#toteme towel

[cafe-solo]

[almostfoxglove]

AIN'T THAT A BITE

written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV), The Last of Us (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Central Characters: Reader, Young!Joel, Sarah

Central Relationship: Joel / Reader

Word Count: 6k

Pre-Outbreak & No-Outbreak AU

SUMMARY

It's the night of Jackson High's Sock Hop, the 8th grade dance which took you weeks to organize, and everything seems determined to go wrong. Thankfully, one student's dad—the handsome and brooding Joel Miller—comes to your rescue. READ ON AO3, if that's your jam!

Four weeks ago, volunteering to organize the eighth-grade dance committee had seemed like an excellent idea—a chance to make a solid first impression on the PTA and the chilly cast of your new colleagues while giving yourself a little excitement, some frivolous living beyond the usual boredom of your repetitive existence. Lesson plan, grade, report card, lesson plan, grade, report card—you love your job, but it gets old.

But now, on the night of Jackson High’s September Sock Hop, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake. Someone brought cookies with walnuts that had to be ceremoniously tossed, one of the speakers in the gym is crackling, three of your parent chaperones have bailed, and oh, yes—a sink in the girls’ bathroom has decided to spring a sudden leak and flood the place a mere fifteen minutes before the kids are due to show up.

Drenched and sweating, you make a hopeless attempt to mop the flood of water with the gym’s supply of linens, turning the tiled floor into a swamp of soggy towels that squelch beneath your shoes. It’s all a futile effort—the burst pipe beneath the far left sink is spewing water faster than the towels can sponge—but here you are, trying anyway, looking like you’ve just taken a long walk in a fucking monsoon. 

A row of square mirrors sits framed above each ceramic sink, taunting you with your reflection. Your red poodle skirt has gone burgundy with water and your once pristine white button-up clings to your chest, translucent, peek-a-booing your bra. 

Real professional. 

“Miss Green?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a weary knock. “Believe students are arriving now.”

With a sigh, you take a final glare at your reflection as if looking again might fix things, then call out, “Alright,” with as much patience as you have left to muster. Outside the calculus teacher is waiting in his pin-stripe vest with a sorry grimace. He agrees to lock up that bathroom from use and with a tired thank you you click down the hall towards the school doors, stomach raw with nerves.

As promised the first, eager attendees stand outside Jackson High’s wide glass doors, giddy to be let in for the night’s event. Kids are in everything from pastel poodle skirts to leather jackets and waitress get-ups—you even spot the Broderick twins in matching, vintage baseball uniforms striped with strawberry red. Behind them stand their parents, some smiling and others bleary-eyed, who you force yourself to smile cheerfully for as you let them in, a clipboard held over your chest to hide your bra.

You don’t miss how the parents stare at you—soaking wet and clearly befuddled—and you mutter your apologies as they shuffle into the school. All but the main hall has been blocked off, leaving the children a one-way path to the gymnasium for the dance. You check your watch quickly; maybe you can sneak in a quick smoke around the corner before the rest of the eighth graders arrive.

Outside the air is perfect: your one reprieve. Blue-dark clouds haunt the star-pocked sky and the balmy remains of the dying summer sweep through the parking lot as a breeze. You breathe easily for the first time in an hour, lift your face, and close your eyes, stitching yourself together in the calm. 

When you’re steady again, you decide against the smoke break. Too many parents pulling up in shiny cars with the kids. It’s enough to feel them in your skirt pocket—an escape hatch when you need them, a totem when you don’t. A nasty habit, your mother always says. But you only allow yourself two cigarettes a year. Not so bad, as habits go.

You’re about to turn back in and see if you can’t call a plumber at this hour when a pickup groans into the lot—steely-blue, bold text stickered on the side. It pulls not into a parking spot but the drop-off zone, right in front of you.

Miller Construction Ltd.

Maybe miracles are real after all.

As the passenger window rolls down and the cab light blinks on inside, you rush over, desperation rocketing your heart around in your chest. A girl in a lilac poodle skirt blinks up at you from the passenger seat, eyes wide with surprise. She’s got her hair pulled back in two big, curly pigtails ribboned with bows, and looks adorable—exactly what you’d pictured when you took on the behemoth task of putting this whole stupid evening together—complete with a matching neck scarf and shiny black shoes. You give her what you hope is a friendly grin and start rambling.

“I am so sorry,” you say, before you bother looking at the driver. “But we’ve got a plumbing emergency and if there is any chance you might have a few minutes to take a look at it, you’d be a—”

Your sentence drops off as you at last hunch down to make eye contact with the man in the driver’s seat through the open window. Dark-eyed and frowning, all curls and scruffy beard and thick flannel shirt: your type to a T. In your pause his daughter stifles a chuckle, and you shake your head to restart your brain. Focus. Sinks to fix, floods to mop.

With a tight grin, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Would be a lifesaver if you could, I don’t know, take a look. Even if it’s just to tell me we’re fucked and need an emergency plumber. We had a bunch of parent chaperones bail last minute, so we’re a little short on hands.”

Now the kid snorts, giggling. Shit—your teacher-voice has slipped. 

You close your eyes, horrified. Seems there’ll be no end to your embarrassment today.

Sighing, you step back to open the passenger door so the girl can hop out. “If you promise not to tell any grown-ups I swore in front of you,” you tell her. “I’ll give you all As when you get to my class in a couple years.”

“Deal,” the girl says, grinning at you. “But I’d probably get an A anyway.”

Despite yourself, you smile—this time for real.

“You ain’t her teacher?” comes the driver’s voice. Deep and coarse, all Texan. When you glance back, he’s still frowning, eyes narrowed at you.

“Tenth grade English and History,” you say. 

“And you’re workin’ the eighth-grade dance,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m new. Thought it’d go over well if I came in eager and offered to plan the thing.”

He hmphs, expressionless, his skin golden under the overhead light, eyes glinting with amber. You’re almost glad the kid’s not in your class; parent-teacher interviews would be torture. Sitting across your desk from this man, forced to pretend you don’t want him to ruin you. 

Beside you on the sidewalk, the girl shoots her dad a daggered look and crosses her arms. “He’s free,” she says. “He can do it.”

