#this man is supposed to land us on mars

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil's top court says X paid pending fines to wrong bank

Brazil's Supreme Court said on Friday that lawyers representing social media platform X did not pay pending fines to the proper bank, postponing its decision on whether to allow the tech firm to resume services in Brazil.

The payment of the fines, which X lawyers argued that the company had paid correctly, is the only outstanding measure demanded by the court in order to authorize X to operate again in Brazil.

X has been suspended since late August in Brazil, one of its largest and most coveted markets, after not complying with court orders related to hate speech moderation and failing to name a legal representative in the country, as required by law.

Earlier on Friday, X, owned by billionaire Elon Musk, filed a fresh request to have its services restored in Brazil, saying it had paid all pending fines.

Continue reading.

[tarotsoul]

Ghost in the Wind — Part One

SUMMARY: All your life, your presence had been nothing more than a faint kiss of a breeze—nothing impactful, nothing worth noticing. So why did it hurt so much when that remained the case after moving to Prythian?

WARNINGS: a bit of angst, feelings of self-hatred and worthlessness, brief mentions of sexual assault

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

“No.”

There was no room for argument in Nesta’s tone, no room for anything other than agreement or else she’d reign the Hells on all of them. Her mate be damned, she would not leave the mortal lands without you. Not again.

“If we take her,” Cassian gritted his teeth, “I am inviting her husband to wage war on our kind if he so chooses.”

Nesta bared her teeth. “Rafe is nothing but a coward and a sorry excuse of a man. What kind of war could he wage? If she stays, then so do I.”

Cassian blanched at his mate, his teeth grinding. They were only supposed to have stopped through for no more than a week, to ensure things in the mortal lands were restoring to somewhat of the normalcy they once had before the war.

He blinked at Nesta, noting the way she bore her feet into the solid ground, as if planting herself there like a tree weaving its roots into the soil. He knew the love she had for her cousin, her only friend, as she’d once told him. The guilt she’d felt when she first left the village, left you, hadn’t eased in the slightest.

Perhaps this was the reason she insisted on joining Cassian on this third-grade mission. He cast a quick glance over her shoulder to the small stone house you were occupying, and closed his eyes to ground his breathing.

“We can’t just bring her back without consulting Rhys first.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Screw Rhys. I’ll deal with him myself if I have to. She is my family, Cassian. My friend. Every night, he beats her and abuses her and takes from her what she will not willingly give. She is coming back with us.”

Cassian took another grounding breath, the iron will in Nesta’s eyes granting not even a fraction of negotiation. There was too much going on right now, too much to sift through to rebuild their city and legions.

But Nesta was right, and despite not knowing you, he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving a vulnerable soul with a monster who took and abused like Rafe did. Especially not when he saw the pain on his mate's eyes for her cousin.

“Ten minutes. Tell her to pack necessities only. We will need to leave within the hour if we wish to be gone before her husband returns.”

Nesta didn’t cast him a second glance as she turned and sprinted into your home. You scrambled back from the window, heat painting your cheeks that you’d been caught watching them, straining your ears for a sliver of their conversation, to no avail.

She said nothing of your snooping, only grabbed your hand and dragged you to your sleeping chambers. “Pack only what you need. You’re coming back with us.”

You blinked, lungs seizing the air you tried to breathe. Leaving? For the Fae lands?

“Ness,” you tried, but she held up a slender hand to cut you off.

“Don’t. I made the mistake of leaving you behind before. I won’t do it again.” She couldn’t look at you. Not at the bruises marring your skin, or the split lip you’d earned yourself two nights ago for leaving an unwashed pot in the sink.

So you didn’t think twice about the consequences of being caught fleeing. You didn’t think twice at all as you stuffed minimal clothing into a satchel along with a photo of your beloved mother and the worn journal you kept hidden beneath the mattress.

Nesta allowed you a moment to compose yourself as she returned to her mate just outside your home. Home. As if you could ever have truly referred to it as that. This was not a home. You hadn’t had a home since your mother passed ten years ago. Since you married Rafe and your whole world fell apart.

You had prayed. Prayed to whatever out there that would listen. Hoped and hoped that one day your salvation would arrive, that you’d be finally spared from the misery you’d been subjected to for so long. From the pain and terror and loneliness.

You hadn’t realised you were absentmindedly twisting the iron band on your ring finger until the small stone in the centre scratched at your skin. That Gods damned ring that bound you to the monster you called your husband. That iron cage that kept you as his possession instead of his love.

Yet the fear… the fear at the idea of removing it sat far too heavy in your chest. The fear of him finding you, punishing you. But he wouldn’t find you, you knew that. Rafe would never dream of crossing that veil into the Fae lands. And even if he did, you were sure he’d be eaten alive within the first breath he took in that world.

When you met Nesta and Cassian outside, they both had a satchel of their own on their shoulders; stuffed to the brim of bread and cheese and skins of water they’d raided from the kitchen.

The General nodded at you once as you approached. You wondered if you’d done anything to offend him, or perhaps he found this—you—to be an unnecessary burden to him and his day.

“Thank you,” you managed to utter, and both he and Nesta felt the pure relief and gratitude in your voice.

Cassian’s resolve softened, a sympathetic gleam in his eye and he hated himself for a moment for even considering leaving you here alone.

“It’ll take us half a day to reach the wall,” Nesta began, unmoving from Cassian’s side. “When we pass, Azriel will meet us at the border in Spring. Cassian cannot fly the both of us.”

You couldn’t help the apology that slithered up your throat. “I don’t mean to be a burden—“

But it was Cassian who growled in response, “You are not. You are family, and we don’t leave family behind.”

You walked for hours, legs sore and tired and throbbing from the stamina you lacked. But you didn’t want to stop, to ask for a break. They were kind enough to have brought you, you needn’t add any more time onto their already long journey.

So you kept your mouth shut and willed your legs to move, one in front of the other. Hours passed and you could feel that familiar panic rise in your stomach. Nightfall was approaching, which meant Rafe would surely be home by now…

You didn’t want to allow yourself to think of that. Of what he was doing after finding the home empty with nothing but your wedding band on the dresser, the only proof you ever even existed in that house.

It was Cassian who made the call to stop for a break, as though only now remembering how weak a mortal body was compared to a Fae’s—or in his case, an Illyrian.

Nesta had told you many things about her family in Prythian; the members of the Inner Circle, the beautiful city of Velaris and all the wonders it had to offer. Despite the relief you felt for leaving, the anxiety of entering the Fae lands was unmatched to anything you’d felt before.

You rested for only thirty minutes, the three of you eating your way through an entire satchel of food and two skins of water. Perhaps Nesta and Cassian were as tired as you were, though you figured not.

And by the time you reached the wall, night had surrounded you in complete darkness, nothing but a ripple in the air to suggest you had met the end of your homelands.

It was opaque for the most part, but the air seemed to glimmer and fold, as if you were looking magic dead in its face. You allowed your fingers to reach shakily for it, a fearful thought stopping you from making contact.

You turned to your cousin. “Will it hurt?”

She took your hand. “No, though when we pass through you’ll need to stay as close to Cassian and I as possible. Your scent—it’ll be a beacon to all sorts of creatures that roam freely within the Spring.”

Nesta shrugged off her jacket and handed it to you. “It’ll somewhat mask your scent. Just long enough until we meet with Azriel.”

You shoved your arms in the jacket as you put it on over your own and took Nesta’s hand again. Her eyes met yours, something akin to relief and sorrow flickering in her gaze. You didn’t want her pity. And it cleaved your heart into two knowing that you could never do anything to repay her for this, to express just how far your gratitude stretched.

Cassian and Nesta took three steps forward and as you followed, the air rippled around you…you breathed in the new life and second chance you’d been given.

But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited on the other side of the veil.

The first and only thing you saw were a set of sharp, gleaming white teeth before you were shoved to the ground with a hard thud, your head hitting against soft grass with a thump.

Snarls and grunts and shrieks surrounded you, and in the time it took to regain your bearings, Cassian and Nesta were sheathing their daggers once more as the…thing that had attacked lay dead on a field of daisies.

With eerie calmness, you assessed the creature. It was huge, twice the size of Cassian and about four times the size of you. Dark black fur covered its body and ruby red eyes that lifelessly stared into your very soul.

For some strange, obscene reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Not as you breathed in the fresh soil beneath your feet. It felt as though your world had been turned on his axis, as if only now could you see clearly.

Then you heard it, a distant swooshing in the wind. You angled your neck toward the noise, eyes not needing to squint in the darkness as the stars illuminated the sky so beautifully.

Your brows furrowed, but you did not look away. “Something is coming.”

Both Nesta and Cassian followed your gaze then, stepping closer to your still body. The figure came closer, your initial thoughts of it being a large bird being dismissed as a pair of wings much like Cassian’s, only larger, flipped through the midnight air.

You smelt him before catching his face. Pine and wood and parchment. Mint. There was a hint of mint and something sweet like cinnamon as the glorious Illyrian landed swiftly onto the grass.

Azriel.

You remembered him, the Shadowsinger. Silver streaks of the moon casted across his brown skin as he approached swiftly, those dark and languid shadows moving across his form and snaking the earth until they halted at your feet—assessing.

“So glad you finally joined the party.” Cassian said in greeting, though Azriel paid no mind to the tone his brother offered.

Those shadows wrapped around your ankles softly, slinking your skin as they felt you out. You felt something then, a tug in the air that seemed to pull the shadows back to Azriel’s towering form.

That was when you looked at him, breath stolen from your lungs. He was beautiful. A warrior, that you could tell. Solid muscle covered every inch of him, dark black hair that sat messily on his head and swept down his forehead and brows. Hazel eyes met yours, his lips parting—no doubt at the state of your bruised face.

He was beautiful when you’d seen him previously on his brief visit to speak with Lucien… but now, it was as though you were seeing him truly–with so much clarity in your gaze it almost blinded you. Everything about this land did. 

“There are more coming, so unless you want a fight, I suggest we leave.”

His tone held no room for argument, yet he spoke in an unrushed drawl, as if these creatures were the least of his concern. He was as large as Cassian, daggers strapped to his leathers, so you supposed they likely posed little to no threat to him and his skills.

“Can you winnow?” Nesta asked.

It wasn’t lost on you how overlooked you were, despite being the reason for his presence. But like most of your life, it came as no surprise to be somewhat invisible. Cast aside. Unnoticed.

Azriel shook his head. “We’ll need to fly to the border between Autumn and Winter, from there I can winnow us back to Velaris.”

Cassian nodded, reaching for Nesta. “We’ll go first, make sure the area is safe. Follow us in five minutes.”

Nesta looked at you, a silent conversation between you both.

You’ll be okay?

I’ll be fine. If you trust Azriel then so do I.

No other words were exchanged when Cassian hauled Nesta into his arms, spread his magnificent wings and shot to the skies. You watched until they were a mere dot beside the stars before returning your attention to the Shadowsinger who was already offering you his.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.” He said politely.

You wondered if he’d remembered your name from your first and last encounter almost a year ago, or if when Cassian sent word for aid he’d reminded him of it.

Either way, you offered a timid smile. “You too, Azriel. I apologise for troubling you with this. All of you.”

He shook your apology off. “It’s no bother. Are you hurt anywhere?”

You knew he wasn’t referring to bruises and cuts you already adorned. It seemed as though stepping through that veil gave you more clarity, more understanding of silent thoughts and everything else around you.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Good.” He nodded, and those shadows threatened to reach for your ankles again.

Azriel didn’t pull them back this time, only took a tentative step closer. “I apologise, they’re no threat. Not to you.”

You nodded, gaze upon them as they slinked further up your body and wrapped softly around your arms. Azriel almost bristled at the way you remained so calm. He wondered how much about him and his family you knew. He supposed Nesta had told you much through letters and such.

You didn’t reply, couldn’t bring yourself. You knew how deadly the Inner Circle could be to their enemies. And yet these shadows touched you with more softness than your husband ever did. You didn’t let that thought show on your face.

“Everything feels different on this side of the wall,” you admitted, a little breathless.

Azriel remained looking at you. “Everything feels…clearer.”

You waved the shadows off your body gently, silently shooing them back to their master.

“I’ll need to fly you like Cassian did to Nesta,” he began. “Are you afraid of heights?”

You didn’t know the answer to that. But the thought of being held by him the same way Nesta was by Cassian… that thought scared you. And not because it was Azriel, but because of the sheer closeness and intimacy that was needed for it.

You swallowed it down. “No… I don’t think so.”

He nodded, taking another step closer with an outstretched hand. “You can close your eyes if you wish, and I’ll fly slowly, I swear.”

You heard it then, the pattering of paws on the grass, of claws digging into the soil and snarls of breath into the night. You looked to Azriel, eyes a little wilder than before. He nodded, as if he already knew what you were about to say.

He held out his hand further for you to take, and you took a hold of his marred skin, calloused under your softer palm but you didn’t balk, didn’t pull away as you got a clearer view of the scars that adorned him.

Azriel hoisted you into his arms, cradling you to his chest. “The take off will be harsh, make sure you hold on tight to me.”

And he wasn’t lying. Azriel bent his knees and shoved his full weight into the earth before you both shot into the starlit skies. You didn’t close your eyes, you wanted to see everything this world had to offer. A world that was always at your fingertips but never accessible until now.

The wind seemed to whisper to you, gently caressing your bruised skin and promising a better life. A new life. As though the elements welcomed you home. 

It was only moments of uphill force until Azriel evened out and began a steady speed through the clouds. His scent enveloped you, almost overbearing as it encompassed all of your senses.

You worried for a moment then. If his scent surrounded you this way, you wondered how badly yours did to him with such heightened senses. You tried to hold your breath for longer than usual, tried to steady your heartbeat, afraid he’d hear it.

“Are you okay?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. Because even though you tried to mask it, he could sense your every feeling, your every tremor and sigh and sob.

Tears streamed down your face as he flew you both north toward the border between Autumn and Winter.

“Thank you, Azriel.” And you thanked him and thanked him and thanked him. Until your voice grew hoarse from the sobs and you let yourself realise that you were finally free.

Finally safe. 

In the transitioning week of being escorted to the Night Court, you had hardly spoken to a soul. For the first two days, you appreciated the silence, the safety–basked in it, even. Nesta had shown you to your room in the House of Wind, an incredible home built into the walls of a large mountain that overlooked the city of Velaris. 

“Should you need anything,” Nesta had said softly, “ask the House, it listens.” 

And she had been right. The first night, you thought of a hot bubble bath and a gentle breeze had sifted through your sheer curtains, guiding you to your personal bathing chambers where a hot bath had been drawn, scents of calming lavender and jasmine coating you. 

You only saw Nesta twice after that, once when she brought you some of her favourite romance books and again, two days later when she told you Feyre and Elain sent their love and well wishes. 

She’d had the family's healer, Majda, check you over for any untreated injuries, and when she came up short she offered you a few tonics for the discomfort and encouraged you to rest before sending you back on your way.

You shouldn’t have expected more, shouldn’t have longed for more. You supposed Nesta had done her part enough–saving you from Rafe and bringing you here. And yet, despite the House tending to your needs and the souls of the romance novels…you felt just as alone as you had in the mortal lands. 

You hadn’t seen Azriel since either, nor Cassian. You didn’t have much right to ask after them, to thank them again. They had their own lives and roles to fill, you knew your rescue had been nothing more than another third-grade mission to them. 

By the fifth day, the realisation had begun to sink in. That you’d been moved from one lonely home into another. Perhaps that was the course your life was fated to take–alone, unnoticed, nothing more than a ghost in the wind, nothing worth acknowledging. 

You wrote your thoughts into your leather-bound journal, the only form of release you had for these dark emotions. Yet every time the pen lifted from the parchment, you felt heavier than you had before. 

You were yet to leave your bedroom, often sitting at the window seat that overlooked the lights of the city, wondering what life awaited down there. Wondered if you’d ever get the opportunity to explore it. Nesta had mentioned that the House was warded from winnowing, the only way out was to fly or descend the ten thousand stairs. 

But you couldn’t fly, and you wouldn’t make the steps down either. You weren’t a prisoner, you knew that. But Nesta had done her part, saving you, bringing you to her and Cassian’s home. You were not her responsibility, not anyones. 

Yet, you couldn’t help but feel trapped, restricted. Moved from one stone building and into another. Perhaps that was what finally made you venture out of your room, barefeet padding across the cool floors.

You followed the winding staircase to a lower level, noting the ornate furniture that decorated the large space. A crackling hearth caught your attention, so inviting and warm in front of a plush couch. The House seemed to beckon you to it, a gentle breeze against the backs of your bare legs and it made your short nightgown sway. 

Following it, you sat on the couch and a thick blanket materialised and draped itself over your legs at the same time a steaming mug of tea and a new romance novel appeared on the table beside you. 

You smiled softly, warmth spreading in your chest as you thanked the House. 

An hour or so had passed, not that you were for certain, but the House remained silent. Nothing but sips of your tea and flipping of pages could be heard along with the crackling of the hearth. 

For a moment, you felt at peace in your own company. Completely content for this time to sit and read and know you wouldn’t receive a beating or worse for it. You stretched out your back, stifling a yawn as a pair of soft footsteps greeted your ears. 

Your eyes widened, an unnecessary apology already on the tip of your tongue, though for what you weren’t sure. That had become the norm for you, apologising for your every breath. 

But it was not Rafe that stepped out of the shadows, of course not. It was Azriel, in all his glory, wings tucked neatly behind his back and you counted the seven blue siphons that adorned his leathers. 

“Azriel,” you breathed, a sheepish smile on your face. 

Finally, some company. Someone to acknowledge your presence and to perhaps converse with. You shuffled on the couch, making to put your book down but all Azriel did was give you a terse nod in greeting and a thin smile before walking down the hall and out of your sight. 

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. You should be used to this by now. You were used to it. But you couldn’t control that tiny thread of hope in your chest that things could be different. That you could be accepted and wanted and noticed. 

For the eighth night in a row, you were left in the dark with nothing but the crippling loneliness and aching of your soul to keep you company. 

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This is the first instalment of this mini-series that I literally got the idea for two days ago lol. It'll be around 5/6 parts, smut will come and a few twists you won't expect!! Unfortunately I'm unable to get my old page back (rhysazriel), which means most of my previous writings have been lost but I'll likely repost the ones I have saved in my google docs in the late future (plug!az being one of them.)

If you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated!! <3

[dilf-docs]

Le Pedí Al Mar Y Al Sol Que Te Trajera

pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: vacations are supposed to be fun! and with a hot older famous boyfriend? now we're really talking.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (yum), pwp, p. in v., fingering, pussy spanking (ooc i'm sorry i just want a man to do this to me), creampie, virgin!reader (sorry if this is kinda unrealistic for a first as i too i'm a virgin; in the curb we all fam), aftercare, spanglish ofc!!!

word count: 2,865 words

side note: so, i modified the request a bit bc idk pedro's friends like that (i just know omar apollo can tower over me wait what). check the og request here. reqs still open as we enter 2025! happy new year, dilf town citizens: pushed this drabble last minute as a lil' gift for you before the year ends! :) thank u sm for being part of it, my journey on tumblr is just getting started!!!!!!!!!!

Hace tiempo que quería yo sentir esto que siento.

They say dating a star and having to share him with everybody else is the hardest part, but to you, it's having both of your vacations occur simultaneously.

Finally, after months of shooting so many projects for the next year, your boyfriend is free.

Vacations are fun! They're supposed to be relaxing, especially after leading such a busy life as yours: juggling between work, studies and a relationship with world-renowned actor, Pedro Pascal. Yet, you can't help but feel nervous, fiddling with the loose strands of your skirt.

Pedro wants you to go alone, which means just the both of you: a little escape before Christmas Eve, as he and his friends have already planned their holiday together.

Doesn't matter how many times you tried to excuse yourself, he was determined to make you go with him. Besides, let's get real: it's not like you can say no to him. So now here he is, both of your passports in hand as you both are ready to board your plane to Mexico, where the rest of his friends will meet you a week later. Yes, more nerves to add on the schedule.

