smaller and slighter, and hadn’t had the same opportunities building up muscle mass as men your age. Every sword felt like an anvil in your hands; lifting a mace like hauling a boulder.

The only thing you seemed to excel at was the first aid trainings. You found yourself listening with rapt attention as the court physician walked your battalion through wrapping injuries and cleaning wounds, noting which easily obtained herbs and flowers could slow blood loss or ease pain. Kaminari was always eager to pair with you during the practical exercises, as you were among the least likely to accidentally poison him with the wrong herbs. It was gratifying to be good at at least one thing.

Your favorite part of castle service, though, was the patrols.

After your first month of training, you’d been assigned thrice-weekly patrol routes and found that it was like wading into a cool river on a hot day. Patrols got you out of whichever drills were happening at the time and took you out from under Captain Bakugou’s purview and behind the relative safety of the castle walls.

Though monotonous, you only had to walk a specific route throughout the castle with a partner, and you were rarely supervised. On your first patrol with Kaminari, you also found that patrols were - for him - more of an opportunity to make social calls.

“L/N,” he said, nearly the minute you stepped inside the castle walls. “We’ve got an excellent route today.”

You raised an eyebrow in question.

He chuckled, gesturing you along. “Come on, our first stop is right over here.”

“Our first stop?” you echoed.

Kaminari grinned and grabbed your sleeve, pulling you into a side door. On the other side sat a cramped office stuffed with bright fabrics and colorful spools of thread. A woman with shocking pink hair hunched over a spill of pretty silk, working tiny, perfect stitches into the fabric.

“Mina!” Kaminari boomed and the woman sat up with a smile.

“Denki!” she said, reaching over to hug him. “It’s been a while since patrol took you over here! I have so much to tell you!”

Kaminari laughed and pulled you forward. “Me too. Mina, this is L/N! He lied about his age and wormed his way into the kingsguard.”

You whirled on him. “I’m old enough to be in the guard!”

The absolute wrong gender, but definitely the right age.

He gave you an innocent look. “I’m just passing on the popular opinion.”

Mina chuckled. “Oh, ignore him, L/N. We all do. It’s quite nice to meet you.”

Kaminari whined but Mina just laughed again, redirecting his attention to the dress she was making, saying it was for the princess-to-be. Apparently, Prince Shouto’s bride had been a kitchen girl that Mina and Denki had both been acquainted with, and they talked eagerly of the wedding they’d both been invited to and the food that would be there.

“Think old Bakugou will show up?” Kaminari asked at one point, making himself comfortable at Mina’s workstation. Mina met this with a shrug.

You gave them both a questioning look. “Why would the captain be invited?”

Kaminari turned to you conspiratorially. “Captain Bakugou and the prince grew up together - they’re something like old friends. Plus, Bakugou’s a marquis, he’s probably got an invitation just for political reasons.”

“He’s a marquis?” you asked. That explained the Lord appellation on your contract, then. “Why join the palace guard if he’s titled?”

Kaminari shrugged. “Probably not enough opportunity to torture innocent civilians in Musutafu. If he wants to hold the land, he’s got to be nice to them, hasn’t he?”

You grimaced, thinking of all the drills he’d run you through since you’d gotten here. That definitely wouldn’t endear him to anyone.

“Speaking of our favorite captain,” Mina said conversationally, “I heard he’s been meeting with the prince more often than usual.”

“Wedding stuff?” Kaminari asked, but Mina shook her head.

“As if he’d touch that mushy shit with a ten foot pole. He wouldn’t know romance if it pranced in front of him wearing a soldier’s uniform. No, I heard it’s because a bunch of papers and other valuables went missing from the prince’s study last Thursday night.”

Your mind wandered back to last Thursday, wondering if you’d been on patrol when it had happened. You only dredged up a memory of snuggling down into your bunk, relieved that Nishimura and his goon friend Hasumi were out on their own patrol and your bed was thankfully bug free.

Kaminari’s eyebrows went up. “Important papers?”

Mina raised a thin shoulder. “From what I heard, it seemed to be a weird selection. A couple letters, some wedding arrangements. But a land treaty disappeared as well. They think it’s a spy.”

Kaminari whistled. “Bet old Baku is pissed this happened on his watch. No wonder he’s been in such a foul mood lately.” He turned to you. “Don’t you think he’s been a little too happy when one of us gets clipped by the wrong edge of the sword?”

You thought back to his threats in the mess hall. “He seems normal enough to me.”

Kaminari mulled that over. “I suppose he’s usually that awful.”

Mina smiled. “Talking of which, shouldn’t you be getting on with your patrol? I’d hate to find out what he’d do if he found out you were in here gossiping.”

A spike of panic stabbed through your heart and you grabbed Kaminari’s sleeve. “Excellent observation, Mina. We really should be going. It was wonderful to meet you!”

You tugged Kaminari roughly back through the doorway. You thought it was a testament to his own fear of the captain that he went willingly enough.

The rest of your patrol proved uneventful, however, Bakugou thankfully never being alerted to your social stop. Your patrol ended just after the dinner bell and you ate quickly in the mess hall, then rushed off to the training pitch.

Today was also the last day of your punishment for fighting in the mess hall on your first day, and you thought dreamily of all the rested muscles and extra time you’d have on your hands once extra training ended. You might be able to sneak off to bathe at a normal time of the evening instead of in the dead of night, starting tomorrow.

Your good cheer faded quickly, however, as you arrived at the pitch to find Captain Bakugou there.

Nishimura was just behind you and he stopped short at your side. “Where’s our usual drill officer?” he demanded.

A horrible grin cut into Bakugou’s features, bearing his sharp canines. He looked like a wolf ready to tear into a nest of rabbits, and your stomach flipped. “Ojiro’s off duty tonight. Thought I’d see if you’d learned your lesson myself.”

You inhaled sharply, and Bakugou caught it, laughing. “Thought I’d forgotten about you two fucks, didn’t you?”

You lowered your gaze and took a deep, steadying breath. Just tonight. You just had to get through tonight and you would be free.

Nishimura seemed to steel himself as well, sweeping a hand through his dark hair. “What are our drills tonight, Captain?”

Bakugou’s crimson gaze flickered over you both. “Fight me.”

You looked up, startled. “Fight you?”

He looked you over disdainfully. “You’re a goddamn soldier, you telling me you can’t fight? Didn’t seem to stop you in the mess hall.”

You bit your lip, but Nishimura stepped forward, that violent gleam in his eye. “Yes, sir.”

Bakugou grinned. “I’m gonna fucking wipe this field with you.”

Nishimura didn’t dare correct his superior, but his hand went quickly to his sword and he leaned forward eagerly. Before you even had time to blink, the clash of metal rang out across the field and Bakugou had Nishimura on the defensive, pushing him back into step with you. You hadn’t even seen him go for his sword.

Swearing, you fumbled for your own blade, whipping it out just in time to catch the swipe Bakugou aimed at your side. You stumbled under the force of the strike, tripping backwards.

Nishimura growled and lunged again, but Bakugou was faster, parrying his attack and following up with his own. A low chuckle escaped him as he caught Nishimura with the back edge of his blade, winding him and sending him staggering back.

Bakugou whipped back to you, targeting you with another fast swipe that you barely caught in time. The strength of his blow almost knocked your sword from your grasp, shuddering up your arm and leaving you gasping.

“What the fuck are you in the kingsguard for if you won’t fight?” he snarled. Another swipe came your way and again you barely caught it. Your heart beat frantically in your chest and you tried to duck out of range of his arm.

“Come back here, pretty boy,” Bakugou taunted, advancing on you, but Nishimura cut in with another attack. Bakugou whipped the edge of his blade up again, faster than your eye could follow, catching the strike. You caught the curl of that savage grin on the corner of his mouth again before he moved, ducking under Nishimura’s arm and twisting his blade. It slid along the edge of Nishimura’s sword with an awful screech, then caught the hilt at an angle, ripping it straight out of Nishimura’s grip.

A kick from Bakugou had Nishimura on the ground and just as quickly he twisted back around, stalking back towards you. Your heartbeat quickened in fear as he approached, crimson gaze burning into you.

“You don’t belong here if you can’t face me,” he ground out. “Fight me or I’m discharging you. That’s a fucking order.”

You trembled, but lifted your blade. You needed the money to send back to your parents. It was too early to be discharged - if you left now, they’d have no way of clearing the debt.

You thrust your sword forward but Bakugou dodged easily. You quickly flicked through all the maneuvers you’d been drilling the past month, and followed up with a lunge. Bakugou grinned, flicking it aside with a quick twist of his wrist.

“Put your back into it, shrimp,” he demanded.

You gripped your sword with both hands, bringing it down on him with all the force you had in you. Bakugou deflected, and before you knew what was happening, your sword was rent from your grasp, skidding along the dirt of the pitch behind you.

The flat of Bakugou’s sword came up to tip your chin up to him.

“Pathetic,” he spat, “you fight like a damn woman.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. Bakugou’s sharp eyes caught it and he smirked. “You gonna punch me, pretty boy?”

You struggled to tamp down the hot anger bubbling up inside you like a spring from the earth. “No, sir.”

He eyed you distrustfully, pressing the flat of his blade into your chin a little harder. “I’d think seriously about what the fuck you think you’re doing here. This is the kingsguard and I don’t need weak little shits like you endangering the royal family or your fellow soldiers.”

You stared back at him, not daring to speak. Your blood rushed in your ears and your heart hammered wildly in your chest.

After a long moment he lowered his blade, sheathing it back at his hip. He looked over at Nishimura, who was delicately picking himself up off the ground.

“Disappointing,” Bakugou said roughly. “I’ve seen enough here. You’re both dismissed - back to your dormitories.”

You nodded, backing away from him. Nishimura stalked off, and you turned and picked your way gingerly back across the field, stopping only to pick up your sword and tuck it back into the belt at your waist. You set off slowly for the barracks, something like hot tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

You didn’t look back, but you swore you could feel a pair of crimson eyes on you as you slipped quietly through the dark.

[miss-pearlescent]

Can we get a part two of “stuck at a vampire part”???? Amazing writing, darling!

Being the Vampire’s Dinner (M)

Ask and you shall (likely) receive (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

M for smut

Click here for part one

—

It had been a week—an entire seven days—since the night at the party. Yet here you were, alone in the office again.

You remembered being a little loopy after the party, leaving in Kai’s car. But you thought Kai was being just as loopy. He had brought you back home, tucked you into bed, and then laid on top of the covers with you until you fell asleep. You had fought sleep for as long as possible because you wanted to imprint Kai’s goofy smile into your brain, but he kept whispering little things in the dark and eventually you couldn’t fight your fatigue.

After all, he had made you physically exhausted.

But then the morning came and he was gone. No note. No text. Nothing.

You shrugged it off, knowing he was a busy man. You told your pride not to be bummed about it. That day, you went to the farmer’s market and picked up a couple things to try out a new recipe because you were feeling domestic all of a sudden.

Just to be safe, you also grabbed a couple pregnancy tests. Despite what Kai had told you about the impossibilities of interbreeding, a girl could never be too careful.

That evening, you had flitted here and there in your apartment, cooking, cleaning…checking your phone.

It was midnight when you started cracking.

You spent an hour debating whether to contact him or not, and in the end you sent him a quick stupid text about deadlines.

You regretted it instantly because it was so obvious that you were desperate and coming on way too strong. You knew every deadline in your agenda and you did not need any clarifications. Ever. He was totally going to see right through you.

Thirty minutes later, you scrambled to get to bed because he hadn’t replied. Dread was filling your stomach and you knew you needed to fall asleep before you spent the night doing something stupid like overthinking or worse—crying.

The next day, you didn’t feel much better. He had replied, but the text was curt. He also said that he was going to be absent from the office for a couple days because he was sick.

Sick.

A vampire.

Sick?

You stuffed your face in a couch cushion and screamed because you knew you had messed something up. He was avoiding you, that much was obvious.

You just wished he wasn’t such a coward. You were used to being rejected by men at this point in your life, but for Kai to do it in such a way that made you feel so unsure of yourself? After he had brought you home that night? You played the scenes over and over in your head. What had you done wrong?

That night, you turned on your computer and looked through job listings for hours. You didn’t know if you could work with such a mercurial man anymore.

But seven days had passed and you were still in the office by yourself. Kai had called in sick every single day, choosing to work from home instead. He had sent you work related emails and nothing else. Not a single hint that the party last week had even happened.

Your period started and you allowed yourself one night to eat a chocolate cake and cry. That was it. You deserved it after dealing with a fickle man and a masochistic uterus. By Friday evening, you were no longer sad, but simply annoyed and frustrated.

Those feelings weren’t even directed at Kai. You were annoyed and frustrated at yourself because you still cared for the man. You hated that you wanted to check on him and see for yourself that he was doing okay.

“I’d give you anything.” He had said those words right before sliding his dick in you, and you wished that Kai was still around. He was thoughtful. He was teasing. He was fun.

But that was simply wishful thinking.

You closed up the office, pulling down all the blinds and shutting off the lights. It was when you locked the door that you noticed the delivery slip.

It was the weekly shipment of animal blood from the farm. Kai hadn’t picked it up when it arrived yesterday, so it was sitting at a shipment facility.

You sighed, knowing this was a bad idea. An absolutely horrible idea. You pulled out your phone and bit your lip before sending the quick text.

“I’m just helping a sick man survive, that’s all,” you muttered to yourself as you shoved the delivery slip into your bag.

-

You hefted the box of fresh blood onto your hip and closed the trunk to your car. Staring at the grand house in front of you, you were just a little unnerved.

You had come here before once or twice to work on a few projects with Kai, but you had never arrived uninvited. Now the house looked like it was looming over you, telling you to scram.

You checked your phone one last time. No text back.

Heaving a sigh, you walked briskly up the driveway. It was getting late, and you’d rather be home, curled up in front of your TV with some chocolate cake.

Instead, you were delivering a case of blood to your boss.

There was a dim light shining through the curtains of one of the rooms upstairs. He was home, that was for sure. He was just ignoring your text.

You rang the doorbell and stood there for a few seconds, tapping your foot. Maybe you should just leave the box at his doorstep. He would see it eventually.

But you scanned the neighbourhood and wondered how many other vampires lived here. What if they smelled the blood and came to steal it? It was expensive, high-grade blood. And Kai needed it.

You rang the bell again, this time a little less patient.

“I know you’re in there…”

The air got colder and your heart sank lower. He wasn’t going to answer, was he? He didn’t want to see you, that much was clear.

You pressed your ear to the door, hoping to hear the sound of footsteps. Nothing. You knocked. “Kai?”

Still, nothing.

“All right, I guess I’ll just leave it here,” you told nobody in particular.

Biting your lip, you began to set the box down when you decided to try one last futile attempt.

You turned the knob and the door opened.

Fear crept up your spine like ice, and your hands stilled on the cool brass knob. Kai was a strong vampire, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave his door unlocked.

Frantically, you pulled out your phone and checked his last email to you. Yesterday morning. A spreadsheet documenting the spendings from the last quarterly.

Had something happened between then and now?

You gulped and punched 9-1-1 into the phone, just in case you needed them in a split second. With your grip tight on your phone, you poked your head inside the house.

It was chilly inside, but the warm lighting helped to make things cozy. On the coffee table was an open laptop with the screen still on, so Kai couldn’t have left this seat very long ago. The lights to the staircase were on, though, so you suspected that was where he had gone.

You strained to hear if maybe the shower was going or music was blasting, but there was nothing but silence.

You didn’t kick off your shoes as you entered just in case you needed to run from a killer.

Dropping the case of blood beside the couch, you debated leaving then. Kai would find his blood safe in his house and you would not have to be a witness to a murder scene. But something didn’t sit right with you.

“Kai?” you called up the steps. “Are you there?”

The clanging of metal made you freeze in your steps. Somebody was definitely home.

You gulped and put a hand on the banister. “I’m coming up there, Kai, so stop me now if you’re doing something indecent,” you warned. You hoped he would pop out and laugh at your little jab to the events of last weekend, when he told you he had been masturbating in his room when you had interrupted him with a phone call.

But no, just more clinking and clanging.

Gingerly, you went up the steps, trying not to make a sound even though you had already alerted any potential killer of your location with your voice. Your phone was still in your hand, ready to dial emergency services. You just needed to make sure Kai was safe before you did so.

Then a roar came from behind the bedroom door.

You only stood on that step for half a second before rushing up the rest of the stairs. The fear in your bones was still very present, but so was the urge to help Kai. If he was hurt…

You burst through the door, thankful that it wasn’t locked, and your feet skidded to a stop.

Putting a hand to your mouth, you watched in horror as Kai lay on the bed, his hands tied with chains to the bedposts as he writhed in agony.

“Leave!” he bellowed, his voice making you take a step back.

You were afraid—you weren’t going to lie about that—but you were more worried for him than anything else. Refusing to heed to his commands, you scurried across the room and knelt by his side.

“What is this?” you asked, touching the cuffs that chained his wrists. The metal glowed and emitted a soft hum when your fingers made contact, and that only seemed to make things worse for Kai.

His fangs grew, his pupils contracted as he shook in pain, curled up and staring at the wall. “Please,” he rasped. “Leave me.”

You ignored him again and pressed a hand to his cheek. “What’s wrong?” you asked him, desperate to help. “What do you need? I brought some fresh blood. Would that help?”

His only answer was more hissing, as if your touch seared his skin.

You pulled away and saw that his bedroom floor was a mess with bags upon empty bags of animal blood. This seemed more than he drank in a week. This was wrong.

A pop came from the chains and suddenly Kai’s body went limp like he’d just been electrocuted. You climbed onto the bed beside him to make sure he was still okay.

His eyelids were heavy, but he seemed to be looking at you this time. “Sugar…” he murmured.

“Kai, what’s happening?” Your voice was panicked and you found that you were on the verge of tears. You had never seen him like this. He was your strong, capable boss. A freaking vampire. How could a set of metal links bring him down like this?

His lips curved into a smirk, as if this whole torturous situation was funny somehow. “I seem to have gotten in over my head.”

“What are you talking about?” You looked to the bedposts and tried to untangle the chains. You were desperate to free him. “Who did this? How do I get these off?”

“Don’t. You can’t.” Kai’s voice was gargled, as if he was expending every ounce of energy to find his words. “I did this to myself.”

You rubbed your eyes from behind your glasses, brushing away any tears that threatened to flow. You were scared, but you needed your vision to help Kai. It was still possible. It had to be. “Then undo it!”

“I can’t.” He rolled onto his back with a grunt and stared up at the ceiling. You put a hand to his forehead, dabbing away the sweat that gathered. “I took too much of your blood last week.”

You drew in a breath. “My blood?”

His throat worked as if each word was a struggle. “I hadn’t had human blood in years, sugar. I used to lose control over it and lost a lot of people who were close to me. I vowed never to drink human blood again.”

“That’s why you drink only animal blood,” you whispered, looking at the empty bags on the ground.

He nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his cheek to your palm. “But I couldn’t resist you that night. I took what I wanted because I’m a selfish bastard.” His dark chuckle echoed through the air. “And now my body wants more.”

“Is that why you called in sick for a week?” You bit your lip, exasperated. “Why you avoided me?”

“When you’re close, it…” He sighed and you had to take that as a sign of defeat. “It hurts to fight it.”

“So what? You chained yourself to your bed knowing I was coming here with my human blood?”