“Sarah,” the man hisses. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snarks. “Do you suddenly have a social calendar I don’t know about?”

After a brief stare-down which Sarah seems to win, he huffs and mutters a cranky one second before pulling out of the drop-off zone to park. 

“I like your skirt,” Sarah says when he’s gone. Streetlamps have you both in a cloak of shadow, and the pale light radiating from the school’s front doors doesn’t quite reach this spot, but her inquisitive expression is unmissable in the dark. 

“It’s a little ruined,” you say sheepishly. “But I like yours.” 

Pleased, she gives you a little twirl, purple fabric blooming from her waist. “Thanks,” she says, when she stills again. “My dad sewed on the poodle.” 

Across the lot you hear the harsh slam of a car door cracking shut and spot her glowering father stalk across the asphalt, silhouetted by a distant streetlight, his shoulders unfairly broad. You nod toward the front doors. You’d never admit it to anyone, but the thought of this surly figure lovingly stitching a felt poodle to his daughter’s costume makes you a little weak in the knees.

“You can go on in,” you tell Sarah, and she waves at her dad before running inside.

Then he’s walking up the pavement, growing closer. Of course he smells good—like patchouli and something earthy and skin. Of course he’s rolled up his sleeves, baring his tanned forearms, one tensed by the toolbox clutched in his hand. You manage a stiff grin as he approaches, no teeth, to which you receive only a curt nod in reply. 

In silence, you walk him through the glassy doors, heels clicking as swing music crackles from the gymnasium some distance away. You catch, in the corner of your eye, the shape of his head turning as he watches Sarah running full-speed down the main hall to catch up with a group of girls that must be her friends. She launches herself at them, and even at this distance you hear the shrill of their joy, the sugar-high laughter, and smile to yourself.

“She’s sweet,” you say, guiding him into a branching hallway, away from the main event.

He grunts, then mumbles, “Pain in my ass is what she is.”

You chuckle. When you dare to look back at him again, you see his begrudging tone doesn’t match his expression. You swear his eyes flit quickly away as if you’ve caught him already looking at you. Hard to be sure, you think, in this dimmer light. But his cheeks almost look pink.

After a beat too long, you realize why.

You’ve dropped your clipboard to your side without thinking, unveiling your water-logged shirt, which clings sheerly to your skin. Grimacing, you cover yourself again. “Not much of a plumber,” you say quietly.

Once you’ve grabbed the keys back from your colleague, you drag this poor, probably busy dad to the girls’ bathroom and unlock the door, glancing down at his boots before you open it. “You don’t love those shoes, do you?” you ask.

His eyebrows lift, jaw tensing. “Sure they’ll be fine, darlin’,” he grunts.

You push into the bathroom before your brain has the chance to recover from darlin’. You’ve been in Texas all of six months and you still aren’t used to the pet names. Everyone here seems to call each other everything. Even the old woman who works the till at the grocer by your apartment calls you honey or angel, and you wouldn’t exactly describe her as the friendly type. Darlin’ isn’t even irregular. Bus drivers call you that. 

Difference here is that it’s this man saying it—which is to say, someone gorgeous with a voice that could melt you if you let yourself listen close enough. Your heart purrs, thrilled.

The bathroom is a calamity. Though the drains in the center of the tiled floor have meant no water has flooded into the hallway, there’s still an inch or so blanketing the tiles wall to wall. Under one of the mirrors, the guilty sink continues to spew: a graceful font of silver gushing from a fault in the pipe.

Over your shoulder you hear Sarah’s dad clear his throat before you step out of his way.

Fearless, he trudges through the mess unfazed, dodging the tides of boggy towels like this is the most natural habitat to find himself in. His boots and the ankles of his jeans blacken with water, and though you’re in some stupid, clacky pair of heels to go with your outfit, you follow him into the shallows anyway, riddled with shame. At the slosh of your footsteps behind him, Sarah’s dad turns to give you a cutting stare you cannot read and you freeze, caught.

“What?” you say.

“No reason you gotta be in here for this,” he says. “Might be wise to dry off a little, don’t you think?”

Does the corner of his mouth twitch upward, or do you imagine it—you can’t decide. “Right,” you manage. “Sorry. Thank you, seriously.”

You pivot to leave him to it, splashing weakly as you go, your skirt bunched in one hand to keep it safe from the splatter. In the doorway you can’t help but look back, and see him kneeling in the mess, tool in hand, his toolbox open and shelved on a not-broken sink. He spots you looking and this time, you don’t imagine it. He lets slip half a grin. 

“Got it from here,” he says.

You nod but don’t move and you don’t know why.

Well, that’s not true. You do.

Sarah’s dad cocks one dark eyebrow at you, bemused, maybe, by your hesitation. “You really have chaperones bail?” he asks, voice low.

“Three,” you say.

He grunts, then turns his attention back to the spitting sink, and you step out into the dim hallway without goodbye.

You slip into the bathrooms in the teacher’s lounge to stand under the hand dryer for a bit, letting your shirt dry out. When it’s no longer see-through, you stand in front of the long mirrors looking at yourself, fussing. You retouch your lipstick—red, like your skirt, like your nails—though the hair’s a lost cause. The best you can do is run a hand through the end bits and say an empty prayer.

Then, finally, you emerge, and take off with a sidelong glance thrown at the closed door of the flooded girls’ bathroom as you pass.

You volunteered four weeks ago, and you spent three of those weeks working on the decorations in tiny pockets of time between the school day, your commute home, and all the hours you spend every evening and weekend on lesson plans and marking. Maybe it’s only September, but the whole staff has been working since August and it’s no slower now than it will be in the spring. Still, you gave up sleep. Gave up seeing friends. Gave up proper, home-cooked meals and reverted to the habits of your college days, eating boxed mac and cheese straight from the pot over the stove. 

Now, it all pays off. 