"If you don't quit that shaking of yours, I'll extend our vacation two more weeks" Pedro threatens once you're seated, but it's devoid of any malice. He's a bit far from you (he also insisted on the VIP flying part; you're just fine flying tourist, but can understand why he isn't), so you can't count on his touch to comfort you. "Didn't know you were afraid of planes"

You sigh, "I'm not"

"Ay, cariño. Are you afraid of me then?"

"No" you laugh nervously. You are, but not for the reasons he thinks.

It's the very first time the two of you will be fully alone. For obvious reasons, a whole week at the beach is much more intimate than just the dates you've been in. But here you are, already seeing the sand and water beneath you.

"Like what you see?" he jokes.

"Yeah" you look back at him, sincerity washing over the expression on your face. "I do"

If there is one thing you're sure of, is your love for Pedro. You'll just have to wait and see how this goes.

As of now, everything has gone well: sun, water, diving and lots of new photos and videos on your camera roll. You've gone swimming and danced on the bar of the hotel you're staying, some extra drinks on your system. You've also sunbathed under the same sun you've watched go down, in the most beautiful sunsets you've ever seen in your life.

But here comes the hardest part: the night. Sharing a bed isn't hard: it's something that's happened before, one time even staying in his house for two days, all because he insisted.

This time is different: the way his gaze lingers over your bare legs, the same way he's looked at them when the droplets of water slide down them. The way he licks his lips, like he's starving and the most deliciously tempting meal stands before him. Mantaining eye contact like it's some kind of dare, just as he's done since you've landed, using it to disarm you little by little.

You don't think you can't take it anymore.

You lay down on the bed, and he leaves the book he's reading on the night table next to him, all his attention directed towards you. Yeah, you're afraid, he can sense, but apparently not that afraid to wear a dainty nightwear that gives a delicious peek of your breasts.

"Something you want to say?" you ask, almost daringly so.

"Say no" voice low, barely a whisper that could come across a breeze of wind entering through the open window as it stirs the courtains. "Want, yes"

You gulp. "What do you want, then?"

Shouldn't taken the bait.

"You" comes quick, like it's the easiest answer there ever is.

The rest of his answer comes in the form of hungry lips capturing yours, devouring them in a clash of desire against your own, even struggling to breath due to the animalistic borderline savage way Pedro's eating you out, his tongue battling inside your mouth while trying to explore every corner just to taste all of you on his palate.

"Pedro" you moan his name out when he bites your lip with a bit too much force, metallic filling your taste buds. It's all so hot, and you're too turned on to think.

His roaming hands itch to touch every available spot of soft skin your body offers, tracing first through your collarbones, and then leaving the task for his lips to complete. There goes a trail of kisses that go down your neck, teeth nibbling the sensitive skin until it turns red. You whine against his hold, big hands keeping you under him, back pushed against the soft mattress and silk sheets.

You gasp for air, lost in the fire, when suddenly his forgotten hands touch you down there.

"Wait!" you shout, mentally slapping yourself.

"¿Qué pasó?" he exclaims, scared. "Did I hurt you?"

"N-no" you're quick to deny, voice wavering as you seat up on the bed. Your cheeks soon flush, as there's regret when you say. "I'm sorry"

"Sorry for what?" he tenderly cups your cheek. "Just tell me what happened"

"What happened is, I fucked up the vibe. I'm sorry, P. Didn't mean to stop you like that"

"¿No te estaba gustando, cariño?" he's questioning again.

"No" your answer is more firmly this time. His face morphs into a bit of hurt, and then you think your answer a bit more. "Ah, no. I mean, yes! I was liking it. I meant no as in no, it's not that why I stopped you"

"Then, why is it?" he grows a little impatient, but shows no such thing, rather focused on helping you out. "You know you can trust me, right?"

"I know" you smile sadly, insecurities washing over you like cold water.

"Then, tell me" he scoots closer, his perfume getting in your nostrils. Had he wore it again for this? God, what an evil little horny creature.

"I'm scared" you confess finally, the warmth of his receptiveness giving you a sense of security. His brown eyes soften, and you feel tears brim in the corner of your eyes.

"I know" he repeats your words, kissing you softheartedly, nothing compared to as before.

"No" you look directly at him, ready to take in every reaction his face will have. "I don't think you do"

"Amor, por favor-"

"I'm a virgin" you cut him off, panic rushing your answer.

"You are?" almost immediatly, giving no opportunity for silence to settle in.

You nod, slowly.

He sighs, sounding relieved. "And here I thought you didn't love me. Que te daba asco acostarte con un viejo como yo"

"No!" you deny hastily, then laugh. "Of course I love you, P. On the contrary, I was the one scared. Don't want to fuck it up on my first"

The energy changes again, as a flame sparks within your orbs. He looks surprised.

"Just because I said-" he cuts himself off. "Look, y/n, mi vida. I don't want to force you, yeah? I didn't know you hadn't- Listen, if you aren't ready, I'll understand"

"I am ready" clear and convinced, without a doubt.

His eyes circle between lust and love, "You want me to be your first, mmh baby?"

You nod, and he's back at the kissing and nibbling on your neck and collarbones.

"Please say it"

"I want you, Pedro. Quiero que seas mi primera vez"

Those sweet words of yours, an invitation not even the strongest man could deny.

"Let's start slow, yeah?" his fingers travel down to your panties under the nightwear, removing them and tossing them out of the bed, even with your pout. He kisses it off, wasting no time after to see your clit exposed. "Looking so sweet, angel. And needy" he gets closer, taking a better look at the wet mess that coats in between your thighs. He takes a whiff, intoxicated with the smell of your arousal dripping in waiting need. "Tell me if this is okay, yeah? I'll stop if it hurts"

Your breath hitches the moment his middle finger touches your puffy clit. Pedro runs his finger up and down, not adding much pressure to let you get used to it (kissing and eating each other out was all you had ever done). You whimper at the feeling as he repeats his action a few more times.

"Please, keep going" you plead, barely managing to not squirm at the overwhelming new sensations that shoot right through your cunt.

He begins to rub slow circles, making sure to add the right pressure onto your clit, then circling it, all while keeping eye contact, adoring the new expressions and sounds he's getting from you. You realize and shy away, embarrassed all of the sudden at the way he looks at you.

"Don't" he holds you by your chin with his free hand, "I want to know how you look when I please you"

You whimper, letting him do his own thing. He starts leaving sweet little kisses around your quivering pussy, enjoying the sight of your hole clenching at nothing.

"Think you can take more?" he asks, "want more?"

Two of his fingers dive straight in between your folds, coating them with your juices.

"Good girl" he praises when you only yelp, savouring the new feel of his digits inside of you. Then, he drags his fingers back to his mouth, tongue licking them clean. "Taste so sweet too"

"N-need more" you whine, desperate beneath him.

"Yeah?" This your first and you're already this greedy? I think I can get used to it" he laughs in adoration. "Let's try something better, yeah?"

Your body suddenly jolts, his big palm flat against your pussy. Pedro circles his whole palm across your cunt, middle finger pressing tightly onto it. You moan, back arching at the overstimulation.

He feels a little pervy, enjoying the way your tiny young body squirms beneath his caging body for of him. Nonetheless, he continues to rub you while you release more dirty sounds cascading out fo your filthy greedy lips. Your arousal keeps dripping like a broken pipeline, now smeared all over Pedro's palm, filling the room with slippery sounds.

"Mhm" you can't even speak, the exquisite combination of pain and pleasure reducing you to a moaning mess.

Pedro slaps your pussy twice, wet smacks bouncing off the walls.

"That's my girl" he then gently blows on your swollen bud, pressing a light kiss on it after. "Ready for it?"

It meaning his hard tent hidden under his underwear. You gulp, afraid you might not take it. He sees the hesitation in your eyes, but you're quick to dissmiss it.

"Are you sure you are ready?"

"Just do it" you demand, without knowing the consequences of your words, or the effect you have on him. Overall.

With needy fingers, you're fast to strip him out of it, admiring the size as much as you admire his now sculpted body. Jesus, you could build a cult out of it.

"Now" he cups your cheeks, fingers digging onto the skin, "I want you to look at me when I fuck you, yes? Don't dare to look away"

Pedro positions himself between your legs, aligning himself with your entrance. Then, he thrust inside you, filling you completely. You cry, trying to adjust to his size while your nails dig on his broad back, as he claims you, makes you his. Only his. Pedro'hi's hips snap forward with precision: every thrust is deliberate, each movement calculated to make your first as pleasurable as he can, despite the pain that's shown in your tears or the little drops of blood that fall onto the sheets.

"Shit" he pants, "tendremos que pagar por eso"

He grips your thighs, holding you steady as he pounds into you.

"Fuck, you feel so good" he moans, your tight untouched walls now stretching to adapt to his girth, "like you were made for me"

You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he firmly holds you. Your vision goes foggy, mind numb at the burning and pleasing sensations. Despite that and lack of experience, you meet his every thrust, your bodies moving as one.

Your core contracts around him with every motion. "You fuck me so good" you mewl, music to his ears.

"I know, baby" he chuckles, "sólo lo mejor para mi princesa"

Fingers dig into your skin as he guides you with precision, right as he wants you to be. You feel the intensity of his deep inside of you with every movement, his hot laboured breath against your ear.

"Doing it so good" his voice is low, almost a growl, sending shivers down your spine. "Just for me"

"Just for you" you mindlessly pant out, the sensation of having all of him inside you, nothing separating the skin from skin, igniting a fire that spreads through your core. Your breasts bounce with each motion, Pedro's eyes never leaving yours, dark orbs locked onto your gaze as you urge him to go faster, drawing in a sharp breath as your body adjusts to the new rhythm he's providing, rapidly obeying.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your bodies clashing onto one another, flesh against flesh echoing softly.

"Your body is perfect, so wet, so tight for me" His words send a wave of pleasure crashing over you, making you moan loudly, your head falling back, "me tienes loco"

Pedro's weight grounds you as he begins to thrust deeply, each movement deliberate and unrelenting.

"Tell me you want this, us" the words catch you off guard. "Will you take all of me?"

"Yes" without a thought or doubt, answering as you whine and clutch at his shoulders with his more urgent thrusts. "All of you, always"

You notice his hips snapping forward, more energy as he pounts into you. "Good girl" praising you again, voice thick in arousal and rough, "so good for me"

Despite being your first, you can feel what would be your orgasm building, closer and closer until there is no holding it back.

"Pedro!" you scream his name, body collapsing around him as you come, stars reaching your closed eyelids.

His movements become more intense and sloppier, breathing ragged as he chases his own release.

"Espérame. Stay there for me"

You cling to him, legs wrapping tighter as he continues to pound into you. "Ya casi" his thrusts become erratic as he nears his climax, "almost there, baby"

You feel his body tensing as he comes inside you with a deep groan, seed spilling into you without wasting a drop.

"That's right" whispers against your sweet neck roughly, voice breaking as he collapses over you, trying to level his breathing. "Eres mía, only mine"

You're whimpering, body exhausted from the whole session you had.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired" you sigh, "but I don't think I can walk"

"We'll get you a wheelchair someway" he jokes.

"You think is funny? Ruining my holidays?"

He leans down to press a sweet kiss on your forehead. "Come on, we'll get you cleaned up" you mumble out a tired no, but Pedro's picking you up with his strong arms, taking your body to the bathroom. You wrap your legs instinctively around his waist, face hidden in the crook of his neck.

"You know what? Your fans were right: you do have a slutty little waist" you mock.

"Right" he blushes, embarrased as he takes you inside the bathroom, then placing you on top of the toilet. "Open up, baby" he grabs some tissues, trying to clean up the mess you've made between your legs. "Así, justo así, bebé" he parts your hair to the side lovingly, fixing it for you before pressing a kiss on the crown of your head. "Done, my pretty baby, look at you"

You hum, eyes threatening to close.

"I see you're not an after-sex talker. Come on, I'll take you back to bed" he picks you up again, your head leaning against Pedro's V line as he caresses your head. "Hope you don't mind the smell"

"I love how you smell" you mumble out in a drunk like state.

"Okay then" he chuckles, "let's go back to bed" taking you out of the room, gently placing you the mattress. He then pulls a pair of fresh panties from your suitcase, dressing you in them. He coos at the sight of you, sleeping peacefully despite what you did before.

He finally lays next to you, lovingly lifting up your arm to put it around his waist. He pulls the sheets over your bodies to keep you both warm, in the chilly room thanks to the beach's air.

He feels you move, snuggling closer to his chest to seek warmth.

"I love you" whispered, not expecting you to answer or hear it.

When you snuggle closer, he's sure you do.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

[heritageposts]

By Ahmad Ibsais, First generation Palestinian American and law student.

I do not blame Benjamin Netanyahu. I do not blame the Israeli prime minister for what is happening to my people. I do not blame him today, as Israeli bombs destroy every corner of Gaza, and children die under the rubble. I did not blame him back in 2013, when I had to watch the slaughter of my people in Gaza on the evening news, either. My mother did not blame him when snipers perched on rooftops shot at her as she tried to make her way to work in the West Bank. My grandfather, God rest his soul, did not blame him as he died without ever returning to the land settlers stole from him in the 1980s, either. For me, for my family, for my people, what we are witnessing in Palestine today is not “Netanyahu’s war”. It is not his occupation. He is nothing but another cog in the relentless war machine that is Israel. Yet if you were to ask senators Bernie Sanders or Elizabeth Warren, the supposed champions of Palestinian rights and progressive humanitarianism in the United States, everything that has happened to us in the past 75 years, and everything that is happening to us today, can be blamed on one man, and one man alone: Netanyahu. Sanders insistently calls the ongoing Israeli assault on Gaza “Netanyahu’s war”, and demands that the US “not give Netanyahu another nickel”. Meanwhile, Warren denounces “Netanyahu’s failed leadership” as she calls for a ceasefire. For these progressive senators, the cause of all the pain and suffering in Palestine is clear: a far-right, hawkish prime minister hell-bent on continuing a conflict that keeps him in power. Sure, Netanyahu is evil. Sure, he committed countless crimes against Palestinians and against humanity, throughout his long career. Sure, he is continuing to fuel the carnage in Gaza today in part for his own political survival. And he should be held accountable for everything he has said and done that caused harm and pain to my people. But the racism, extremism and genocidal intent that is on display in Gaza and across the occupied Palestinian territory today cannot and should not be blamed on Netanyahu alone. Blaming Israel’s blatant human rights abuses, disregard for international law, and open celebration of war crimes on Netanyahu alone is nothing but a coping mechanism for liberals like Sanders and Warren. By blaming Netanyahu for the suffering and oppression of the Palestinian people, past and present, they keep alive the lie that Israel was built on progressive ideals, rather than ethnic cleansing. By blaming Netanyahu, they whitewash their seemingly unconditional support for a state blatantly committing war crimes and crimes against humanity. By blaming Netanyahu, and casting Israel as a progressive, well-meaning state that would respect international humanitarian law but is currently taken over by a bad leader, they are absolving themselves – and the US at large – of complicity in Israel’s many war crimes.

. . . continues on Al Jazeera (7 Mar 2024)

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: A herb which gives you greater awareness of your animal forms leads to a memorable night with Halsin. [Fem Reader x Halsin Silverbough]

Contents: Romance, pre-relationship, explicit sexual content, consensual substance use, shape shifting, vaginal sex, unprotected sex.

WC: 7220

Written as a gift fic for the lovely @tsukimefuku for her birthday. Here's a little something from me!

Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

"I crave you mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,

all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the colour of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond."

~ Love Sonnet XI (Pablo Neruda)

In Faerûn, the winds are changeable. The shift of seasons is as delicate as the colour spreading from the bruised flesh of a summer fruit, marring beneath scrutiny that delves too deep, beneath fingers that probe too hard.

You had always been one who preferred to let nature bloom along its natural course. 

You'll always have one hand on the wheel of your destiny, but you'll also let the land take you where it needs you most.

You supposed that this was what drew you to him in the first place.

He was the first of your companions who didn't look directly at you to set the path, to plot the lines that would lead to the emancipation of the vale that had fallen beneath Ketheric's shadow.

In the denouement, he'd leaned on you in the way only he could, leaving you with the task of watching his broad back fade into a realm where you could not follow. He had gone to fetch Thaniel, and you had believed faithfully in his return, holding off your enemies until the dawn.

Afterwards, there had been signs.

Like the faint embroidery of green in winter-brown branches, he'd looked to you with greater frequency, and certainty. You no longer felt that your paths had merely coincided, more as if there was a great guardian that stalked the woods and hedges beside you, partaking of your kill.

Silverbough was his name, and you grew to fancy that his tongue was molded from a similar vein, because you could listen to him speak endlessly.

On days when journeying consumed the largest part of your time, he would stride along at your side, or just slightly ahead, nose raised to the wind. You'd find yourself watching the way the soft, brown braids would stir in the breeze, the way the faint crows' feet at the corners of his eyes would deepen in direct sunlight, the way shadow played across the bulge and dip of his bicep when he raised an arm to shield you from the worst of the midday heat.

You could brush off Shadowheart's knowing smile, or the way Gale's eyes seemed to follow you with greater intensity, even Astarion's snide quips about 'receiving the many gifts of nature.'

That was not your way, and, you were coming to learn, it was not Halsin's way either.

He was attractive as all Hells, that was for certain, but there was a different kind of dance that played out between you two that went beyond the call of man to woman, and vice versa.

He was a zephyr who led you gaily from one reckless spar on a cliff edge to another. He was a stone sentinel that stood bare-faced to each scoring wind of challenge. He was tooth and claw and sinew, encased in the rare flesh of the changeling. You could follow, and you could also lead, and the destination was never marked down on any map known to you or him.

To know Halsin was to let go of yourself, as you came to learn, soon enough.

"What are you looking for?"

Your curiosity leads you to the banks of the river you have camped beside, one summer evening.

Halsin is standing before you, feet braced on the riverbed, the water lapping midway up his thighs. He must have been submerged a short while before, and you pause to take in the sight of water dripping from the ends of his braids, across the scarred flesh of his brow, darkening the coarse hair that fans across his chest. Your hand comes up to your throat and you lower it again, hastily.

He regards you over his shoulder, eyes lambent in the dark, and you watch the slow curve of his mouth.

"These. Have you seen them before?"

He holds out one hand. Within the large cupping surface of his palm, you make out what seems to be an aquatic plant, the roots still clumped together with dark alluviual mud.

Hands braced on knees, you shake your head.

"Some kind of healing herb?"

"Something like that."

You catch his eye and cannot help the small twitch of your lips.

"Should I be concerned?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Humour me. What does it do?"

He clambers up the bank with that easy, powerful stride, shaking off his body as he approaches you. Small flecks of damp speckle your jerkin and you straighten as he places the herbs carefully on a rack that he'd set up nearby.

"These will dry in the sun, but they need to be harvested at low light. The compounds within them are quite volatile."

"So once they're dry, I can put them in a pipe and smoke them?"

He pauses, shoulders shaking silently, before turning to you.

"A pipe isn't required, but that's the idea, yes. This is Fidoram, a herb we druids are fond of using when we want to ... gain greater affinity with our wild shapes."

Halsin picks up a pouch from beside the drying rack containing what you presume to be the same herb which he'd harvested and dried earlier. He crushes the roots slightly between his fingers, holding them out for you to sniff. Leaning forward, you close your eyes, inhaling deeply.

Some barrier has broken down, between his skin and the torn flesh of the root. What was herbal before now seems muddied in essence, a warm animal musk, the sweetness of new sweat on skin, the mingling of smoke and breath from between parted lips on an evening beneath the trees.

Your eyes slide open and he is watching you, a gleam of clouded grey beneath lowered lids.

Halsin's gaze is always a contradiction to you; on the one hand, clear and piercing, parting the veil between worlds, and on the other, misted over at times with a strange quality, as if human nature were optional, a skin he wore to pass time amongst beings such as yourself.

It intrigued you to no end. It made you wish to part that curtain with tentative fingers, to drink from that forbidden lake yourself.

"It smells ... "

"Intense?"

You nod, throat suddenly feeling a trifle tight, saliva thicker as you swallow. Halsin places the herb carefully back in the bag, and you feel his attention wander over you, from your bare feet on the grass, to your slightly bruised knees from the scuffle you'd had with bandits a few days prior, to the front of your jerkin, slightly unlaced.