His eyes cracked open and you saw a glimmer of humour in them. “What would you have me do? Suck you dry? I’ve already depleted my stash of animal blood. The chains were my last option.” He tugged at his wrists and they glowed for a second. “They’re charmed to hold me back so that I don’t hunt you down in a bloodthirsty craze.”

“You stupid, stupid man.” Pulling off your jacket, you set it carefully on the chair in the corner of the room and then unbuttoned the top half of buttons on your blouse. Kai’s nostrils flared as you climbed back into bed beside him. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“A-ask?” His pupils were back to pinpoints and he had a hard time looking away from your neck as you pulled down the collar of your shirt.

Boldly, you kissed his jaw and then his ear. You were already in his bed; there was no point in being shy now. “I know I’m just your secretary, but I would not mind being bitten if you had just asked.”

He sucked in a breath and the chains clinked again as he tugged on his restraints. “Sugar…”

“You didn’t hurt me last time. It felt amazing.” You giggled as you brushed a finger across his lips, careful not to prick your finger on his fang. “And besides, I’m on my period so I’m losing blood already. What’s another ounce or two, right?”

He groaned and his knee came up, pressing against the apex of your thighs. You shifted, realizing you were already turned on. “Get up here,” he growled.

Confused, you lifted your head. “What? I’m right here.”

He shoved a knee between your legs again.

“Hey!” You put a hand down there to stop him. It hurt a little, but you were already aching that it reminded you of his prodding hard-on from last week.

“Get up here,” he said, lifting his chin. “I want your pussy on my mouth. I’ll drink your blood there.”

You jaw went slack.

He was going to eat you out? While you were on your period?

He seemed to hear your thoughts through your shocked expression. He licked his fangs and grinned. “Wouldn’t wanna waste what’s already flowing, after all.”

You moaned and tore off your pants. A second later, they were on the floor. Biting your lip, you wondered if you should take off your underwear in the bathroom. You wanted to throw your pad out before you got into bed with him. Pulling down your panties just a little bit, you checked how saturated your pad actually was.

“Quickly,” Kai barked.

You squeaked at the command in his voice and dragged the underwear down, pad and all. You swore you were blushing all the way up to your hairline as you saw a drop of blood clinging to the pad.

Your embarrassment was interrupted by Kai’s hungry growl.

His eyes were narrow slits, focused on the spot between your legs. He bared his fangs and his arms were shaking with the force that he used to hold onto the chains. The hum got louder and you knew you didn’t have much time before the chains unleashed another powerful pop to shock Kai’s system and cool him down.

“I’m here, Kai. I’m here.” You didn’t know if he heard you as you carefully crawled up his chest, hoping you weren’t leaving a bloody trail there. Perched above his face, you put one hand on the headboard to steady yourself. Your other hand held your shirt out of the way so you could see his face and make sure you weren’t suffocating him.

You watched, uneasy, as a drop of blood landed on his lips. He licked it off, staring at you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re wet for me, sugar. I can taste both you and your blood.”

Moaning out of horniness and sheer embarrassment, you closed your eyes and lowered your thighs, closing the space between his mouth and your body.

It was warm. You were warm. You began panting the moment you touched his lips.

Then something snapped.

You opened your eyes and saw that the chains had broken free from the bedposts. Arms clamped around your thighs, Kai’s thick fingers digging into your soft flesh, holding you hostage.

And his tongue unleashed its torture on you. You felt it deep inside, lapping up what blood it could find, and then it curved upward, hitting a sensitive spot near the entrance. You trembled as his tongue darted in and out, fucking you senseless as he held you in place.

Kai made noises of satisfaction as he drank what he could. Even when you tried to pull away to give him some air, he only pulled you down closer. Did vampires not have to breathe either?

“Kai,” you panted. “I’m going to…”

He made an incoherent noise as his lips tightened around your clit and made a soft suckle.

You pitched forward, trying to stay still because you knew he still bared his fangs and you did not want to be sliced up down there. But you were about to come.

And if last week was any sort of indicator, you knew how messy it was when you came.

You arched back, reaching a hand behind you and finding his length straining against his pants. You palmed him, hoping to distract him so you could get some respite before you drowned him with your release.

A growl came from deep within his throat, and somehow the vibration made your legs quiver. You stroked him harder, hoping to delay your orgasm just a little longer.

All of a sudden, your world turned upside down and you were flat on your back, the air punched out of you. You stared at the ceiling, unsure of what had just happened.

Kai appeared in your circle of vision, pushing your knees up and guiding his cock through your swollen slit. You whimpered at the sight. His hair was mussed, sticking up in strange angles. The metal cuffs were still on his wrists, his fangs were still extended, and his shirt was in all sorts of disarray. He looked like a monster.

A beautiful monster.

And you were going to be his dinner.

“Trying to distract me?” he asked, his lips turned up into a dark grin. You were surprised to find that there was no trace of blood on his mouth. You looked down and saw no blood left on you either.

Only his steel rod of a dick, wetting itself on your juices.

“You already drank everything down there,” you explained, panting as a drop of precum beaded on the tip of his cock and he used it to flick your throbbing clit. “I’m just trying to quicken the natural progression of things.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, really. Your mind was too fuddled in anticipation.

Kai leaned in, amused, and fixed the glasses that sat on your face with a nudge of his finger. You realized then that his pupils were back to normal. The Kai you knew was back. “Is that so?” Your mouth fell open as he pushed into your entrance slowly. “Is this the natural progression you were looking for?”

Inch by aching inch, he slid inside, making your eyes roll back into your head. You gasped for air as he seated himself deep inside you, adjusting so that he could fit all of him in. Your body had just taken him last week, yet you had seemed to have forgotten how big he was. Or maybe he had grown bigger.

Who knew what vampires could do?

“Wait!” You grabbed his hand just as he was pulling your ankles up, ready to go to town.

He froze, unblinking.

Your head fell back, unable to hold yourself up. “We need a towel. I don’t want to make a mess.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t seem to hear you as he threw your legs behind his shoulders and began pumping in and out of you.

You cried out as your legs shook. Your body was already primed for a huge orgasm and you didn’t know if you could hold it back any longer. “Kai, I’m serious!”

“You forget I’m a vampire,” he grunted, fucking you without mercy. “I’m an expert at cleaning blood stains.”

You didn’t know why that was so hot. Why an image of Kai putting laundry in the washing machine was the last thing you saw before stars filled your vision and you seemed to rise off the bed in a wild orgasm. But you couldn’t help it. Not when he was almost punishing in the way he pushed your body toward climax after climax.

You just found it hotter.

You wanted him to use your body for his pleasure because you knew it brought him pleasure too. And you knew he would never hurt you, not when he would rather chain himself than cause you any harm.

With that thought, you remembered one more thing.

Ripping the buttons of your shirt, you pushed the necklace he gave you out of the way and bared your neck for him. You were too far gone to talk so you just hoped he got the message.

With a roar, he came at your throat and you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the piercing of the fangs, the wash of venom to hit your veins.

But nothing.

Instead, he let out pained grunts as he suckled on the skin of your neck. His hips rocked sporadically against you and then you felt hot jets of his seed inside.

“Mine,” he growled, licking and sucking different spots down your chest. “You’re mine, sugar.”

Oh, the man was definitely leaving hickeys wherever he could.

You grabbed his face, pulling him up so he could meet your serious gaze. “Listen to me, Kai.”

His fangs were slightly extended and you wondered if he was all there, but his eyes seemed to be seeing you clearly. His hips were still pumping inside you, dumping all the seed they could.

“Mine,” he said again as his eyes softened and he looked at your lips, your nose, you eyes.

“I’m yours, Kai,” you promised. “But you have to be mine, too. Tell me when things go wrong.”

He nodded, though you noticed his hands shook as they stroked your thighs.

“No more hiding, all right?”

Solemnly, he nodded again. This time ducking his head to give you a languid kiss on the lips to seal his vow. “Anything for you, sugar.”

—

I wrote this the day after I posted the first part because I got the message in my inbox and then I went to reread part 1 and I was like “………I know how I can make Kai suffer ( ಠ‿ಠ) “ So I spent five hours of my day off sitting at a library to write this LOOOOOOOOOOOOOL s’all good, not like I had any other plans anyway hahahahahhahahahahhahaha

I hope you guys liked the story because it’s always soooo fun to make Kai suffer and then have sex afterwards :—–) Can somebody write up his backstory where he pushes away important people in his life thanks to his reaction to human blood and therefore does not want to inflict the same fate on his little secretary? JKJK. Oh I’m also proud of myself for writing about period sex when, for once in my goddamn life, I’m not on my period! Amazing.

One more thing: I tried to redeem myself with my lack of BDSM in Part One by adding some chains and a scarier Kai in Part Two.

Hehehe.

Until next time~

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Fallen Idols: Final Part

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,811

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Yahtzee,” Sam grinned.

“What is it?” you asked with your head on Dean’s shoulder as he messed with his laptop. Sam wanted him to do some research, but he was playing an internet game secretly.

“The seeds aren't from around here. In fact, they're not from any tree or plant in the country. They’re from Eastern Europe from a forest in the Balkans, which is not even there anymore. It was chopped down, like, thirty years ago. Apparently, local legend has it that the forest was guarded by a pagan god whose name was Leshi. Um, a mischievous god, could take on infinite forms and feed from his worshipers. He could only be appeased with the blood from his worshippers. It would drain 'em, then stuff their stomachs with the seeds.”

“Okay, so how's he doing it? What, he touches James Dean's keychain and then morphs into James Dean?” you wondered as you got up from the bed.

“Hm. It's as good a guess as any.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. How do we kill him?” Dean asked the important question.

“Says here to chop off his head with an iron axe.”

“All right. Let's go gank ourselves a Paris Hilton,” he said with the most serious face he could muster up.

Being back at the wax museum was mortifying, but there was a teenage girl’s life on the line. A flashlight was in one hand while you tiptoed through the museum, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Sam and Dean split up in different directions until you heard Sam whistle for you and Dean to join him. Walking over to the tallest Winchester, you noticed two signs on the door which might be where Leshi is. “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS” and “DANGER DO NOT ENTER” hung on the door. Rolling your eyes, you broke the latch with your magic before entering the place. Dean had the axe ready to use in case Paris Hilton does show up.

The room was decorated to be like a clearing in the woods with a path leading up the middle to a white house with a wax figure of a man in a suit standing on the front porch. Upon entering, you noticed a woman tied to one of the trees, and you knew it must be Danielle. Pushing past the brothers, you barely made it to the girl before the axe in Dean’s hand went flying into the trunk of another nearby tree.

Leshi appeared behind Dean with a wicked smile before punching him multiple times in the face which caused him to crumble to the ground.

“Go help. I got her,” you whispered to Sam who rushed over to help. 

Leshi flipped her hair as you worked the girls’ binds. Leshi shoved Sam as hard as she could into the post of the fake house, effectively knocking him out.

“Awesome,” she grinned. 

She raised her stiletto-clad foot and stomped on Dean’s face which knocked him out. She finally turned to you with an evil smile.

“I don’t think so,” she declared as she raised her hand to use her powers to send your head flying into the tree that the girl was tied to. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you collapsed in darkness.

The sound of metal sliding against metal is what woke you up. The ground is what you saw first, and you realized from the restraints on your hands was that you were tied just like the young woman. Sam and Dean woke up not too long after you, and Leshi grinned when she realized you three were awake.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're awake for this. This is gonna be huge.”

“Super. Yeah, I wouldn't wanna miss it,” Dean grumbled. 

He looked over at you just as your eyes flashed blue to let him know you were going to get the ropes untied before doing the same to his and Sam’s.

“I mean, I've been stuffing myself with fast food lately. So, it's nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice, slow meal for a change,” she grinned as she filed her nails against the carving knife she had in her hands which was causing sparks.

“Just like the good old days, huh?”

“You have no idea. People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, with smiles on their faces.”

“Yeah, I guess these days nobody gives a flying shit about some backwoods forest god, huh?” Dean snapped, and Leshi stopped filing her nails with a threatening glare.

“No, not since they cut down my forest and built a Yugo plant.”

“March of progress, sister,” he chuckled. Focusing all of your attention to the binds, you felt your magic dance around your wrist as they began to untie the ropes to set you free.

“For years now, I've been wandering, hungry, and scared. Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy. But then, the best thing ever happened. Someone tripped the apocalypse, and I thought, what the hell, I'm tired of watching what I eat. I wanna pig out. So, I found this little place. It's awesome. Adoring fans stroll right in the door.”

“Yeah. But they're not your fans,” Sam tried to reason.

“So? They worship Lincoln, Gandhi, Hilton... whatever. I'll take what I can get.”

“You know, I gotta tell you, you are not the first God we've met, but you are... the nuttiest,” Dean chuckled. Your binds were loose enough so they fell, and you kept your hands where they were to keep up with the illusion that you were still bound before shooting your magic over to Dean’s wrist secretly to have his binds untied.

“No, you, you people, you're the crazy ones. You used to worship Gods. But this? This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What have they got besides small dogs and spray tans? You people used to have old-time religion. Now you have Us Weekly.”

“I don't know, I'm more of a Penthouse Forum man myself,” Dean smirked with a wink as his binds fell to the ground. He kept his hands here as well just as your magic bounced from his wrist to Sam’s.

“Maybe,” she stalked over to Dean, “but... there's still a lot of yummy meat on those bones, boy.”

“Well I hate to break it to you, sister, but, uh... you can't eat me. See, I'm not a Paris Hilton BFF. I've never even seen House of Wax.”

“No. But I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy. Am I right?” she smirked and walked over to the axe she threw into the tree earlier. “And this belonged to him. Didn't it? Poor little Dean. All you ever wanted was to be loved by your idol. One distant father figure, coming right up.”

“Not today, bitch,” you grinned as your eyes flashed a bright blue.

She turned around just as a ball of blue magic hit her square in the face. She stumbled a bit from the impact, and Dean raced at her before tackling her to the ground. The binds on Sam’s wrists snapped, and he wasted no time in rushing over to the axe before yanking it out of the tree. Leshi punched Dean before you sent another ball of magic straight to her chest which knocked her off your boyfriend. She groaned as her healed lolled on the ground seconds before Sam brought the axe down on her neck… again… and again… and again… and then a final time. Her head rolled off to the side as blood poured from her body.

Panting, you looked over at Danielle who moaned in pain. Rushing over to her, you placed your fingers at her neck to search for a pulse. It was barely there, but there nonetheless.

“She’s alive. Barely, but still.”

“Not a word,” Dean groaned as he pointed a finger at his brother who had blood sprayed over half of his face.

“Dude. You just got whaled on by Paris Hilton!”

“Shut up,” Dean groaned in pain.

After the motel was packed and cleaned out, you and the brothers left with your bags slung over your shoulders as Dean hung up the phone.

“That was Sheriff Carnegie. Danielle's gonna be all right. She's sworn off The Simple Life, but other than that, she’s going to be okay.”

“Glad to hear it,” you nodded.

“It gets better. Sheriff's putting out an APB on Paris Hilton. That ought to be good,” he laughed as he took out his keys and opened the trunk of the car. Putting your bags inside with the boys’, Dean sighed as he looked at his brother.

“Hey, listen, I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keeping too tight of a leash on you. Hell, maybe you're right. I mean, look, I'm not exactly Mister Innocent in this whole mess either, you know. I did break the first seal.”

“You didn't know.”

“Yeah, well, neither did you.”

“I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most,” you sighed. Even though you had nothing to do with the apocalypse, you still had guilt for shutting Sam out when he needed you the most.

“I'm not saying demon blood was a great way to go, but, you did kill Lilith.”

“And start the apocalypse.”

“Which neither of us saw coming, I mean, who'd have thought killing Lilith would've been a bad thing? Point is, I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you. So, for that I'm sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” you added.

“Thanks,” Sam nodded as Dean closed the trunk.

“So, where do we go from here?” Dean asked.

“The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this. Maybe I am on deck for the devil, maybe same with you and Michael and Y/N with Amara, maybe there's no changing that. But, we can stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick its ass, and go down fighting.”

“That we can do,” you grinned.

“Okay. But we're gonna have to do it on the same level.”

“You got it,” Dean agreed. “I say we get the hell outta here.”

“Yes, please,” you nodded. Sam and Dean were about to go their respective ways when Deans topped his brother with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you wanna drive?” Dean offered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I could, uh... I could use a nap.”

“Hell shot gun!” you grinned before rushing to the front of the car. Both brothers laughed at this before Sam took the keys from his hand. Everyone got into the car before Sam started it and drove off.

“Next time, I’m driving,” you declared.

“Keep dreaming, sweetheart,” Dean grinned teasingly.

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[aerinmelina]

Growing up, I used to spend summers with my mom’s parents. They lived in a lakeside community which was also near an ocean, and I enjoyed fishing and swimming and boating and crabbing and such as a teenager.

Anyway. During the summer between my 6th and 7th grade years, my parents bought a house and decided to surprise me by having it all ready by the time I came home from my grandparents’ house at the end of the season. I remember walking into the house - I’d been there before, because it had previously been owned by friends of ours - and my mom said we were house-sitting when I asked her why we were here when our friends weren’t. She then led me from room to room and kept asking questions like, “Why do you think they put this in here?” and “Why do you think they painted this room pink?”

I wasn’t stupid. I know that Something Was Up. I just never imagined that my parents would have bought a house at all, let alone this one.

“Maybe they’re expecting a daughter?” I said. It wasn’t a baseless assumption; the couple who had owned the house previously were young and the wife had been pregnant.

“No, it’s because this is your room now!”

My thoughts at the time?

Pink. Oh my gosh. It’s pink. Whyyyyyyy.

Hang on. Is my mom letting me move in with this family? I mean. I’ll miss my dad and brother. But like. Why this family? I like them fine, but I don’t want to live with them.

(^^That is literally how far fetched I believed the idea of my parents owning a house was. They were terrible with money. The worst. And houses cost money. Lots of it.)

Anyway. My mom was offended that I was offended because my room was bright pink when, at the time, I was going through this tomboy phase and liked all things blue and black and she knew that and she painted my room anyway in her attempt to “girlify” me, which was not lost on me at all, and which I was equally annoyed with.

I digress. I had a new, pink bedroom in a new-to-us house. With a back yard. Which wasn’t next to a metal factory, so that meant my brother and I could actually play outside without like. Worrying about getting metal shavings imbedded in our feet. (Story for another day.)

Along with this move came a switch in middle schools. My parents fought hard to keep my brother in his elementary school, but they didn’t even ask to try and keep me in my middle school. I was 12. I would have to make brand new friends. I was pretty shy. I was not happy about this. At all.

I remember going to my new school to fill out enrollment forms and such. The school was literally 3 minutes away from our new house, just up the street; I would be walking to and from school every day, something which I was actually kind of looking forward to. If I could look forward to anything. I hated this. I didn’t ask to move. Our apartment had been just fine.

Anyway. Sitting in the main office at the new school, I was given a list of elective classes and was told to number them in order of my all-star favorite to please-don’t-put-me-in-this-class least favorite. The office staff told me that because I was enrolling so late, a lot of the classes had already filled up, but they would do their best to put me in the classes I wanted to take along with the standard courses that every student would be taking. I looked at the list. Choir :), Accelerated P.E. (wow that sounded like a nightmare), Art :), Metal Shop!!, Wood Shop!!, Drama (nah), Speech (Super Nope!!!), and a few others which I’ve forgotten by now.