The gymnasium’s a goddamn ritz. Ribbons of twinkle lights droop from the rafters, sparkling above the scatter of a disco ball. You thrifted huge, vintage neon signs—with your own money, thanks so much public school district—that cast pools of candy-colored light on the shiny floor. Gingham tablecloths sheath the drink stands. You had to bribe the theater department to let you repurpose an old bartop set from some long-gone play. Painted that sucker with black and white checkers, even scrounged up some round, pleather bar stools to match. Instead of a bar-bar, it’s a snack bar—pastel cupcakes and dairy-free milkshakes and huge metal bowls of nut-free, everything-free snack mixes displayed behind the bar. Kids all get three snack tickets ‘cause the PTA had strong feelings about sugar intake, but hey. All the bar stools are full; the kids seem to love it.

Despite the last-minute disasters, you’re tempted to cry with relief. Slept three hours last night, painting the last of the stars that hang overhead, but they look like magic now. Glossy and twinkling while Elvis plays. It looks pretty close to perfect. And the kids, by some miracle, are dancing. The gym teacher comes out to show them some simple swing steps, and as clumsy as they all are, it’s fucking adorable.

“Hope you’re willing to do this for all the dances,” one teacher mutters to you as you pass. 

You flit from table to table, refilling and wiping down and checking in with chaperones—twenty minutes zing by in the blink of an eye. When the gymnasium door creaks quietly open, the dark shape of Sarah’s dad appears in the doorway. You set down your punch glass with a grin and scurry over. 

But he’s looking up when you make it to him, starstruck by twinkle lights, his face pink and blue with the neon light. Christ, he’s easy on the eyes. Facing this way, with none of the gym or kids or decorations in view, you can almost imagine that you’re standing in a bar looking up at some handsome stranger you might have a shot in hell at taking home. 

“Everything okay?” you ask, when he still hasn’t looked down, his hand flat and broad on the door to prop it open.

He blinks, wakes from his daze, and the look of wonder that just now softened him fades, his face stiff again. You step into the hall and the door slides shut behind you. The honeyed voices of The Isley Brothers muffle.

In the direct light of the hallway you can see he’s soaked—jeans wet to the tops of his thighs, his whole flannel clinging to his chest. One curl lays flat and damp against his forehead. He would’ve had to kneel right in the spray to work on the sink. Might as well have set a hose on the poor man.

Jesus, you must have ruined this guy’s whole fucking night. 

“Oh my god,” you say, eyes wide with horror. “I am so sorry—”

He lifts one hand as if to say stop and your mouth snaps shut. “Just water,” he grumbles. “Sink’s fine now. Joint was old and brittle. Had a part in the truck that’ll hold you over till Monday, but you’ll need someone to do a proper repair next week.”

You run a hand over your face, so grateful to him that all logical thought and processing flutters right out of your head. “Jesus, I could kiss you—thank you so much, seriously,” you start to say, hand still over your eyes as you stutter to a halt, realizing your mistake.

Heat boils in your face as you split your fingers to peek at him through your hand, but he doesn’t look horrified. He just rolls his eyes, a little playfully you think, and shakes his head like you’re being ridiculous. “Not necessary,” he says. 

You let your hand drop. “I’d insist that I’m normally the epitome of professionalism, but there’s no way in hell it’d be convincing,” you say, grinning sheepishly. 

Shrugging, he remains silent. Maybe you should take your friends up on their offers to set you up—you clearly need to get laid. Just him shrugging is doing things to you. Nevermind the tiny flick of his tongue that graces his bottom lip as he looks off down a roped-off hall. 

“Still short on chaperones?” he asks, not looking at you. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “But we’ll make due.”

Another shrug. “Could help out—‘m already here.”

Your eyes round. Though part of you wants to refuse, insist he’s done more than enough already, that he ought to get home and into dry clothes and forget about this mess, you don’t. It’s definitely selfish, almost greedy, but you don’t want him to go. Even if you only get to look at him across the gymnasium without saying another word to each other the whole rest of the night, you’d like him to stay.

A grin squirms across your face before you can stop it; you have to look away to smother it as you tap one foot against the floor. 

“Okay,” you say coolly, returning your gaze to him once you’ve gathered yourself. “But you can’t go in there looking like this.”

The theater department’s costume room gives you the creeps. Has since the first day you stepped foot in this place back in August when you got the grand tour—anywhere with this many mannequins is cursed, frankly—and it turns out it’s even worse in the dark. When you swing open the door, pale light from the hall slants against the black floor, and you reach blindly across the wall for the switch as your heart patters with dread.

Then finally: light. Weak, stuttering, yellow, but light all the same. You breathe.

Regardless, stepping into the costume room feels like being squeezed. Cramped alleyways have been formed by clothing racks stuffed well past their capacity—gowns of past Shakespeare productions hang beside the gothic frocks of Morticia and Wednesday Addams—forcing you to inch between racks, grazed by a parade of empty sleeves.

Sarah’s dad, bless him, hardly fits at all, and has to shuffle through the aisles sideways to follow you on what must seem to him like a blind mission without any destination. 

But you’ve been in this place. You know exactly what you’re looking for. Turning a corner, the next section is too narrow for the man to fit through, so you point out a chair across the room by the mirror and tell him to wait. 

“And you can ditch the flannel,” you call out as he goes. “Can hang it over the heaters to dry.”

Though you hear the low thunder of him mumbling, you miss the words.

When you emerge from the dusty racks, unnerved by the looming, half-dressed mannequins standing guard over their lot, Sarah’s dad is sitting where you asked him to wait, stripped out of his flannel, left in a slightly damp white t-shirt, his shoulder blades faintly visible in the stuttering light. If him shrugging was doing something to you earlier—this is likely to kill you. 

You clear your throat as you approach and he quickly straightens his posture. When you’re close enough, you hold out the hangers to him, even give them a little shake when he cuts his eyes at you, doubtful. You roll your own in reply. “Come on,” you insist. “Sarah will love it.”

That gets him to stand, albeit with a scowl, but it still makes you grin. With a grumpy hmph, he takes the hangers from you and you duck between racks again to give him some privacy. Sure, maybe you’d like a peek as he strips off those wet jeans, but even you know better than that. So you stand in the disordered aisle of costumes and listen instead. 

For a long time you hear nothing, like he’s hesitating. You did have to guess the sizes, but you worked plenty of retail jobs in your early twenties. Aren’t so bad at guessing. Every breath in this room, now that you’re silent, feels agonizingly loud. Not just yours, but his. The swelling of his chest with air. 