He breathes out heavily and the air suddenly feels warmer, as if he's savouring your unique scent, the feather-light fingers of restraint dancing over his large form.

"Would you like to join me?"

You tilt your head, questioning.

"Join you?"

"I'm partaking of this joining ceremony. These Fidoram herbs are to replace the dried ones I'll be using presently. Would you like to be part of it?"

Your eager nodding causes him some evident amusement before you hesitate.

"You called it a joining ceremony?"

"When we druids transform our bodies, a deeper connection with the wild shape ensures a smoother transition."

"So you ... join your conscience with that of the beast?"

He stirs and straightens, holding out his hand.

"Here."

You place your hand within his, trying not to dwell too much on how the size of his palm dwarfs your own. His grasp is warm, roughened across the knuckles and the pads just below the fingers.

"Close your eyes again," he commands gently, and you comply, shifting a little closer to get comfortable.

"Now, follow the sensations on your arm."

Keeping your arm outstretched, he begins a slow exploration, digits tracing over skin. It begins with the feel of his touch radiating up, from the center of your palm to the soft area at the inside of your wrist. Halsin's voice rolls across your senses like muted thunder, close, humid, heated.

"You can feel me here. Now, you sense man, and now... "

Something shifts, and there is a charge in the air that causes the hair on your arms to stand upright. Halsin's tracing now feels ... different. There is a heaviness there that wasn't present before, coarse hair brushing over the inside of your arm, large, cushioned pads passing over you ... as if he'd switched to his bear form, which you'd witnessed many times before.

And then, another change, the heaviness giving way to something sharper; a living dagger being drawn down the centre of your arm ... not one, but two, three, four. The claws of a larger beast.

Hot breath blasts across your face, that scent of wet pelt in the rain stronger than ever. You keep your eyes firmly shut.

And as the raking reaches your wrist once more, there is another shift, much lighter, no less bestial. The swift shake and fluff of feathers, the click of a beak, sharp and staccato in the growing darkness.

A series of sharp prods, never breaking the skin, and suddenly Halsin's fingers are back, stroking to firm completion the motion he had started.

You still kept your eyes closed tight, a sharp exhale escaping you as you felt him raise your hand and place his lips against the juncture of thumb and finger. His mouth was hot, wide, lips slightly chapped and softer beneath in a way that defied all the sensations he'd just given you.

"Look at me."

It is no longer a command, yet you still obey. Maybe it was that you trusted him so completely, that you allowed him these ventures where no other had dared before.

He is smiling at you, soft and knowing, and the angle of the light through the trees plants a verdancy in that penetrating gaze that some part of your mind recognizes as both familiar and not.

His mouth doesn't leave your palm, and now he speaks against it.

"I've never changed my form, in all the time we were sitting here."

"But - "

You take the initiative, leaning forward and crawling toward him, inching by on your knees. He watches as the laces on your front fall further open, as you keep your eyes on him in a way that exposes your throat a little more, hair coming loose across your forehead.

" ... but, I felt it. I felt ... the bear, and the displacer beast, and a crow, and - "

"And I've never changed my form. You felt ... what I wanted you to feel. A great portion of our transformations are sensory, and the rest rely on our own awareness of our bodies. I can become a bear more easily because I spent the most time in that form. My body remembers it."

You're seated much closer to him now, where he seems to want you. Some physical boundary has been crossed, your space overlapping easily with his.

"So what would I experience in all this? Would I also contact some inner beast?"

He leans back on his palms, body stretching out to its full length, almost an invitation. Chin tilting, his glance passes from you to the stars that are now revealing themselves from behind pastel-painted clouds, dimming to the greater darkness of nightfall.

"Perhaps. Or possibly ... you'll just become better acquainted with mine."

Your laughter echoes between the trees, and somehow, this reminds you of the distance between your current position and the main camp. Beyond here, your companions may be milling around the fire, helping themselves to the pot roast Gale had prepared for supper.

It was your arrow that had stilled that boar's heart.

Emboldened, you nod, sitting upright.

"Is there anything you'd like me to do to prepare?"

Halsin is silent, and for a moment, you think he might deny you, that he might ask you in that warm, firm manner of his not to join him after all.

He doesn't do anything of the kind. It seems that he is aware of some willingness on your part, some desire to tear down the shifting, rustling wall between you two even further.

When he speaks, his voice is lower, but no less clear, the last thread of restraint stretching against the swell of long-present desire.

"Take off your clothes."

"And?"

"Allow me to perform a small cleansing ceremony. In the river."

"All right."

It isn't that you're more compliant. You're testing the limits of his control, in the way you feel you must.

Standing, you catch his gaze and hold it as you finally and fully unfasten the laces that are, at present, barely holding the leather garment together over your shirt. You peel it away from your body, arms stretching outward, a shadow like the wings of a larger bird spreading over his reclining form for a moment.

You take one step back, then another.

The hem of your shirt is lifted slightly, a teasing glimpse of the skin of your stomach visible. You turn away, keeping your profile facing over one shoulder, and lift the garment fully, chest and shoulders exposed to the mellow chill of the evening air.

You hands drop to your belt and you unfasten the buckle with a quick motion, tossing it aside. You're not quite bothered about finding it later.

Still facing away from him, your fingers hook into the top of your trousers, sliding them down to your ankles. You lift one leg, the sleek material still entangled and pull it free of your foot.

Underwear follows next, removed and discarded with swift movements.

Halsin has been watching patiently from somewhere behind you. You're fully aware that nakedness means little to him, that he is as comfortable in his own skin as he is with witnessing the reveal of yours.

Something about the act of standing nude before him now feels ... different, though. As if you've shed one skin for another, as if you're taking one step further into a closeness that breathes an stealthy, sensual vitality into your form.

When he stands and joins you, and you realise that he has also shed all of his clothes, it becomes even more evident.

Every hair on your body seems attuned to his, lifting, sensing, prickling with intent. A beast moves in the shadows of faint outer consciousness, one in the shadows you have yet to breach.

Halsin is looking at you as if you are a distant light on the water, focused, intent, the gleam of his eyes parting the gloom. He takes your hand, touch light and steady, and leads you to the river bank.

The temperature of the water is a slight shock at first. You didn't expect it to be quite so cold, but your body grows accustomed within minutes. Gooseflesh spreads from your extremities, across your upper chest, but you refrain from shivering outright.

Halsin wades into a position opposite you, before reaching down with cupped hands to collect water within. He steps forward and a light cascade runs down one shoulder, then the other. He takes his time, placing two fingers under your chin and tilting your head back.

River water dampens your hair, running in rivulets down your back and neck, tracing soft, cool lines down your breasts, the curve of your ribcage and down, down, to the slight dip above your buttocks.

"Prepare yourself."

You nod, the slick gravel beneath and between your toes digging into your flesh.

Halsin places a finger on your brow, tracing lightly down over the bridge of your nose, and suddenly the world shifts around you.

Inhaling sharply, you grasp his wrist.

"Easy. Easy. It's a sense enhancement. It will help you perceive ... everything a little better."

That was something of an understatement, perhaps because, unlike him, this was the first time you'd experienced such a phenomenon. It took a few minutes before you processed everything in a meaningful fashion again, his grip steady and warm at your waist, supporting you.

You realised now why he'd taken you into the water.

The cool pressure of the river against your thighs, the dampness on your skin, all grounded you, held your consciousness prisoner by a shifting tether. It was almost overwhelming, and then it wasn't.

Now, the world flitted against your senses in the way he'd intended, each sensation vibrant, fleeting, processed by the heightened awareness of your mind before another took its place.

There was a tug on your hand as Halsin indicated the grassy bank ahead. Nodding slowly, gearing your body for movement, you accompanied him as he led you back to the sheltered space between the trees.

He had you sit on a rolled out hide, covering you with a cloth that felt shockingly warm against your skin. You shivered as he dried the water off your arms, then your shoulders and back. He draped the rest of the fabric over your legs and squatted, opening up his pack.

"You don't have to take this journey with me, you know. I can always help you back to camp."

His voice is as gentle as the rustle of the leaves overhead. You shake your head and smile as your hair seems to sway around your ears with a similar sound, restless, tired of playing a soft cradle.

You want more.

Jerking your chin at the small brazier he'd produced from within the pack, you sniff and drop the blanket slightly. It pools around your shoulders, settling softly under your breasts.

Somehow, in Halsin's presence, nothing about the human form seemed shameful, or required concealment.

"Is that what you'll use to burn it?"

"Not directly on the flames, no."

Another small earthenware pot, blackened and singed, is pulled from the depths of the pack and Halsin is now packing the dried herb tightly within, until all the space within the vessel seems occupied.

"This is reinforced clay. Whatever's in here will heat up very slowly. That's what we're after."

He builds a small blaze, placing the brazier over and on top of that, the pot carefully balanced over a few well-placed river stones. He'd evidently had long practice with this.

You bring your knees down, sitting cross-legged. Before long, pale tendrils of smoke begin to emerge from the clay vessel, threading through the evening air. Halsin makes no move to direct the fumes, simply keeping his warm, watchful gaze fixed on you.

Tilting your head back, you inhale deeply. The scent is heady, fragrant, tinged with a low-lying heaviness that steals gradually across the back of the tongue.

Pleasant.

The world shifts around you again, but this time, your awareness holds firm. Something stirs within you, deep and primal, powerful. You can scent it on the wind, and now you can even discern Halsin's soft exhalation from across the small blaze.

Unconsciously, your breathing syncs with his. A tingling warmth spreads through your limbs, the kind that signals the start of a fever. You straighten, alert, eyelids fluttering open.

Halsin seems to have been waiting for this.

He stands, and you inhale softly as you take him in, the coil and release of muscle under tawny skin, the stretch and lift of old scars, the dark hair that spreads across his chest, tapers, then spreads again to form a dense thatch over the apex of his thighs.

He lets you look, arms spreading out slightly as he rolls one shoulder, then the other.

The air around him changes, as it does when he transforms. The transition is one you have seen many times now, so it comes as no surprise when you're confronted with the hulking form of the bear, towering over you, the flickering of the small fire still in between.

You rise slowly, the blanket falling away, and pace in a slow circle until you come to his side. Even on all fours, he is substantial, shoulder almost reaching yours.

His fur is thick, slightly coarse and you're suddenly struck with a desire to take handfuls of it, carding it in between your fingers. His flank is hot, pressed against your bare stomach, and he feels indescribably powerful, vital, present in a manner that you'd never quite understood the weight of before.

This is the bear, and this is Halsin.

Before you can think it over further, he turns, body lowering slightly and with a sharp gasp, you're being gently maneuvered onto his back.

You let out an incredulous laugh, echoed by a soft snort from his muzzle as it passes, breath hot and wet against your calf. The prickle of his fur sets off a dangerous dance of pain and pleasure along your sensitized breasts, your stomach and inner thighs.

And here you are, beneath the stars, your breath now steaming out of your lungs into the summer night, the shift of ancient strength beneath your body.

Halsin carries you through the woods on a throne of bone, flesh and fur, heading deeper into the embrace of the trees.

Above your head, the night fires wheel and the silent swooping shadow of an owl passes, cutting through the night sky with a deeper darkness. Something inside you purrs in answer, preens at the thought of seeing all.

Nothing escapes you, not even the flick of a here's ears as it traces your passage with wide, cold eyes.

Halsin takes you through the fruit trees, and you arch your back, ready to drink the sweet riot of their nectar, the rot of their fallen flesh trampled further into the soil as you pass. You can reach up and pluck them, rubies that echo with distant heat, and bite hard as their juice runs down your chin.

You feast, naked, on a bear's back, half queen, half animal.

When he reaches the larger clearing, the standing stones forming a ring in the grass-covered dip in the land, you slide from his back, wiping off your lips.

You have realized that the enchantment and, perhaps, some effect of the herb has made your vision in the dark clearer, less muddied around the edges. Shadows don't blend into each other as they do, a hard, jewel-like quality to stone, soil and the earth beneath, transposed over the softness of the living.

Turning in a slow circle, arms outstretched, you spin in exultation. The bear follows you, bellowing softly as his large head presses against your hip; an invitation.

Indeed, you feel like joining Halsin in a different form, as carefree as if you were on stage at the theater, discarding one costume for another.

Some part of your spine stretches, then contracts violently, your face elongating. Your shoulder blades are suddenly pressing outwards, against the skin of your back, two bulges writhing beneath the surface before breaking free in long, spear-tipped appendages. Your drop to all fours, the pain keen and exquisite, nails drawing scores across the ground, body wracked with the convulsions of sudden, shocking change, until ...

Sleek and black, your fur gleams in the darkness. Halsin is still beside you, and you see yourself, reflected in the large, placid eyes, amusement stealing into their depths.

Displacer beast it is then. Who knew that this would be your natural inclination?

The dark tendrils that sprout from your shoulders join your elongated tail in a soft, experimental movement, tracing along the bear's back, shifting between his legs, along his snout. You span the shape of him, as he snorts and nudges you.

You think you have some level of command of the whip-like extremities, and you test it now, tickling across his ribs and binding his jaws together playfully.

He gives a loud, indignant cough, twisting to free himself. You slap him across the backside with your tail and leap out of the reach of his paw, claws out, skittering across the ground.

Let it never be said that dignity had a part to play in this shift.

The bear's eyes narrow. He sways lightly from side to side, as if to deceive your eye as to which direction he'll approach from next. Your tail flicks in anticipation.

Halsin feints left and comes in from the right, aiming to push you over. Your innate ability comes to the fore, almost by instinct. Dodging away from him, you leave afterimages on the air, blue-black and humming with faint energy, taunting.

He lunges for you, head-on, and he's too slow and ... ah!

Mid-stride, his form changes to match your own, brown streaking away to sleek darkness. His momentum carries him forward, bounding off the pillar of stone that partially conceals your form, and he lands heavily on top of you, dragging you snarling into the dirt.

So he plays dirty, too.

The twin tendrils that snake from his shoulders twine with your own, tugging you closer. You squirm in his grasp, using your smaller size to slip beneath his body and tip him over. He lands on his back, tail lashing through the air to wrap around your hind leg, but now that you've had a taste of change, it coils around empty air, because you are -

A raven, darting and fleet of wing, claws curving to talons, fur extending to feathers, nose hardening to a snapping beak. Flesh warps in on itself, defying space, and your form shrinks rapidly as you streak between the trees.

Halsin is an old hand at this though, and he is always close behind. His transition between forms is far more seamless than yours, giving him more time to catch up.

Greater wings sweep close to yours, encroaching, feet tucked up close to his body to give him more speed.

You weave between tree trunks, branches and out of the occasional path of another nocturnal creature, leaves whipping past you with stinging exhilaration.

Where every shift for you is pure instinct, Halsin's grace is unmatched, each movement measured, powerful, weighted with intention. He knows each of his forms as well as he seems to know yours.

But you're not out of tricks yet.

In a final burst of speed, you break through the trees, each flap of your wings taking you further. You're about to turn sharply in mid-air, to dive for the low lying brush, when his talons slot between yours and you find yourself drawn into a dizzying spiral.

You change direction, pull at his grip, but you realise that you'd only destabilize the formation he has wrapped you in.

Giving in to his relentless, teasing pull, you allow yourself to be dragged down, down, as if a whirlpool of air is forcing you down its centre.

In this moment, you are weightless, free, abandonment of your human sensibilities dangerously close. You know only the stars that form streaks across the night sky, the warmth of Halsin's feathers, the slow blink of your inky eyes as you prepare for another shift.

Infiltrating all of these sensations is the overwhelming feeling of trust, that you can place yourself so easily in his hands (paws, talons, the minutiae don't really matter) and he'll always land, feet to the ground, bearing you with him.

And indeed, he does.

Right before the grass of the clearing comes rushing up to meet your falling forms, his wings expand to many times their regular size, dwarfing your body. The sudden air resistance gusts upward, catching in the feathers, and as he slows your landing, you realise that your temporary flight through the forest had not taken you as far as you'd thought.

You are back to being ... yourself, you suppose,  although that was now a transient term. Arms wrapping tight around Halsin, you feel when he returns to himself as well.

His torso elongates within your grasp, the coarse brush of hair against your chest, the bunch and slide of hard muscle pressing into your back as he holds you against him.

You both land in the grass with a heavy thump, Halsin cushioning your fall, and something inside you is not quite ready to relinquish victory rights for this unofficial battle. You roll, end over end, warm body over his, a breathless, endless laugh rising in your throat as Halsin seems equally determined to win.

You come to a stop, him on top of you, skin covered in grass and earth, lips still stained with overripe fruit and dark feathers tangled in your hair. He is looking at you as if the Oak Father himself had just spawned you from the wild, lightning-hewn trunk of an ancient tree, reverence, desire, an all-encompassing tenderness that seems to pervade all of his interactions with you.

When his lips come down on yours, it is as natural as leaves falling to earth, the weight of his body on yours as welcome as soft summer rain. His arms hold him slightly aloft, caging you in as his head angles first this way, then that, each wet press and slide of his mouth more hungry than the last.

You body comes apart for him, arms rising past his into the grass above your head, back curving, the angle between your legs widening as he dips down, the entirety of his skin on yours almost too much to bear in your current sensitized state.

You are aware of your hair sliding through the grass with every movement of your head, of scrape of short, coarse hair across your nipples, the shift of his tightening abdominal muscles against your stomach, the way those muscular thighs stretch your legs further apart. He is already at half mast, the tip of him stroking a slow, wet trail of fire upwards, along your inner thigh.

You gasp, arching a little further off the ground, evening dew moistening the skin of your buttocks as you raise your leg slightly, stroking against him. All this time, you've witnessed him in the nude and it was not until now that the urgency of your want became vital, a lust-filled haze that only grew as you took in the size and weight of him against you.

Halsin seems to have decided that he is not simply satisfied with winning the tussle of changing forms.

He pauses above you, eyes drinking in your damp, parted lips before he descends again, lower, lower, and lower still. Hot breath eases over your extended throat, followed by tongue, the heated promise of that single lapping stroke sending you into delirium.

Your head is tilted almost all the way back, the ripe curve of your breasts presented to him with as much generosity as the fruit trees that had lowered their harvest to you earlier.

An explosive moan exits you as he lavishes your nipple with soft, hot licks, suckling the flesh slowly to the left and then to the right, drawing it in with the tightening suction of his cheeks. He takes his time, only coming back to the white hot centre of your areola when he is satisfied that the entirety of the rounded expanse has been tasted.

You jerk under him, fingers scrabbling at his immovable arm as he applies the same attention to the other neglected breast, tugging you gently between his teeth until you're crying out at the gentle but thorough stimulation.

A soft, ticklish sensation alerts you to his next move, as the ends of the beaded braids fall forward over the pointed ends of his ears, painting your ribcage with the swirling ripples of an unseen image of growing lust.

You raise your head slightly, hooded eyes watching him, his breath passing over your mound like a hot wind that comes sailing down from the mountains to collect in the humid harbour of your widening thighs.

Your knees bend, anticipation drawing your abdomen taut as he bites down into the softness of one thigh, then the other. Halsin preserves symmetry, in all that he does.

When he tastes you, a hummingbird pushing slowly, exquisitely, into the sweet burst of a flower's trembling centre, you cannot help the low, desperate keening that escapes you. One hand slams into the grass beside you, fingers threading through and grasping at the cool foliage, trying to anchor your mind that seems to want to abandon all rational thought.

Halsin takes you, with surety, confidence, peeling you apart with large, roughened fingers, plundering your soft heat with the same assiduous attention he'd shown the rest of your body. He grows more intense, his own lust taking the reigns, thrusting his tongue as deep as it will go, pushing the edges apart, suckling the tiny, glistening pearl at the apex of your folds as if it is the finest delicacy he's ever feasted upon.

The slickness that coats his mouth, cheeks, hands and your thighs is a ceaseless font. You writhe beneath him, begging, gasping, shrinking away from and then surrendering to every blissful feeling he bestows.

Just when the taut string of heat that stretches all the way from down there to the base of your throat threatens to snap, he lifts off you, smiling at your outraged gasp, one hand holding down your hip as you furiously buck upward at the loss of sensation.