My list went something like this:

Choir

Wood Shop

Art

Metal Shop

Accelerated P.E.

Drama

Speech

Speech was at the absolute bottom of my list. The office staff told me that the teacher for Drama and Speech was amazing, talked him up, and asked me why I didn’t want to take that class. I said I was shy and had a fear of public speaking. Duh. They kind of grimaced and looked at each other, then said, “We’ll do our best,” and sent my mom and I on our way back home.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw Speech on my class list a week or so later. I wouldn’t have it until second semester, thankfully, but I was already dreading it.

Seventh grade at this new school wound up being a lot of fun, if I’m being perfectly honest. I hated being the new kid at first, but made friends with another new kid who was way more outgoing than I was, and together we eventually made friends with more people. I have lots of stories to share there, but today I wanted to talk about Speech Class.

My speech teacher was, well… let’s call him Mr. Jones. He was outgoing, had clear expectations, was pretty mellow, and honestly? He was charismatic and the entire student body loved him.

I was a nervous wreck when I stepped into his classroom for the first time (and for most of the following times thereafter as well). For whatever reason, I had no problems singing solos in front of the whole school (and I did so twice that year), but the idea of public speaking was petrifying. And I even had lots of opportunities to practice that through both my church and school.

(I know I’m not alone in this sentiment.)

One of the first things Mr. Jones told us was that by the end of the semester, we would be able to deliver speeches and oral reports without using “filler words” such as “like”, “um”, and “er.” He also told us that our vocabulary would expand considerably, thanks to weekly tests he would be giving us (noooo). And we would be delivering speeches to one another on a weekly basis as well, on a variety of different subjects, and those speeches would increase in length as the semester drew on. All students were to compliment each presenting student on something they did well with each speech they gave, and critique would be solely left to Mr. Jones to provide. (Which was good, because let’s face it, 7th grade kids can be positively evil to each other.) Mr. Jones made it clear that we were not to judge or criticize anyone else’s speeches, and told us that he trusted us to keep each other’s speeches confidential. He explained that he wanted his classroom to be a safe place for us to talk about whatever we wanted; things we enjoyed, books we loved, problems we had, negative life experiences, positive life experiences, etc.

These were all very important factors which, honestly, influenced and changed my life for the better. I’ll get into that in a bit.

Mr. Jones’ class was tough. And I was terrified. I tried to drop his class, but was assured by the office that all of the other half-year elective classes were full; I didn’t have any other options. So I bit the bullet and decided to try my best. I would call no more attention to myself than I absolutely had to, I would try to not fail the vocabulary tests, and I would listen to others and provide sincere compliments. I would also - gulp - do my best at giving public speaking a shot.

I don’t exactly remember the method which Mr. Jones used in order to get us to stop using “filler words” in our speeches, but it worked. I don’t remember specific vocabulary words I was forced to memorize, but he was right; my understanding of the English language, and the number of words in my arsenal, greatly expanded. And I learned several important lessons:

Courage doesn’t mean that there’s an absence of fear. It means that you follow through with what you know is right, regardless of however much fear you are feeling.

Sometimes we are given tasks which we feel are way above our ability to manage. These are times when we must challenge ourselves to rise to the occasion.

(Going along with #2) You never know what you are capable of until you are put to the test. You’d be surprised at what you can personally accomplish.

Other people have different experiences than you; you can choose to listen and learn from their experiences, and you can 100000% do so without being a jerkface to them, too.

Teenagers are capable of respecting the people around them, are capable of empathy, and are capable of keeping confidentiality/maintaining bonds of trust. These are powers which teenagers do possess, and powers which they absolutely can control, utilize, and choose to exercise. (I was deeply impressed by my fellow classmates.)

One semester of a speech class didn’t cure my fear of public speaking. Not at all. But it did give me valid tools which I still use to this day. It gave me a lot of confidence in my capabilities to gather my thoughts on a piece of paper, organize them into a cohesive flow, and then be able to read those thoughts aloud without stumbling all over them. Mr. Jones laid the foundation for me to begin to think critically. To really consider my words before I write or say them. He drilled into my brain that I had a voice, and that it was a voice worth sharing and being listened to. Those are lessons I will never forget. And, because of Mr. Jones and everything I learned from him, I entered a career field which ultimately led to me speaking in public on a regular basis. I am a leader in my office. I provide training for our new and existing employees. I am aiming to become a manager within the next couple of years.

I’m still nervous when it comes to public speaking (especially during those times when I am speaking in a courtroom). I will probably always be nervous about it. I have been extremely close to vomiting from nerves in the past. But you know what? I’ve spoken before, I’ve survived, I’ve been successful at it, and I’ll do it again in the future. My confidence really started to blossom with my 7th grade speech class, where I received tons of practice, and that practice was further compounded by other speaking opportunities at school and church as well.

Mr. Jones was an excellent human being. He was well-loved for a million reasons. He believed in us, and we didn’t want to prove him wrong.

I believe in you, too. I say this, because I know that a lot of you need to hear it. I’m being sincere. I believe in you. You can do hard things. You can make it through.

[ankhlesbian]

FEFemlash February - Day 2 - flower crowns

Game: FE Three Houses

Pairing:  Leonie/Hilda

Rating/Length: T for canon-typical violence, ~1.5k words

Leonie and Hilda are sent to collect plants for the Professor. It's an easy enough task... until it isn't. Fodlan really could use less plot-convenient bandits.

Hilda groaned. For the fifth time in the last twenty minutes alone. Leonie had lost count of how many times she’d heard that in the past hour that they’d been on the road together. It had been funny the first time, but now Leonie was just sick of it.

“Hey, no one’s forcing you to come along. Feel free to go ahead and turn back if you’re just gonna be sour company.”

“Actually, I am being forced. Professor Byleth found out about all the weekly chores I wasn’t doing. It was this or shoveling pegasus dung.” Hilda sighed dramatically, taking one hand off the reins to wipe at her forehead.

“Good to know you like me more than pegasus poop,” Leone replied dryly.

“Well, I thought I’d be able to sleep on the way, which is why I chose this. But the road’s way too bumpy!”

“You can have a nap before we head back. After you help me gather the flowers the Professor wants.” Leonie patted the side-pouch she’d tucked the alarmingly lengthy parchment into.

“I swear they made up that list just to punish us. There’s no way one person needs all those useless flowers. They’re pretty sure, but we have most of those in the Greenhouse. This is a waste of time.”

“I think I saw some poisonous ones on here. Too dangerous to just keep in a public space.”

Hilda squawked in disbelief. “Were they gonna warn us?”

“They did. I even have gloves.” Leonie stared her down until Hilda averted her gaze with another groan. Leonie knew Hilda didn’t hate doing anything. Leonie was wearing a charm Hilda had made for her, all of her own volition. She supposed it made sense to only want to put effort into things you were interested in. It just seemed pointless of Hilda to come all the way to Garreg Mach if training, let alone fighting, wasn’t one of those interests.

She would never say it in front of Hilda, but Leonie was also a bit miffed at being asked to run errands an hour away from the monastery. Sure, knowing some common harmful and helpful plants was a good survival skill to have, but picking a bunch of random flowers didn’t exactly seem relevant to any kind of training. Training to be a florist, maybe.

But at least it was an excuse to get to ride. She gave her mount a friendly pat on the neck. “It’s fun to stretch your legs to some new scenery, huh?”

“I bet my horse would rather be napping. I’m sorry, poor girl, the Professor’s a big meanie.” Hilda cooed.

Leonie elected to let that comment slide, lest she get drawn into another circular argument. They were close enough now that she didn’t need the distraction.

They found themselves, appropriately, in a large meadow. One of the edges bordered the damp ground of a swamp, which was where Leonie suspected the more dubious plants would be growing.

“I call not the muddy side,” Hilda made a face. Leonie rolled her eyes, but let out a little huff of amusement. She hadn’t expected any less.

“We’ll make it fair.” Leonie pulled out their list and ripped it cleanly in half, handing Hilda her portion along with a pair of gloves. “Don’t slack. I’ll be watching!”

“Yeah, yeah, the sooner I finish the sooner I can be back in my room, you know.”

Fair enough. Leonie would leave her to it, then. She focused on her own tasks. All the swampy flowers were on her list, so she opted to gather those first. Give the muck some time to try before she put her feet anywhere near her horse.

It was a cloudy day, so the sun wasn’t as merciless as it could’ve been. But, it was still late spring-time, still hot enough to make Leonie crave some water like nothing else, though. It’d be a reward for when she was halfway done.

On her way to retrieve her flask from her horse, she snuck a peek over at Hilda. She was crouched down, diligently plucking flowers. And… weaving them together.

“Hilda!” She turned to face her fully, hands on her hips. Couldn’t that wait ‘til they were done?

Hilda looked up, face poised to argue, and then her eyes widened. “Leonie! Behind you!”

And then Leonie felt an arrow dig into her shoulder, sending her staggering forward. She caught herself before she fell, whirling around to keep herself between the enemy and Hilda as she drew her bow. Her bow and quiver were slung over her back, and they had managed to block most of the impact, so she could still shoot.

Well, she’d shoot if she could see anyone. She heard Hilda scrambling to her feet behind her. Had she packed a weapon?

“Bandits?”

“What do you want? Come out and face us!”

The forest around them was silent, and then came three more arrows, released too quickly together to be from just one person. Leonie swore and ducked, hoping Hilda was doing the same.

There were no more arrows, but there was squelching. They’d been hiding in the swamp?

“Yer students of Garreg Mach, aren’t ya?” Of the three ruffians who emerged, this one was clearly the leader. They were all dressed in drab clothes, covered in various stains and tears, but this guy was the largest, and he had the most impressive weapon. A large, silver axe, untarnished. He must’ve acquired it recently for it to be in such good condition.

“And what about it?” Leonie kept her bow trained right on the boss’ forehead, more as a threat than anything. She didn’t want go straight to lethal shots. She’d be faster than either of his two lackeys. Or else they were both toast. Leonie had brought her lance, but it was on her horse’s saddle. No chance to grab it now.

“Lots of children of nobles. Bet yer family’s would pay a pretty ransom for yer safe return.”

“There’s commoners there, too. You’re looking at one.” There really wasn’t any way to pass Hilda off as a commoner, though. And even this guy was smart enough to know it.

“Get them!”

Leonie let her arrows fly, going for the uncovered parts of the sidekicks. One arrow pierced right into his knee, sending him tumbling to the ground. It wouldn’t be a deep hit, but it would help. She got the other grunt in the shoulder (hah! payback!), and then he was on her, sword drawn.

She deflected the first hit with the metal limb of her bow, stepping backwards she went. If she could just get to her horse—

Except, the boss had gone to the side and was right behind her. Her only warning was the sound of metal whooshing through the air. She twisted at the last second, and instead of having her head chopped off, the axe tore through her collarbone and chest. And now her back was exposed to the other man’s sword.

“HIYAH!”

The head of a lance appeared inches from Leonie’s side, sticking straight through the stomach of the lackey. The boss jumped back as Leonie fell to one knee, clutching her wound. Hilda withdrew the lance, whirling it menacingly as she stepped in front of Leonie.

“I was already sweaty, and now look. Why didn’t you guys just mind your own business?”

The lance had a disadvantage at such close range, especially with Leonie in the way. She fumbled for her bow. It was dented, but she could still help. He went for a hefty swing, feet planted firm, that Hilda deftly caught, lance held horizontal across her face. He had left himself wide open. Leonie fired, right at the radial nerve. The man grunted as his hand involuntarily flexed, his grip on the axe loosened. So of course Hilda jerked the lance up, tearing his weapon from his hands.

“I’ll be taking this. Leonie, catch.” Hilda tossed the lance away with one hand, smugly catching the axe with the other. Leonie smiled weakly through her pain, groping for the lance and using it to stand herself back up as Hilda finished off the two remaining foes. Unfortunate, that such a peaceful day had come to that. But she supposed the mercenary life wouldn’t really be any better. Better to get used to it now.

“Hey, are you okay?” Hilda was frowning, right in front of Leonie now, peering at her wound. “I don’t know any of that first aid stuff.”

The ache was fading now, and the bleeding had mostly stopped. “It looks worse than it is,” Leonie assured her, taking a moment to retrieve her jacket from her waist and press it to her chest. “Oh- oh no!”

Hilda looked around. “What? What?”

“I- it’s silly. But I was wearing that charm you made for me. I, uh, think it got caught in the crossfire. Your hard work’s been wasted.” she said mournfully. It didn’t have the same rustic appeal to it that Geralt’s did, but it had still been a thoughtful gift from a friend. A friend she’d spent all day arguing with. “I’m sorry.”

Hilda gaped, hands fluttering up to help hold Leonie’s compress. “I can make another one. A better one. There’s plenty of good material here. What do you think I was collecting extras for? Just shut up for now.”

Maybe she’d lost more blood than she’d thought. She let herself be man-handled back towards her horse, wound now thoroughly wrapped.

“The Professor can come get the rest themself if this is what’s going to happen,” Hilda grumbled. “You! You’re not getting this kind of effort out of me again, so you better savor it. My gentle, tender, nurturing touch. And.. don’t die. I’m making you an even better charm. This one will bring good luck. And be made of stronger materials.” And then Hilda sighed, and pressed a kiss to Leonie’s cheek.

Her face went warm. So she still had some blood left after all. “No dying. Got it.” How could she, knowing what she had to look forward to? It’d be a waste.

[starker-stories]

An Accord (WIS), Chapter 4

I’ll be re-creating my individual chapter posts for An Accord over here on the blog that replaces starkerstories. Until I hit the current chapter, I’ll be posting daily. They’ll have links to both tumblr and AO3 chapter links. I’m sorry if that bothers people who’ve seen this all before in the tag. I’m content to leave all my other fic as AO3 only, but this is my current favorite child, so I’m spoiling it rotten.

This fic is on a weekly update schedule. Hopefully every Friday. (After I finish the repost.) More chapters may appear sooner if the writing is going well. Because I have 0 self-control.

Tumblr Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13 AO3 Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13

Tags: Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyamory, Cheating, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Domestic Nightmare Tony Stark, Reconciliation, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, WinterIronSpider, Happy Ending, Clothed Sex, Domesticity, Peter Parker is legal age in the state of New York, College Student Peter Parker, Takes place about 2 years after Civil War. Closeted Character

Summary: “I’m gonna go start dinner because otherwise you two will never eat. How did you survive before I took up residence in Tony’s kitchen?” ——————————————————————————————

Chapter 4: Like a fuckin’ sleeping kitten

Bucky knocked quietly on the master bedroom door. There wasn’t an answer, but that was clearly Peter’s voice crying out for help. And the kid wasn’t stopping. Hesitantly, he turned the doorknob. “Peter?”

“Help! Somebody help him!”

Peter was alone in bed, on his stomach, arms splayed out, fists grabbing the sheets, his body twisting. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed.

“Peter.” He’d never had to deal with anyone else’s nightmares before. “Peter, it’s Bucky.” He tried to remember the things the kid had said to him. “You’re safe. You’re in Stark Tower. You’re in Tony’s bed. You’re safe Peter.” He didn’t know much about someone else’s nightmares, but he knew enough about his own. Don’t touch him. Don’t stop him from flailing. Don’t try to shake him awake. Don’t turn on the bright lights. “Hey, Peter. It’s Bucky. You’re having a nightmare. It’s not real. You’re in your home.”

Peter’s vision was blurred with tears as he blinked his eyes open. “Tony?” he said in a small pained whine. He reached his hand out.

“It’s Bucky. You were having a nightmare. I don’t know where Tony is.”

“Oh.” Peter lay still, breathing shallowly but too fast.

Bucky reached over and touched Peter’s outstretched hand. “I’m here, Peter. It’s Bucky.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowed.

“You’re not awake yet, are you?”

“Tony?” Peter’s voice started to rise toward panic again.

“No. Bucky.” He looked down at his hand holding Peter’s. He changed hands. “Peter…” He spread Peter’s palm over the back of his metal hand. “It’s Bucky. You’re having a nightmare. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Peter’s fingers curled around Bucky’s hand. He smiled sleepily and blinked a few times. “Hey Bucky.”

“Hey Peter. Are you awake?”

“Uh huh.”

Bucky ducked his head to look into Peter’s face.

“Hi. I’m awake,” Peter said back. He rolled onto his side and curled up, still not letting go of Bucky’s hand.

“Where’s Tony?”

“Iron Man business. He had to leave right after we went to bed. FRIDAY, where’s Tony?”

“He’s in New Zealand, Peter. Should I tell him you need him?”

“No. I’m okay. Is that family okay?”

“Yes. The boss has the part of the building they’re in stabilized. He and Colonel Rhodes are searching for other survivors.”

“Don’t interrupt him, Fri. It was just a nightmare. Bucky’s here. I’m okay.” He bit his lip. “Good night FRIDAY,” he said reluctantly. He looked at Bucky. “He can’t be distracted right now and she’ll tell him.”

“Are you okay?”

Peter curled in tighter around the duvet. He shook his head.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head again.

“Wanna call Tony?”

Peter’s voice was small. “Can you… can you stay?”

“Sure, kid.”

Peter looked up at him. “You don’t mind?”

“Will Tony mind?”

“That you stayed to help me get over a nightmare? No.” He bit his lip again. “Can you… get in bed?”

Bucky climbed into the ridiculously huge bed and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Peter’s hand immediately took his metal one and held it.

“Do you mind? I know it’s you then.”

“It’s okay, Peter.” Bucky liked it that Peter and Tony both touched him on his left arm no differently than his right.

Peter balled himself up in the duvet. He put his head in Bucky’s lap, looking away from him. He picked up Bucky’s other hand and put it on his head. His sigh shuddered. And his breath hitched as he started to quietly cry.

Bucky wasn’t sure that Tony would see this as such an innocent sight if he were to walk in the door right then, but Peter was obviously a very tactile person when he was upset. He slowly started to thread his fingers through Peter’s hair. The boy’s tears stopped after a bit and his breaths evened out. Bucky could tell he’d fallen asleep.

He hadn’t realized he fell asleep as well until he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

“Shh. I don’t want to wake him up,” Tony whispered. “Didn’t want to wake you up either, but didn’t want you to kill me if you felt me climbing into bed,” Tony said smiling as he did so. “Nightmare?”

“Yes.”

Tony curled up against Peter’s back.

“I’ll go,” Bucky whispered.

“You’ll wake him up and Fri says he only fell sound asleep two hours ago.”

“New Zealand okay?” Bucky asked.

“Still to the right of Australia where I left it. You can go if you want. If he wakes up I’ll be here. Trying to sleep like that’s gotta be uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse positions. I don’t want to wake Peter up.”

“Can’t move because of him. Like a fuckin’ sleeping kitten.”