Then finally—clink. A belt buckle slacking open. Your eyes slam shut even though you’re looking in the opposite direction, at some 60s-style dress from what must’ve been an old Hairspray production with construction paper polka dots duct-taped on. He lets out a soft grunt. There’s a shuffle of fabric. Then a wet slop as his jeans hit the floor.

Your whole body throbs with heady, certain want.

Yes, you definitely need to get laid. This is humiliating. 

When you hear the belt buckle’s metal clink again, signaling he’s got the new, dry jeans on, you feel it’s safe to speak again. “I never asked you your name,” you say, still staring at the costumes. You hear him set the next hanger on the chair and even though putting it on requires no further undressing, you’ll stay exactly where you are until he’s done. Don’t trust yourself not to leer.

More shuffling, this time of sturdier fabric. “Joel,” he gruffs, and after a pause adds bitterly, “I look ridiculous.”

Chuckling, you squeeze out of the aisles and find him standing before the full-length mirror wedged in the corner of the room, into which Joel is sneering at his reflection. 

Also, he’s dead fucking wrong.

The jeans are a little tight, but frankly they’re better this way. His thighs taut beneath denim, his calves hugged. He’s a little bow-legged. So Texan. From the waist down he might as well be a cowboy. From the waist up, however, he looks like he’s just strutted off the set of Grease, putting even 1978’s Travolta to shame. His white t-shirt sits crisply beneath the black leather jacket, which he snaps to adjust the lapels. Fits him perfectly, like it was made for those shoulders, and he’s raked back his wet hair, giving it the look of being gelled, one stray curl rebelling over his forehead.

He catches your eye in the mirror, mouth twitching again, but it doesn’t become a grin or a frown. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t know what you’re looking at,” you say. “But you do not look ridiculous from where I’m standing.”

His nose scrunches as he breaks his eyes from yours in the reflection, ducking his head to rub the back of his neck. Seriously, you’d crawl all over this guy if he weren’t the dad of one of your students. Future students—whatever. But you’ll save yourself the humiliation, gotta get this show on the road, and so you jut your chin in the direction of the door. “Let’s go. Got kids to supervise, hands to keep from wandering.”

Joel balks, hands flat to fists in an instant, ready to kill.

“Oh please,” you tease, and wave one hand dismissively as you make your way to the door. “Like you weren’t thirteen once.”

You listen as he stomps after you, muttering a cranky, “Gonna have to be at all these fuckin’ things,” that makes your head fall back with a sudden laugh.

The moment you return to the gymnasium, you’re needed by everyone—so and so needs to know where the extra ice is; what’s-her-face is concerned about the sugar content of the fruit punch; and some parent wants to talk about their kids’ English grade like this is the appropriate venue for such a conversation. You immediately lose Joel to the call of teacher-slash-host duties, and he slips past you, hugging the wall as he strides over to man the drink table which, in your absence, has stood without supervision. The man might as well be a saint—you manage to catch his eye and mouth a silent thank you across the gym, to which he half-grins from a pool of neon pink glow, setting you ablaze.

Most of the night you spend running around like a madwoman, responsible for switching in new music as each CD ends, refilling snack bowls, and pulling one student off another when you catch them kissing in the hall. Thankfully neither of them is Sarah, but you do have to give the kids a talking-to.

Late in the night, you’re chatting to some of your colleagues against the gymnasium wall and watching the kids shimmy to Rock Around the Clock, poodle skirts billowing like spinning tops, when you spot Sarah rush across the floor toward Joel—apparently only spotting him now. You’re too far to hear them, too far to read their lips, but Sarah’s runaway smile is obvious at any distance. She hops in place, delighted, and forces Joel to do a little spin for her. 

Though smaller, you catch his smile too. The dimple in his cheek as he fails to restrain his contentment at her approval. How he shakes his head, embarrassed to be fawned over. Adorable.

When the Spanish teacher makes his rounds with the school’s camera, snapping flash photos of the kids’ eager smiles and costumes as they pose with their milkshakes or friends, you tap him on the shoulder and point in Joel and Sarah’s direction. “Get one of them, would you?” you whisper, and he nods, shuffling off.

Joel spots him coming a mile off, camera in hand, and immediately frowns. He makes eye contact with you across the gymnasium like he knew exactly where you were standing, and shakes his head as if to say no way. You smile, wicked, and mouth yes. One of his hands balls to a fist. 

But when Sarah spots the photographer a second later, she wraps an arm around Joel’s waist to pose and his resistance crumbles. When you were thirteen, you’d have been humiliated to be seen posing with your parents in front of your classmates, but Sarah doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her adoration is obvious, abundant. Anyone can see how much she loves him—you can see, too, Joel’s love for her. Once the Spanish teacher raises the camera to shoot, he throws his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, looking down at her with a soft, grump-less grin. The white flash snaps in the dark gymnasium, photo taken, then Sarah returns to her friends.

You cut your eyes away when he starts to turn his head in your direction, returning your gaze to your colleague. Don’t need him catching you staring. Your dignity has suffered plenty tonight.

You cave about twenty minutes before parents are due to pick up the kids at the end of the night—not due to stress, just exhaustion—and sneak out into the black night to smoke. Tucked just out of view of the parking lot and doors, you sink onto a wooden bench and light up, letting the tension unwind from your body. Gray smoke tendrils as you exhale a half-formed smoke ring. Never could get those right, but it’s fun to try while crickets croak unseen from the shadows, braiding their eerie melody. With every drag, you relax into a kind of trance, at one with the night. 

Eyes shut, you don’t hear him coming. It isn’t until he clears his throat that your eyes snap open and you realize someone’s caught you smoking.

“Shit,” you mutter, adjusting your posture to sit up straight.

Joel stands over the bench, caliginous in the dark. His hair has dried, curls loosening from each other. You hear a low chuckle that must come from him, but you can’t quite make out his face until he lowers himself onto the bench beside you—then you see he’s smirking. 

You tap ash onto the sidewalk beside your feet, away from him, unable to look him in the eye. “Not worth trying to defend myself, is it?” you joke sheepishly.