You slap at his arm, scowling as he laughs, soothing strokes sliding down your stomach and legs as he brings you reluctantly down from the peak you have been teetering on seconds before.

Oh, but he isn't done with you, not yet.

He has been saving the true banquet for this time, when your body has recovered some measure of equilibrium, but not quite. Now, when your sensitized skin burns with unquenched flame, when you moan so wantonly and reach for him, scratching lightly down his chest, when he raises himself once more, looming over you and crawls forward, every move lithe and sinuous as the displacer beast who's form he had borrowed a short while before, now you prepare yourself for what he truly has in store.

Your arms extend, almost looping around his neck, when he grasps your hip firmly and turns you over onto your front.

Oh.

So this was what he intended.

Not that you didn't adjust to the circumstances almost instantly. You were not without your wiles.

Stretching in a distinctly feline manner, you raise your hips, back curving in a perfect, quivering arc, letting out small sounds of encouragement as you feel the supple flesh of your buttocks brush the waving length of his erection. He hisses, but makes no move to stop you, allowing you to have your way with him, albeit, briefly.

And my, do you take advantage of the temporary freedom he's granted you.

Your spine undulates, the folds between your legs long since slicked and wet with his preparation. You enfold him from the sides, dragging your sweet nectar along his length, the heavy tip catching slightly and making you dig your fingers deeper into the soil.

There is some connection here, more expansive than just the two of you. The earth beneath your hands and knees hums with latent energy, the kind that remains undetected when you are not here, with him, in this sacred space that flowers between the sky, the trees, the stones and your body beneath his.

You open your mind to it, kindling some deep spark within that Halsin detects. He hums with approval, leaning further forward.

Like a dull clap of thunder, an electric hum on the air, he rolls his hips forward, taking the initiative. The rounded head breaches you, forcing a full-throated cry as you're rapidly reminded of the sheer size of him.

It's not just the silky iron length that presses forward, inch by inch, displacing the dewy arousal that coats him. It's the feel of his weight sinking further down into your back, an echo of stigma and stamen, the slow spread of your fingers as his lodge between them, the resumed stroke of his braids at the nape of your neck.

Your mouth opens in a silent continuation of your ecstasy, tendons standing out in your neck with the supreme effort of acceptance. The invasive stretch eases as he rocks back and forth, whispering soft praises, obeisances, worshipping the way you engulf him whole.

Lightning now follows the deepening roar in your veins, sweat coating your skin in a luminous sheen as you slowly back onto him, feeling the probe at the edges of your ability to take, jerking away with a hiss, moving back again with intent.

Halsin allows you to set the pace, low grunts of effort sounding against the shell of your ear, hot breath mingling with yours.

You drag your awareness away from the pleasure that builds steadily as you tilt forward, until only the tip remains, then repeat the slow reversal that impales you. You want this to take forever, to last until the final frayed threads of your control slip between your fingers and you surrender to the storm that threatens to crash over your senses with each fluid movement.

When you feel that you're ready, you raise your hips slightly, and he almost slips from your tight heat. His fingers sink into the flesh just above your hip, followed by a low exhale of agreement, a sign to ready yourself.

His forward thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, and you cry out and sink down to your elbows almost immediately. The new angle allows him to penetrate even deeper, tearing hoarse cries of pleasure from your throat.

Halsin sets a steady, powerful rhythm, the impact of each slam of his hips rippling the flesh of your buttocks, the folds of your waist deepening as you drop further down. The blades of grass beneath you graze your nipples, snapping past with increasing intensity as he picks up his pace.

Hands fisting once again, you tear up clods of earth, howling, moaning, begging as the slaps of his body against yours matches the pace of his breathing, quickening like the blood in your veins, the heady sap that seeps into your mouth as you press your face into the grass and take it between your teeth.

Tears of pleasure gather at the corners of your eyes, roll down to your entwined fingers and he presses down on you further, lapping at them as they stream down the side of your face.

He is a veritable force of nature, sweeping you up into a maelstrom of unmatched, terrifying sensation. You turn your head to him slightly, sobbing breaths spelling out that you are close, so close, almost, to keep fucking you, to go harder, to -

The staccato encouragement only serves to slow his pace, and now, in spite of the protesting smack of your hand against his abdomen, your nails dragging on his flank, your cursing, he starts a new rhythm, one even more devastating in its undoing of you.

Two deep strokes, followed by a tender, shallower thrust that lodges somewhere different, somewhere that sparks a renewed series of deep, throaty moans, pitched higher and higher as a crescendo builds.

He fills you, stretches you, paints your inner thighs with the soaked traces of your joining, merciless in his assault on the tight ring of muscle at your entrance.

You're no longer aware of where the connection between your bodies ends, so immersed are you in each collision of your hips.

Halsin places a hand firmly in the small of your back, and you're now aware that he has also grown louder in his appreciation of you, almost incoherent in his litany of praises.

Under other circumstances (perhaps later, when you find the time to indulge in each other at a more leisurely pace) you would have taken the time to sling your leg over his, to twist until you managed to lever his body beneath yours, to ride him until that tell-tale ache in your lower back and thighs made itself known.

For now, you can only think of your immediate pleasure, the magnificent sweep of a cyclone that comes crashing across the coastline and catches you when you least expect it.

When it does eventually find you, when your back arches, your muscles convulsing, your body shuddering with an intensity that near rattles your teeth, you allow it to carry you away, hardly aware of your reactions in that moment.

Halsin's reaches beneath you, hand caressing your stomach with soft, grounding fervour, even as you become aware that he has not allowed himself the same abandonment of release. He is harder than ever inside you, the twitch that makes itself known now that he has stilled his pace causing you to gasp and stiffen.

There is still a certain tension coiled there, one that makes itself known as he slowly eases himself in and out, building to steady rocking against you. He throws back his head and growls, body now fully spread across yours, and you raise your legs, tucking your feet behind his knees to pull him further towards the newly set line of completion.

Your second orgasm is less intense, but reverberates through you in a manner that makes him pause again. The wringing contractions around his length seem to finally push him over the edge, and he lets out a gutteral roar as a searing warmth floods within you, the irregular spasmodic slide of him coming to a gradual stop.

You reach back, hand placed flat on his abdomen for some modicum of control as he eases out, the cool night air a shocking contrast to the overwhelming heat of him. Consciousness of your own breathing returns, ragged, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Something slips down your leg, pools on the ground behind you. You keep your rear raised, glancing back over your shoulder, a dazed smile spreading as you note the glazed, shattered stare that Halsin directs at you, at the banner of your union that drapes in a pearlescent string between your once-joined parts.

He sits back on his haunches and runs those large hands through his hair, attempting to bring himself back under control.

Under the circumstances, your expression should not be so self-satisfied, considering that he has all but taken you in the most base, animalistic manner possible. You are aware of how you must look, with your hair draped in sweaty tangles over your forehead, the gleam of perspiration that now covers you from head to toe, the marks of earth on your buttocks, knees and elbows.

Halsin catches your eye and strokes down your back before raising you with that delightfully easy strength, bringing you closer to him. 

You seat yourself on his lap, legs parted as if you've assumed your natural throne once again. The soft shake of his shoulders builds to a laugh that you feel all the way down to your bones.

"I take it you've made the acquaintance of your inner beast?"

"And a fine one at that."

"I wasn't expecting such a chase."

"Was it worth it?"

His fingers find their way beneath your chin, tilt your head until he is able to gaze upon your face once again.

There it is, that infinite tenderness, the kind he always reserves just for you. When he speaks, you shudder slightly at the weight of passionate promise there, the rumble that begins somewhere deep in his chest, that let's you lean against him in the lassitude of well-earned submission.

"Well worth it. I'd even go so far as to ask for a re-match."

"Oh? And which form will you choose for our next bout?"

His voice is muffled slightly, from where he presses his mouth to your shoulder, but you hear him nonetheless, and your teeth gleam in the faint light of the clearing.

"The bear. Definitely the bear."

[mediumgayitalian]

“Don’t worry, Kayla. I got him.”

It’s the first thing that registers in a long time. It’s also the only thing that registers a split second before a hand grips his collar and he is dragged, bodily, out of the infirmary, bumping down the stairs like luggage.

“Is that all I am to you?” Will asks, bereft. “Luggage?”

“You’re losing your mind again,” Nico says. “Intervention time.”

“I am — just fine, thank you kindly! I was in the middle of sorting the medicine cabinet by colour and vibe. Let me go.”

“There’s something wrong with you. Mentally.”

“How rude.”

Nico snorts, but does not relinquish his hold. Will gives up squirming and sighs, allowing himself to be dragged.

It’s kind of nice, he supposes. Nico is careful to avoid most of the rocks and the sky is kind of pretty from this angle. Ideally he’d be, like, walking, but dragged along is alright. It’s better than last time. The whole princess carry thing was humiliating and if someone does that to him again he’s channeling the power of the sun and exploding himself and everyone around him.

“That is not an actual power that you have, William.”

“Shows what you know.”

“I’m gonna start calling you Hiroshima.”

“Go for it. Guess who’ll look like the insane one in that scenario?”

Nico laughs, because he thinks Will is funny, even though he will not admit it. Will knows so because that’s how he bagged the camp’s baddest bitch. Twas most certainly not his swordfighting skills or poetry, that is for certain.

(Not that it had stopped him from trying. Honestly, Nico may have agreed to go out with him for the sole intent of stopping the poetry.)

(But he’s stuck now, so there.)

“Here.” Nico deposits him unceremoniously on the floor. Will lands with an exaggerated oof. “Eat something or I’m stuffing you into an onager and launching you to Mars.” He glances up at the sky. “The planet, not the deity.”

“Figured,” Will wheezes, rubbing his shoulder blades. Why must he always land painfully. Why is he punished merely for existing. “What’s this?”

Nico, refusing to answer verbally, spreads his arms. Will uses his working eyeballs to determine ‘this’ is a soft blanket that is 100% stolen directly from the Aphrodite cabin, spread carefully over the grass of the nicest clearing in the woods. ‘This’ is a picnic basket full of what Will assumes is Twizzlers, if Nico loves him.

“Tis not,” Nico promises. “I brought you vegetables and whole grains and all the other bullshit you harp about me eating, you massive hypocrite.”

‘This’, Will notices, ignoring him, is a folded letter with his name on it and a portable radio playing the nearest country station.

Next time you overwork yourself I’m knocking you unconscious and chaining you to your bed for three days, reads the note. Make better choices, you dickbrain.

“Charming,” Will says. He presses the letter to his chest and pretends to swoon. Nico lets him fall and bang his skull on the ground, but Will internalizes the pain and commits to the bit like a real man. “My very own Romeo, taking care of me so well. Oh, my heart, my heart.”

“You are the most annoying person alive.”

“And yet you’re obsessed with me.”

Nico cracks a smile. “Yes,” he admits. “Not quite sure how that one happened.”

Nico looks at him with dark brown eyes and slightly raised brows and it is charming, genuinely, and Will goes a little pink, admittedly, because his smile is crooked and teasing and there is something handsome and a little tiny bit mean about it and maybe Will likes that. A little. And maybe Nico knows that and snickers and mutters get over here, airhead and tugs him until his head is in his lap and sticks his hands in his tangled hair and yeah, Will likes it a little. A lot.

“You know, you’re kind of an alright person,” Will says.

“That was almost a compliment.”

“Mhm. I might even like you.”

“Shocking.”

Will grins. Nico rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss him, biting the tip of his nose on the way down, and there is a coil in Will’s belly and it feels a little like heat and a little like warmth. A little like someone taking care of him.

“I threatened the camp,” Nico says conversationally. “We have the next three point seventeen hours to ourselves, lest I sacrifice three teenagers to Thanatos.”

“Sensible.”

“I thought so.”

“Anyone told you you’re kinda hot when you’re a little evil?”

“Yeah. I hear it a lot, actually.”

“Good, good. Glad you’re aware.”

They look at each other for one point two seconds and burst out laughing, and it is stupid, and it is quiet, and it is a bubble growing and growing in the pit of Will’s chest.

He breathes. He leans a little farther into Nico’s lap, and smile. He grips their hands together.

It’s kinda nice to be got.

———

based on this drawing by @skysmadness

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Hiii

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸📸

🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭🔭

Hi!

54 for 🪷:

---

She finds that she can with relative ease. Sure, she’s a bit stiff. Her limbs feel a bit foreign to her, but she can do it. She looks down at herself. She’s wearing the same yellow blouse and blue jeans she remembers putting on this morning. But her leg looks normal. Not like it had twisted at a scary angle. 

“Huh,” she mutters. 

Had she maybe hit her head hard enough that she imagined dying? 

“Can you stand up?” The stranger asks.

Shannon looks at them. They’re a middle aged man, in a brightly colored tourist shirt. His hat has the Nebraska state flag, though. 

“I think so,” Shannon says. He extends his hands to help her up. Shannon takes his offer of help and makes her way to her feet. 

“Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course,” the guy says. “I was half convinced you were an installment from the cemetery to attract tourists.”

Shannon blinks. An installment? What the hell is he talking about?

“Uh…” She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know, because Hollywood Forever is just down the street?”

Oh, no. This poor, lost tourist. 

“Sir,” she shakes her head. “This is Mar Vista. Hollywood Forever Cemetery is on the other side of the city.”

The man looks at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“Do you know where you are?” He asks. “You might have hit your head.”

Hadn’t she just been worried about that? Maybe she doesn’t know where she is. But why the hell would she be near Hollywood Forever? She doesn’t live or work in this part of the city. Shannon glances around at the street signs. She’s at the intersection of Highland and Santa Monica Boulevard. She can see a Mobil gas station and a storage facility.

“What the hell?” She asks. 

“Yeah,” the guy mentions. “I haven’t been to Mar Vista, but I know that’s not where we are.”

“How did I get here?” Shannon murmurs. 

“Maybe we should call an ambulance,” the guy frowns. 

“No!” Shannon snaps. “No ambulances.”

---

Because 🥩 is done, 54 for:

Except I might not actually have 54 for this one because chapter 2 is nearly done.

----

Buck stumbles, shocked by the sudden force, and stumbles over, landing on his ass in front of Ravi. At the same time, the Lincoln careens right through the spot where they were just standing, and crashes into one of the already wrecked vehicles. It would have hit them both.

It would have killed them both. 

In the moment of stunned silence that follows the near-fatal disaster, another crow lands on the 118’s fire engine. 

---

54 for 💔:

---

A few moments later, Buck appears. He has to crouch to fit through the doorway. He looks absurdly large in this cramped space. He’s carrying a few different splint options. 

“This cover it?” He asks. 

“Yep,” Eddie says tersely. “Thanks.”

“And you need help getting her out of here?”

“Yep,” Eddie says again. “Diane, this is Buck. He’s gonna help us out.”

Buck waves. “Hi, Diane. Cool bomb shelter you got here.”

“Oh, I hate this thing,” she laments.

Buck frowns. “Fair enough.”

Eddie chooses a splint and gets to work stabilizing Diane’s ankle. He tries not to talk to Buck as he does. Not because he’s being petty, or anything like that. Just because it’s more important to talk to Diane. To explain what he’s doing. To make sure she’s not in too much pain. That’s Eddie’s job. Easing Buck’s clearly still buzzing anxiousness to speak with him is not.

“Alright, there are painkillers in the ambulance,” Eddie promises. “We’ve just got to make it up there first. Sound good?”

Diane nods. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Buck only carried a splint down a ladder, but Eddie supposes that’s not the point.

“Of course,” Eddie smiles. 

As he begins to help Diane into an upright position, his efforts are interrupted by a thunderous boom sound coming from above them. The ground trembles, just for a second, and the sound of crashing and scraping and bursting fills the air. Diane clutches Eddie’s arm, terrified. 

“What the hell?” Buck asks, steadying himself against a wall after the commotion ends.

“Earthquake?” Eddie suggests. 

“Maybe,” Buck agrees. He raises his radio to his mouth. “Cap, what’s going on up there?”

“Are we going to die?” Diane asks. 

“I highly doubt it,” Eddie says. 

It takes a moment for Chim to get back to them.

“Uh… Buck and Eddie, you’re gonna wanna sit tight. There’s been a complication.” 

Eddie tenses. What fucking complication?

“What complication?” Buck asks.

---

54 for 📸:

---

“I know,” Maddie nods. “And obviously that’s between you. I just… I guess I just wanted to say thank you for hearing him out and giving him another chance after all these years.”

Oh.

Well, that wasn’t what Eddie was expecting at all.

“Uh, yeah,” he stumbles over how to best respond to that. “Of course. I mean… It’s not like I’ve been perfect.”

“No one is,” Maddie shrugs. “And I definitely did not agree with how Evan handled everything. But I’m proud of how he’s really grown up these past few years, with Penny. I think you’re good for each other.”

“Thank you,” Eddie exhales. “I was sort of worried you’d think the opposite.”

“Well, then I’m glad we cleared the air,” she smiles. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he agrees. 

“I don’t know what your long term goals are,” Maddie says carefully. “But you’re a parent. You’ve been exactly where my brother is. I think you know he wouldn’t bring anyone he wasn’t serious about around Penny.”

Eddie nods. “He’s a really good dad.”

“He is,” Maddie smiles. “He always said he wanted to be like you, you know.”

Even when he thought Eddie hated him. Wow.

“That’s really kind,” Eddie replies quietly. 

“Just the truth,” Maddie shrugs. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Merry Christmas, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles softly. “Merry Christmas, Maddie.”

▪️▪️▪️

They go back to the rental Buck booked for them after dinner at Bobby’s. He really went all out. It’s a proper little condo, accessible for Chris, with a hot tub and nice kitchen. They could live in a place like this. 

Penny is exhausted by the time they’re back, and goes to sleep immediately. Chris says he wants to FaceTime with some of his friends, now that he’s finally back in the same time zone as them. As if El Paso was Japan or something. He goes off to his room, smiling and content.

Which just leaves Buck and Eddie. 

“That’s a really nice hot tub you paid for,” Eddie says. “Would be a shame if it never got used.”

“Devastating, even,” Buck agrees. 

Which is how they end up relaxing in the thing, trying not to think of various hot tub calls of the past, each with a glass of white wine in hand. Their legs are linked together under the water. If there were no kids around, and they weren’t semi-visible to neighboring units, Eddie could see this getting sort of naughty. 

“I had a really good day,” Eddie tells him. 

Buck smiles. “Me too. The teasing was limited, which is nice.”

“Can’t take anything Chim teases you about too seriously anyway,” Eddie shrugs.

“So true,” Buck nods. 

“I miss being here,” Eddie admits. “With the 118.”

“Yeah?” Buck asks. “I mean, I get why.”

---

Because 🔭 is done, 54 for

---

It’s a stupid, petty, meaningless fight. Not serious at all. Not anything worth fighting about, at the end of the day. But it’s not the end of the day, is it? No. It’s morning. It’s morning and Buck is frustrated. 

He thinks, as far as being a partner goes, he’s pretty reasonable. He’s not nit-picky. He’s not quick to anger. He doesn’t expect anyone to be perfect. He has enough flaws and eccentricities, as they’ve politely been called, to demand that. The point is, Buck knows he’s not a perfect boyfriend. He does think he’s a fair one. Which is why it’s completely infuriating that the love of his life, the man he would have pined over for the rest of his life, had things gone another way, is being so fucking irrational right now. 

It’s sort of like Buck is seeing a whole new side of him. A dark side. Honestly? An evil side. Yeah. Maybe Eddie has a tiny little evil side that Buck was unaware of. He thought he knew everything non-sexual about Eddie before they got together. He thought, what a benefit of dating your best friend! No surprises outside the bedroom. 

Well, wasn’t he wrong?

They drive to work in silence. Eddie is in the passenger seat of the Jeep, just staring ahead at the road. Buck wants to shout at him. Why can’t he just admit that he’s wrong? That, sure, all opinions are to be considered, but in this case, his opinion is fucking stupid! Stupid and wrong and maddening. 