“Like a fuckin’ awake kitten,” Peter muttered, still half asleep. He reached back and pulled Tony’s arm around his waist. He still didn’t let go of Bucky’s metal hand. “’M tired. Shut up.”

~~~~~

FRIDAY woke them up to announce an urgent call from Maria Hill. None of them were still sleepers. Bucky had slid down fully onto the bed. Tony was sprawled half across Peter’s body. His arm had reached from around his waist to entirely cross the boy and was resting on Bucky’s knee. Peter still had a death-grip on Bucky’s hand, but had pulled it across the man’s body, twisting him, yet still managing to sneak himself in under his entire metal arm and was drooling onto Bucky’s t-shirt. His leg was bent back at an odd, starfish angle, caught underneath Tony’s.

“Fri? Did a wormhole open up above us?” Tony muttered.

“No boss.”

“Why the fuck are you waking me up?”

“Maria Hill is calling for Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky,” Tony corrected her, still asleep.

“Maria Hill is calling for Bucky. He’s an hour late for their debrief.”

“Fuck!” Bucky said, trying to disentangle himself. “Peter, let go. I’m late.”

“Be late,” Peter mumbled, in perfect imitation of Tony’s expression.

“I can’t. Let go, kid.”

“Ugh,” Peter reluctantly let go of Bucky’s hand and rolled over, pushing Tony onto his side and nestling himself against the man’s chest. He nuzzled against the arc reactor, and gave a sleepy chuckle. “I think I need tech to fall asleep.”

“Shut up and go back asleep, Pete. I had half a building dropped on me last night. I’m not getting up for anything less than a wormhole.”

“I’m going to need a lift to the compound.” Bucky tossed the duvet he’d knocked off the bed back onto it and over the sleeping couple.

“Fri?”

“On it boss. The helicopter will be waiting for you by the time you’ve finished getting ready, Bucky.”

“Thank you FRIDAY,” Bucky said as he headed for the bedroom door.

“Shut up, Bucky.”

“Shut up, Bucky.”

~~~~~

“FUCK!”

No one was in the penthouse when the helicopter dropped Bucky off from yet another day of debrief. The sound came from below.

“GODDAMMIT DUM-E! Are you trying to… Go. You’re useless. Wait. Bring me the… no not that one the other… Yes. Thank you. You get to live one more day.”

“Tony?” Bucky called out.

“Oh hell! How hard can getting this damn thing to work be! You are annoying the hell out of me, machine. Goddammit I have a PhD in physics, one in engineering, and one in robotics. How the hell can I not manage to adjust one… OUCH! FUCK!”

Bucky followed the expletives to their source, down a long flight of spiral stairs into a workshop. He still didn’t see Tony, but he saw an entire array of his armor stretched along one wall. And he saw Peter, hunched over a table with things hovering above it that looked like the battle game Luke Skywalker was playing with Chewbacca.

“Peter?”

There wasn’t an answer. Peter’s hands kept moving through the light, making things grow and spin and change. He was mumbling to himself. Bucky walked over to the table and stood opposite.

“Peter?”

“Fuck!” Peter said, jumping in his chair, sending the strands of light that were following his fingers off into nothingness. “FRIDAY, take it back to just before I added the catalyst.” He took the earpieces out and smiled. “Bucky. You’re home early.”

Loud clanging sounds and more cursing came from a level below where they were.

“Tony, you are not doing percussive maintenance on a transmission electron microscope, are you?” Peter shouted.

“Of course not, babe. I would NEVER do something like that.”

“You could just call Lawrence Berkeley to finish the…”

“They brought the damn thing here and set it up. I can complete the adjustments of a goddamn electron microscope on my own!”

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. “There are only FIVE others in the world and you are going to destroy the sixth!”

Bucky chuckled. “I’m gonna go start dinner because otherwise you two will never eat. How did you survive before I took up residence in Tony’s kitchen?”

“Menus,” Tony’s voice came from downstairs. “A whole drawer of them next to the fridge. This is New York. You want something, anything, ask FRIDAY. It appears.” Tony’s head appeared from the hole in the floor where the spiral staircase was. “Even a transmission electron microscope. Which is now adjusted, fully functional, and ready for me to work on the nanites..” The rest of Tony appeared.

Peter didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was drooling. Bucky at least hid it. He was a houseguest. It was inappropriate to drool over his host. Even if his host was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top, torn jeans, covered in sweat and dirt, and looking like sex on two legs.

Tony gave Peter a smirk. Peter smiled, got up from his workstation, and met Tony at the spiral stairs. He took Tony’s hand and led him up the next flight to the penthouse… and the bedroom… level.

“Sorry, pretty,” Tony said, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re on your own for dinner.”

[dannyphandump]

Dancing Around the Truth

Summary: The last thing Valerie wanted was to get caught up in Paulina’s plot to ask Phantom to the winter formal.  Unfortunately Paulina’s made sure she doesn’t have a choice.  Meanwhile, Danny just wants to finish his Algebra quiz.

Other Notes:  This is my Christmas Truce gift for @phantombreadproject!  She requested Danny revealing his secret to either Valerie or Paulina... unfortunately we’re not quite there yet in this chapter but don’t worry, we’re getting there!  I wish I could have finished the entire thing before posting it, but it keeps getting longer and I’m not sure I’ll have reliable access to tumblr on desktop over Christmas break (my home wifi is weird).  I have a lot more written than this part though and I will do my best to finish it soon!

This takes place a few months after D-Stabilized, and it ignores Phantom Planet (shocking, I know).  Also the characters are all juniors in high school because screw canon where no one ages

(Part 1 | Part 2 | to be continued)

(Read on AO3 | FFN)

Paulina smiled at the mirror when the weak fluorescent lights flickered out, plunging the girls’ restroom into icy darkness.  The blue ecto-powered emergency lights soon winked to life, confirming the presence of ghosts - and hopefully the ghost she most wanted to see.  Unfortunately, in the brief moment of darkness, she’d managed to smudge her lipstick. A tiny pink smear blotted her chin.

As she set down the lipstick and reached to rip off a paper towel, someone crashed through the door.  Paulina casually glanced up at the hot mess of a girl who’d burst in.

“Valerie?  If you’re here to fix your hair, it’s a bit late for that.”  The insult rolled too easily off of her tongue.  Valerie might have been her friend once, but that was so long ago it could have been a different lifetime.  Sometimes Paulina missed the other girl’s boldness - something most girls at this school lacked - but not enough to try to mend old wounds.  Not when she was always so… like this now.  The eerie lighting cast dark shadows under the other girl’s eyes.  Unless that was just a case of highly misapplied eyeshadow.

“Paulina, you do know there’s a ghost attack going on, right?”  Valerie said, jabbing a finger towards the blue lights.  

Of course she knew that.  She’d kept track of the ghost attack patterns over the past month; third period had the highest percentage of attacks besides lunch.  Why else would she bother reapplying her makeup so early in the day?

Paulina wetted the paper towel and dabbed it at her chin.  Her foundation would be smudged, but better that than having a pink smear down her face.

“Which means I need to look my best for Phantom, obviously.”  Her stomach fluttered just saying his name. It was an unusual feeling for her, but one that only made her more determined to talk to him again.

Valerie huffed, spinning on her heel.  “I don’t have time for this.”

She slammed open a stall door and threw the lock shut behind her.

Paulina would have wondered what had gotten her panties in a twist, but frankly, she didn’t have the time either.  Phantom would be here any second, and this time she was going to ask him the question she’d had in mind for the past month.

She took one last glance at her reflection - flawlessly plucked eyebrows, immaculate contouring, a tight green shirt that would match Phantom’s eyes - before strutting out the door.

The blue ecto-powered lighting filtered through the hallway, but other than that, there was no sign of any spectral activity.  No rogue ghosts, and more importantly, no Phantom.  The attack must be on the other side of the school.  Ugh, she might break a heel trying to run that far before Phantom disappeared again.  Would it be worth it, or should she wait for the next attack?  They came so regularly the school didn’t bother evacuating anymore; there might be another chance before the week was out.  But if there wasn’t, then she only had one week left to ask him…

She’d just have to risk the broken heels.  She was about to run towards the east wing when she remembered something: in her distraction, she’d left her lipstick in the bathroom.  If the extra seconds it took to grab it made her miss Phantom, Valerie was going to pay.

She spun and pushed open the bathroom door - only for it to stop short as it smacked into something solid.  From the muffled stream of curses, she could guess who it was.

“Ooh.  Sorry Val,” she said.  She might not be her friend anymore, but she didn’t deserve a door to the face.  Paulina slipped through the doorway, torn between checking on the other girl and just grabbing the lipstick.  But Phantom wouldn’t just leave someone after slamming a door on them. Sighing, Paulina peeked around it and into the corner of the bathroom.

“Hey - stay back-!”

What was the deal with Valerie’s voice?  Had she really hit her that hard? The girl had always been tougher than even the football team, she highly doubted she -

Paulina gasped when she looked behind the door.

“The Red Huntress?”  Ghosts might not surprise Paulina, but this ghost hunter did.  She usually only came out for the bigger fights, or to chase Phantom.

Phantom.  That must be why she was here - and if Paulina could stall her, well, that was one step closer into the ghost boy’s good graces.

“It just had to be you again,” the Huntress muttered, rubbing the front of her helmet, then moved to shove Paulina aside.  Glaring for all she was worth - and she was worth a lot - Paulina stepped back and barred the doorway with her arms.

“Nuh-uh, chica.  If you want to get to Phantom, you’re gonna have to go through me.”

She couldn’t see the Huntress’ reaction through her tinted mask, but the low growl gave away her anger.  She was just a ghost hunter… she wouldn’t be willing to hurt a human to get at a ghost… right?

Suddenly Paulina wasn’t so sure.  But she had to try.  Even if Phantom wouldn’t know it was her, she couldn’t let this ghost hunter get to him.  He’d saved her life before, and she fully intended for him to survive to do it again.

The Red Huntress hadn’t responded, and for a moment Paulina wondered if there actually was a person under that suit.  Until she dived for Paulina’s waist to throw her to the ground.

“Hey!”  She shouted, squirming in the Huntress’s grip even as she was pinned to the disgusting bathroom floor.  “You can’t come into the school and do this!  You’ll get arrested, I don’t care who you are!”

That made the Huntress pause - just long enough for Paulina to jerk her hips, tossing the Huntress off balance.  She may not be strong, but Dash and Kwan had helped her learn to escape holds after an incident with her last boyfriend.  She’d never thought she would use that knowledge like this.

She squirmed the rest of the way free and quickly stood.  From this angle, the Huntress looked much less threatening, but she wouldn’t stay down long.  Paulina had to distract her.

“What did you do with Valerie?”  She demanded as the ghost hunter sprung to her feet.  “Valerie!  If you’re in there I could really use some - help!”

The Huntress swept a leg out to trip Paulina.  Her feet went flying, but she caught herself on the bathroom door handle and managed to get her legs back under her.

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”  She demanded, refusing to be swept aside so easily.  “Not that I think you could, you sorry excuse for a-“

An ectogun suddenly sprouted from the Huntress’ shoulder.  Paulina’s pupils shrunk to points.

“You - you wouldn’t.  I’m not a ghost.  I’m a human!  There are security cameras!”  They were in the bathroom, so there probably weren’t cameras in here, but hopefully the Huntress wouldn’t know that.  “You won’t get away with this! You’ll go to jail and my Papa will sue you until you-“

The ectogun vanished back into the suit, but the Huntress’ muscles were still tight cords under the strange metallic fabric.

“Could you just shut up for once?”  She snapped.  Paulina blinked rapidly.  She knew that tone, that voice.

“You’re the one who started it, Valerie!”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t have if you’d-!”  The Huntress’ voice choked off, and she stepped back as if shot.  Paulina was almost as stunned herself. She’d recognized the voice, but seeing the reaction - this really was Valerie.  She should have guessed from the girl’s figure, though she was difficult to recognize without her long, wavy hair.  How had she fit it all into that tiny helmet?

“What - what did you just call me?”  The Huntress - Valerie - demanded, but Paulina wasn’t fooled.  Valerie had loathed ghosts for years, to a degree that was almost frightening.  That had been as much a factor in Paulina keeping her distance as the other girls’ social status.  And if anyone she knew had the guts and ability to fight ghosts on a regular basis, it was Valerie.

“Uh, your name.”

The two girls stared each other down - or rather, Paulina stared at the blue light reflecting on Valerie’s helmet.  She swore she could feel the heat of her stare in return, in spite of the ghostly chill hanging in the air. But Valerie still broke first.

“Look, Sanchez, I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s ghosts out there that I need to take care of.”

“Phantom can handle it,” she replied coolly.  “Unless he’s the ghost you were going to ‘take care of’?”  She made air quotes with her fingers while still glaring down her classmate.  Normally she would be able to see every tell on Valerie’s face, but that mask was interfering with her superior people-reading skills.  Valerie only gave herself away with her silence.

“Uh-huh,” Paulina said.  “We all know you’ve got it out for him.”  What she didn’t get was why.  Most of the students at Casper High idolized Phantom, or at least respected him for saving the school on a weekly basis.  What could he have done to get on Valerie’s bad side?  Or was it just her blanket hatred of all ghosts? Maybe if she’d kept in better touch, she’d know, but she’d burned that bridge long ago.

“You don’t know anything, Sanchez.”

Before Paulina could reply, the regular fluorescent lights flickered back on.  There was a moment where the ectolights blended with the normal yellow lighting, painting the bathroom an eerie green.  Then the emergency lights powered back down.  Everything was left as it was before.

Except for the red-and-black suited figure in front of her, of course.

Valerie sighed, and then somehow the suit retracted around her, tiny metallic scales sliding down her skin and compressing into the soles of her shoes.  Paulina audibly gasped at that.

“You know anywhere I can get clothes like that?”  She asked, attempting to break through the irritation now clearly present on Valerie’s face.  The other girl snorted.

“Try getting possessed by a tech ghost.”

“Hmm.  Could be worth it.”  She’d been possessed a couple of times before.  Her memories of it were fuzzy of course, but Phantom had been there to save her each time.

That comment brought Valerie’s anger back in full force.  “You really don’t get it, do you?  This isn’t a game, Sanchez!  Our school, our home - our lives are at stake!  So you,” she stabbed a finger at Paulina’s chest, “had better stay out of my way, if you care about that at all.”

“Excuse me?”  Paulina raised an eyebrow.  “You’re not the only one protecting us. Phantom’s here too, and he cares about us just as much as you do.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped.  “You’re blinded by your stupid crush on him.”

Paulina leaned in close, not missing a beat.

“Am I?  Or are you just blinded by how much you hate him?”

Valerie squinted, matching her glare eye to eye.  Paulina wished her heels were a little taller, but she still had about an inch on the other girl.

“Face it, Gray.  You never could admit when you were wrong.”

“And you could never admit you were a-“

The sound of the door banging open against the wall interrupted whatever insult Valerie was about to fling at her.  Some blonde-ponytailed freshman strolled through the doorway, then looked up from her phone and jumped at the sight of the two glaring juniors.

“Um, I’ll just… I’m gonna go.” She backed cautiously out of the bathroom.  But the girl’s brief appearance had done enough.  A look had passed over Valerie’s face, one Paulina had never seen on her before: fear.

“We’ll continue this later,” Valerie said.

“Hmm, actually, I think we’ll continue this now.”  Paulina smiled acidicly.  “Unless you’d like the whole school to know you’ve been playing vigilante.”

A hardened expression slammed over Valerie’s face.  Now that was the kind of look she could imagine on the Red Huntress.

“I’m surprised you even know that word,” she stalled.

“I know a lot of things that would surprise you.”  Paulina rested her hands on her hips.  “So, how about we make a little deal?”

Valerie raised an eyebrow.  “Is it a deal where you shut up and I don’t have to deck your face?”

“Pretty close, actually.”  She made a show of examining her fingernails, like the threat of violence didn’t bother her.  Which it didn’t. Valerie may be a loose cannon - literally - but she wouldn’t be dumb enough to get herself expelled.  Grades mattered too much to her now that she’d need scholarships to afford college.

“Fine.  I’m listening.”

“Let’s say I, what did you say?  ‘Shut up’ about this whole little… thing.”  She gestured a hand through the air.  “But in return, you do a little something for me.”

“Just get to your point, Sanchez,” Valerie said through gritted teeth.  Paulina smirked - riling up the other girl was just too easy.

“You stop hunting Phantom.  And,” she continued before Valerie could protest, “you help me get him as a date to the winter formal.”

Valerie’s fist unclenched; her eyes widened in shock.

“You want me to - are you crazy!?  Nevermind, I already know the answer to that, but that’s just - you can’t take a ghost to a school dance!”

Paulina didn’t bat an eye at the outburst.

“Why not?  Sure, he’ll have to sign an out-of-school release form, but that’s not a big deal.”  Truth be told, she didn’t know the school’s policy about bringing ghosts as dates, but it was Phantom.  If he wanted to come, the school had to let him.  If it weren’t for him, the school wouldn’t be standing at all.

Valerie’s jaw flapped, attempting to form words and failing.

“You don’t have much of a choice, you know,” Paulina reminded her.

“What if he doesn’t want to go with you?  You can’t pin it on me if he’s not interested.”

Paulina smiled; Valerie had chosen to argue the date point, not against her other important demand: that she stop hunting Phantom.  In so doing, she’d practically made the deal already.

“You’ll at least give me the chance to ask him,” Paulina pressed.  After all, it was Valerie’s fault she hadn’t gotten to ask Phantom today.  Regardless of the blackmail, she owed her.  Not that Valerie saw it that way, if the dumbfounded look on her face was any clue.

“So wait a minute, you want me, a ghost hunter, to take you to see a ghost… so you can ask him on a date.”

Paulina shrugged.  “Sounds like a pretty easy deal to keep your little secret, don’t you think?”

Emotions warred over Valerie’s face, but frustration finally gave way to resignation, and she sighed.

“Fine.  I’ve got to hunt Phantom one last time if you wanna go through with this, though.  That’s the only way I’ll be able to get you to him.”

“Fair enough,” Paulina conceded, victory already tugging her lips upward.  “But you aren’t going to hurt him.”

“Fine, fine.  I’ll keep that ectoplasmic creep in one piece for you.”  Valerie finally succeeded in pushing past her, and was halfway out the door before Paulina could cement any more details about their deal.  She only paused for a moment to throw one last glare over her shoulder.

“But I promise, you’re going to wish I hadn’t.”

XXX

Paulina.  Of all of the people to figure out her secret, why did it have to be her?  Valerie knew she would follow through with the blackmail if she didn’t hold up her end of the deal.  It wouldn’t be the first time Paulina had trapped someone with a web of secrets. There was a reason so many students flocked around her, and it wasn’t just for her looks.

Too bad I don’t have any dirt on her, she thought.  Finding out Paulina’s secrets would be even more difficult than catching Phantom, though.  She needed a better plan than that.

She tried to find a quiet place to sit and brainstorm during lunch, but excited chatter filtered all through the air.  Tests, Christmas break, and that stupid winter formal were on everyone’s lips.  Didn’t they have better things to worry about?  She hardly heard any details about the ghost attack earlier that day.  In fact, the only one she heard mention it was…

“The Box Ghost again, huh?”  Tucker said, chomping down on a hamburger as she passed by the trio’s signature table.  Danny sighed.

“Yeah, and right in the middle of the algebra quiz I - oh, hey Valerie.”  He grinned up at her, but with the dark circles rimming his eyes and the tightness in his jaw, she couldn’t believe it was sincere.  She raised an eyebrow when Tucker grinned in a way that was somehow even more suspicious.  Sam, who’d probably never forgiven her for almost-dating her friend, just scowled and took a vicious bite of her veggie wrap.

“Hey.”  She smiled back politely, even at Sam.  Just because the other girl held a grudge didn’t mean she had to return it.  She didn’t need any more enemies right now.  “You mind if I sit here?”