He adjusts his position, thighs spread just a touch, and crosses his arms over his chest. The leather jacket is practically criminal, it fits him so well. 

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies. “Don’t need to.”

You bring the cigarette to your lips to smother your impulse to smile, the filter stained crimson by your lipstick. You risk a glance at him. “You want one?”

Shaking his head, the corner of Joel’s mouth tugs. “Quit when Sarah came around,” he admits.

“Very responsible,” you say, and though you really shouldn’t flirt, it comes out a little snarky, like you’re teasing him. “Quit after college, but I get to indulge twice a year.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, though doesn’t question the obvious flaw in your logic. “Miss it?” he asks.

You shrug and exhale a thin stream of smoke from the corner of your mouth. “Always think I do,” you say. “But it’s so much grosser than I remember. Can’t believe I used to smoke these everyday.”

He lets out a deep hmph, not quite a laugh. 

“I’m serious,” you say, grinning now. “These things are vile. They reek and make kissing gross. I might as well burn the clothes I’m wearing after this. Don’t even like it anymore—it’s just nostalgia, I think.”

Shifting again, Joel’s legs spread a little wider, though from the other side of the bench you’re still nowhere near touching. As you click one lacquered nail against your cigarette, ash rains softly to the ground. 

“Never minded,” he mumbles. He’s looking out at the dim street, not you. Streetlamps dot the street with coins of gold between cedar elms that have already begun to drain their color. The breeze is next to perfect, whisking your smoke politely away from Joel.

“Minded what?”

“Kissin’ someone who smokes,” he says matter-of-factly. His tone isn’t flirtatious—nor is his expression, his face still profiled to you—but goosebumps scale your arms all the same.

“Hm,” you hum in reply. 

Best not to dwell in this breath of quiet. The long pause in which you feel yourself want. You shift on the bench, cross your legs, and prepare to change the subject—but Joel beats you to it. 

“Looks good in there,” his voice rumbles, and in your periphery, he turns to look at you for just a moment, handsome and leather-clad. Practically put on this earth to punish you. You hold your breath until he turns his head away again. “Impressive.”

Your heart squeezes like he’s crushed it in his fist, but you tilt your head back and forth nonchalantly. “Guess it doesn’t look so bad,” you admit. To your surprise, this drags a quiet chuckle from Joel, and your eyes drop quickly to his hand where it hangs from his still-crossed arms—a brief and discreet glance, you think—and see no ring. It shouldn’t make a difference, but you're glad.

“Gotta be more subtle than that, darlin’,” Joel mumbles, despite the fact that he’s not looking at you.

You feel your face rash with heat. “Fucking eagle eyes,” you mutter, pinching the last of the cigarette to your lips for a final drag. You hold the smoke in your lungs as Joel laughs again, this time with more warmth.

He shakes his head. “Could’a just asked,” he says.

“You’re not even looking at me,” you say, smiling despite your embarrassment. You bend over to crush your cigarette against the bottom of your shoe, then pocket the spent filter, disappearing the evidence. “How the hell did you even catch that.” It isn’t so much a question as it is a whine. 

Joel shrugs. “Don’t have to be looking at you to be watchin’,” he says.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or disappointed that the moment you both look at each other, the whole of his face finally visible in the murk of nightfall—warm eyes, summer skin, that stubbly beard you’d like to nuzzle into—a caw of noise erupts inside the school and shatters the moment. The sound of students emerging from the gymnasium into the hall draws Joel’s attention first, and you allow yourself a long look at the back of his head to study his curls, just beginning to thread with gray, before you let the noise draw your attention, too.

“That’d be our cue,” you say, and you both rise from the bench.

As Joel starts shrugging off the leather jacket, you put a hand on his bicep to stop him and shake your head. So solid. Warm. He freezes under your touch, black leather slumped part-way down his arms, until you withdraw your hand. 

“Nu-uh,” you say. “You’re keeping that.”

He frowns. “Not sure I like the idea of stealin’ from Sarah’s school,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, wave one hand dismissively. “You saw where it came from, they’ll never miss it. There were at least half a dozen more in there.”

When Joel narrows his eyes at you, you narrow yours back stubbornly. Finally, he sighs and snaps the jacket back over his shoulders—a gesture that turns you to honey—and shoves one hand into the back pocket of his jeans. The also-stolen jeans. You’re gonna make him take those too. Not like anything that fits him is gonna fit any of the students here. You don’t even know why the theater department has costumes this size. 

“Least take this and sign me up for,” he gestures vaguely with one hand as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Whatever. More chaperonin’.”

Pinched between his fingers is a crisp business card bearing the same logo stickered to his truck. Miller Construction Ltd—Joel Miller, Co-Owner. His phone number is printed squarely at the bottom. You take it, running your thumb across the printed text. 

“Very generous,” you tease, and Joel looks down at you and grins, one dimple creasing his cheek. When you smile in return, his dark eyes slip down your face, landing on your lips.

As you make your way back up the path to the school, he walks close enough that his arm brushes against yours just once. Your body purrs with want, made worse when he smirks and leans toward you, lowering his voice. “Trust me,” he rumbles quietly. “Offer’s entirely selfish.”

Then, entirely composed, Joel yanks the front door open for you and winks.

Moodboard created by @studioghibelli!

[piratefishmama]

Nest | Part 15

A Steddie A/B/O ficlet

For Eddie, it was like he knew he needed something, he knew his body needed something, but had no real idea of how to go about getting it, and in his confusion, he’d forgotten why he’d wanted the nameless mystery thing in the first place.

He’d made one attempt at presenting himself like instinct would guide him into doing, but when the alpha present didn’t take the opportunity, he found himself unsure of what to do next. His alpha just about managed to catch the downward spiral of rejection before it spun out of control, comforting him, reassuring him, but it all left Eddie feeling a little bit… lost.

He didn’t have the experience to try something else.

Had it been anyone else. Anyone with experience. An Omega who’d shared their heats before, or at least gotten laid once or twice, Steve would have been in trouble, Eddie would have had just enough knowledge to try harder, but with the complete lack of such knowledge… it had the Omega simply settling into Steve’s side, and basking in the presence of an alpha’s comforting scent for what should have been the most stressful part of his heat.