But the thing is, as mad as Buck currently feels, he loves the guy. Even if he’s sort of slightly evil. Buck would love him if he were even more evil. Not totally, but just a little more. So, because he loves him, he still does their morning coffee run to buy Eddie the stupidly sweet iced coffee he’s recently been indulging in. Because it’s nice that Eddie is letting himself have good things that are purely selfish. Buck doesn’t want him to stop, even if he’s pissed at him. 

Eddie looks surprised as Buck turns into the drive thru, but says nothing. Maybe he thinks Buck is going to be a total dick and only order his own drink. Not that Buck would ever do that, but Eddie has proven to have a scrambled brain and no faith in human goodness today. Who knows what he’s thinking?

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — ASTRONAUT! GOJO x MISSION CONTROL! FEM READER

Your job description entails taking care of one (1) astronaut on his way to Mars. It doesn’t say anything about falling in love with him. 

wc — 1.6k

tags — the beauty of space (and Gojo Satoru), rom com, fluff

When you’re assigned to Gojo Satoru, the first thing you hear is ‘good luck’. It’s Nanami who says it. You suppose he would have strong feelings, being one of the few men who were going up there with him. 

They’re in the news constantly now. Of course they would be - brave pioneers of the new frontier. The first men to attempt a Mars landing.

Even for you, who sees them every day, it’s hard not to get caught up in the mythos of it. Glory burns bright and beautiful around them, a halo born of the knowledge that they’ll someday be in history books. Maybe you’ll be there too, a footnote riding on the coattails of their fame. 

They take care of humanity’s future, and you take care of them. Mission Control doesn’t have the esteem the astronauts do, but your jobs are just as important. You’re proud of the work you do. 

Though sometimes, your work is just silly. He is, anyway. 

“Helloooooo? Mission Control, come in.” 

“You’re not supposed to use the main line for personal matters, Satoru,” you remind him, a smile twitching at your lips. Director Utahime thinks you’re too soft on him, but you can’t help it. It must be terrible to be stuck up there for months, even if he says he loves it. 

You’ve seen his interviews. Gojo Satoru, golden boy of the astrophysics department at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. A prodigy, the youngest ever Nobel laureate for his work in quantum particles and space time. 

When he first declared that he would be going on the Mars mission, the world erupted in an uproar. He had transformed an esoteric field of dusty archives and chalk formulas into something real people cared about and tuned into his radio show to hear, even if it originally started because people loved his charming face. 

It was too risky. No one wanted to lose such a young talent to the vast and uncaring cruelty of space. 

Gojo heard these concerns, shut down his radio show, and appeared outside headquarters the next day without an appointment.  

Some say he’s pushy. Some say he’s determined. Whatever they think, one thing is true. Gojo Satoru gets results, which is why administration always lets things slide when it comes to him. Even when he clutters up the main communication line trying to talk to you. 

“If you wanted to get me alone, you could just say so,” he jokes, before he switches over to your private comm. 

“Mhm,” you hum. You’re distracted, doing your daily check on his vitals. 

“Looking at my heart again?” 

“Yep! All good, though I’m going to ask you to take a double dose of vitamin c tomorrow.” 

“Come on,” he moans. “They’re terrible. You’d think with all the scientists we have they’d manage to make it taste a little more like actual oranges.” 

“You know how hard it is to make things that last in space,” you tell him. 

The thing about Gojo’s genius is that it’s hard for him to understand others. He can do anything if he puts his mind to it, so hearing ‘no’ and ‘it’s impossible’ simply doesn’t compute to him. It’s why he started his radio show, or so he told you. He dreams of teaching people to see the world through his eyes. 

His beautiful eyes. 

Your cheeks heat. That’s not something you should be thinking about, but lately, it’s been getting harder and harder. You spent almost all your time with him, after all. 

As much as you try to be professional, you’re not immune to his stunning beauty. You know the voice on the other end of the line belongs to an man whose features are nothing short of otherworldly. He could be a model if he wasn’t an astronaut. He could be anything, actually, but you know why he chose this. 

The first time you heard Gojo speak on space, you fell in love a little bit. With him and with the cosmos. 

He’s the one who teaches you that the stars we see are already dead and gone. That light and time are intertwined in ways you didn’t understand before, that the little pinpricks of gold in the distance have fizzled out years ago and are reaching you now only as a eulogy. 

You tuned into his radio show on a whim, wanting to get to know the man you’ll be working with better. You stayed because his love for the universe is magnetic. 

Gojo’s favorite thing about space is infinity. He was a proud supporter of the alien theory. There had to be some life out there, in that great vastness. Anything is possible in space, he says. There might even be a planet where he can float or unleash devastating destruction with just a flick of his fingers. 

Before long, you were listening to his voice explain worm holes and cosmic inflation any spare moment you got. He was with you on the commute to work and in the shower while you scrubbed your hair. It was Gojo’s voice that lulled you to sleep every night, slow and relaxing in his special bedtime series. 

So you’d known him long before you met him. In your first real interaction, where he was so quintessentially Gojo in a way that completely put Utahime off, you laughed. His eyes widened, surprised by your reaction, then his lips split in a toothy smile. 

“At least one of you has a sense of humor,” he quipped, making a lifelong enemy of Utahime and a lifelong friend of you. 

You’re the only one who can put up with him, so when Gojo had been chosen for Project Ares, you landed an adjacent job as his handler in Mission Control. You’d known you’d work on Project Ares for a while now, but not that you’d be working so closely with him, or that it would feel so right. 

Of course you would be his handler. It was as natural as Gojo becoming an astronaut, which you’d always known he’d manage. It’s Gojo, after all. He would go change the future of humanity, and you’d keep him tethered to Earth. 

It had been a relatively easy few years, for a space mission anyway. Anything short of death was considered optimal in those conditions. You hadn’t realized you’d miss him like this, however. All this time, and so much of it was only his voice. In a way, it was reminiscent of the days before you’d met, hearing a beautiful mind work through the radio. 

“Oh, Houston?” Gojo calls through the line, singsong. “We have a problem.” 

His lighthearted tone doesn’t deceive you. You’re up in a second. 

“Satoru? Satoru? Come on, talk to me. What is it? You okay up there?” 

“I’m experiencing heart pains,” he says, letting out a low grunt of pain. “Palpitations.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Space is Gojo’s passion. You’re happy he gets to pursue it. But in these moments, you wish he’d never heard of astrophysics because in space, you can’t reach him. If he gets hurt, all you can do is talk to him. 

He’s said he appreciates it. 

“It’s nice, you know? Gives me something to listen to other than the voices already in my head.” 

“Should I schedule a virtual visit to the psychiatrist, Satoru?” 

You joke around, but you know that’s all you can be for him. A voice in his helmet. 

Your hands are creeping towards the switch that’ll open your communication line to Nanami. At least if something happens, Nanami can actually get to him. 

“Fuck,” Gojo whispers. You freeze. You’ve never heard him talk like this, his voice low and raspy with pain. “It hurts.” 

“Tell me where it hurts, honey,” you murmur back, your voice instinctively lowering into something syrupy and sweet. Comfort comes naturally to you. You’ve always been a doting personality. It’s part of why they chose you for this assignment, other than, as you learn later, Gojo’s insistence that you be his line to Earth. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“It aches, sort of?” Gojo says. “Happens when I hear- ugh.”

“Hear? Hear what? If you can’t tell me, I can’t help you, sweetheart.” You have no idea where these pet names are coming from, but they just burst out of your mouth, as if tenderness for him is uncontrollable. Is it because you’re scared it’ll end like this? The chance of whatever you feel for him dying unspoken terrifies you. You wish you’d told him sooner. 

“Happens when I hear your voice,” he says. Is that nervousness you detect in his voice? 

Suddenly you have a very clear idea of what he’s playing at. 

“Satoru,” you say very calmly. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to call Nanami and you can explain it to him.” 

A flurry of panicked noises on the other end. “No, wait, no, don’t do that! I can explain. Just. Give me a second.” 

Ragged breathing. 

“Okay,” he admits. “I didn’t think this through.”

“Satoru.” 

“I’m sorry! You know how I am!” 

You do. Which is why you’re not immediately calling Utahime over to reprimand him. 

“I was going to wait,” he says. “This isn’t very romantic.” 

“I would say that’s more because I thought you were going to die from a heart attack in space than anything else, but go on.” 

“Sorry,” he says. “I love you.”

You were half-expecting it. After all, he’s right - you do know him. Somehow his straightforwardness still catches you off guard so badly your knee jerks and slams right into your desk. It’ll leave a nasty bruise when you check in the shower later. Most things are too soft to be picked up by your mic, but that was definitely loud enough. 

“…You okay?” Gojo asks, hesitantly. 

“When you come back to Earth,” you explain to him in clipped tones, “I am going to gut you. Then we are going to go on a date.” 

[baestruly]

your hands in mine ━━ marinat

( 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 )  natalie scatorccio x mari ibarra

.˚ ᡣ𐭩 after the yellowjackets are rescued, natalie turns to mari for support warnings - fluff, hurt/comfort, post crash, teen timeline, marinat cuteness, bisexual nat and mar wc: 2.8k

It wasn’t real,  none of it was. After endless fights for their lives, Natalie and Mari are on the edge of humanity, struggling to stay sane despite the raging voices in their head, the forest calling to them, trying to control them.

Natalie was fucking done ─── after what she did to Coach Scott, she completely lost it from there. But Mari had, surprisingly , been there for her. The two girls hadn’t talked much before the crash ─── okay, like at all, It was expected. Natalie was punk and kind of a loner, she wasn’t afraid to admit, yet Mari was popular. She had endless friends and was known by almost everyone like Jackie was . 

Natalie wasn’t sure what to do with herself that night, she found herself reminiscing as the girls ─── monsters, that’s what they were ─── sat around the fire, the darkness of the night encircling them in a rage of fire. It was supposed to keep them warm, yet Natalie couldn’t feel colder. 

Mari sat next to her, and she said what she did to was wrong ─── like Natalie needed to hear that more, she knew how much she fucked up, but she also knew it was the right thing to do for the guy she cared about who was struggling. Yes, Mari was disappointed, but she talked to her with such softness that it felt like understanding, awareness ─── to let her know she was there with her, that Natalie wasn’t alone. 

Strangely, it made her feel better.

That’s how Natalie found herself escaping their campground, which was starting to feel more like a prison as the winter crept towards them. She had caught a glimpse of hope ─── after screaming at Misty for destroying the fucking emergency transmitter in the beginning ─── but she had helped her escape ─── while everyone had been sleeping. The sun was going to rise soon anyway, so she’d only have around an hour of darkness to the point of the mountaintop she was headed to. 

She’d called and called and sat there for hours , shivering her skin off, until a man answered and she ran back alerting the team they were going to get rescued. 

In the midst of it all, despite Shauna screaming at everyone, holding people she thought she’d called friends at gunpoint (even Lotte), Natalie caught Mari’s gaze from across the camp, beside Akiliah and Travis. Even Travis’s eyes softened, with a longing for a relationship that was there, but passed ─── just a memory. 

Natalie’s and Mari’s would only begin. Their memories of each other, their talks during the night, started at the end. The end of the traumatizing path in the forest, they could see behind it and start with that fire, crackling in the night as their slow breaths mangled into soft puffs showing in the cold winter breeze.  

No one deep down wanted to board that plane, not after what happened. 

Especially Shauna. 

When rescue arrived, even Lottie had sat Shauna down to talk, wearing the clothes she kept when she landed – a sign of remembrance of the girls they used to be, but couldn’t find again. 

It barely worked, they had to drag her onto the plane , although, at least she had been more fucking willing this time. The craziest thing that’s happened in a while was ignoring the rescue team the first time because of her fucking psycho fad. 

Nothing but the sounds of the plane whooshed through Natalie’s ears, in and out the other ─── like a fever dream. As if no time had passed at all, and Natalie’s blinked and been through it all. 

She’s fucking lived through every deep breath, every drop of blood in the snow, every breakdown, every piece of─── 

She made it, but why her? 

They were leaving a part of their team ─── their team was their joy, their whole life. Natalie’s stomach sinks, as she watches the trees fly behind her, blinded by resentment and disbelief to fully comprehend she’s inches in the air from what would be the start of her nineteen-month dread, in the depths of hell they called the fucking forest . 

Or “it,” whatever that meant. 

The other girl's fists were clenched yet Shauna’s were folded in her lap, looking forward, dead. Her eyes were dead , like instead of half, the Shauna Natalie used to know disappeared. 

Natalie blinked, hands shaking as she quickly looked around, finding Mari and Akilah sitting together two rows behind her. She smiled seeing the two whisper, like they were talking about something important as if anything could be right now. 

The plane just felt empty, and lonely. 

And Natalie counted every fucking second until they landed ─── if they landed.

And they did . 

She’s stepping down from their private plane, onto the hard concrete ─── fuck, she was looking at a building , the airport . 

And more people she’s seen in a group in two years . 

She looked around the crowd, seeing Mari in front of her, she was bawling her eyes out while trying to cover her face from the harsh camera flashes and questions stabbed towards them.

She was squished beside her, and without thinking, she reached for her hand, her heart stopping when the cool touch of Mari’s interlinks with hers. 

Her heart thunders and blocks out every fucking new reporter there was, and if that would do it, maybe she’d hold Mari Ibarra’s hand forever. They were really soft, how could they be so soft?

They returned to school after that ─── college . Everyone was rallying behind on their paths of what they used to want, and Natalie was at the fucking deep end. 

Lottie was the first to be admitted to the mental hospital, and even she didn’t want any visitors. 

Natalie looked at the phone on the wall, it was screaming her name in the room that didn’t feel like hers, the one that held too much nostalgia for a time Natalie wished she could go back to despite how shitty her house had been. 

It didn’t help that Travis hadn’t tried to see or call her ever since they landed either. 

She remembers the soft touch of Mari Ibarra, how her eyes still gleamed with humour and hope despite their situation. How she gave hope to Natalie, talking about her past and everything she wished to do once they got rescued months before the possibility. 

Her support . 

That’s all Natalie needed right now. 

She threw the pack of cigarettes off her nightstand, took one last puff of the cigar she held and threw it out the open window, into the cool fall air. 

Her heart sped up at the thought of winter. 

The phone rang too long for her liking, too long for her sanity. 

“Hello?”

“Oh my god, Mari.” Natalie gasped, almost a whisper, she couldn’t help a relieved smile spread over her lips, someone fucking would talk to her.

“Nat! How are you?” She sounded better. Even though it was dumb to ask, Natalie appreciated her question, biting her cheek as she ruffled her hair, deciding to keep her natural brown. She didn’t want to be the girl she missed, because it would be fake, a lie. 

But she chopped it short the night she got home. 

“I ─── I don’t know.” She sighed into the phone. “The truth is, it’s been shitty. I haven’t gotten into any college yet, and no one’s fucking talking about anything . All I know is any news reporters who asked questions keep hearing the same thing and ─── yeah , it feels so fucking staged, what if───” 

“Nat.” 

Her heart stopped. “Hm?” She hummed.

“Come over to my place.” She spoke hesitantly yet Natalie couldn’t mistake the urge in her voice, for how genuine she was. She spent two years straight with her after all. 

“And where would that be, exactly?” Natalie smirked, leaning against the wall before she moved to her closet, already grabbing her black zip-up hoodie. Something that felt safe .

The question felt weird, but not at the same time. How close the girls became felt thrilling for Natalie, an invitation of unsure proximity between Mari, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Would it be awkward seeing her after months? Would it feel like no time passed and Mari could be her lifeline? 

“I live in a dorm now, Eastern International College.” She sighed, stopping for a moment. “I don’t know how I managed, but I think I needed to get out of my house, y’know? A change from everything I used to know.” 

Natalie nodded, as if Mari could see her. “ Yeah , I know.”  

More silence. 

“See you soon?” Mari quickly asked, it felt rushed and Mari’s and Natalie’s nerves flowed through the line. 

Natalie was halfway out of her room. “Wouldn’t miss it, Ibarra.”

Natalie managed to find the dorm rooms around campus, but Mari was waiting for her outside the building. She looked at the girl from the parking lot, dark hair blowing in the wind. It was shiny,  different. But Natalie never found anything wrong before in the wilderness, nothing was ever wrong with her.

That life was a part of them, as much as Natalie wanted to forget.

Natalie slowly smiled as she reached Mari with a wave. The girl jumped up, reminding Natalie of her enthusiasm before the crash, and how friendly and caring she was despite the various rumours that spread about her. Legend told her Mari Ibarra could also be a bitch, when she wanted to. 

She never saw much of that. 

They awkwardly hugged ─── Natalie was paranoid that if Mari could feel her heart racing, why? ─── it was the fact they were face to face in a fucking school like everything was supposed to be, yet nothing belonged at all.

Her dorm was small but cozy. She didn’t have a dorm mate yet, but she told her she wanted to keep it that way. 

“No one wanted to be roomies with me anyway.” Mari sighed, sitting on the edge of her bed raised scarily high off the ground. Sleeping in a bed was the first thing Natalie had to get used to. 

“Fuck ‘em’ then.” Natalie scoffed, looking around at the floral padded blankets and vintage posters scattered along the wall. It reminded her of Jackie’s room when they partied at her house as a team.

She wouldn’t dare let a tear fall. 

Mari looked at her, nodding as she saw her examining her space. “Just tried to make it feel like me, but it doesn’t.” 

Natalie nodded. “I know.” 

Mari chuckled softly to herself. “Honestly, you should just room with me at this point.” 

If Natalie was speechless before, she sure was now. She opened her mouth, about to say something───

“Sorry, jokes ─── um, I don’t know, since you haven’t gotten in anywhere I thought maybe you’d apply or───” 

Natalie smiled teasingly. “Don’t worry, Mar. I know you’d like to see more of me.” 

The girl looked down quickly, stifling a laugh as they snickered. Natalie was intrigued by their vibe and the closeness of the room, like the walls were caving in, bringing them closer. She didn’t even know if Mari had liked any girl before because she’d only ever heard of the crazy rumours about the few guys she’d dated. Everyone made her out to be some sort of slut, it pissed Natalie off. 

They just had to get to know her . 

“Maybe that’s true,” Mari admitted, testing the waters ─── testing Natalie’s reaction, yet her soft smile told her everything she needed. 

Her gaze lingered on Mari’s face, on the faint scar near her temple, the way her lashes fluttered when she looked away like she was flustered from their proximity, which was unusual for the confidence running through her. The winter wind brushed against the dorm window, rattling it lightly, and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Natalie didn’t feel like she had to say something sharp to fill the silence. 

She just sat in it with her. They didn’t need to speak, each growing minute feeling like a layer of warm blankets stacked on top of her, cozy, warm ─── safe . 

“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Mari said suddenly, voice low. “It’s like I came back but left someone behind me. I know I was always talking about what I would do if we got back, and I know the world hasn’t changed much but it feels like I've missed decades.”

“Loss can be change,” Natalie replied, rubbing her arm as she went to sit against the wall, rather than on the edge of the bed.  

Mari’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, searching yet unsure ─── hopeful in that way that made Natalie’s breath catch in her throat. Everything clicked, like all those late-night conversations by the fire, the whispered words when they thought the others were asleep ─── it wasn’t nothing . It was never nothing, like how they each individually thought they were. 

“You think she’s still in there?” Mari whispered.

The walls were caving in. 

Natalie scooted a little closer on the bed, letting their knees bump, electricity seeping through her veins ─── it was new, yet exciting. Her fingers brushed over Mari’s again ─── light and gentle, but steady to comfort he

“I think she’s sitting right in front of me.” 

Mari smiled so big, Natalie’s stomach fluttered .

“You can stay here tonight, if y’know, you can’t go back home. Or, until you figure out what you wanna do next?” Mari suggested, not moving her knee against hers. 

Natalie stared at her for a beat, emotions roiling under her skin like wildfire. “And what if I don’t know what’s next?”

Mari’s smile was sad but kind ─── something Natalie recognized too well, through the cracks of her bedroom mirror. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

Natalie breathed out a laugh, shaky. “You really want me as a roommate then, huh?” 

“I want you,” Mari blurted before she could stop herself. Natalie’s cheeks heat. They just breathed unsteadily ─── quiet breaths that mingled in the inches between them, the world narrowing down to the dorm room and the bed. 