“Well-”

“Sure,” Danny cut Sam off, gesturing to the seat across from him and next to Tucker.  She sat down carefully, not missing how Sam’s eyes tracked her every move.  Even Danny and Tucker looked on edge, when she looked more closely.  How long had it been since she’d sat with them?  Sure, Danny wasn’t as close a friend as… as he had been, but they’d broken up almost a year ago, and not on bad terms.  Then again, she didn’t know how for sure how he’d taken it.  She hadn’t paid enough attention to him since ghost fighting and her job had cut so deep into her time.  

Just one more sacrifice I had to make, she thought, crushing the twinge of regret.  Maybe she and Danny weren’t exactly friends anymore, but she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to get information.

“You guys were talking about the ghost attack?”  She tried to sound casual while she unpacked her sack lunch.  “What freak was it this time?”

Sam opened her mouth, but Danny beat her to it again.

“Just the, uh, that one that’s obsessed with boxes.  At least, that’s what I heard.  I was in the bathroom the whole time.”

Of course, that box ghost.  No wonder Phantom had taken care of it so quickly.  Another thought occurred to her though - the boys’ restroom was right next to the girls’.  And if he was in there during the ghost attack… of course, he could have been in the east wing bathroom instead, but she wouldn’t trust her luck today.

“You didn’t see or hear anything, I don’t know, weird, did you?”  She asked, hoping her nervousness didn’t show.

“This is Casper High.  It’s always weird,” Sam answered, violet eyes narrowed.  “Why?”

Dang, that look was almost as bad as Paulina’s glare.  Did everyone in this school have it out for her today?

“Unlike some people, I just care about our safety,” she deadpanned, tired of all the intimidation tactics.  “All anyone else is talking about is vacation or the winter formal.”

Sam snorted.  “Tell me about it.”  Then she blinked, as if just realizing she’d agreed with Valerie about something.

“What’s so bad about winter formal?”  Tucker asked.  “We’re all going together this year.”

They were?  Not that she had time for school gossip, but she’d heard that Danny and Sam were dating, as of a month or two ago.  She’d just assumed they’d be together all the way through high school at least.  

Then again, she’d hoped the same thing for him and herself, and look how long that had lasted.

“Yeah, no more of that worrying about getting dates stuff.”  Danny smiled at Sam, but it quickly gave way to concern.  “Unless you wanted to get a date-”

“Danny, we talked about this.”  Sam sighed, then shot Valerie a side-eyed glance.  “I’m more than happy to go with both of you.  It’s just my mom, you know, the usual…”

They slowly slipped back into their own conversation, leaving Valerie feeling like as much of an outsider as if she were a table away.  Not that she should have expected any different.  She wasn’t their friend, even if she almost was once.  Those stupid ghosts had ruined any chance of that.  She unwrapped her peanut butter and honey sandwich and nibbled on it for the sake of sustenance.

“What about you, Valerie?”  Danny finally asked, still sounding a bit awkward, but less scared than he’d been before.

Scared.  That was the emotion she’d seen in his eyes, though she hadn’t picked it out at the time.  But why would he be scared of her?  Again he pushed down the worry that he’d somehow learned her identity.  It was probably just her intimidating resting face or something.

“Uh, what about me?”  She asked.

“Are you going to the dance with anyone?”

She blinked.  That was the last question she expected to hear, especially from him.

“...I’ve got plans,” she eventually answered.  Lied.  It wasn’t like he’d been about to ask her; he’d already said he was going with Sam and Tucker.

“Oh.”  His gaze fell, and he chuckled lowly.  He might have been about to say something else, but at that moment someone called from across the cafeteria.

“Valerie!”  Dang it.  Paulina.  Her heels clicked obnoxiously with every step she took towards them.  Tucker whistled quietly, earning him a slap from Sam.  

“Gotta go,” Valerie said gruffly, dropping the half-eaten sandwich back into her bag and shoving back her chair.  Whatever the witch wanted now, she wasn’t going to stick around and find out.

So much for coming finding time to plan.

[attract-mode-collective]

Just Another Late Night At The Game Center

And just another massive dose of game culture, as originally shared on the Attract Mode Twitter account, (most of) everything that was shared in the latter half of February. The first half was covered here.

Before I forget: the above is courtesy of erickimphotography.com.

Again, given how short Feb is supposed to be, I figured this post would be too... and it's not. So am wonder if going weekly might best going forward?

Anyhow, where did I leave off last time? Oh yeah; Valentine's Day. And here’s Amy Rose, from the day after, reminding us all that, as great as love can be, it also hurts (via sonicthehedgeblog)...

Check out this devastating big boot from Mario, one that would make the WWE's Undertaker or Kane proud (via suppermariobroth)...

You're no doubt familiar with Julie Bell's work, but are you aware of the close resemblance between her art & the artist herself? (via slbtumblng)...

Some nice, pixelated sukajans we have here (via kauzara)...

Look at these hipsters...

Look at these hipsters standing around, on a Brooklyn rooftop...

Look at these hipsters standing around, on a Brooklyn rooftop in leggings based upon the interactive menu for the Super Famicom's satellite modem peripheral. (via minusworld.co.uk)...

Am legit thinking of getting this shirt covered with quotes from people trying to figure out which Metal Gear character is gay (via kotaku.com)...

Am rather fond of Data Weave, which has more than a passing resemblance to the Eliss scarf that helped put the Attract Mode shop on the map (via prostheticknowledge)...

When you go to bed, don't forget to never use your Dreamcast as a pillow (nor should you ever place it on a bucket filled with leafy greens either, but you probably already knew that one; via posthumanwanderings)...

Not sure which SNK 40th Anniversary shirt I like more (via miki800.com)...

It's just Hidetaka Suehiro, playing... I think The Last Blade? Criminally underrated Neo Geo game btw (via nintendu)...

And the late, great Robin Williams playing Ground Zero Texas for the Sega CD (via celebgames)...

Plus the President of Turkey, circa 1990, playing Galaxy Force II for whatever reason (via historium)..

Pro-tip to any & all custom arcade cabinet sellers: if you're going to photograph someone playing a game on your thing, have said person actually play the thing (in this case, Robotron utilizes dual sticks and no buttons; via arcadephile)...

Today's recommended reading is a follow-up to another older post, one that's all about Willie Williams, who not only inspired Virtua Fighter's Jeffry McWild but also Tekken's Paul Phoenix (via lordmo)...

After seeing this gif of a young woman punching a dinosaur (or possibly a dragon) in the crotch, I may have to give Capcom Fighting Jam a second look (via kazucrash)...

Sticking with the subject of crotches for just one bit, everyone out there's familiar with PuLiRuLa, right? (via kazucrash)

Just a friendly reminder of how wacky commercials for the PlayStation 2 were back in the day (via kurhl)...

Back to the subject of dinosaurs... yet still sticking with fun under the sun (via sidestorygaiden)...

If I'm gonna share fan art of unofficial PlayStation 1 era mascots, then I have to pass along this rendering of Abe (via it8bit)...

Seen countless folk play music with a Game Boy or a NES... but a Dreamcast? @slowmagic is the very first, and with a Hello Kitty edition Dreamcast no less...

Does anyone know if these figures of Dorimukyasuko & friends were commercially produced or if they were just made for the Sega no Game wa Sekai Ichi~i~i~I ad that the image comes from? (via vgprintads)...

We've gotten snowfall here in NYC over the past few weeks, once during during sunset, but alas it wasn't nearly as pretty as this (via kirokazepixel)...

It's been ages since I've posted any Game Culture Snapshots, despite countless promises that I'd fix that. Well, until that finally happens, here just one, from IndieCade East 2018. Which was an epic bust, but hey, at least I finally got to play that Bill Viola game I first encountered at GDC 2008...

PLEASE tell me that GBA Video carts are the new hot means of distributing bootleg Hollywood flicks (via @katribou)...

This part from The Thing always reminded me of Asteroids on the Atari 7800 (via pixpunk)...

I posted this on Twitter, not realizing that I had shared it on the blog once before. But since I can’t find that original post, and since it's so damn nice, plus totally worth looking at again (via humanoidhistory)...

I also need to re-share that Tron movie poster cuz it's the first lead up to this Blade Runner-related spread from Joystik Magazine (via mendelpalace)...

As someone who fetishizes old video game magazines, I'm legit ashamed that I didn't know about Joystik sooner (via here & here)...

Please enjoy a healthy helping of scans from Lovely Sweet Dream, the dream journal that would become the basis of LSD for the PlayStation 1 (via here & here)...

Sorry, but I still think the idea of a multi-billionaire sending his sports car into space just cuz he can to be kinda cringey, yet that doesn't mean I'd don't think this pixelated recreation is any less pleasant (via it8bit)...

I've never been to Beverly Hills, so I have no idea if this portrayal according to Super Chase: Criminal Termination is accurate or not; maybe it was when the game was produced? (via obscurevideogames)...

Meanwhile, closer to where I am (somewhat; am not all that far from Long Island) is Mario & Yoshi & the Book of Revelation (via greathaircut)...

Are you playing Mario? Or is Mario playing you? (via suppermariobroth)...

Game Boys. And Game Girls. Mostly Girls. (via contac)

Before anyone asks, no, I do not have a bigger/wallpaper appropriate-sized version of this super sexy image of a couple of Wiis (via klaus-laserdisc)...

I think I kinda need to do this to my PlayStation (via dreamcast.tokyo)...

... Which reminds of those fancy, souped up by audiophiles PSXs I mentioned a whiles ago...

I celebrated Cat Day in Japan by posting this fave official King of Fighters illustration (via videogamesdensetsu)....

... along with this Monster Hunter fan art (via kerriaitken)...

... plus this highlight of a fave WarioWare: Twisted micro game (via suppermariobroth)...

So yeah, Flash sucks, I get that, but as the platform fades away, so does the opportunity to play games like Fear Less! (via zombie-chaser)...

Thankfully, WORLD OF HORROR, "a love letter to the cosmic horror work of Junji Ito", is something that's much more accessible (for now at least)...

I don't know much about Dujanah, which has you assuming the role of a Muslim woman with grievances against a military force that's occupying her Islamic homeland, other than it looks extremely compelling...

Yet another game I need to check out is CONTINUUM, which is a shmup that combines time manipulation and Tetris? (via alpha-beta-gamer)...

It's a legit shame that Jetpack Squad has seemingly fallen off the map (via shmups)...

Another shmup that I really, really want to play (though it's starting to feel increasingly unlikely) is AEROBAT, which looks just as gorgeous (and insane) today as it did the first time I laid eye (via shmups)...

Yet another game that was never meant to be, and the only thing we have here is some incredible looking concept art; if it ended up happening & was any good, I wonder if I'd be a PC-FX owner? (via videogamesdensetsu)...

If a Tokyo Dark Souls was ever to happen, which artist's take do you prefer; this one (via visor-visual)...

... or this one? (via mendelpalace)

You know about celebrity roasts, right? Well, a comedy club in Long Island City had one for Mario, though I have no idea how it went; I had kung fu practice that night...

Me, when the coffee kicks in (via anthony10000000)...

I had no idea that Typing of the Space Harrier was even a thing (via posthumanwanderings)...

It's a bit unsettling how some of Dreamcast Magazine's advice on how to survive Y2K are still useful today, in particular their words of wisdom regarding Seaman (via posthumanwanderings)...

Megadora Man, a Tokusatsu-esque take on the Mega Drive, for Beep! Mega Drive; am assuming his foes are inspired by the Famicom and PC Engine (though am not totally sure which is which; via obscurevideogames)...

Question: how hard would it be for someone in the US to get the first three issues of Famitsu from the Japanese Kindle Store? (via miki800.com)

Been well over a decade since first laying eyes and I FINALLY know the identity of the artist behind a series of Mario illustrations that has long left me stupefied: his name is Ishihara Gōjin (via videogamesdensetsu)...

I woke up the other day with a sense of purpose, with the knowledge that I finally have a mission in life: to do whatever I can to make this dancing kid from Sega Splash Golf a viral sensation (via sonicthehedgeblog)...

Though speaking of morning, been feeling run down as of late, though it's my own damn fault for not having breakfast. Which is why I can't wait for my Persona 3 toaster has yet to arrive (via gasp-theenemy)...

Had no idea that MAME can also emulate those crappy, Tiger handheld games; naturally there's not much to look at, since none of the background is part of the game's code (via lanceboyles)...

Eggman has a sense of humor (via voidirium)...

Eggman also has aesthetics (via posthumanwanderings)...

When you mess with the textures in Wind Waker for the sole purpose of making Vaporwave Link (via pmpkn)...

Man, I really wish each and every mech in Tech Romancer actually had its own anime (via ultrace)...

Before Mappy was a video game, it was a physical game involving real deal robots (via namcomuseum)...

And I swear, one of these days, we'll make available online Zac Gorman's print from Comics Vs Games 2...

In my time I've encountered lots & lots of BMO fan art, so much that it has become increasingly difficult to take notice and be impressed, yet this one managed to do so regardless (via it8bit)...

Let's all take a moment to appreciate the instruction manual for Cubivore, shall we (via skincoats)...

Cubivore's Japanese box art is also very nice (via gaygamer)...

An important message for all parents out there, concerning Minecraft (via reddit.com)...

When you can't afford the licensing fees for Miami Vice, Ghostbusters, Barbarella, I think... and maybe Logan's Run? (via mendelpalace)...

Given how Platoon ended up as a NES game, the idea of the Terminator on a Tiger handheld isn't totally far-fetched (via rewind01)...

And finally, PUT THAT CONTROLLER DOWN, NOW! (via fuzzyghost)

[benjamingarden]

This Month On The Farm: July 2020

July's weather was full-on summer complete with heat, humidity, and lots o' sunshine.  And surprisingly, a lack of mosquitoes.  Hooray for that!  We did receive some rain and when we did, oh boy was it a lot.

Tents - Not Just For Camping

As you can see in the photo above, we decided to make use of a couple of our extra craft show tents and set them up on the upper and lower decks.  On the upper deck it's wide open, used just for rain cover and shade (Ollie is afraid of the netting walls so we left them off).  On the lower deck we used the netting walls and put our outdoor table and chairs inside so we can enjoy eating or sitting outside without bugs attacking.  Ollie, as noted, is afraid of the walls but if he's sitting in his tower with me by his side, he deals with it ok.

gutters and rain barrel installed!

Barrels Of Rain

Woo hoo!  Jay was able to get the gutters installed on the outbuildings and the rain barrels are up and working.  This has been on our "someday" list for years.  Years!  We've been able to successfully use the barrels to water the garden through most of the month, only needing to resort to our well water a couple of times.

Harvesting

As I've mentioned (probably too many times), our garden is mostly shaded.  We receive morning sun over about 70% of it and afternoon sun for a few hours over it all, and it's fully shaded the remainder of the day.  And so, our harvesting starts late.  Then, of course, we had the infamous whistle pig debacle that set us back a bit but we are now enjoying the fruits of our labor.

Green beans are coming in by the bushel.  I know that many people don't enjoy frozen green beans but we do, so I grow enough to enjoy fresh weekly as well as enough to put up in the freezer for winter and springtime eating.  I planted 3 types this year: Blue Lake, Red Noodle, and Calima Bush Beans.  The Red Noodle are still small and green but this is the first year we've planted them so, fingers crossed, they are delicious.

We finally have tomatoes!!!  Well, we finally have ripe tomatoes!  We have a ton, I mean TON, of green tomatoes amidst the 25 plants so we will definitely have plenty for fresh eating as well as for oven-drying to freeze for sauce during the winter.

We are also harvesting onions, cabbage, kale, swiss chard, mixed greens, arugula, microgreens, peppers (jalapeno, ancho, and bell), summer squash, zucchini, the last of the peas, beets, blueberries, blackberries, herbs and radish.

our sweet potato hill

Sadly, our pear and asian pear trees did not do well this year.  I've ordered new "partners" for them (and the paw paw tree) so our hope is we will be swimming in their fruits in a couple of years!  And our whistle pig took out all of our summer broccoli and cauliflower so we won't be harvesting either of those until fall.

At the start of the season I would grab a big bowl from the cupboard and Ollie and I would head to the garden to harvest whatever was ready.  One day, as my bowl was so full the veggies were spilling out of it, Jay looked at me and said "you need a bucket or a basket or something".  I said "I know.  Someone I follow on Instagram just posted a picture of her harvest basket that her husband made.  It was nice - metal mesh and wood sides and handle.  You're too busy though, so maybe next year."  I didn't give it another thought.

Later in the week Jay comes out of his shop holding the PERFECT harvest basket.  He had made it in between other projects he was working on.  Such a sweet gift! 

So now, Ollie and I take our harvest basket with us to the garden on our daily check-in.

looking up one of our mammoth sunflowers

the 2 mammoth sunflowers that survived the whistle pig feast are on the left

Homestead Projects

We have a list of projects that we are hoping to accomplish before fall.  We've managed to check off some of the easier projects, but not so much the larger projects.  Here's what we're chipping away at:

paint the dining room (done)

stain the back deck (done)

paint the living room

fix columns and lay new flooring on one of the two front porches (second porch will be done next year)

paint 2 sides of the house (same color, just refreshing it - the other 2 sides will be done next year)

install fence around the garden (temporarily done - permanent fencing will be done next spring)

build and install a new outdoor pole light in the front yard

build a small nesting box area/water station for garden (so when the chickens are tasked with the garden fall clean-up, they have a place to lay eggs)

chop and stack wood for the woodstove in the shop (done although we may chop a bit more)

install gutters on the outbuildings and hook-up rain barrels (done)

create a raised bed hoop house for one of our garden beds so we can grow greens through late fall/early winter (done for now - we purchased/found the items needed to make this in fall)

Animals

We are not going to add any more animals to the homestead for now and that includes chickens.  The current flock will get smaller, gradually, as the inevitable happens.  We had one pass away this week, she was one of the older girls, and we fully anticipate a few more passing this year from old age.  It certainly doesn't get any easier to deal with death, but at least we have developed a bit of a plan now, of keeping them safe and comfortable during the process.  We also know more about signs, because with chickens, they usually mask illness.  This helps us so we can watch closer and try to make sure they are protected.  

Death is one of the parts of having animals that is so difficult.  Unfortunately, as birds become sick and/or begin the dying process, some of the others can become very cannibalistic.  It's not a pretty sight.  So once we see that one of the girls isn't feeling well, we are able to remove them, but not totally, from the flock.  They are social creatures, so full removal seems to make them stressed and upset.  Instead, we make sure they are separated by a fence allowing them to still feel a part of the flock without getting incessantly pecked at and stepped on.  And no, we don't let them suffer.  If there's any sign of that, and we've done all we can do to make them well, we step in.  

Our overall plan is to get out of the egg-selling business and keep a very small flock (6-8 girls).  With a flock of 24 girls, it will take some time for the flock to naturally reduce (we're down from the 32 we had last year), so we won't be bringing in any chicks until we have less then 8 girls.

zucchini chocolate chip muffins

What Do You Do With All Of That Zucchini?