Too unsure of what else he ought to be doing to be stressed about doing it. Sure, he was a little uncomfortable, absolutely, but his alpha was right there. Big, strong, his arms wrapped comfortably around him, he had the little towel drenched in his alphas scent direct from his gland so it was easy to let himself drift off.

Even with the ache settled low in his tummy, even with the slippery, warm, slick sensation between his legs, the uncomfortable ache in his gums and the urge to bite something that came along with it, and of course, the feverish heat his body radiated, he knew he wanted something. His body definitely wanted something, an uncomfortable aching hunger that niggled in the back of his mind to be satiated, but… he could wait for… whatever it was, surely it’d show up eventually if it was that important.

It wasn’t as unbearable as he’d been so sure it’d be. He wasn’t even in any pain. It wasn’t hurting him.

He was content, he was cosy, he was safe. Protected. And with his alpha ever so gently stroking his fingers through Eddie’s damp hair, fingertips occasionally grazing his scalp in a way that had Eddie chirruping softly in his light doze… he could comfortably succumb to sleep.

For Steve… there was no sleeping when Eddie was like this.

Steve couldn’t close his eyes and rest, even with Eddie’s own eyes closed, the Omega’s body, while relaxed, felt like it was on fire. Steve could feel every inch of him, he radiated heat, skin clammy, slick with sweat, his hair clinging to his body in a way that could never be comfortable but was likely the very lowest on the totem pole of problems Eddie’s poor incredibly fragile mind was focusing on, even though Steve did try and stroke his fingers through it to give him some comfort.

Eddie seemed to be able to rest, his eyes were closed, and while yes, his body still shook, still shivered, he still appeared deeply uncomfortable, and he still wriggled in Steves arms, he looked like he’d slipped into a light slumber.

Steve couldn’t rest. There was no possible way he could even relax less it accidentally lead to sleep. The last thing Steve needed was to slip under and come to with Eddie taking advantage, he wouldn’t even know it was wrong, wouldn’t even be able to consider what his actions actually were, driven solely by primal instinct, right and wrong lost to him.

Sleep wasn’t safe for either of them.

So he laid there in the nest, Eddie curled up into his side, his warm breath fanning across Steve’s neck in short, laboured little puffs of humid air, his fingers curled so tightly into the towel Steve had given him hours ago that they also dug into Steve’s shirt beneath it.

Steve was focusing entirely on the steady whirr of the vents, loud and somewhat irritating, but there, keeping the air in the room from becoming unbearably thick. Keeping the scent Eddie was still giving off from becoming overwhelming even at such a close proximity to the source.

He was hungry. His stomach rumbled in protest, he hadn’t eaten properly. Too anxious, having been sinking into his own little spiral of despair over not being there for his Omega, he’d totally ignored the one meal he could have had before this whole mess and now… now he had no way of getting food. Any attempt made by anyone outside the room to sneak something in ran the risk of Eddie’s territorial rage. It was just him.

Just him, his thoughts, and his prayers to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in that Eddie would just sleep through it all. That his body would settle for just Steve’s presence and nothing more, because so far it was working.

Eddie wasn’t producing nearly as much slick as he would have been had they being actively going for it, his thighs were damp, the materials of his nest wet beneath his body, but it wasn’t an overwhelming amount, it wasn’t nearly enough for him to comfortably take even an average sized knot. He wouldn’t have even been able to comfortably take the smaller of the heat aids with what he was producing.

He wasn’t begging, he wasn’t pushing, or demanding, he could sort of talk while awake, and he was coherent enough to understand what was being said to him even if he couldn’t retain the memory of it being said.

He was like… a blank slate. A confused animal uncertain of its purpose, made evident by the fact that, as Steve made damn sure to check, Eddie had actually fallen asleep.

While he should have been at the very height of lust, at the pinnacle of need, desperate to be filled, desperate to feel full, to be bred, and doing everything during the short period of time he had to achieve it, he’d… fallen asleep. Nestled into the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing a little heavily, sure, but he’d fallen asleep.

Looking like he had nothing more than a fever, maybe a light flu, he slept.

And he kept sleeping.

Even while Steve stared at the ceiling, listening to the whirr of the air vents, listening to the faint sounds of the clock on the wall as time went tick by tock. Eddie slept soundly all the way through until his status as a human radiator began to slowly subside, as time passed them by reducing the risk with each tick of the clock until sunlight filled the shadows in the room, filtering through the curtains of the frosted windows.

The only warning Steve had that his omega was finally coming too, was the subtle furrow of his brow, and a soft grumble of a sound, before bleary eyes opened to take in the world around him with a little more clarity than he’d had when he’d first closed them.

His pupils were still blown, his skin was still warm and clammy, but he had enough strength to ease himself out of Steve’s arms, the towel he’d been clutching falling into his bare lap, alerting him to the fact that it was there to begin with. He took in his surroundings, his nest was a mess, he took in his physical state, naked and confused.

And finally, he took in the alpha still residing to his left, who watched him with barely concealed alarm. Steve. Steve was in his room.

His nest was a mess.

He was naked.

And Steve, an Alpha. Was in his room.

“Steve…?”

“It’s not what it looks like.” And then came… the panic.

Part 17

[max-the-many]

"Like it in your little crystal-sphere? Sorry dude, but you'll get you body back eventually, I promise. And until then I'll take good care of it" I smirked, adjusting my new crotch with wide spread legs.

I had an eye on him for quite a while. Saw him first at a football game. So it was as easy as going to team-events to see him again. I quickly got fixed on wanting to play with him.

His name was Jake. Bit by bit I prepared, did the necessary chants, preparing myself, the ingredients, collected bits like a towel he used, laying on the side of the field, a paper cup he drank out of and stuff like that.

Along with that I prepared him, slipped in drops of tinkture in drinks, brushed certain totems on items he might wear, prepared places he might be, the area I saw him sit frequently.

And bit by bit I felt the border lowering down, built up a rudimentary connection to the point where I sensed, that it might be time.

That evening I knew, he would be alone. He lived in a small house, like a kind of frat-venue with several other guys, some from the team, some others.