Just them. 

“You know,” Mari started slowly. “I used to think about this back then when everything was falling apart.”

Natalie’s eyebrows rose gently, her voice quiet and cracked. “About what?”

She knew god damn what she meant.

Mari’s hand brushed a strand of hair behind Natalie’s ear, fingers trembling just a little. “What it would feel like...if you ever looked at me like this.”

Natalie exhaled, like the weight of it all ─── the forest, the blood, the silence finally slipped off her shoulders.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to. I didn’t know if you even saw me at all if you liked girls at all or───” she whispered back. “I didn’t even think I’d get out.”

“But you did,” Natalie whispered, as if she wasn’t in the present like her mind had drifted elsewhere and Natalie didn’t like that it wouldn’t be on her. She too had noticed how gorgeous Mari was, even when they landed. Despite the nineteen months, she somehow stayed gorgeous. 

“I did.” She agreed, voice steady for once, confident now. 

Natalie sees the pools of dark brown hues in her eyes, reflecting through the shady window behind them, like she’s looking into the depths of her soul, searching for any hurt she endured that she could fight, break ───  save her from because she couldn’t save herself. 

Their lips met, soft and hesitant like a question. Natalie grasped the soft curve of her jaw, and like her hands her cheek was softer, melding with her hand as she graced her thumb against it.

Mari kissed back in soft answer, like maybe they could have something after all this, something that wasn’t just trauma bonding or survival or pretending.

The two pulled back, connecting gazes again. It was short and sweet and everything the two imagined tasting on each other’s lips, when they were not covered in grime and dirt and being disgusting in the wilderness. 

So as Natalie breathed, Mari’s floral scent invades all her senses, bringing her into a sweet high she didn’t want to come down from ─── this electricity that formed between them. 

Without question, they slump against Mari’s pillow, standing upright, shoulder to shoulder, Natalie’s head tilting into the crevice where every breath that used to feel like a chore, met with flowers and comfort. 

Mari Ibarra.

“Nat?” Mari asked, so soft, Natalie barely heard it through the vibrations through her chest, inches away from her face. “Do you think we deserve this? To be happy?”

Did they? After everything they went through, everyone who had searched for them in the first few months decided they ‘ didn’t deserve to go as they did. ‘

That’s before everything. They didn’t know shit that happened out there, and what was so fucked up, was the fact that they probably never would. That secret was buried deep in Mari and Natalie’s beating hearts. 

The hearts that could beat for each other, through a bond they developed like no other, entwined of secrets and understanding no other person in the world could match. 

So Mari could hold her hand a little longer, Natalie’s heart thundering through every bad voice scratching her brain. 

Because her hands were so soft. 

Like the people they used to be. 

yellowjackets masterlist

[corvidaes-crow]

ChoiCale Northern Duke AU

Northern duke Cale Henituse with his long hair frosted over and tangling in the winter wind, fur cape thick and warm and pitch black, weighing down his shoulders. Northern duke Cale Henituse who stays shut in his castle unless drowning his lonely sorrows (apparently) and does not care for the people he protects (apparently), but stumbles back through the gates at unholy hours of the night or morning reeking of alcohol, clothes stained through with red in the dim candle light.

Choi Han stumbles onto the lands of the remote duchy after fighting through a thicket of winter demons and a pack of timber wolves that took him as easy prey, and the village welcomes him warmly. They celebrate his presence, because they think he is the one who has guarded their village. It's not strictly wrong, but Choi Han has not been in the Henituse duchy for long enough for his fights to warp into local legend.

He has not flung himself off cliffs to lure demons to their deaths. He would not call the way he wields his sword fae-like. Only thrice has he saved fellow travelers from the snow-borne perils. But... they call him a hero and give him food and rest at their eternal bonfire, and that is good enough for Choi Han not to question it too much.

The rumours spread far enough that the duke himself descends from his mansion at the peak of the wintering mountains. When the village leader hollers the name 'Cale Henituse' through the snowy roads, the merriment goes silent. Choi Han is slower to fear and trepidation than the youngsters he is talking to, so he turns and meets the duke's rusted gaze head on.

"So you're the hero," comes Duke Henituse's first greeting, and his voice makes him seem younger than the ageless ice of his expression. Not that it is ageless ice anymore - Duke Henituse's bloody lips twist and splinter his face with a scathing smirk. "I suppose you're looking for a reward, then? Well, what have you?"

The children shrink away from the duke's imposing stare, and Choi Han feels his own agitation rear its head in response. "The fire, your Grace. I come on behalf of another village who has suffered decades of chill now. Can you share some of it with us?"

Duke Henituse's gaze narrows as his sneer widens. "Which village?"

"Does it matter? The cold is impartial, your Grace, it will freeze any that has no hearth like this one." Choi Han tips his head at the merrily blazing flame that burns bright enough to heat the entire village and light the roads in the eternal night. "The fire can be transported without weakening the hearth. I can do it myself!"

"You can try," Duke Henituse snorts. "The Eternal Winter does not take kindly to flame in its midst."

"Harris is-"

The logs in the bonfire crackle and spit, collapsing in a blast of flame. Around them, the villagers flinch away with hands raised against the light. Cale Henituse draws his spine straight and bares his teeth on a fogged breath, embers refracting in his fathomless gaze as his hair and cloak billow in the surge of heated air - a dark burgundy stain mars the right breast of his thick blouse. "Harris Village? Let them be consumed by the full force of the Winter! Let them shatter! Let them die!"

Choi Han raises his drawn sword at a defenseless man, and knows that no villager will stop him. "I will take some fire back to them."

"Ha!" the duke laughs, head thrown back derisively, "Then take some wood with you too! Harris will have precious little dry kindling. Give them our fire."

What a challenge that is. "I will," Choi Han snarls. The fire burns, and even at this distance he is starting to sweat. He takes a lamp from one of the children who offer, and a handful of large candles from another. When he glances over his shoulder, the Winter Lord is gone. Back to his lofty manor in the snow with him, then.

Choi Han thanks the children and bids the rest of the villagers adieu. The older of them shake their heads and chuckle like it is some inside joke. "No need to say goodbye, lad. Best of luck to you."

The fire snuffs out the moment he steps past the tree line.

He walks the twenty minutes back to the village in near-darkness. It is not hard; the warm glow is the brightest beacon they could have. The elders smile when he sheepishly greets them again, amused yet disappointed for his flame. Choi Han leaves and returns four more times before he slumps on the village's pub bench with his head in his hands. The bartender claps him on the shoulder in commiseration and shouts him a jug of mead. "The flame cannot leave the village's bounds. Not without his Grace's permission."

Choi Han sips on the spiced liquor and frowns. "Then that's what I'll do."

The trek up to the manor is treacherous; there are crevasses and cliffs obscured by blinding white, and Choi Han cannot imagine the frosty duke shimmying up the narrow ledge of this particular cliff to get home. But Choi Han has faced far worse getting to the village of the eternal hearth in the first place. He makes it up mostly unharmed, though his fingertips are raw and bleeding.

The manor gates are wrought iron. The windows are dark. When Choi Han raises his hand to the metal, it parts for him as if the hinges were oiled only minutes ago. Soundless and weightless. A single room lights up. Choi Han looks over on instinct. The sharp, willowy silhouette of Cale Henituse stares back.

[thefoolishsquire]

The Journal of Ivan Mikhailov

The following are the final journal entries of Ivan Mikhailov, a soldier involved in the 1939 Russian invasion of Finland, translated into English.

29 November, 1939

     Captain Aleshkovsky told us they’re shipping us off to Finland now; something about protecting Leningrad. I don't know what the hell Finland has to do with Leningrad, but I just do what they tell me. I only hope we don’t push all the way to Varkaus. I have an uncle who lives there, and I would prefer not to bury more of my family. They’ve split us scouts up into units of about ten to venture through the forests and mountains more discreetly until we can find somewhere to build a more permanent encampment. We arrive in two days, which means I’m sleeping on a train again. God, I’m sick of these trains; the constant rumbling of the tracks ingrains itself in the back of one's mind, making sleep nearly impossible. Still, anything is better than being back in the trenches. I’m told that my unit will be only the second one to leave, and that the first unit is there now, setting up a temporary camp before leaving when we arrive in the morning. I pray for their safety and the success of the mission, and that I may get some sleep tonight.

30 November, 1939

     We arrived in Finland early this morning. The sun was barely up, but the first unit insisted on starting into the wooded mountains as soon as we arrived. After waiting at camp for a few hours as planned, we tried to follow their tracks, but by midday, the heavy snowfall had made their bootprints nearly invisible. By evening, there were no signs of the first unit left. The wind in these forests is piercing and spiteful, yet strangely quiet. It's as if the land itself is lashing out in silent fury at our presence. Sitting here by the fire, I am still filled with an awful coldness that seems to seep through my coat and down to my bones. I fear we are ill-equipped for the harshness of the Finnish winter, but I am thankful for the quiet of the forest. The hushed rustling of leaves and occasional chirping of birds is a welcome change from the train’s ceaseless rumbling. We continue our expedition in the morning, hopefully we can find a sign of the first unit’s survival.

1 December, 1939

      We found the first unit’s camp, completely abandoned. The fire was left smoldering from the night before, and the tents and rations were all there, too. We even found someone's bible left half-open in the snow. The trees around the campsite were splintered and marred, as if ravaged by some great beast, sap flowing like blood from the angry wound. One of the tents was left in a similar state of ruin, with a trail of stark crimson leading into the woods. We found the body about a hundred yards out. He was a young man, couldn’t have been older than 20, covered in deep wounds and missing an arm. Even in death, his eyes were locked in abject terror, a look of dread beyond any of which I had seen in the trenches. We buried him as best we could, but the frozen land and unyielding cold made any proper respects impossible. We followed the bootprints of his comrades, trying desperately to find anything that could hint at their survival, but as the sun left its post and night fell upon us the feeling of hope went with it. The forest feels quieter tonight, as if the whisper of the wind has joined us in mourning. Nikolai suggested putting some younger brush on the fire, said that maybe we could use the smoke to signal to the first unit, or the third which was supposed to have left this morning if we had counted our days right. Dmitryi, a man wise far beyond his years and more experienced than the rest of us, warned that we may attract the attention of the enemy as well. I saw on the faces of our men that the prospect of a quick death at the hands of the Finnish seemed like a welcome gift compared to starving or freezing to death, or whatever terrible thing had destroyed the first unit’s campsite and left with the young man’s arm.

2 December, 1939

     We continued through the forest today, but with an uncharacteristic vigor. I think we clung to the idea that maybe we could find and save the first unit, even though we knew that without tents or rations they had almost certainly died somewhere in these mountains. As we expected we found no signs of life, neither from comrade nor enemy. Still the day was not a complete loss, we found a small crest that could prove a valuable vantage point and wouldn’t require too much felling and marked it on our map. We came across a few small deer, and Nikolai managed to take one. I have never been one to enjoy venison, but the taste compared to our dwindling rations was nothing short of divine. I fear the isolation of the forest may be starting to get to me, as I keep seeing things dart in and out of the shadows from the corner of my eye. I pray that it is only paranoia, but part of me knows that we are being hunted by whatever it is. It feels its eyes on me as I sit here by the fire, hearing its heavy footsteps crunch through the virgin snow. I know the others wouldn’t believe me if I told them, and I find it increasingly difficult to believe myself, but I know that there is something there. Something not of this world. And it hates us.

3 December, 1939     It is only Dmitryi and I now. The others are dead or missing. I couldn’t even see where the shots came from, just heard the faraway crack of a rifle and watched my comrades fall. It all happened when we came upon a large clearing in the early morning. It was flat with hardly any trees, and the nearest hills were far enough away that an enemy force could not reasonably shoot down at an encampment there. It looked perfect, but there was something wrong about it. I couldn't place what it was, perhaps something in the stillness of the place, but it didn’t matter. Before I could say anything Nikolai and another man, whose name I never learned, started off into the clearing. Neither man made it ten steps before being gunned down. Nikolai dropped immediately, blood hemorrhaging from the back of his skull. The second man wavered for a moment and turned back at us before a second shot put him down too. The others ran, abandoning all logic for instinct, and those unlucky few that ran too close to the edge of the clearing were faced with the same fate as Nikolai. In my panic I tried to follow them, but Dmitryi grabbed my back and threw me to the ground. The sharp cold of the snow against my face as I hit the ground pulled me from my hysteria and I understood what his plan was. Dmitryi had scrambled behind a tree opposite from where our unit was running, and was motioning at me to join him. I took his advice and dove behind the tree next to him, crouched down, and tried to calm my breathing. We must have sat behind those trees for hours, because by the time we decided to head off again the sun had passed over us and was now beginning its descent. We hiked in silence toward where we thought base cap was until dusk, and set up our camp under the glowing purple and orange sky. We decided against a fire, better to take our chances with the cold than a bullet Dmitryi said, and ate what little food we had with only our bodies to warm it from being frozen. Dmitryi is asleep, and has been for a few hours now, but I can’t bring myself to lie down. The vision of the men I once called brothers gunned down like rapid  dogs race through my mind. If only I said something, I could have saved them. The forest is silent again, and the perfect stillness makes my guilt all the more crushing.

4 December 1939

     That thing returned last night, after I finally managed to wrestle myself to sleep. I heard it, no, I felt it outside my tent last night. I don't know why, but I am certain it was there. The trees were shattered in the same pattern as before, but beyond that the air itself was heavy and uneasy. It's as if the land knows what's coming, that whatever demon is stalking me will undoubtedly kill me, that the only reason I am alive is because it chose to let me live. I can see it in Dmitryi’s face too, that he knows too what's coming the same as the trees know and the wind knows and the snow knows. But there is something more to his face than the forest’s. The forest is sorrowful, it does not wish me to meet such a horrible fate. Dmitryi, however, he savors it, he revels in my fear and celebrates my helplessness. I bet the bastard saved me from those snipers just so he could finish his sick game of cat and mouse. I don’t know if he controls the beast or just summons it, for all I know he could himself be the foul thing, but I know he has something to do with this. 6 December 1939     I have made a grave and unforgivable mistake. Yesterday I confronted Dmitryi about the demon he had summoned to kill me. He claimed he had no idea what I was talking about, and assuming he was lying I pulled my rifle on him. He began to swear, on his mother, on his father, on his homeland, on his god, that he had nothing to do with whatever it was that had cursed me. He said he didn’t know why the trees were destroyed around our campsite every morning, and that the creature darting around the corners of my vision had nothing to do with him. I didn’t believe him, I don’t know why. Dmitryi was an honest man, I had no reason to distrust him and he had nothing to gain from tormenting me. I realize this now, but it is far too late. I killed Dmitryi Andreev, shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. The blood spilling out of his unmoving body filled me with such incredible relief that I fell to my knees and  exploded into uproarious laughter. Laughed from deep in my gut and through my entire body. Laughed harder than I had in my entire life. I even went so far as to thank God for my freedom. I truly believed I was saved, if only I had been right. That night the beast came for me. It came for me in spite of Dmitryi’s death. It came for me with such ferocity, such incredible, biblical wrath. The entire earth seemed to tremble as it crashed through the trees and heaved itself at me. It came for me and I knew that such a great and terrible force could not possibly have been controlled by Dmitryi for he was merely man, no different than I. The beast seemed to be made of absolute darkness, a hulking nothing charging through the forest hell-bent on my demise. I shouldered my rifle and fired into the impossible figure. The shadow seemed to warp and absorb the bullets, opening up and swallowing them into the inky black. I turned and ran, my legs ached from days of hiking through heavy snow with every single step, my body screaming at me to just lay down and die, screaming that I could not go any farther, but I ran. Sprinting through the forest I heard that thing following me, gaining on me, I turned to look but as I did I tripped and was thrown forward into a small patch of moonlight. The beast was upon me now and all I could do was look in fear as I watched my death leap at me. And then disappeared. It crashed into the trees behind me, where the moonlight ended. It could not exist in the light, in all of its great and terrible power it could not reach me in the light of the moon. For the second time that day I thanked God, however this time it was through tears instead of laughter. I sat in that patch of moonlight until the sun rose over the mountains, the whole time watching as the beast stalked just outside the confines of my shelter. The guilt of killing Dmitryi weighs heavy on my soul. I doubt I will ever be able to look myself in the eyes again.

7 December 1939

     I spent the night in a moonbeam again, waiting for the beast. It never came, or at least I never saw it. I have done nothing but dwell on my sins. All of them. Every single one died because of me, Dmitryi died by my hand. He was a good man. They were all good men. And I killed them. My guilt has contorted itself into rage, my grief into hatred. Hatred of myself, rage against my own depravity. The thought to kill myself was quiet at first. A horrible whisper in the back of my mind. It has grown into a thunderous demand for retribution. I want nothing more than to let myself pull the trigger, to avenge my brothers, to end my suffering. But I fear such an end is far too merciful. Ivan Mikhailov was found December 29, 1939. The trees surrounding his body were destroyed. He was found covered in deep cuts, and missing an arm.

[generic-enthusiast]

She could’ve broken up with him in the car. Told him she didn’t like to be forced to do anything, that the drinking was out of hand, that he didn’t get her, that they were better off as friends.

She didn’t.

She could’ve broken up with him when he dropped her off. Bob and Cherry were still in the car, Bob trying to coax a few words out of Cherry, who was sitting in the back seat with her arms crossed, pretending like she couldn’t hear him.

“Look, Marcia…”

“Don’t,” she said, voice softer than she would’ve liked. “Look…” He looked at her, waiting. She didn’t even know what to say. “Please don’t do anything tonight. It really wasn’t those boys’ faults, and they didn’t try anything.”

Randy looked up at her. His breath reeked of alcohol. “You know how Bob gets when he’s drunk, Mar. What could I do?”

“Randy.” His eyes were wide, and she could almost remember why she fell in love with him when she was fifteen and felt unlovable. “Please.”

Her voice came out pleading, the way she only let it when she was desperate. She didn’t like to plead, didn’t like to seem weak, because it was the sixties, goddammit, not the twenties, and a woman shouldn’t be submissive to a man. But sometimes it was the only way.

“I know.” He sighed and kissed her forehead because, even with one hand on her shoulder and the other gripping a flask, he knew she hated the taste of alcohol. “I’ll try, darling, that’s the best I can do. I’ll get him to sleep over at my place, that good?”

She nodded and he turned around and got back in the car with Bob and Cherry.

And the moment felt sweet, even if she knew it wasn’t, so she put it off for another day, telling herself she’d break it off tomorrow.

She didn’t.

She could’ve broken up with him when he showed up the next morning, eyes red and tear tracks down his cheeks. Could’ve turned him away at the door and said they were done for good.

He stepped inside when she invited him in, and Tom ran off to his room like he always did whenever Marcia brought Randy over.

“I didn’t sleep tonight,” Randy said, sitting down at the dining room table. She sat across from him, and he looked at her strangely for a moment. She always used to sit next to him.

“Why not?”

“Bob’s dead.” Marcia’s head cracked up. He wasn’t laughing. Not cracking a grin, not on the verge of saying “gotcha!”. He was serious. Bob was dead. “I’m sorry. I wanted to make it land softer but then I— I couldn’t. I’m sorry, I—”

He put his head in his hands and laughed bitterly.

“I…” Marcia trailed off. What was she supposed to say? Sorry? It hadn’t even fully sunk in yet. She should be sad. She should be sad, but she wasn’t.

Why couldn’t she feel anything?

“How?”

“One of— uh, one of those greaser kids you were talking to yesterday.”

Marcia’s blood ran cold. Could he…? He had a switch, he’d shown her than much, but could he really…?

“Which one?” She asked, and even to herself, her voice sounded tense.

Randy looked at her in confusion before answering, “The one in the jeans jacket. Had a blade we didn’t know about.”

“Oh.”

The faintest wave of relief was overtaken by anger. She told him not to go after them. She told him to control Bob, and he didn’t. Somehow, it didn’t surprise her.

“I don’t know what to do,” Randy said, and usually Marcia would’ve responded by asking why he thought she would have any clue. But something about his voice stopped her. Bob and Randy had been best friends since… as long as Marcia could remember. And he watched him die. He watched the life drain out of his best friend’s eyes.