Isn't this the question you ask yourself every single year?  I always think I have a plan to keep up with it but I struggle by August.  I give it a heck of an effort though.  Here's what we've been doing with our zucchini:

slicing it lengthwise and grilling it (alternatively, you could broil or bake it).  We both love it.  Jay sprinkles a bit of parmesan on his and I like mine plain.  It's sooooo juicy and delicious.

cutting it into chunks and sautéing it with onions and corn.  I add a bit of butter to Jay's and mine is plain.  We just love the combination.

stuffing it.  As noted in this weekending post (at the bottom), I always enjoy coming up with new stuffing ideas.  The key is to bake, boil, or grill the scooped out zucchini halves before you fill and bake them so they are nice and soft once finished.

making our very favorite chocolate zucchini cake. Even my husband who isn't the world's biggest chocolate fan LOVES both versions.  The original version is here.  The healthier/reduced oil and sugar version is here.

making Kate's recipe for healthier zucchini bread.

making zucchini and chocolate chip muffins.  They are ah-mazing!  I just realized I've never shared the recipe here.  I'll try to get that on the blog!

making zucchini noodles with homemade pesto.  Soooo good!

adding zucchini to grilled kebabs.  (everything gets marinated in italian dressing first)

adding zucchini to soups such as minestrone.

making zucchini cobbler.  (tastes just like apple cobbler)

making veggie stew.  I use zucchini and whatever fresh veg is in the garden to make stew as the temps begin to drop in the fall.

I'm not a big fan of eating it raw (there's a weirdness to it) or as zucchini "fries", so those didn't make the list.  We've made zucchini pickles in the past but we aren't huge pickle eaters so I haven't been making them.  

I'd love to hear your family's favorite ways to eat zucchini!

Oliver, my garden/kitchen/preserving/everything helper

Preserving, Or, What We'll Be Eating This Winter

Since our garden is now in full swing, the preserving process has finally begun!  

Green beans - as noted above, they are being put up in the freezer weekly.

Peppers - so far we've only collected enough jalapeno's to preserve, so those have been made into pickled jalapeno rings.

Relish - our cucumbers are struggling this year.  I've never had an issue with cukes, so I'm not sure what's happening.  So we purchased some cucumbers from the farmer's market and, along with our bell peppers and onions we'll can enough relish for my husband to enjoy with his occasional hot dog lunch.

Zucchini - I did freeze some grated zucchini (portioned into 2 cup servings) that I can add to muffins, quick breads, etc.

Onions - we are drying quite a few and then I'll chop and freeze the remainder.

How do you figure out how much veggies to preserve?  This is a question I receive a lot.  For us, this is how I plan it.  We typically rotate the same dishes all winter long so I can usually predict how often during the week we'll eat veggies such as green beans, broccoli, winter squash, tomato sauce, etc.  I then times that by how many weeks we'll need preserved food and that's how I calculate it.  So, as an example, I plan on serving green beans twice a week for 28 weeks which means I will need to freeze 56 bags of green beans (bagged in single-serving sizes).  

It gets a bit more difficult with carrots, corn, onions, canned chopped tomatoes, and peppers because I use them on their own as well as in many different dishes.  Over time, through trial and error, I've made it so I can get pretty close.  For the frozen veggies, I flash-freeze them and then store them in large, gallon-size bags, so I can just take out what I need when I'm cooking.

That's July around the homestead!

This Month On The Farm: July 2020 was originally posted by My Favorite Chicken Blogs(benjamingardening)

[inkstainedfanfics]

Sunday Brunch

Request: For sequel to The Alleyway Rescue. They’re related.  In this, Credence visits Reader for their weekly Sunday brunch and after the food, finds a way to fully relax via a story.

Word Count: 1,747

Pairing: Credence x Reader

Requested by Anonymous but also tagging @gdmora

Requests are currently open! Feel free to send one in

The pan clatters onto the oven’s metal rack. Closing the heavy door, you crank the timer and set it aside. Turning away, you flick your wand, sending a pair of dinner dishes dancing onto your small dining table. The bowl of eggs lands in the center of it, right next to a plate of sausage and two cartons of jam.

Keeping one ear toward the door, you pull open the fridge as the timer ticks away. The turnovers’ warm strawberry smell wafts through your apartment, sending you stomach into a growling mess. Better a growling mess than the light, nervous mess it had been before.

The timer dings just as you hear what you’ve been waiting for: four light taps on the door. “Just a minute.” You shout, sliding on an oven mitt and pulling the pan of pastries from their spot on the rack. It crashes on top of the stove where you throw it, shaking the oven mitt from your hand and rushing toward the door.

Feeling silly, you pat your hair down before you click the locks open and pull the door open. “Credence!”

His smile is small, as always, but genuine. “I’m sorry.” He stops, as though he needs to recharge to finish his sentence. “For being late.”

You smile back at him. “It’s okay. You have perfect timing, actually! The turnovers just finished!”

Credence steps in and you shut the door behind him.

“Strawberry?” He questions, glancing around your apartment.

“Of course.” They’re his favorites, as you’d found out five weeks ago at your second weekly Sunday brunch. “You can sit. I’m just going to throw the turnovers on a plate.”

You could use magic, but it always makes Credence uncomfortable, so you hiss in pain as you flip each pastry from the pan to the plate you set out next to you.

Thankfully, Credence doesn’t notice, too busy adjusting the silverware by his plate to hear you. You’re grateful. If it had been just a few weeks earlier, his focus wouldn’t have drifted from you. Weeks ago, he’d barely allowed himself to look away from you, watching your every move, flinching if you moved too quickly. Now he’s willing to be more honest and relaxed around you, step away from his ghost persona and be present.

The thought makes your chest swell with joy. The first time Credence had shown up unannounced, you’d whipped together a quick lunch. The day had been awkward, though. Neither of you had known what to say, so the only sounds in the small dining room had been clinks of forks on the plates and gulps of water.

You weren’t even sure Credence would ever return. All for the best, you’d figured, not wanting to terrorize the shy boy with forced company. The next Sunday, though, he’d knocked on the door again. Since then, late Sunday brunches had become an unspoken agreement between the two of you.

Setting the plate on the table, you sit in the chair across from Credence’s. “Here, fresh from the oven!”

He leans over, taking two. You serve yourself a plate and watch Credence gobble down first one full plate of food, then another. Your stomach turns whenever his sleeves slide up to reveal dark blotches of black and yellow, but you say nothing, another unspoken agreement. Your apartment is safe for him, and if that means not discussing what happens at his dilapidated mansion, that means not discussing it until he’s ready. You quite enjoy his presence, the soft glow he has when you smile at him, the hesitant laugh that always seems to surprise him when it breaks out, the way he seems to lighten up some when he steps into your apartment. You don’t want to scare him away by making him in any way uncomfortable.

“How are your sisters?” The one personal question you know is safe to ask.

“Surviving.”

“Did they like the cookies you took home last week?” You try to speak around a clump of a roll in your mouth.

Credence nods, giving you an odd look. “Loved them.”

“Good. I baked some mini pies for you to take to them this week.”

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “You like to bring them sweets.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” You confirm, taking another bite of your roll.

The room is silent for a brief second.

Credence interrupts it. “Thank you.”

The words are a shadow of themselves, spoken the way Credence talks when he’s drawing in on himself.

“It’s not a problem.” You scramble to figure out something to say as Credence’s shoulders begin to creep in toward his chest. “I bought a new book!”

He blinks at your shout.

Blushing, you dip your head. “Sorry. I got it yesterday.”

Credence tips his head, not breaking your gaze. “What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure yet.” You confess. “I haven’t begun it. I adored the author’s last book, though.”

Credence wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Are you excited?”

“To read it?”

He nods, pushing his plate away from him.

You stand, taking your dishes to the sink. “Very. It hasn’t received great reviews, but I think it’ll be fantastic.”

Credence is silent as you wash the dishes and return to the table to put the jams in the fridge. You’re about to ask him if he’d like to play cards like last week when he speaks.

“Would you read it to me?”

Your back is to him, cold air washing over your bare feet, hiding the look of shock you’re sure is on your face. He’s never expressed much interest in novels or stories of any sort. He usually comes over, eats, then plays cards or listens to music with you. It’s not that you thought that he doesn’t have any interests, it’s just that he’s always been so quiet, opting to listen to you ramble rather than discuss anything about himself. Still, you don’t want to risk making him think that you don’t like the idea, so you turn, wiping the shock from your place and replacing it with a smile.

“If you’d like.”

Credence stares at his hands folded in his lap. “I would.”

“Okay. It’s in my bag over there if you’d grab it. I’m just going to finish clearing the table.”

Credence nods, crossing the room without a sound and pulling your bag open.

Meanwhile, you take the final empty bowl of eggs and last two glasses and place them in the sink, leaving them unwashed. Your stomach feels light again as you walk to the beaten down couch, the way it did when you were waiting for Credence to visit. He waits with the small book in his hands, turning it over to read the back.

He looks up as you sit next to him, the cushion dipping under your weight and shifting him the slightest bit closer. He gives you the book, hands only slightly trembling, quite different from the first time he had come over.

Ignoring the fact that Credence’s arm is brushing yours, you open the book. It smells musty and timeworn already, despite just being printed, and you find yourself relaxing as its smell sweeps over you. Credence next to you remains curled up, legs pressed together, hands joined on his legs, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t scoot away from you, though, and you try not to beam.

“‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.’” You begin, clearing your throat before moving onto the next sentence.

The first chapter takes longer than you expected to get through, but you fall into a rhythm, losing yourself in the story, picturing it as you read, but allowing yourself small glances at Credence whenever you reach the end of a long paragraph.

When you first glance up after four pages, his shoulders have fallen against the back of the couch, no longer pressing against his neck. The second time is another five pages later, and his legs have opened some so they aren’t pushed together. You smile as you start reading again after your third glance. He’s shut his eyes, letting his head drift onto the couch’s back, but you know he’s still awake by the way his hands toy with a tiny thread on his jacket.

It’s the first time you’ve seen every single bit of worry fade from his face. A comfortable serenity crosses his features, smoothing the lines in his forehead and allowing his jaw to come unclenched. He’s so peaceful, you wish you didn’t have to stop reading soon.

The sun balances on the tops of the buildings outside after two chapters, though, so you set the book down on your lap, saying nothing until Credence opens his eyes and sits up.

“It’s lovely.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough.

“It is.”

He fiddles with the thread again before dropping it and meeting your eyes. “Tom. What do you think of him?”

You take a breath, considering your thoughts. “I think he seems a bit selfish.”

Credence nods. “Gatsby?”

The two of you spend an hour discussing the story’s first two chapters, and you can’t help your smile as Credence lights up in front of you, finally opening up completely, not nervous at all, just content.

The buildings nearby hide half of the sun when Credence looks outside, ending your discussion. “I should go.”

You ache at the thought and at the sight of that invisible weight settling back on his shoulders. “You’ll come back next week, right? We can read the next two chapters.”

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Of course.” You reach out to take his hand but stop yourself, unsure of how he’ll react.

He stares at your dropped hand, then raises his eyes to yours, smiling his small smile. “Thank you.”

You walk him to the door, saying goodbye, waiting for him to be out of sight before you close it and return to the book. You place a bookmark in its pages and close it, anxious for the week to pass. Not because you want to know what happens next—even though you desperately do—but because you want to see Credence relax again, letting the weight of his life off his shoulders for even just a few hours.

You picture Credence’s smile again as you walk toward your bag and grin at the cover of what is bound to be your new favorite book.

[violetsystems]

#personal

For the record the time change hit me like a brick in the face.  But life itself hasn’t been all that kind lately.  I never did see that kid again.  I think two days in a row was enough in retrospect.  I remember the look on people’s faces when he threatened my mom and I.  Just like I remember being the only one to stand up to a bully on a New York Subway train years ago.  The sinking feeling in your gut that you are the one in control of the situation.  One false move or interaction can spiral further out of control.  You have to be aware of your emotions at all times out here.  People get the wrong impression about everything.  People step on other people’s toes constantly.  Every city has their unique footprint rooted in an expression of attitude.  Style and fashion is an extension of that.  Street wear in theory is a brand moderated signal boost of aesthetics and lifestyles.  That has it’s positives and negatives depending on what you are tuned into.  The feedback from the streets is deafening at times which is why I spend a lot more time at home.  I wake up in a city daily.  I work and commute on public transportation.  I live a fairly front facing and public life and yet I keep to myself.  I am my own brand and I don’t particularly have anything for sale.  I do keep making money through the Auction House in World of Warcraft.  I do keep saving money in real life too.  Since this discussion with my new neighbor there have been some ups and downs.  I ended up having to send back the thermostat.  The last two neighbors never spoke a word to me.  I’ve come to find out that instead of approaching me about the heat they simply left the windows open all winter.  I discovered this looking at all my utility bills from this month and finding them to be thirty percent less than normal.  I also got a small refrigerator.  Not too small.  Everything else is the same as it was if not better.  Including me.  I think it’s just in the way I handle the situations these days as they unfold.  I wake up Saturday morning and have something to share.  Ways how I coped.  Ways how I think I succeeded.  Ways to show you how people still don’t get it.  Ways to show you how people still do.  The only way to do that is to live it.  And it’s hard to wake up after everything I’ve been put through and doubt myself.  I am unfortunately the only person I can rely on to control my side of the story.  After all these years there’s people I barely know that tune into what I write and mean much more to me than someone in passing.  The harsher reality becomes that sometimes you have to stand your ground no matter how lonely it is.  Which begins my dark journey of self discovery on the internet every weekend when I wake up to a new haircut and sore muscles.  How many winters have I spent alone at this point?  How many medical dispensaries will sell recreational marijuana in Chicago after January 1st?  Enough.

I’m confident I’ll survive another winter here alone.  More confident these days than in the past.  I have a lot of space to work out in my apartment.  The heat is finally comfortable at a stable sixty eight degrees.  Things are more affordable though people always try to sell you on spending more.  I do eat lunch by work on occasion.  But I’m mostly fine with a sandwich I made from home.  I subscribe to my favorite coffee and drink two twelve ounce bags every two weeks.  I weigh my pour overs on a digital scale and listen to jazz in the kitchen.  I read comics in the sunlight and feed cats at my door step in the morning.  I don’t think anybody could capture this or sell it in a magazine.  And yet I have my own space on the internet to describe my aesthetic.  The secret art of staying alive.  Rule number one is to keep breathing.  These days it’s expensive to breath.  We are all so anxious subconsciously justifying our right to be in spaces where we don’t feel welcome.  I’ve come to know that I’ve created a welcoming space around me.  Sometimes that’s annoying as fuck.  Especially when nobody wants to give you actual credit for being a decent human being.  I’ve never been the kind of person who seeks out fake validation.  I’m transparent to a fault and yet this is about as intimate as I get.  An open book for all to read.  That’s a Motley Crue lyric and I’m far less metal than anyone cares to realize.  People in the streets out here know.  People out in the streets of New York know too.  I run into enough skate videos to know what’s up.  You can’t run away from yourself.  The things you attract are for better or for worse.  You would think people would get me by now.  I’m sure there’s an artificial intelligence somewhere siphoning off my very lifeblood and crunching numbers based on my digital imprint.  I like to crunch my numbers in a personal spreadsheet.  You see results after time.  And then there’s always ways to improve,  Like taking your contacts out before you go to bed.  I was such a shit head about that for years.  I don’t know why it occurred to me.  Maybe I started to love myself a little bit more.  Take better care of myself.  It’s scary to think how less in shape I was a year ago.  It’s scarier to think what I’ve grown into.  It’s something I have no choice but manage.  There are a lot of things I steer clear of.  By now I would hope people on the internet would understand why.  It’s not that people are necessarily evil or conspiratorial.  I think that’s giving what they do too much power.  People don’t confront the truth because they fear failure and isolation.  Ironically failure and isolation was just what I needed to try a different approach to my life.  Do I mourn the death of my social life openly?  I don’t know how anybody could get the idea that I’m antisocial.  I deal with society like a brick to the face daily.  If they want to sell it in a magazine and give me no credit that’s fine with me.  You can’t buy love.  The clock on the oven may have changed but I’m still burning for you.  Far more efficiently this year thanks to proper insulation.

You either survive or you don’t.  You can survive gracefully through trial and error.  I have enough winters under my belt to know I enjoy staying inside.  I still go out and run.  People talk less in the cold and yet you still can’t avoid it.  I live in a city to be free and be left alone.  Freedom isn’t free.  Freedom in America is a mosh pit of ideas that clash and churn.  Style and attitude evolve from this gaping void.  Navigating the gravitational shifts of unseen power is exhausting.  But nobody wants to hear me complain about it on the internet.  They want to see solutions.  They want to hear me try.  And I have tried over and over again.  I’ve come to realize there is no try.  You just do it.  Do you want to live the best you can be or do you want to let it slip away?  That’s asking a lot these days.  People don’t even recognize you at your best.  They simply look to the past and fixate on something you once were.  Only I really know where I am at in my head at this moment.  I know all the people closest to me want to hear is that I’m good.  Beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’ve got it covered.  That I’m working on myself and seeing the right results.  Everything around me is still pretty fucked up.  It doesn’t really effect me.  When it does I handle it openly and honestly.  Most of the times when people make me feel awkward I just ignore them.  I don’t secretly hate you.  I also am sick of being tricked for the benefit of somebody else’s enjoyment or agenda.  I don’t think these targeted actions or protests really work when they don’t include me in the conversation.  Everybody is judged silently and nobody has their say in the court of public opinion.  I don’t mind being judged and holding myself accountable.  I have a reputation of that on the internet I uphold weekly.  I’m not exactly the happiest I want to be right now.  I am happier than I have ever been.  Mainly because I understand the reasons why I make the sacrifices I do.  The space I make for my dreams is personal and private.  It is not inaccessible.  People on here know that probably the most.  But people also know I’m not a doormat by now.  People hate me because I’ve said no.  Because I didn’t play along with bullshit I didn’t agree with.  I just walked away.  I live in the world’s most corrupt city.  I chose to live by my own rules.  Sometimes I have to change them.  Grow up a little more.  I trust the results because I’ve stayed focused.  I know the trajectory is positive.  I know the same people are with me through thick and thin behind the scenes.  It’s not a hallucination or a conspiracy.  It’s my life and my choice as to who I include in it.  In that the same people are close to my heart.  The same view from my kitchen over the same mug of coffee.  Come January 1st far more legal options to smoke weed.  Take that seasonal depression.  Until next year NYC.  <3 Tim

[thejustinmarshall]

Lessons From Eight Years Of Writing An Adventure Blog

One afternoon last August, a delivery truck rolled up outside my house in Denver. Two men got out, dollied a large box through the front door, unpacked a 6-foot long wooden workbench top and gave it a once-over to see if it had been damaged in shipping. I signed for the delivery, carried the wood and accompanying metal legs back to a 10-foot by 10-foot room at the back of our duplex, and put it all together.

A few minutes later, I dusted off my hands and stood in front of it: the first real desk of my outdoor writing career.

I’d been trying to be an adventure writer since 2004, been trying at it full-time since 2012—and I’d never had a place to set my laptop, pile up notebooks, stick post-it notes, or leave a printer plugged into a wall outlet. I’d typed in coffee shops, at friends’ kitchen tables, in the back of a van, at my own kitchen table, at airports, laundromats, anywhere I could when I had to. But now. A desk, in its own room. I must be a real writer now, right?

It’s funny how your definition of “real” changes.