While preparing my leap I had noticed that there was one might when everyone seemed to have some kind of weekly obligation. Everyone but him. I teally couldn't be more lucky.

Nontheless I kept an eye on the house. But when the last one left I didn't waiste one second until I crossed the street, up to the house with raising thoughts.

I rang, felt my heart up to my throat alrhough this wasn't the first time I did something like that. But the excitement was still on.

When I heared rushibg steps down a staircase my hand gripped more closely around a tiny bottle in my hand, a crucial part of what was to come, filled with a dark green, viscous liquid.

Everything seemed to slow down, the steps, the sound of the door handle beeing turned, a klick, the door slowly opening, revealing his surprised face before I flung the bottle, throughing out the liquid all over those pretty features.

He stumbled back, lifted his arms to his face, to that sticky liquid clinging to every pore, soaking in along with a strong scent entering his nostrils, the recipe perfectly matched to him.

With a look around I entered, pushing him further back as he struggeled, cuffing, choking on that tinkture until he slowly went down, losing his conciousness as I unpacked my bag, preparing that final step, placing the ingredients, not few of them prepared with his residue, finally putting my most valuable possession besides his head before I started to chant, closing my eyes, focusing on him, on me, raising my very essence, longing for that connection to send it over, feeling it oozing out every pore of my body, drifting over to soak into his, pushing him out to be captured by that orb of crystal.

I woke up merely minutes later. The feeling of his body flushing through my mind, filling me up with raging excitement until I got on my feet. I did it! I took him! That pulse, that new feel.

Besides me there still was my former self. Not me. A mere hust now that I left him again. I would eventually turn him back, give him his self, unbind it from the item I transfered his self into like I would do with Jakes as having him in that crystal isn't meant to be permanent.

With my former body I wasn't in a rush. I would get the item eventually leading him up in Jakes room for now. To be honest, I craved some fun since his basic body functions are fully operating at that state. And let me tell you - I did choose him for a reason...

[romione-trope-fest]

The Way I Love(d) You

Fic Title: The Way I Love(d) You

Author name: adenei

Trope: Soulmates

Summary: Junior Auror Ron Weasley is about to embark on his first assignment thanks to a new Death Eater threat. Hermione Granger has sworn off the Magical World forever, living in ignorant bliss as a Muggle. But what they both don’t realize is just how serious this threat is, not only for the magical world, but also for the two of them, and what it means for their future.

WC: 2k & counting (more chapters to be posted on ao3

Rating: Teen

TW: None

*****

5 March 1999

Attn: All Active Junior & Senior Aurors

There will be a mandatory briefing in Fawley Hall at 16:00.

Signed,

G. Robards, Head Auror

“Any idea what this is about?” Ron holds up the inter-office memo that he pulled off of his locker moments ago.

Harry finishes toweling off his hair before acknowledging the half-sheet of parchment. “No idea. But it doesn’t say ‘trainees,’ so why are we included?”

“Well, we did technically finish our six months of training,” Ron reasons.

It’s true. Long, grueling, eighty hour weeks have kept them both occupied since August. Not that Ron’s had anything better to do with his time. Especially since—no. He refuses to go there. He can’t.

Focus on the job. On protecting people. On making a difference. 

That’s all he can do right now. Anything’s better than grappling with what went wrong.

“—Ron?”

“Huh?” He glances back at Harry, realizing he’d tuned him out.

“I said—nevermind. It’s not worth arguing.”

Ordinarily, Ron would want to know what Harry said, but right now he’s too distracted to care. He pulls a clean undershirt out from his locker and pulls it over his head before throwing on his robes and affixing the shiny new badge that very clearly says ‘Junior Auror’ on it to his chest.

“Because you know I’m right.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, we may hold the title of ‘Junior Auror’ but we’re still at the bottom of the totem pole.”

“I love how you say that as if you’re not already some God-sent war hero.” Ron snorts. 

They both are, but Harry definitely gets higher preferential treatment. Not that Ron’s resentful at all. He earned the right to be here, and he’s bloody proud of the badge, even if it means they’re being pulled into a last-minute briefing on a Friday afternoon.

“It’s nice to pretend I’m just like everyone else every once in a while.” Harry grins, trying to keep the comment light-hearted, but Ron knows there’s a stark truth behind it. “Come on, we’re going to be late if we don’t get moving. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be on Robards’ bad side when we’re just starting out.”

Ron bites his tongue, resisting another jab as they head out of the locker room and toward the main entrance of the Auror department. It’s the quickest way to get to the briefing room, otherwise known as Fawley Hall. The large meeting area is already half-full by the time they get there.

Harry and Ron stand against the wall in the back with the other Junior Aurors who don’t dare to take one of the coveted seats at any of the tables. It’s common knowledge among the ranks that the Senior Aurors get precedence in these types of meetings. And though Ron would love to sit because of his aching legs after today’s training session, he doesn’t complain. Hopefully, this will be quick, and they’ll be on their way home for the weekend in no time.

A minute before the meeting is about to start, Ron turns his attention toward Robards, who’s standing tall at the podium. His brow is knotted even tighter than usual and he keeps glancing at the door.

Huh. That’s strange.

Ron’s gaze follows the Head Auror’s and he’s surprised when the Minister for Magic enters the room. 

What the hell’s Kingsley doing here?

He nudges Harry in the side, then cocks his head toward their fellow Order member. “This must really be serious if Kingsley’s here.”

Harry nods, opening his mouth to say something, but Robards clears his throat, signaling that he’s going to begin.

“Thank you all for your punctuality. We won’t keep you long,” he begins in his gruff voice. “Your tireless work to help the Ministry get back in order following the defeat of Voldemort has not gone unnoticed. However, it is far from over. 

“Most of the Death Eaters have been apprehended, but there is still a group of rogue sympathizers who continue to fly under our radar. All of our leads have resulted in dead ends, and while we have names and warrants out for the arrests of half a dozen individuals, I am afraid this may be more serious than we realized.” Robards pauses, looks to Kingsley, and gives a small nod.

Kingsley then steps forward and addresses the room. “There has been a breach in the Department of Mysteries, specifically the Registrar room.”