Maybe that had broken him.

“Why’d you go after them last night?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you not to go after them,” — I begged you not to go after them, I pleaded and made myself weak so you would listen to me, and yet still you didn’t — “but you did. Why would you— Why would you do that?”

Stupid girl. Such a stupid girl, on the verge of tears because her boyfriend did something she knew he would do. And she knew she would, but she still let herself believe otherwise because she needed something to build her delusions on.

“You asked me not to go after them?”

Marcia could’ve broken up with him right then and there. Could’ve kicked him out, slammed the door in his face with a “we’re done!” and gone up to her room to call Cherry. She could’ve let the tears fall and told him she couldn’t do it anymore, that his drinking was too much. She could’ve told him to go home and called him later that day to tell him they were over.

She ended up curled up on the couch next to him, watching whatever stupid TV program was on at eight in the morning.

Marcia could’ve broken up with Randy when he left that afternoon. He told her his parents would be expecting him back before five, so they stood up and she walked him to the door.

“What are we gonna do?” she asked him at the door as he put his shoes back on. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Try and get those dirty greasers arrested. Honour his memory.”

He shook his head again and pulled her in for a hug.

This can’t go on.

You’re not a good person.

I can’t be with someone who won’t stop drinking.

We’re not good together.

Yesterday I clicked with one of Bob’s murderers more than I ever did with you.

“Bye,” he said as he pulled away. “Love you.”

She nodded. “I do too.”

The door closed behind him and the phone rang. For a second, Marcia wished for it to be Two-Bit on the other end.

“Hi, is this Tom’s house? I need to talk to him for a minute.”

“Yeah, it is. This is his sister. Just give me a second to go get him.”

She could’ve broken up with him any of the times she saw him during the next week. Boasting about who he’d jumped. Having a drink to forget about it.

She could’ve broken up with him when he showed up at her house the day those two boys were in the fire, lost and scared.

“It’s useless, Marcia, it’s completely useless. They— they killed Bob and what happened? Nothing! Now we just gotta find out how to go on without him. And we— we hurt them and jumped them so many times and what was even the point? It won’t get us anywhere. He’s— he’s dead. He won’t get to do anything — won’t graduate and won’t marry Cherry — he had a ring and everything—” A sob wracked his body and Randy slid down against the wall, curling up on himself.

Marcia just watched him. She didn’t know what to do.

“He didn’t deserve to die. No one does. What are— What are we doing? What do we wanna get? We ain’t getting anywhere. Nowhere. It’s pointless, it’s so pointless and no one wants to stop, they just wanna keep on pushing and pushing the snowball and I can’t tell them to stop!”

That was the day Randy Adderson cried in Marcia’s kitchen and she could do nothing but put her hand on his knee and tell him it’d get better.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to break up with him right then, but she could’ve.

She didn’t.

She could’ve broken up with him — or, rather, she should’ve broken up with him — that night, when he woke her up with pebbles on her window. He always liked to do that, said it made him feel like he was in a movie.

“I’m leaving,” he whispered once she had gone down to let him in. “And I want you to come with me.”

“What?” she asked, still half asleep. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. But I’m leaving. Skipping town.” A grin stretched across his face. He was giddy, high on recklessness.

“Randy, you’re seventeen.”

“Eighteen in a couple weeks.”

Marcia sighed and rubbed at her eyes. “Why?”

The grin fell off his face. “I couldn’t keep going. Fighting, it— it’s useless. It don’t do any good. They’re at the rumble right now. Or going back, I don’t know how long it lasted. But come on. We can leave, leave this whole place behind, no one’d ever know where we’d gone.”

“What about Cherry? We just leave her alone?”

“She won’t be alone, she’ll have—”

“I ain’t uprootin’ my life for you, Randy. Much less as a split-second decision at midnight.”

He didn’t answer for a couple seconds. His eyes roamed over her, searching for any hint of uncertainty.

When he did speak again, it was calm. Sober. Serious. “Okay.”

He kissed her forehead, nose, and lips, lingering for a moment after, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And despite everything, maybe she meant it.

He left a minute later.

Marcia’s mother found her leaning against the kitchen counter, listening to the last echoes of his engine.

“What are you doing up so late?”

She looked up from where she’d been staring at the floor blankly and smiled emptily. “Just getting a glass of water, Ma, don’t worry.”

“Oh, alright then.” Her mother held her close and kissed the top of her head. “Sleep well.”

She smiled back tightly and climbed back up the stairs.

Marcia could’ve broken up with Randy any number of times, but she never did. Never mustered up the courage to say the two — or three or ten or two hundred — words she needed. And she loved him, she really did, despite it all, but sometimes that isn’t enough.

[gamekids-firewolf]

also since I forgot -- it's been a few months since book 3 got published, so. here's the whole first chapter!

--

Play: Origin_02_Inferno.mry

Error: File corruption. Rerouting.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Vektor was no stranger to loss. His parents defended their Kingdom from the Mainframe with their lives. His whole Kingdom was taken from him by that Thief. Certain memories were kept from him behind restricted access.

He used to believe those were simply his own doing. Painful truths he wished not to face; he witnessed the moment his parents were destroyed, after all.

Now, however.

There was no running from it anymore.

The Rabbit Hole was much kinder to him than it was his parents. They were deleted when struck down, yet he was spared. He belonged to two realms now, not just simply the Rabbit Hole alone. He forged bonds outside his home and became more familiar here than he ever was inside his Kingdom. He had more reason to protect this realm than he had for his home.

Change. This influence Inferno brought was simple, yet it infected all of them down to their core arguments.

Fitting for the overwhelming power he held inside him.

If Vektor was certain of one thing, it was that these restricted memories held some sort of key. Some information that they desperately needed in the wake of what happened to Inferno.

Their realms were separate. They had to be, lest they warp one another to obscurity. Yet Inferno landed himself in the Seventh Circle through his own means. Inferno defied all of Vektor's knowledge and tore through both realms as if the barriers between were mere suggestions.

Inferno was bound by shadow. It dripped from his fingers when he wasn't paying enough attention and marred his face when he grew hostile against himself. He was absolutely coated in it when they retrieved him from the Rabbit Hole and Vektor could scarcely believe what the code there told him.

There was no other way to look at it. Inferno was one of them.

Inferno was the same as Vektor.

"That should make sense, though." Jonathan said in reply to Vektor's fearful ramblings. Jonathan was the only one he could trust with such vulnerable information. Jonathan wouldn't bite his head off like Wolf or completely brush him off for thinking so hard on this, as everyone was prone to doing when it concerned Inferno. "You said he's got something like your. You called it Create, yeah? You said he's got something more powerful in him than everyone else combined, so it makes sense that he's got a hold in this system, same as you."

It did make sense, but there was still a piece that didn't quite fit. Vektor frowned at the incomplete picture it left before him. "Everything makes sense when I look at it as though Inferno helped build the Rabbit Hole. But that can't be the case." He said, pacing restlessly along the linoleum floors.

Jonathan's favourite place was this lab where his desires for experimentation were free to go wild. A free study he was allowed due to his classes and his studiousness. He and Vektor weren't usually this bold, hanging out together before the cover of night, but Vektor needed the company and Jonathan didn't mind giving it. Jonathan never minded giving it, much as he put on airs otherwise.

"Inferno said he isn't one of the Creators, that his hands don't reach that far into the system's origins. If he's not the one behind everything, then why is he so inextricably tied to it as he is?"

"It is quite the head scratcher, huh?" Jonathan said with a hum.

He pressed a hand to his chin as he thought. His dark eyes (black, like Vektoria's Void, but fading to grey around their edges) darted to his notebook, where he kept all his notes on his chemical concoctions and the like. Each formula was elegant, if a bit unrefined. Just like the man himself. Vektor slowed in his pacing just to watch him a moment, noting the way his posture and even his forefront code read as Jonathan and Jonathan alone.

When Hyde had kissed Vektor, he never expected he would grow so fond of the man. He never expected to find himself so undeniably full of adoration for another that it broke past every threshold for these values tying him to all of his friends. His friends were his friends, but Jonathan — Jonathan was his everything. Jonathan could ask for his heart and Vektor would dutifully remove it from his own chest to hand right over.

That sort of bond should have been cause for alarm. Should have made Vektor recoil from it entirely.

And yet, against logic itself, Vektor could only think of basking in it as long as he was allowed.

"Would you prefer I call you my boyfriend or my datemate?" He asked.

Jonathan startled, face going a bit darker with his embarrassment. "Uh. That came out of nowhere."

Vektor strode over, closing that distance between them to look directly into his eyes. Darkness, the antithesis to Vektor's Gold. He was creation, was light, yet this darkness drew him in. It drew him in so powerfully. "It's a rather important question to ask." He said. "Our relationship is very important to me, as is your comfort."

Jonathan ducked away, closing off that connection momentarily. "I-I don't know. Ask me later." He said in a huff. "We were talking about Dante and the game, don't distract me."

Distraction.

It was deeply interwoven through Inferno's code.

Vektor reached out to cup Jonathan's face and though the man made a show of resistance, Hyde resurfaced to lean into it. Hyde always desired touch, overriding Jonathan's own fluster when they wished to give more tactile shows of this affection glowing in their chests. "He was programmed to deflect." Vektor mumbled. "Programmed to keep attention away, to keep us guessing on less important matters."

Jonathan eyed him in confusion. "You mean. You talking about his code or whatever?"

Vektor was so close to something. He scanned through that mess of Inferno's code, knew all it held, and yet it was still such a mystery. Why program him in such a manner? Why grant him that boundless Create, that overpowering Change, yet interpret both as a curse? Vektor pulled away and said, "Perhaps. It might be cruel, but we should consider everything Inferno has ever told us to be a lie."

Jonathan shoved Hyde back down as he watched him carefully. Still confused, but growing annoyed. "That means you were filled with lies, too." He said.

A cruel truth. One Vektor wished to reject immediately, but pushed past that instinct and really assessed it. Inferno agreed with him, after all, on the myth of his Kingdom's creation. Inferno agreed with him when he gave explanation after explanation and none of it was satisfactory enough to settle any matter. "Both of us were given the same lies." He mused darkly, looking down at his open palm.

The gold he produced was not dissimilar to Inferno's flames, but vastly inferior. There was something missing, something more than just the way their powers never added up, the way they butted heads and still couldn't deny fondness for one another.

Inferno advocated for his personhood. Vektor did his best to similarly encourage him to do the same. Allowing all his code to tie him down as he did, it made Inferno more volatile. More likely to pop.

To pop?

Such an odd phrase. As if Inferno's only purpose was to burn down his surroundings, to prove some point of the capabilities of the Rabbit Hole.

But that was ludicrous. Why would the Creators give a child like Inferno such an awful end?

Why would they write such cruelty for their—

Vektor winced and recoiled from the thought. Access denied. There it was again. It was becoming much more infuriating now than it was previously. Jonathan hopped up from his seat and rounded the desk in concern, but Vektor held up his hand to stop him.

"You forget we're somewhere completely public and in broad daylight." He reminded his (boy?) (date?) friend.

Jonathan shied away a few steps, chastised. "Right. Thanks." He mumbled in his embarrassment.

Vektor closed his eyes and allowed that pain to ebb away. He couldn't get too close to such truths. He couldn't even grasp how that thought was supposed to end. He had to distance himself from this line of thinking, had to restart from the first point in their gathered data and follow it to a more plausible explanation.

His head snapped up as a foreign scent came to him. From the way Jonathan's expression twisted from concern to disgust, he noticed it, too. "Do you. Smell smoke?" He asked.

Smoke.

Where there was smoke, there was fire.

Where there was fire, there could only be—

Vektor gasped. "Inferno."

Jonathan's expressions switched straight into a wide-eyed horror. Wordlessly, the two of them sprinted out of the room (Jonathan being much faster, of course) and into the halls. There was, indeed, a billowing fire fighting its way out of a classroom just a few doors down. It was viscous and could only read Inferno, rooting Vektor to the spot as its waves of heat lashed over him. Jonathan winced and shied away, but Vektor was frozen by the sight, by that half-formed thought of earlier.

Inferno was meant to pop.

They were all such imbeciles. Such fools.

There was no other purpose to the Rabbit Hole.

"What are you two doing?" Puppet screeched at them.

Vektor flinched, as did Jonathan, breaking the both of them from that stupor. The flames clawed their way out of the room, desperate and hungry, but couldn't find hold in the floor or the walls despite their attempts to burn everything. They were kept at the centre, kept from blasting outward, no doubt by Inferno himself in his unwillingness to show his danger for what it truly was.

Puppet was just as wide-eyed, just as breathless in her panic as they were. Her less comforting black eyes were much more similar to Vektoria's (pretending to be lifelike, an endless pit filled with their fury and hatred), but she still grabbed both of their arms and dragged them away from the stomach-turning sight. "There's a goddamn fire, we need to evacuate. Call the fire department, the police, a teacher for all I care. Get someone here so they can stop that idiot from burning this place to the ground."

Her words reached Jonathan and he fumbled his phone a moment, saying distractedly, "Right, right, we need to call someone."

Vektor was too overwhelmed by this fact presented before him. Too overwhelmed by knowledge he never desired.

Inferno was at this centre.

Inferno was trapped in his own fires.

Inferno was the only reason the Rabbit Hole existed as it did.

He pulled against Puppet's hold as those values screamed at him to take action. "We have to get him out." He said through his stressed teeth, his better judgements. "We can't just leave him. We have to get him out of there."

"Are you crazy? You'll die if you run straight into that." Puppet spat at him.

Her reason did nothing to dissuade this terrible instinct. She dragged him struggling and kicking away from his friend, those fires, and the hallway stretched before him in some trick of perception. Though they made it outside soon enough, this school was tiny in comparison to his kingdom, the length of paces separating him from his friend seemed nightmarishly exaggerated. Was it a bug in his perception? Knowledge of his own lacking Speed? Either way, she continued dragging him further and further away along the less flammable stones lining the path of this realm. He was forced to watch the building grow farther, the smoke climb higher into the dark blue of the afternoon sky.

Almost evening, but not quite. Almost supper, but without the proper rosy golds which came with sunset.

Jonathan made some call and none of it was comforting. Inferno had popped, had finally shown his hand, yet they ran away from it. Why did they always have to run from Inferno's truths?

Inferno was distraction. He was designed to keep others away from the reality they all found themselves in.

This end was always meant for him.

It was written even before Vektor knew just how much Inferno would end up meaning to him.

He let out a guttural scream, the only outlet for all this anguish available to him. Even as others gathered and steps were taken to extinguish that blaze, Vektor couldn't shake away this encompassing truth.

It was never about him and his Kingdom. It was never about getting back before the worst could occur.

It was always about Inferno.

Well played, Creators.

[manmetaphysical]

Part 2 from 'William Burroughs and the Algebra of Need'

2: The Return of the North Node

But for Burroughs love expressed itself more like obession as revealed in Luca Guadagnino’s latest film ‘Queer’ based on the autobiographical novel from 1985. In that work Burroughs comes close to revealing the underlying drive for finding love usually with young men. He seeks a kind of ‘telepathy’ from his lovers that goes beyond the usual connection, a wordless communication of feelings. The character of William Lee (Burroughs) is self loathing and socially awkward. He is also emotionally sensitive which reflects Burroughs' Neptune in Cancer inconjunct to his Ascendant. That is likely to make the native experience emotional disappointments, escaping into drink and drugs. So he's a loner, an outsider, never getting what he wants. The search for telepathy is the solution.

Guadagnino (Leo) suggests  that this may happen using the tropical mixture of Yagé now known as ayahuasca. Whether it is a hallucination or not, there is an extraordinary fusion in a choreographed scene where Burroughs (Daniel Craig, Pisces) and Eugene Allerton (Drew Starkey, Scorpio) blur the boundaries of body and soul as the two melt into ectoplasmic single entity. Telepathy is a very Pluto-in- Aquarius phenomenon to be talking about right now- and for the next 20 years. Burroughs supposed that telepathy occurs through Egyptian-style pictographs but that was in the era before AI.

Whenever someone like Burroughs comes back into greater prominence in a celebrated film, I supect the astrology has something to say about it. Sure enough, the North Node continues to work posthumously. His North Node is at 16° of Pisces. The North Node has just arrived in Pisces so we are being reminded of all Piscean qualities including art, music, addiction to drugs, self sabotage, escapism and clinging to illusions, so Burroughs from his discarnate position somewhere beyond will have a transiting Node to natal Node conjunction. This point is significant because the Node slows down on that 16° as if to emphasise exactly that point. The North Node is always retrograde but from November 4th to November 17th 2025 it hovers at this degree momentarily going direct. The Nodes do this dance about 10% of the time.

The film is already in the news and has been favourably reviewed. So in November it could be the time when Daniel Craig receives further nominations and recognition for his portrayal of Burroughs. Or, either the film or William Burroughs will come back into the news again for another reason. The film’s UK release date was December 13th 2024. This was when transiting Saturn was on Burroughs’ Chiron/North Node in Pisces, and the Moon aligned perfectly at 11° of Gemini. And a Gemini Moon highlights someone who thinks their emotions rather than feels them.Guadagnino’s North Node/Mars happens to land on Burroughs’ Venus/Uranus in Aquarius and he talks of a long-standing motivation to make this film going back decades.

Burroughs included references to astrology here and there in his writing. Usually it’s a side swipe, poking fun at people who believe in the stars and planets. In Queer there’s a character called Tom Weston who is an 'amateur astrologer'. He does not get predictions on the races correct and misleads the narrator. Weston is called 'an old whore'. He crawls into a bar and the narrator says that "That Saturn Retrrogade dragging your ass, man?'"Weston replies, "My ass is dragging because I need a beer." Then he goes on to say it's not good 'auspices' to have a beer because "Venus is in the 69th house with a randy Neptune". It is part of Burroughs' darkly comic style. Some might say 'twisted'.

That it is there at all gives astrology some status in the 20th century novel. Yes, the astrologers are portrayed as wackos and not the finest of exemplars of this intuitive science.

At the beginning of The Wild Boys: A Book of the Dead (1969) there is more fun with the use of astrology. He introduces a character called Tía Dolores who sits under a stairwell in a lair padded by rats and astrology magazines. She talks of her 'noonday eye' because her eyeballs are like two spinning clocks: one going clockwise and the other counter clockwise.  It's satire but the fact is that Burroughs knew some astrology enough to make it a device in his work.

Burroughs thought there was no such thing as coincidence. For Burroughs every event in whichever order it happened was imbued with significance. This is also how astrologers see the world as they interweave the hermetic notion as above, so below, as within so without into daily life. Nothing is dismissed as trivial or unimportant. While he never specifically referred to Jung's idea of 'synchronicity', it appears he intuitively 'got' that point - that coincidence can be 'meaningful'. This allowed his cut-up technique where the pattern that words fall into creates multiple new interpretations more like a divinatory art.

© Kieron Devlin, Proteus Astrology, February 4th,  2025, All Rights Reserved.