—

In the spring of 2004, I had decided I was going to be an adventure writer. Not immediately, but someday. I had discovered Mark Jenkins’ columns in Outside, read Daniel Duane’s El Capitan book (despite never having climbed or seen El Cap), and tore through Jon Krakauer’s Eiger Dreams and Into the Wild. The model I understood from those writings—going on big adventures and writing stories about them—seemed like a dream job, although I had no idea if it was an actual job, or how a person could get that job. I did my master’s thesis at the University of Montana School of Journalism on peak bagging, and as a requirement for my magazine writing class, I had gotten published—an article in IDAHO Magazine about a road trip I’d taken the previous summer. The check for the article was for $40, or would have been, had I not asked the editor to please send me $40 worth of copies of the magazine instead, because I was so excited to have been published. It was a start, I thought. A slow one, but a start nonetheless. At $40 per article, I’d have had to write 233 articles each year just to crest the poverty line in 2004.

So I needed a real job, too. I applied at newspapers with no luck, so I got a job on the sales floor at the Phoenix REI to work while I sent out resumes and made calls to prospective journalism employers. I finally got a full-time editor/reporter/copy editor job at a small suburban weekly newspaper, and stayed on working part-time at REI.

In my spare time, I pitched every outdoor magazine I knew of, writing query letters that almost without fail resulted in rejection letters sent back to me weeks or months later. It was like walking up to a sport climbing crag, trying a route, falling after clipping the first bolt, failing to climb any higher, and moving on to the next route and repeating the process, with nothing to show for it. For months.

In my second year of pitching stories, I made $75 from one article. I moved to Denver to work at a small newspaper—but on the side, I kept pitching any outdoor publication I thought might pay. Almost all of them sent me rejections. In late 2006, John Fayhee at the Mountain Gazette liked a story I sent him enough to publish it and pay me $100. In mid-2007, I got a part-time job writing funny 100-word blogs for an outdoors website, at 15 cents a word, 2 to 3 blogs per week.

I kept working day jobs, first at the newspaper and then at a nonprofit that took urban teens on wilderness trips. After work, I obsessed over rock climbing routes, logistics of road trips I could take during my time off or over three-day weekends, read adventure books and magazines, and checked out guidebooks from the public library. I kept writing and trying to get published, chipping away at that idea of becoming a real writer.

I finally got a small assignment from a big magazine. I would interview a guy named Fitz Cahall, who had a podcast called “The Dirtbag Diaries.” I did the interview, wrote the 400-word story, sent it in, and … months later, I hadn’t heard from the editor. I checked back a couple times, and somehow the story had gotten lost in the editor’s spam folder. It never ran.

From the interview with Fitz Cahall, I held on to one part of his story: Fitz had wanted to become a magazine writer and had some success at it, but magazines weren’t interested in what he thought were his best story ideas. So he wrote them anyway, recorded them, and made them into a podcast—his own thing.

I ended up writing and recording an episode for The Dirtbag Diaries in mid-2008, starting a years-long relationship with Fitz and Becca Cahall. And, in late 2010, I followed Fitz’s thinking and took my rejected ideas (or ideas that were so ridiculous I’d never even pitched them) and started my own blog. In December 2010, I paid $12.17 for the URL Semi-Rad.com, and started writing short blog posts. I published the first four of them on February 2, 2011, and shared one of the posts with my few hundred Facebook friends and Twitter followers.

The first month, I published four blog posts, one every Thursday. My friend Josh Barker had told me that a regular publishing schedule would keep readers interested, so I decided to write one blog every week until something happened or I got sick of it. The first month, my blog got 646 page views. Not exactly setting the internet on fire.

The next month, I got 1,810 page views. The next month, still posting every week, 2,085 views, and then 1,506 views the month after that. It went like that for a while. I wrote about pumping your fist out the window of your car at the start of a road trip, about the amount of beer you should pay your friends back with after they did a favor for you (like letting you borrow gear or digging you out of an avalanche). I wrote about not buying new gear just because you can. Steve Casimiro from Adventure Journal reached out and asked if I would be interested in him re-posting some of my stories on his website and referring traffic back to me? Fuck yes I would. In October, I had more than 12,000 views. That December, Patagonia took out a full-page ad in the New York Times asking consumers to not buy Patagonia jackets if they didn’t need them, so I made a few knock-offs of their design, around other environmental issues. It took off, and that month, I had almost 30,000 page views. More importantly, I had survived 11 months of writing one blog post every week. So I kept going.

—

After almost six years of trying, I started getting magazine assignments, starting in early 2011 with a story I’d been pitching and had written for Climbing Magazine. I started writing more stories for them, and eventually a monthly column—which was titled Semi-Rad, like my blog. Over the course of the next few years, I wrote short and long pieces for almost every magazine I’d wanted to—a gear review here, a short piece in the front of the book there, the occasional feature story. Sometimes I loved the result, sometimes the magazine and I had different goals, and once my name actually got spelled wrong in my byline (not in an outdoor mag, but a men’s magazine doing some outdoor stuff). In mid-2013, I was working on an assignment for an outdoor magazine, and the editor said that when I was writing the feature story we were discussing, I should “imagine if you were writing about it for your blog.”

By the time I’d gotten to write for a few of the outdoor publications I’d always wanted to, I started to realize things were changing, for me and for everyone. In 2004, I’d wanted to write magazine feature stories, Jon Krakauer- and Daniel Duane-style—but in 2014, lots of magazines were shifting resources to online content, and often (but not always) decreasing resources devoted to publishing long features. Gone were the days (that I never experienced) of travel budgets and high-four-figure/five-figure story payouts—the kinds of things that “real writers” had. But the internet, which made life hell for lots of newspapers and magazines, was fantastic for people like me, who could hand-draw a flowchart about pooping in the woods or write a half-serious blog post about how much I hate (but kind of love) running and potentially reach thousands of people—or sometimes, only a few dozen, which happened lots of Thursdays. At the beginning of 2013, I landed a sponsor, Outdoor Research, whose support cosigned my efforts and made sure I had what I needed to keep it going.

—

In June 2014, I was driving around Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs doing research for a rock climbing guidebook I was co-authoring. The year before, I had put large “Semi-Rad.com” decals on either side of my Astrovan, which I was living in, thinking I needed to do that in order to deduct mileage on my taxes.

A car started tailgating me around the scenic loop, flashing its headlights. I wondered, “did I just cut that guy off? Is the van on fire?” I pulled over at the next pullout. The car pulled over, a guy got out, and introduced himself. His name was Willie Bailey, and he was a firefighter and photographer from Tennessee. He had been reading my blog for a couple years, and he had just read the road trip book I had self-published and got inspired to take a road trip himself—which he was on. Right now. We chatted a little bit, took a quick photo, and I got back in my van to drive away, thinking that was a pretty heartwarming side effect of writing a blog post every week for three and a half years.

This would happen more times over the next few years, and it’s not something they teach you in journalism school or creative writing classes: if you put a little bit of yourself out there and people can relate to it, sometimes you get to meet people you’d otherwise never meet, and hear a little bit of their story. And you don’t get that in every job.

—

There’s no monetary reward to having people you don’t know talk about some goofy thing you wrote, and it’s not a Pulitzer or National Magazine Award. But it was something I hadn’t considered when I started writing—that the weird shit I posted on my blog, which falls flat sometimes and makes it a little way around the internet some other times, could also become a piece of dialogue between friends. That not only do they laugh at the joke—which is all you hope for when you’re trying to be funny—but they laugh again later when they say it to a friend.

In late 2014, my friend Jim Harris wrote me an email from a bed and breakfast in Punta Arenas, Chile. He had been sitting on a couch around a wood stove with a group of people who were on their way to Torres del Paine when one of the group “started quoting your ‘Obsessive Campfire Adjustment Syndrome’ piece and the rest of the group filled in other memorable lines. I think they’ve memorized in a way I can only claim for a few Monty Python bits. Even 10,000 miles from home, the world’s a smallish place.”

—

Late last Monday night, I sat in my kitchen hand-writing thank-you postcards to the folks who support my creative efforts on Patreon, and realized my blog at Semi-Rad.com had turned 8 years old a few days before. I turned 40 last month, which means I’ve been writing Semi-Rad posts every week for a fifth of my life. If each blog was 500 words long, that’s well over 200,000 words written.

Since I started eight years ago, I’ve been able to successfully explore other ways to make a living besides writing a blog—public speaking, directing short films, writing books, drawing cartoons, and of course, writing for other publications. Some weeks I wondered if I should keep doing the blog, and some weeks it felt like no one read the blog at all.

But I had a place to write where no one told me what I could do and couldn’t do, for better (often) or for worse (hopefully not quite as often). I had a place to write an obituary for my friend Mick, who wasn’t a famous adventure athlete, but who I still quote to this day. I had a place to write about my mom, who climbs at a gym in Iowa, and my dad, who doesn’t climb at all, and about my friend Abi when she finally summited Mt. Shasta last summer. I wrote a story about my friend Nick’s rabid obsession with getting himself an old Trek 970 back in 2010, something he’d forgotten about until I reminded him last week. I don’t know if those stories would ever have gone anywhere if I hadn’t just done them myself, without caring whether 100 people or 100,000 people read them. (And let’s be honest—it was a little closer to 100).

Every once in a while someone asks what the word “Semi-Rad” means, and I explain that when I started the blog, I thought there was already plenty of outdoor media coverage of elite climbers, skiers, runners, and other record-breakers. I wanted to focus on the rest of us who love the outdoors—the things we have in common. I think those things are valuable too, and often ridiculous and worth laughing at.

If you ask any writer how to get started, I think you’ll get countless variations on one piece of common advice: Start writing. You just make yourself do it, even if you’re not sure if it’s any good at first. Writing is a lot like digging a hole in the ground: You only make progress after you actually start.

The one thing I’ve learned from making myself write something every week is this: You can’t hit a home run every week. Maybe you can’t hit a home run every month. But if you keep writing, sometimes you bunt, sometimes you strike out, and sometimes you get a walk. But if you get to first base, there’s someone out there who might need whatever it is you wrote, on that day. Even if the rest of the internet doesn’t seem to notice.

In mid-2017, Jonah Ogles, then an editor at Outside, reached out and asked if I’d be interested in having my Semi-Rad blog posts published as a weekly column on OutsideOnline.com. It was an unexpected, but welcome, honor for a blog born out of the fatigue of trying to get my stuff printed on someone else’s platform.

It was a totally different path than my adventure writing heroes, like Mark Jenkins, took, but making a living as a writer has never been straightforward, maybe less straightforward now than ever. If you had told me in 2008 that it was possible to get a book deal by writing really good Instagram captions, I would have said, “What the hell is Instagram?” in the same way if you’d told Mark Jenkins in 1998 that you could get a book deal by writing a blog, he probably would have said, “What the hell is a blog?” We’re all trying to figure it out as we go, whether you’re a publication like Outside or a hopeful somebody who just wants a few people to read your stories, in whatever format.

I don’t pretend to speak for all writers, but I think if you’re a writer and you’re honest with yourself, the thing you want most for your writing isn’t money or some sort of fame, but readers. You want a genuine connection with a few people. I don’t know if I’d say everything has turned out like I thought it would, but I’m grateful I found a small community of people who read some of my stories about all the things we love to do outside. I may not be filing dispatches from a base camp in the Karakoram or anything like the legendary writers I read, but I’ve had a great time trying to make sense of all the weird stuff we do out there—getting cold, exhausted, scared, stormed on, wondering why we do it until we get back home and immediately want to do it all again.

Eight years after starting a blog, and picking up that metaphorical shovel every week to keep digging that metaphorical hole, I still can’t say I know what a “real writer” is.

I do have a desk now, though. So I might as well stick with this writing thing.

—Brendan

The post Lessons From Eight Years Of Writing An Adventure Blog appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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[olivereliott]

Lessons From Eight Years Of Writing An Adventure Blog

One afternoon last August, a delivery truck rolled up outside my house in Denver. Two men got out, dollied a large box through the front door, unpacked a 6-foot long wooden workbench top and gave it a once-over to see if it had been damaged in shipping. I signed for the delivery, carried the wood and accompanying metal legs back to a 10-foot by 10-foot room at the back of our duplex, and put it all together.

A few minutes later, I dusted off my hands and stood in front of it: the first real desk of my outdoor writing career.

I’d been trying to be an adventure writer since 2004, been trying at it full-time since 2012—and I’d never had a place to set my laptop, pile up notebooks, stick post-it notes, or leave a printer plugged into a wall outlet. I’d typed in coffee shops, at friends’ kitchen tables, in the back of a van, at my own kitchen table, at airports, laundromats, anywhere I could when I had to. But now. A desk, in its own room. I must be a real writer now, right?

It’s funny how your definition of “real” changes.

—

In the spring of 2004, I had decided I was going to be an adventure writer. Not immediately, but someday. I had discovered Mark Jenkins’ columns in Outside, read Daniel Duane’s El Capitan book (despite never having climbed or seen El Cap), and tore through Jon Krakauer’s Eiger Dreams and Into the Wild. The model I understood from those writings—going on big adventures and writing stories about them—seemed like a dream job, although I had no idea if it was an actual job, or how a person could get that job. I did my master’s thesis at the University of Montana School of Journalism on peak bagging, and as a requirement for my magazine writing class, I had gotten published—an article in IDAHO Magazine about a road trip I’d taken the previous summer. The check for the article was for $40, or would have been, had I not asked the editor to please send me $40 worth of copies of the magazine instead, because I was so excited to have been published. It was a start, I thought. A slow one, but a start nonetheless. At $40 per article, I’d have had to write 233 articles each year just to crest the poverty line in 2004.

So I needed a real job, too. I applied at newspapers with no luck, so I got a job on the sales floor at the Phoenix REI to work while I sent out resumes and made calls to prospective journalism employers. I finally got a full-time editor/reporter/copy editor job at a small suburban weekly newspaper, and stayed on working part-time at REI.

In my spare time, I pitched every outdoor magazine I knew of, writing query letters that almost without fail resulted in rejection letters sent back to me weeks or months later. It was like walking up to a sport climbing crag, trying a route, falling after clipping the first bolt, failing to climb any higher, and moving on to the next route and repeating the process, with nothing to show for it. For months.

In my second year of pitching stories, I made $75 from one article. I moved to Denver to work at a small newspaper—but on the side, I kept pitching any outdoor publication I thought might pay. Almost all of them sent me rejections. In late 2006, John Fayhee at the Mountain Gazette liked a story I sent him enough to publish it and pay me $100. In mid-2007, I got a part-time job writing funny 100-word blogs for an outdoors website, at 15 cents a word, 2 to 3 blogs per week.

I kept working day jobs, first at the newspaper and then at a nonprofit that took urban teens on wilderness trips. After work, I obsessed over rock climbing routes, logistics of road trips I could take during my time off or over three-day weekends, read adventure books and magazines, and checked out guidebooks from the public library. I kept writing and trying to get published, chipping away at that idea of becoming a real writer.

I finally got a small assignment from a big magazine. I would interview a guy named Fitz Cahall, who had a podcast called “The Dirtbag Diaries.” I did the interview, wrote the 400-word story, sent it in, and … months later, I hadn’t heard from the editor. I checked back a couple times, and somehow the story had gotten lost in the editor’s spam folder. It never ran.

From the interview with Fitz Cahall, I held on to one part of his story: Fitz had wanted to become a magazine writer and had some success at it, but magazines weren’t interested in what he thought were his best story ideas. So he wrote them anyway, recorded them, and made them into a podcast—his own thing.

I ended up writing and recording an episode for The Dirtbag Diaries in mid-2008, starting a years-long relationship with Fitz and Becca Cahall. And, in late 2010, I followed Fitz’s thinking and took my rejected ideas (or ideas that were so ridiculous I’d never even pitched them) and started my own blog. In December 2010, I paid $12.17 for the URL Semi-Rad.com, and started writing short blog posts. I published the first four of them on February 2, 2011, and shared one of the posts with my few hundred Facebook friends and Twitter followers.

The first month, I published four blog posts, one every Thursday. My friend Josh Barker had told me that a regular publishing schedule would keep readers interested, so I decided to write one blog every week until something happened or I got sick of it. The first month, my blog got 646 page views. Not exactly setting the internet on fire.

The next month, I got 1,810 page views. The next month, still posting every week, 2,085 views, and then 1,506 views the month after that. It went like that for a while. I wrote about pumping your fist out the window of your car at the start of a road trip, about the amount of beer you should pay your friends back with after they did a favor for you (like letting you borrow gear or digging you out of an avalanche). I wrote about not buying new gear just because you can. Steve Casimiro from Adventure Journal reached out and asked if I would be interested in him re-posting some of my stories on his website and referring traffic back to me? Fuck yes I would. In October, I had more than 12,000 views. That December, Patagonia took out a full-page ad in the New York Times asking consumers to not buy Patagonia jackets if they didn’t need them, so I made a few knock-offs of their design, around other environmental issues. It took off, and that month, I had almost 30,000 page views. More importantly, I had survived 11 months of writing one blog post every week. So I kept going.

—

After almost six years of trying, I started getting magazine assignments, starting in early 2011 with a story I’d been pitching and had written for Climbing Magazine. I started writing more stories for them, and eventually a monthly column—which was titled Semi-Rad, like my blog. Over the course of the next few years, I wrote short and long pieces for almost every magazine I’d wanted to—a gear review here, a short piece in the front of the book there, the occasional feature story. Sometimes I loved the result, sometimes the magazine and I had different goals, and once my name actually got spelled wrong in my byline (not in an outdoor mag, but a men’s magazine doing some outdoor stuff). In mid-2013, I was working on an assignment for an outdoor magazine, and the editor said that when I was writing the feature story we were discussing, I should “imagine if you were writing about it for your blog.”

By the time I’d gotten to write for a few of the outdoor publications I’d always wanted to, I started to realize things were changing, for me and for everyone. In 2004, I’d wanted to write magazine feature stories, Jon Krakauer- and Daniel Duane-style—but in 2014, lots of magazines were shifting resources to online content, and often (but not always) decreasing resources devoted to publishing long features. Gone were the days (that I never experienced) of travel budgets and high-four-figure/five-figure story payouts—the kinds of things that “real writers” had. But the internet, which made life hell for lots of newspapers and magazines, was fantastic for people like me, who could hand-draw a flowchart about pooping in the woods or write a half-serious blog post about how much I hate (but kind of love) running and potentially reach thousands of people—or sometimes, only a few dozen, which happened lots of Thursdays. At the beginning of 2013, I landed a sponsor, Outdoor Research, whose support cosigned my efforts and made sure I had what I needed to keep it going.

—

In June 2014, I was driving around Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs doing research for a rock climbing guidebook I was co-authoring. The year before, I had put large “Semi-Rad.com” decals on either side of my Astrovan, which I was living in, thinking I needed to do that in order to deduct mileage on my taxes.

A car started tailgating me around the scenic loop, flashing its headlights. I wondered, “did I just cut that guy off? Is the van on fire?” I pulled over at the next pullout. The car pulled over, a guy got out, and introduced himself. His name was Willie Bailey, and he was a firefighter and photographer from Tennessee. He had been reading my blog for a couple years, and he had just read the road trip book I had self-published and got inspired to take a road trip himself—which he was on. Right now. We chatted a little bit, took a quick photo, and I got back in my van to drive away, thinking that was a pretty heartwarming side effect of writing a blog post every week for three and a half years.

This would happen more times over the next few years, and it’s not something they teach you in journalism school or creative writing classes: if you put a little bit of yourself out there and people can relate to it, sometimes you get to meet people you’d otherwise never meet, and hear a little bit of their story. And you don’t get that in every job.

—

There’s no monetary reward to having people you don’t know talk about some goofy thing you wrote, and it’s not a Pulitzer or National Magazine Award. But it was something I hadn’t considered when I started writing—that the weird shit I posted on my blog, which falls flat sometimes and makes it a little way around the internet some other times, could also become a piece of dialogue between friends. That not only do they laugh at the joke—which is all you hope for when you’re trying to be funny—but they laugh again later when they say it to a friend.

In late 2014, my friend Jim Harris wrote me an email from a bed and breakfast in Punta Arenas, Chile. He had been sitting on a couch around a wood stove with a group of people who were on their way to Torres del Paine when one of the group “started quoting your ‘Obsessive Campfire Adjustment Syndrome’ piece and the rest of the group filled in other memorable lines. I think they’ve memorized in a way I can only claim for a few Monty Python bits. Even 10,000 miles from home, the world’s a smallish place.”

—

Late last Monday night, I sat in my kitchen hand-writing thank-you postcards to the folks who support my creative efforts on Patreon, and realized my blog at Semi-Rad.com had turned 8 years old a few days before. I turned 40 last month, which means I’ve been writing Semi-Rad posts every week for a fifth of my life. If each blog was 500 words long, that’s well over 200,000 words written.

Since I started eight years ago, I’ve been able to successfully explore other ways to make a living besides writing a blog—public speaking, directing short films, writing books, drawing cartoons, and of course, writing for other publications. Some weeks I wondered if I should keep doing the blog, and some weeks it felt like no one read the blog at all.

But I had a place to write where no one told me what I could do and couldn’t do, for better (often) or for worse (hopefully not quite as often). I had a place to write an obituary for my friend Mick, who wasn’t a famous adventure athlete, but who I still quote to this day. I had a place to write about my mom, who climbs at a gym in Iowa, and my dad, who doesn’t climb at all, and about my friend Abi when she finally summited Mt. Shasta last summer. I wrote a story about my friend Nick’s rabid obsession with getting himself an old Trek 970 back in 2010, something he’d forgotten about until I reminded him last week. I don’t know if those stories would ever have gone anywhere if I hadn’t just done them myself, without caring whether 100 people or 100,000 people read them. (And let’s be honest—it was a little closer to 100).

Every once in a while someone asks what the word “Semi-Rad” means, and I explain that when I started the blog, I thought there was already plenty of outdoor media coverage of elite climbers, skiers, runners, and other record-breakers. I wanted to focus on the rest of us who love the outdoors—the things we have in common. I think those things are valuable too, and often ridiculous and worth laughing at.

If you ask any writer how to get started, I think you’ll get countless variations on one piece of common advice: Start writing. You just make yourself do it, even if you’re not sure if it’s any good at first. Writing is a lot like digging a hole in the ground: You only make progress after you actually start.

The one thing I’ve learned from making myself write something every week is this: You can’t hit a home run every week. Maybe you can’t hit a home run every month. But if you keep writing, sometimes you bunt, sometimes you strike out, and sometimes you get a walk. But if you get to first base, there’s someone out there who might need whatever it is you wrote, on that day. Even if the rest of the internet doesn’t seem to notice.

In mid-2017, Jonah Ogles, then an editor at Outside, reached out and asked if I’d be interested in having my Semi-Rad blog posts published as a weekly column on OutsideOnline.com. It was an unexpected, but welcome, honor for a blog born out of the fatigue of trying to get my stuff printed on someone else’s platform.

It was a totally different path than my adventure writing heroes, like Mark Jenkins, took, but making a living as a writer has never been straightforward, maybe less straightforward now than ever. If you had told me in 2008 that it was possible to get a book deal by writing really good Instagram captions, I would have said, “What the hell is Instagram?” in the same way if you’d told Mark Jenkins in 1998 that you could get a book deal by writing a blog, he probably would have said, “What the hell is a blog?” We’re all trying to figure it out as we go, whether you’re a publication like Outside or a hopeful somebody who just wants a few people to read your stories, in whatever format.

I don’t pretend to speak for all writers, but I think if you’re a writer and you’re honest with yourself, the thing you want most for your writing isn’t money or some sort of fame, but readers. You want a genuine connection with a few people. I don’t know if I’d say everything has turned out like I thought it would, but I’m grateful I found a small community of people who read some of my stories about all the things we love to do outside. I may not be filing dispatches from a base camp in the Karakoram or anything like the legendary writers I read, but I’ve had a great time trying to make sense of all the weird stuff we do out there—getting cold, exhausted, scared, stormed on, wondering why we do it until we get back home and immediately want to do it all again.

Eight years after starting a blog, and picking up that metaphorical shovel every week to keep digging that metaphorical hole, I still can’t say I know what a “real writer” is.

I do have a desk now, though. So I might as well stick with this writing thing.

—Brendan

The post Lessons From Eight Years Of Writing An Adventure Blog appeared first on semi-rad.com.

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My last evening in Northumberland I went for a walk. Thought it might be nice to get a few last minute pictures just before sunset. I pass a field of cows. They stare at me, quite possibly wondering why this sad old lady keep wandering past their field, but I chose to interpret this as them wanting their picture taken.

I stopped and took a photo of the cow who was hanging about staring the most. Soon it seems others want in. Next I have a whole bunch of them lining up and posing. Then, when I decide to do a group shot, I’m already to press the shutter button when the one at the back decides I don’t have her best side. The result … Well see for yourself.

Photobombing cows … Just when you thought you’d seen it all. I thought this picture of Bamburgh castle with a photobombing puffin was cool but these cows just made me hoot.

I could honestly share about a couple of hundred photos with you of my last week in Northumberland as I have had such a great time. We went to Chillingham Castle, reportedly the most haunted castle in England; went for a walk with wild cattle; spent time wandering the streets and town walls in Berwick where I don’t think we have ever seen so many swans – well over sixty lurking; spent a day on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, visiting the castle and priory and going on a nice long walk around the island; went for a cruise around the Farne Islands where I saw puffins and seals, followed by a big fish (jumbo sausage) supper and an afternoon at Bamburgh Castle and town. Even Hector didn’t keep us down and we managed to sneak in Alnwick Castle and Gardens and Barter books on Thursday afternoon before spending our last full day exploring Cragside and making one last morning trip to Holy Island, before heading home via The Angel of the North. Only managed to clock up 54 miles walking though. Poor effort.

And yes … this is me relaxing.

All of this however means I haven’t don’t much booking this past week. It hasn’t been completely book free but nowhere near my typical standards.

I might have taken advantage of a cracking offer on Craig Robertson’s books which were all 99p and bought myself the missing parts of my set by way of Random, The Last Refuge, In Place of Death, Snapshot and Witness the Dead. And, because I have all the others and I like a full set, I purchased the last Ransome book by Rachel Schurig, The Ransome Brothers.

I received a couple of bits of book post while I was away. Firstly a copy of Where the Missing Go by Emma Rowley, and also Seven Bridges, the latest DCI Ryan mystery from LJ Ross, which is quite apt given I have just spent a week in Ryan country and managed to tick of several of the books locations while away – Holy Island (Holy Island – obvs), Bamburgh Castle (Heavenfield), Cragside (Cragside – also obvs) and The Angel of the North (Angel). Thankfully we found no cults lurking (to our knowledge) on Holy Island although with that funky white pyramid (day marker) on the edge of the island, anything is possible …

No new Netgalley – no bad thing. Did purchase some more Bloody Scotland tickets though so just the rest of Sunday to decide upon now. Tidy.

Books I have read

Shores of Death – Peter Ritchie

Grace Macallan is at breaking point. All around her, events threaten to run out of control – and a new investigation is testing her to the limit. 

An undercover officer is missing and a woman is washed up, traumatised and barely alive, on the shores of Berwickshire. She has witnessed horror on the dark waters of the North Sea, but survival turns her life from a bad dream into a nightmare. 

As she untangles the woman’s story, Grace is drawn into a cold-blooded criminal world. At its head is Pete Handyside, a notorious gangland boss who will fight hard and dirty to control his brutal empire and keep the money flowing. 

But a traitor in his midst is intent upon betrayal – a betrayal that triggers an uncontrollable wave of violence. As she hones in on crucial evidence, Grace knows that one wrong move could end in tragedy.

I will be sharing my review of the latest Grace Macallan thriller later this week but the story is set around the world of gangs and human trafficking and sees Grace tracking killers all over Scotland and as far afield as Newcastle in a bid to bring justice. A great addition to the series, you can buy a copy here.

…

The Chosen Ones – Howard Linskey

Eva Dunbar wakes in a large metal box.

She has no idea who has taken her.

She has no way out.

She isn’t the first young woman to disappear.

And with no leads Detective Ian Bradshaw has precious little time.

When at last a body is found, the police hope the tragic discovery might at least provide a clue that will help them finally find the kidnapper.

But then they identify the body – and realise the case is more twisted than they ever imagined . . .

Continuing on my Northumbria themed post, I picked the right week to read this one didn’t I? The Chosen Ones sees Detective Ian Bradshaw and his journalist friends Tom Carney and Helen Norton investigating the disappearance of five young women from all over Northumbria. Gripping and sometimes claustrophobic I’ll be sharing my thoughts as part of the blog tour later this week but this did have me on edge, the action uncomfortably close to my lodgings… Thank heavens it is set in the late nineties or a girl could get paranoid. You can buy your own copy here.

…

Behind the Wire – Rachel Amphlett

Dan Taylor is trying to keep a low profile when an old friend contacts the Energy Protection Group seeking his help.

The man’s daughter is alone in sub-Saharan Africa, and her life is in grave danger.

Thrust back into active duty, Dan soon realises that getting Anna to safety is only half his problem. The forensic accountant holds the key to preventing Western Sahara descending into chaos, and exposing the puppet masters behind a coup d’état.

With a group of militants financed by a regime intent on acquiring mineral assets in the conflict-torn country in pursuit and willing to do anything to stop him, Dan must draw on old survival skills and luck to make sure Anna and the evidence she has in her possession reaches safety. 

Behind the wire lies a secret – a secret that people will kill to protect…

I have been putting it off and putting it off, knowing that this is the last Dan Taylor book currently written but the call was too strong and, with the perfect travel time home from my holiday, I listened to the audio book. Gripping and explosive as ever, Dan is back under the kosh and I loved it. My review will be published soon but do go and buy your own copy here. Now leave me alone as I am very sad … No more Dan 😦

…

The blog was busy all week in spite of my travels. Good planning, I know. Here is a recap.

The Cornish Village School: Breaking the Rules by Kitty Wilson

Follow Me Home by DK Hood

The Blood Road by Stuart MacBride

The Reckoning by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

Extract – The Tall Man by Phoebe Locke

Guest Post: Perfect Dead by Jackie Baldwin

This week is another busy one – making up for lost time, and yes – still cutting back. Mandie and I will be on tours for the following over the week –

Monday – First to Die by Alex Caan; Wednesday – Death in the Woods by Bernie Steadman; Thursday – Shores of Death by Peter Ritchie & Where the Missing Go by Emma Rowley; Friday – Toxic by Jacqui Rose & The Almost Wife by Jade Beer;  Saturday – The Date by Louise Jensen and Sunday –  The Chosen Ones by Howard Linskey.

Right – sadly I have to go and get ready for work. My punishment for taking a week off will be to plow thought hundreds of emails in a bid to get them below 2000 in my inbox. Wish me luck.

Have a fabulously book filled week all.

Jen

Rewind, recap: Weekly update w/e 17/06/18 My last evening in Northumberland I went for a walk. Thought it might be nice to get a few last minute pictures just before sunset.

[ultrasfcb-blog]

Dean Richards and Newcastle Falcons: From Premiership strugglers to title contenders

Dean Richards and Newcastle Falcons: From Premiership strugglers to title contenders

Dean Richards and Newcastle Falcons: From Premiership strugglers to title contenders

Brains and brawn: Dave Walder and Dean Richards have given Falcons silk and metal of their squad

Aviva Premiership semi-final – Exeter Chiefs v Newcastle Falcons Venue: Sandy Park Date: Saturday, 19 Could Kick-off: 15:30 BST Protection: Updates on BBC native radio and dwell scores on the BBC Sport web site

When Dean Richards took over at Newcastle Falcons in the summertime of 2012, each events had been at a crossroads.

After the Falcons loved Premiership success within the early years of professionalism, the glories of the late 1990s had been light recollections.

Years of battling to keep away from the drop had taken their toll, and the inaugural champions had been to begin that season within the Championship after relegation.

Richards – enormous in each popularity and stature as a participant and coach – had been to the heights of a number of European successes with Leicester and turned Harlequins from a Championship outfit to a top-flight contender.

Nonetheless, the scandal of ‘Bloodgate’ – utilizing a blood capsule to facilitate a tactical substitution by which he hoped to realize a bonus – noticed him sacked by Quins and disgraced, bringing his profession to a shuddering halt.

Alone, each Newcastle and Richards had been within the doldrums.

However collectively they’ve blossomed; reinvigorated and reborn.

On the eve of the membership’s first play-off semi-final in Premiership historical past, BBC Sport seems to be on the components behind the Falcons’ flight of fantasy.

The backroom

This 12 months’s success noticed Richards accumulate the Premiership director of rugby of the 12 months prize, whereas winger Vereniki Goneva received participant of the 12 months – reward for the tangible enchancment made throughout the board.

Richards’ ‘Midas contact’ at Newcastle was not a right away one, however the measured overhaul of the membership has been affected person.

The 54-year-old arrived with trusted lieutenant John Wells – a colleague from his England and Leicester days – and their mixture made Falcons a more durable proposition, constructing a close-knit tradition and workforce ethic.

Including the craft to their graft was achieved by the addition of former England, Falcons and Wasps fly-half Dave Walder.

The 40-year-old has been an impressed appointment since his return to Tyneside in 2014, was promoted to go coach final summer time and has helped ship a taking part in type that has entertained and introduced success in equal measure.

Extra wins, extra strive bonus factors and the next league place all coincided with Dave Walder’s appointment

Having the boldness to delegate and permit others to take management comes with expertise, and Richards takes extra of an outline of the membership.

“As a participant I used to be unconventional,” Richards informed BBC Radio 5 dwell. “As a director of rugby I nonetheless am just a little bit. However there are boundaries you do not cross.

“These boundaries are much less and fewer by way of teaching or director of rugby type. I am very completely different to most. I am not a hands-on type, however a steering the ship type.

“There’s quite a lot of pushing and shoving from behind.”

Richards has additionally ensured there’s a continuity and a relevance to the personnel, with one other ex-Falcon in scrum coach Micky Ward and lock Scott McLeod taking duty for the line-outs.

‘Award reveals exceptional longevity’

Evaluation – Chris Jones, BBC rugby union reporter

Richards final received the director of rugby award in 2001 when answerable for Leicester, so the actual fact he’s scooping it nearly 20 years later is an indication of his exceptional longevity and his capacity to reinvent his squads, and himself as a coach.

Very similar to when he was at Harlequins, Richards has overseen a long-term plan at Newcastle, with canny recruitment and wise delegation two of his many strengths.

Richards insists the England job will not be for him; the Rugby Soccer Union could at all times marvel what may need been.

Recruitment

Matthew Burke was a megastar, however even he couldn’t deliver Falcons the success they take pleasure in now

That includes an alumni that features England World Cup winner Jonny Wilkinson, Australia full-back Matthew Burke and New Zealand front-rower Carl Hayman to call however three, it’s not as if Newcastle followers have been pressured to just accept second-best by way of gamers over the previous 20 years.

Nonetheless, not even these legends of the sport have triggered the identical success as the present crop at Kingston Park.

Season-by-season enchancment has made the Falcons a much more engaging prospect, whereas the Richards impact continues to be a draw for prime gamers.

“We’re assured in what we’re doing, we’re assured in coaching, our evaluation, our preparation and that brings a extra relaxed really feel,” England worldwide Mark Wilson informed BBC Newcastle.

“We all know we’re in good fingers and everybody’s mucking in and doing their jobs.

“If you happen to take care of what you do and what you deliver to the membership, all of us come collectively and reap the rewards.”

The combo of home-grown abilities comparable to Wilson, current England call-up Gary Graham and Chris Harris have dovetailed fantastically with rigorously chosen imports – Sinoti Sinoti, Goneva and scrum-half Sonatane Takulua.

Final summer time additionally noticed the shrewd seize of ‘local-boy executed good’ Toby Flood, who having progressed his profession away from Newcastle with giants Leicester, returned from a stint with Toulouse to information the Falcons.

“It’s important to purchase into Dean,” ex-England winger Ugo Monye informed BBC Sport’s Rugby Union Weekly podcast. “You won’t be his greatest mate. It’s important to put your ego to 1 facet, he does not need to get on with everybody and he should not.

“He is so cocksure about what he desires to do, however he will get outcomes.”

Already lined up for subsequent season are Leicester’s ball-carrying prop Logovi’i Mulipola and London Irish centre Jonny Williams, as Richards continues to tinker and improve the participant pool.

Mentality

Vereniki Goneva’s Alan Shearer celebration at St James’ Park was one of many enduring recollections of the season

Not solely are Flood and Goneva elite gamers with worldwide expertise, however additionally they got here from successful cultures and have unfold that successful mentality all through the squad.

This marketing campaign has seen Falcons break data on and off the pitch, with greater than 30,000 followers attending a regular-season recreation at Newcastle United’s St James’ Park and the securing of Champions Cup rugby earlier than their top-four efforts which ensured a highest end in 20 years.

Their victory at Leicester within the penultimate recreation was Newcastle’s first at Welford Highway in 21 years, fuelled by perception they’ll match anybody within the Premiership elite.

“It is successful the massive video games, being aggressive within the huge matches,” Richards informed BBC Newcastle.

“We’re doing that, we have proven we are able to beat the massive sides from Exeter to Northampton, however in the end we’ve got to beat Wasps and Saracens.”

As a lot as Richards places perception into his gamers, there’s additionally the aspect of his character, his will to win, that has one other impact on the folks underneath his administration.

“He does instil a worry issue which does get one of the best out of not simply the gamers, however the video analysts, the physio,” Monye mentioned.

“If the physio says two weeks, Dean will likely be wanting him again in per week.

“He’s at all times pushing the envelope, maybe that was a few of his downfall – take a look at ‘Bloodgate’. He’ll endlessly be remembered for that, and I hope that is not the defining second in his profession.

“It should not be the defining second, as a result of he is executed so many good issues.”

Semore’s success

Semore Kurdi (left) helped take Newcastle to Philadelphia to face Saracens in a showcase league recreation

Richards, Flood, Goneva – all key aspects to the Falcons’ revival, however none of whom can be at Newcastle if weren’t for the impression of proprietor Semore Kurdi.

Little is thought concerning the ‘Geordie Jordanian’, who established his enterprise within the north east however has remained nameless because the membership he bankrolls charged up the Premiership desk.

He has been helped by Richards’ rugby union nous and the enterprise experience of former Wigan rugby league chief govt Mick Hogan in off-the-field issues.

Kurdi’s intervention when Dave Thompson sought to promote the membership in 2011 has coincided with the Falcons’ upturn.

Plans are in place for a brand new stand on the North Terrace of the bottom, because the off-field facet of the enterprise seeks to maintain tempo with their on-field counterparts.

“It in all probability would not have survived if the reality be recognized,” Richards informed BBC Radio 5 dwell.

“The membership was on its final legs and also you solely have to take a look at the renovations throughout the membership and the way in which the membership goes to grasp it is gone a good distance.”

BBC Sport – Rugby Union ultras_FC_Barcelona

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