[minzart]

Oh I'm going to have fun noticing the parallels and symbolism here, it's literaly the whole show

Especially for these two, but I wanna give some context for whoever is interested in at least seeing me ramble about this show

"Meu pedacinho do chão", roughly translating to "My small piece of land" is a 2014 remake of an older TV show(we call those novelas) from the 70's of the same name, it aparently changes A LOT of the plot of the original but I didn't grew up with it neither did my grandma so it doesn't matter, like my mom didn't even knew it was a remake, but that's besides the point, it is just a small thing to know especialy if I plan to watch the original after finishing this to see what changed

The story goes as follows, in this quaint little village called "Santa Fé"(Saint faith) is arriving anew member to it's comunity, a teacher, Juliana, the first teacher for the first ever school to inaugurate there, much to Coronel(translating its "colonel" but here in brasil it's not so much of a military role as much it repesents a title if the big farm owners of the old times) Epaminondas Napoleão dismay

The plot is simple, Epa(short for Epaminondas) will try at any costs to close this school and Juliana will persist to teach the children(and adults), it's simple, it's sweet, but has an emphasis also in the romance between Juliana and Zelão, the right hand man of Epa

And now older I can see much more of the other themes playing around, like Gina, the only daughter of Epa's rival, and the man most beloved by the town bc it was by his land donation people could have a place to call their own, again much to Epas anger bc it was he that gave that man piece of his land first but in his mind it was not supposed to grown a village or God forbid a town there

She... is clearly "big mean Lesbian" coded, they call her a Mulher-Homi(she-man/woman-man), she has anger inssues, never smiles, dresses masculine, uses violence first talk later, she refuses to watch Juliana undress(they share her room for the firsts nights while the teachers room isn't ready) and is clearly affected/unconfortable by how feminine the teach is, her mother is constantly disapointed and worried while her father is in denial/ or is the only one who understands the nuance of gender for her but it's 2014 and I have low hopes, especialy bc I know she ends marring a man

But what gets me is that this story as 2 main parings, Juliana and Zelão, Gina and Fernando(Epas son), and what gets me is how these 4 are a reflection of each other

Zelão and Gina especialy, the photos above show one clear paralel consistent, both are, in the romantic parring, the Troup of "back water tough persona", Zelão's hair covers half his face until Juliana comes to town and he sees her for the first time, he intentionally pushes away that hair to "see her clearly" but also to start his own education, for the first time Zelão won't be just the man doing Epas dirty work, his vision literaly expands he finaly sees the world with two eyes instead of one

And when Gina gets agreessive her hair also covers half her face, her anger clouding judgment, she is show most times with both eyes shown but it's when she is cornered and angry her hair makes the paralel, I don't remember how her romance goes so I can judge it much better now as an adultn bc she also has so much more going on besides the main "the inportance of education" plot

Then there is Fernando and Juliana, they both are pararlel that they are the "educated" one of their pair, Fernando graduated as an agro engineer(even if his dad wanted him to become a lawyer) and Juliana is the big city teacher coming to bring knowledge to the town, and there is an attraction, at least from Fernando to Juliana, as is from every man in this town for her tbh, but there's a little thing that makes them something a bit more as characters too

Juliana is sexy, there is no way around it the camera the gestures the costume she is HOT, the story needs you to know how hot this woman is, not only pretty but hot, every single man has a boner for her, they fawn they shutter, she could be a text book example of femfatale... if, she wasn't a teacher, bc here's the thing she doesn't use saturated colors, she uses pastels, pinks and withes and blues, and bc of that she is also seen by everyone in this little village as a Saint, that is a point bc it IS THE WHOLE ROMANCE ARC BB, she is a Saint for the folk and the Devil for the Coronel, she has a good heart yes, but she makes a point to aways counter that she is no Saint, and there will be a scene, THE PICK OF ROMANCE, were she and Zelão have the talk about this, and the story better deliver in him not seeing her as a Saint anymore and just as another woman, that's how their love worked in my head

Anyways she breaks the femfatale stereotype and the Saint at the same time, she dresses not as a classical domination but as a normal pretty woman in pastels and pinks, but she still acts like an adult having many MANY, I NEVER NOTICED HOW MANY WHEN YOUNG TBH, shots and inuendos, she KNOWS the effect she has on others and it's just contempt at this point

Then there is Fernando, from the short summary that I read from the 70s he was the most changed, for starters not a playboy anymore, second... it isn't as strong as Gina's BUT, he does read bit gay to me, he is the city boy coming home, dresses fancily like a prince, as he should since he is the closest to one in this farytalesque story, he is educated treats everyone fairly (even if the atory itselfs doesn't I am not blind to not noticed we got the two racists esteritipes here with the black mama and happy/lazy black man with two kf the only 3 black characters and I fear they are the only 2 named ones but hey I just finished ep2 of 92 so who fucking knows but low hopes)

But his scene with his dad... "Dad I have something to tell you... I'm not a lawyer... I'm an engineer" is... sure something followed by Coronel kicking him out of his house, I'm still waiting to see if there's something between him and Zelão as there is to Juliana and Gina, but they have more of a "the son that his dad never had vs the son his dad has" kinda vibe, that is... not so much the focus of the other girls

I'm no expert, but I wanna try spotting this tropes stuff in this novela at least, it's easier too bc... just look at it, really colorful and full of tropes now I just wanna see how they break it

Btw a fun thing I think it's interesting is how Epaminondas was the first Coronel dressed in black that I saw and maybe existed at that time, and noticing that is how I started to see the pattern that in Brasilian TV White is the villains color, not black, black can hide the dirt if one works while withe is the hardest shit to maintain, all coronels were shown is white bc of their status, as rich, and also bc they were meant to be sympathetic in a way too (like it or not the white and black are clasiscaly aligned with good and evil), but at the time they were trying to break steriotypes...after all I still remember My teacher in grade school repeating over and over that "the Bandeirantes were not the heroes that history told us " even if it was the first time we all had even heard that term, and now older i realize she was referencing her own time at school, I got the history breaking of many propaganda that still persissted by the Vargas dictatoryship in the country

Anyways thanks for reading

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Red String

Fandom: Brokeback Mountain Summary: Jack can't let Ennis go, not like this. Warnings: Soulmates, marriage breakups, minor angst, and mentions of homophobia Word Count: 3,840 Ship(s): Jack Twist/Ennis Del Mar

Archive link!

After an excruciating hour and a half of trying to get his shitty pickup working, since it had sat after breaking when he arrived for almost the entire summer, Jack’s foot was finally pressing down on the gas pedal. He turned the wheel so that the axis would shift and he could navigate his way out of the little parking lot in front of the trailer.

He had been practicing what he was going to say to his parents when he returned home and yet all the words had already flown from his mind. He had to start from scratch as he worked out when he was supposed to ask about his uncle, his work, and when he needed to hand them over some of the paycheck that he had collected on Brokeback Mountain.

Of course, thinking about the work that he had done on those steep peaks brought him back to the man that he had spent those months with. Ennis hadn’t spoken much when they had first been sent up to watch the sheep roam the great green pastures of the forest service land, but they had opened up to each other not long after. They had bonded over which of the dogs were their favorite, which reminded Jack of the squirming pup that he had snuck into the cabin of his car. At least he had someone to keep him company while his heart ached at the thought of Ennis.

Their relationship had become more than what it was in the beginning month or two. Conversations had changed from simply talking about things like what they were planning to do with the rest of their lives to what their childhoods had been like. They were both raised around ranching culture and had both lived in Wyoming, which meant that they had quite a lot to bond about. Ennis had never traveled outside of the state or the states surrounding it, but Jack had and was able to laugh about the strange habits that Wyoming specifically had when it came to their ranch culture.

The bitter snap had been the catalyst that brought them even closer together. They had been forced to share the tent up on their camp after they had stopped taking shifts back and forth to watch the sheep at night. They had left the dogs with the flock, other than the puppy that refused to leave Jack’s side, so they figured that the casualties would be small if there were any at all. Sheep may have been the easy kill for wolves to go for, but there were plenty of deer and elk out in the mountains as the drying meat that they had hanging on the racks could attest for. 

The moment that Ennis had slipped into the tent, it felt like Jack’s entire world was shifting. They had bedded down together after tightly doing the ties that kept the tent shut and the cold outside. He could feel every minute movement of the other man beside him, basically feel the breath that he took like Ennis was using the oxygen that was already in Jack’s lungs, and hear the beating of Ennis’ heart in his own ears. It had been a sleepy, half baked plan to drive the other man out when he had grabbed Ennis’ hand and dragged it down to his cock.

The last thing that he would have expected was for them to spend the next thirty seconds pushing each other into the other wall of the tent and almost kissing. It was like something was keeping them from fully falling into each other, for their lips to to touch and a kiss to break whatever tension was messing between the two of them. That first night nothing more than a fuck had occurred, they hadn’t even talked to each other when they came down from their orgasms and collapsed into the bedding around them.

That wasn’t the end of it, though. Ennis had continued to care for Jack and the two of them had grown closer and closer. It was hard to ignore the only other person in miles and miles, after all. Jack had begun to notice the feeling of string around his pinky finger on his right hand, but he had pushed it off as him making it up. He had heard that people got the soulmate feeling when they were very in love with someone or when they were close to meeting their soulmate but hadn’t quite managed it yet.

The day when he had almost fallen asleep by the fire had cemented in his mind forever. Ennis had wrapped one of his strong arms around Jack’s chest and brought him in close so that he could kiss along his jaw and neck. He had mumbled something that his mother used to say to try and bring Jack to bed, but all he had been able to focus on was the heavy feeling around his pinky finger.

When Ennis had left, the red string of fate was tied around his hand as prominently as could be. 

It had brought a fair bit of panic to him. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do when his soulmate was revealed to him, even though he had grown up hearing stories about how magical an experience it was supposed to be. He knew that Ennis’ father had been one of those people that thought those who fell in love with other men or had soulmates that were other men were cursed by the devil. It was an idea that was rapidly falling out of favor with anyone that had more than a singular lick of sense in their heads, but some people in the more rural parts of the world still held fast to it. Jack didn’t know if Ennis would accept him if he even knew that they were soulmates.

The longer that he drove in the opposite direction that Ennis was walking, the more he felt like he was falling apart. It was as if the red string tied around his pinky finger was tugging his entire body backwards and the act of trying to ignore it was sending his heart out of his body.

He kept going, steadily trucking down the road that would bring him to his parents. He knew that he had to talk to his mother first, she had always asked him about his soulmate and seemed so excited about the idea. He knew that she would have the advice that would save him from an entire life of heartbreak and hurt. 

---

Jack arrived at Lightning Flat just as the sun was beginning to set. He’d had to stop more times than he would like to admit to just cry. It was hard for him to even think about Ennis without feeling white hot pain fill his chest where his heart should be steadily beating. He wondered how anyone managed to turn their soulmate away if they didn’t have enough money or weren’t pretty enough if this was what it felt like.

He got out of his truck and smiled as he saw his mother already standing on the porch. They greeted each other with big hugs as they always had, her calloused hand cupping the back of his head. He was much taller than her now, but she always managed to make him feel like a little kid when he was back in her arms as he was now.

“Come inside, we’re going to have cake and talk about whatever’s on your mind. Your father is out in the barn listening to his radio, so it’s just going to be the two of us,” she smiled at him. She took him by the hand and led him back into the warm, run-down farmhouse that he had grown up in. He sat at the table while she busied herself in the kitchen and then took the food that she had offered him.

“So how was that job that you took?” she asked.

“It was about what you expected it to be, Mama. The pay was alright but we were doing things that we weren’t supposed to so the entire thing as more nerve wracking than I expected. I was up there with some dogs and another man. Speaking of which, the pup that I was able to take home because he was the runt of the litter is still out in my car. Can I bring him in?” Jack asked.

“Of course! It’s been a long time since we’ve had a dog. Do you think that he would be good for cattle driving?” she asked.

“I think that we could always try to train him up, depends on the dog whether or not they’re any good,” he chuckled. Jack walked back out to the car as quickly as he could since he had already felt the tears welling in his eyes when he had even brought up Ennis in the abstract. He wasn’t sure how he was going to be expected to live the rest of his life when that damned blond was living rent free in his head the way that he was.

He paused when he got to his truck. He opened up the passenger door so that his pup could jump down onto the ground beside him. The dog had fallen asleep while they were driving down the boring, flat roads up to the ranch but had woken up when he noticed the lack of his person beside him. He patted the heeler’s head and then leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the door. A sob burst out of his throat and into the still air of the flat land around them. It was hidden from the ears of anyone but himself and his faithful companion by the lowing of cows and rustling of grass in the wind.

All he could think of was Ennis, and when he thought of Ennis it felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest and squeezed into nothing.

He took a deep breath to collect himself and then pushed off the side of his truck. He grabbed his bag as he made his way back into the house, setting it down beside the front door. He introduced his pup to his mother and then sat back down at the table so he could continue eating his cake. “Mama, something happened on the job that I’ve gotta talk to you about.”

“Jack, this sounds serious. Is it about your uncle? I promise that we didn’t mean to give you that kind of scare when you were meant to be working to help us, but we thought that you deserved to know since the two of you were so close,” his mother quickly said.

He shook his head, “It has nothing to do with that. It’s about soulmates. You always said that you wanted to know when I found my soulmate and I think that I have.”

“Oh, Jack! You know that’s just wonderful, I’m so happy for you. You should bring them back up here and then we can get to work on making the ranch bigger and better. I’ve always wanted to be one of those places spotted with houses so that everyone is within walking distance of their family,” she beamed.

“That’s just it, Mama,” Jack felt like crying again. He could feel the lump in his throat whenever he tried to swallow and go on, feel the tears brimming against his lashes, and the racing of his heart in his chest. “While I would like that very, very much, I’m not sure that he would. When we was on the mountain he mentioned that he was engaged to a nice girl who hadn’t found her soulmate either. Out here it’s so unlikely that you would run into the person destined for you and spend enough time with them to figure it out that they just settled down together.”

She reached out and placed her hand on top of his like that would make it all better. Some of his pain and anguish was eased a little bit, a mother’s love was designed to calm and comfort her child no matter their age, but nothing would compare to what healing would happen if he was back in Ennis’ arms. “I know that not a lot of people out here have found their soulmates, but I have.”

“I didn’t know that you and Daddy were soulmates,” Jack said as he glanced out towards the garage. “I always thought that soulmates were supposed to get along better.”

She laughed at that, and it made Jack smile just a little bit. “Soulmates have their own unique dynamic, that’s why God made them in the first place. To the outside person it might seem like your father and I don’t get along that well, but we love each other very much and wouldn’t trade our relationship for anything. I love the quietness of him and how sure he is of himself. He likes the fact that I know who I am and am willing to listen to other people. The reason I wanted to know when you found your soulmate was so that I could help you the way that my mother helped me.”

“She did?” he asked, prompting her to go further.

“Yes. When I met your father, I didn’t like him very much. I thought that he would be a bad husband because he had quite a mean streak to his words and was very rough with some of his brothers. But then one day, we were walking down the road to go to a church function and he managed to get the boy from my school that had been propositioning me for marriage to finally leave me alone. Our strings appeared after that, but I still wasn’t sure I wanted to marry him. My mother encouraged me and taught me how to work around the social issues around it so that we could be as happy as we are now,” she finished. “So tell me about your soulmate and I’ll see what I can do.”

---

He had spent almost that entire night talking to his mother. She let him go on and on about the way that Ennis’ hair would shine like wheat curls when the sun hit it right while they were working, how he snored only when he was first going to sleep or waking up, and the way that his arms felt when they were wrapped around Jack. He didn’t mention the more intimate parts of their relationship, but he did tell her about the fact that Ennis’ parents had been very evangelical in their religion and instilled in him a sense of panic about having a male soulmate. Jack’s mother, the saint that she was, had assuaged all of his worries and found out a way to make everything good in the end.

It had still taken a very long time for Jack to get up the courage to go back to the town that Ennis had said he lived in. He knew that he had to do it before his marriage to Alma, because once that happened everything was going to get a lot more complicated. He was cutting it very close as he was already near the month that Ennis had said the wedding was going to take place.

Jack vividly remembered what it had felt like when he was driving down the long, desolate roads in the opposite direction to the one that Ennis was traveling. It had felt as though the red string around his pinky finger linking him back to his soulmate had been connected to all the veins and blood in his body, pulling it all out onto the road. He had left bits of himself strewn throughout the vacant state that they lived in because he had left behind his soulmate.

Now, he was picking it all back up as he drove as quickly as he dared to where Ennis was. His pup seemed to be content with the traveling, especially since Jack was in a better mood than he had been the entire time that they were staying at Lightning Flat. It was easy to let the smile fall across his face and the lyrics of the songs on the radio drift past his lips when he could feel the blood pumping through his body and his heart singing with the rhythm of the road.

He arrived in the little town that Ennis had mentioned when they were up on Brokeback and then wandered into the first store that he found. He purchased a pack of cigarettes, the kind that he knew Ennis liked, mostly as an excuse to talk to the cashier. “Do you happen to know where the Del Mar’s live? I need to speak to the youngest sibling, Ennis. He mentioned that he lived around here when we were working together last sumer.”

“Ennis is having his wedding today, down at the little church. You should pop into the reception, I’m sure Alma would like to get to know more about his working life. Lord knows why that girl agreed to marry him when she barely knows anything about him. Boy doesn’t talk much,” the cashier chuckled as she took the bills that Jack had dug out of his pocket for the cigarettes. 

The moment that he heard the word ‘wedding’ it was like all the progress that he had made with his mother and along the road was undone in a moment. The red string was a ball inside of his body, neatly rolled up like the yarn that his mother used to work with when she was making him new winter socks. When he heard that his soulmate was getting married that very moment, it felt like the entire thing had been yanked from his body by an uncaring his hand.

He realized that he had been standing there with a look of terror on his face for a bit too long, so quickly grabbed the cigarettes and jammed them into his pocket. “Thanks!” he called over his shoulder. He opened the door to his truck and then jumped in, not bothering with his seatbelt as he drove down to the aforementioned church.

He left the door to the cab open behind him, which meant that his dog jumped out and followed after him as he flew through the doors of the church. He had barley any time to think while he was driving towards the building or rushing up to the doors. The only thing that was on his mind was the fact that Ennis was about to be married to someone else, which made terror rush through him.

Fueled by adrenaline, he flung the doors open so that he was standing in the foyer of the church. The heavy wood slammed against the brick of the wall next to it. The noise that it created was loud enough that everyone sitting in the pews and the couple at the head of the alter turned around so that they could see him.

“Jack?” Ennis asked.

The church erupted in whispers as people turned to each other and began to talk about what was happening. He could pick out a couple of phrases from the family members that were close enough to him, but the words refused to stick on his head. He walked in and let the doors slam shut behind him. “You can’t do this, Ennis,” he shook his head.

“What the Hell are you talking about? We worked together for one summer and now you’re breaking up my damn wedding? I worked hard to be able to make this day nice,” he shouted. That anger was warranted, Jack was doing something stupid and reckless.

But he couldn’t care less about that in the moment.

“We’re soulmates, Ennis. You’re going to be miserable with her because you met your damned soulmate and you’re not with them,” he replied.

“We ain’t soulmates and that shit doesn’t matter anyway! People can be plenty happy when they marry someone other than their soulmates,” Ennis said.

Jack felt that ball on his throat begin to move further and further up as he got closer to crying. This couldn’t be how their story ended, it would absolutely destroy him if he had to turn and walk out of the church without Ennis by his side. He focused on their good memories and the joy that they had spent together like his mother had told him to. Slowly, the red string on his pinky finger became as vivid as a dripping red wound. For the first time, though, it extended out towards Ennis so that it connected to the one tied around his soulmate’s pinky finger.

Alma gaped down at the connection between the two men. She looked up at Ennis with rage on her face, “You kept the wedding on even after you had met your soulmate? You are a cruel, cruel man Ennis Del Mar.” She picked up the folds of her wedding dress and then stormed through the church with several members of her family following after her.

Jack remained stood in the doorway where he had been before, even after the last couple members of the wedding had filtered out to go gossip with each other about the drama that had just unfolded. Ennis stepped down from the alter of the church and began to slowly walk towards Jack. “Why did you have to do that?”

“Because it felt like I was dying every moment that I was away from you. I can’t let us live our lives like that, Ennis. I just can’t,” he shook his head.

Quiet as ever, Ennis slipped his pinky finger around Jack’s so that they were holding hands in a way that was only comfortable for soulmates to do with each other. Despite everything that had just happened and the anxiety that was still fraying Jack’s nerves in real time, he knew that this was where he belonged. His heartbeat was steady and the ache that he had lived with since they first departed was finally gone. It felt as though his soul had returned to his body in the form of pure, unadulterated joy. He was slightly drunk off the sensation and he never wanted to let it go.

“What are we going to do now?” Ennis asked.

“We go live with my folks so that you don’t have to deal with the shit this town is about to put you through and then we figure it out,” Jack said. “But first, I wanna kiss you again.”

“Guess I can’t say no, now that everyone knows we’re made for each other,” Ennis mumbled. He leaned down so that their noses were basically touching before their lips collided. It felt like fireworks and explosions and everything else that the books had talked about.