A low rumble rolls across the room as people mutter to themselves and each other. Ron and Harry share a look. He doesn’t remember the Registrar room. Did they not visit it during their excursion back in fifth year?

Robards holds his hand up to regain everyone’s attention, then continues once it’s quiet. “A large portion of one of the lists was stolen, and we believe that there are many people in danger now as a result. In order to stay ahead of this rogue faction, we need to protect the innocents we believe they are targeting. 

“All Senior Aurors will be prioritizing this case above anything else. We need to catch these Blood Purists before they can do any physical harm to anyone on that list. Junior Aurors, you will be assigned shifts to guard at-risk individuals. Twenty-four hours on, twenty-four hours off. Right now, the threat level is minimal, so the affected witches and wizards will be permitted to go about their daily lives.”

“So, we’ll be acting as their bodyguards?” one of the Junior Aurors calls out. 

Ron can’t help but raise his eyebrows at the bloke’s brazenness. He doesn’t remember the guy’s name, but he reminds Ron of McLaggen. Robards glares at him, but still offers a curt nod. 

Kingsley interrupts again, staring directly at the Junior Auror who spoke out of turn. “Your job to protect these people is just as important as those who are trying to apprehend the Death Eaters. More important, perhaps, considering you’ll be the one in the line of fire should an attack happen upon your watch.”

A Senior Auror in the front raises his hand and Robards nods to him. “What list did they steal? And how do we know who is being targeted off that list?”

“A duplication charm was detected on the Fatum Animarum. They only managed to steal a few pages before stunning the Unspeakable on duty and fleeing. And if you have to ask about targets, then you might need a refresher on the fundamental beliefs of the Death Eaters.” Robards rolls his eyes before continuing. “Now, if there are no further questions, Senior Aurors can pick up their assignments from Cole at the front desk and Junior Aurors come see me. Dismissed.”

A loud scuffle of chair legs scratching against the wood floors accompanies the immediate rise of voices as people begin moving about the room. It’s a bit of a mob scene as half the people head for the exit and the other form a line in front of Robards. Given that Harry and Ron are in the back, they file in at the end of the line. Ron doesn’t mind though, since it gives him time to digest the information.

Harry turns to him while they wait. “Fatum Animarum? Have you heard of that before?”

“Nope. Don’t have a clue. Fatum’s ‘fate’ though, isn’t it?” Ron ponders.

Harry nods slowly. “Or destiny.”

“Why do you know that?”

“It’s the only thing that stuck from Divination. You know, Trelawney had a field day trying to predict my ‘fatum.’” Harry pretends to gag while Ron sniggers. He’d forgotten about that.

“Ah, that rings a bell now that you mention it.”

Now, if he could only figure out what Animarum means. The line is slow moving, and Ron taps Harry on the shoulder to get his attention again, but when his best mate turns around, he’s frowning.

“What?” Ron asks.

“I’m just thinking about Robards’ statement—about who we’re going to be protecting.”

“And? What about it?” But even as Ron says the words, his blood runs cold. “Muggleborns?”

“Who else would Death Eaters be targeting?” Harry tries to reason.

“Fuck.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. Ron’s mind goes blank and overflows with a million different scenarios all at once. He can’t think straight. They’re supposed to be past this. Everything is supposed to be okay now. But even through all the commotion banging around in his head, one name screams at the forefront. 

As if reading his mind, Harry places his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “She’s fine. What are the chances she’s even on that list?”

Ron nods, as if to placate Harry, but he doesn’t mean it. How can they be sure?

No, he can’t let himself go down that path. He needs to focus on the job. He’s about to get an assignment. He needs to keep his senses clear to gain whatever intel he can and—

“—souls.” He catches the last part of someone’s conversation as the line moves forward. It’s a group of Senior Aurors who haven’t left yet. They’re huddled around a nearby table discussing possibilities, apparently eager to get to work. 

“They stole names from the Destiny of Souls,” a dark-haired witch says.

“But why? If they’re targeting Muggleborns, wouldn’t it have been easier to just get those names instead? Hell, I’m sure someone in their ranks already has them! Why go to the trouble?” A balding wizard with glasses retorts. “I’m not saying it’s right either way, but—”

“Merlin, you’re really thick sometimes,” a blonde witch cuts him off. “They don’t care about just any Muggleborn anymore. They’re going after the ones who have the potential to taint bloodlines and make ‘impure’ baby wizards and witches, you dolt.”

“Blimey,” the wizard says, making the connection. “So, they’re targeting the Muggleborn halves of Soul pairs?”

“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

Ron catalogs the information he’s overheard, intent on doing his own research once he has his assignment now that he has more to go off of. The line finally starts to move faster, and eventually he gets to the front.

“Weasley,” Robards addresses him before thrusting an envelope in his hand after Harry moves to the side. 

He takes it and turns around, taking a few steps toward Harry, who’s already going over his assignment. “My first shift’s Sunday,” he says. “What about you?”

Ron tears his envelope open, pulling out the slip of parchment. His heart plummets to his stomach for a multitude of reasons when he sees the name. “No.”

There, in a loopy scrawl he doesn’t recognize, is the name of the witch who left a hole the size of England in his heart: Hermione Granger.

“Wha—oh, shit. Really?”

Ron whips around, turning back to Robards, who is gathering his things in an attempt to leave. “Sir, this has to be a mistake. A conflict of interest. Plus, she’s not even—”

Kingsley, who must have overheard Ron, abandons his other conversation and walks over to him. “It’s not a mistake, Ron.”

He shakes his head. “No, but—why? She’s in—she’s not here.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s safe. None of the Muggleborns on that list are. Especially her. Not after everything she did alongside you two to stop Voldemort.”

A million questions whiz around in Ron’s mind, but one keeps fighting its way to the forefront. He’s not sure how many questions Kingsley or Robards will entertain, so he has to choose wisely. And though there are more logistical questions that should take precedence, the two words slip out anyway.

“Why me?”

Kingsley and Robards share a look before Kingsley’s soft, yet serious expression meets Ron’s. It’s full of the same sureness he remembers when the older wizard assured Ron that Hermione would be okay while she was with him when they went to retrieve Harry two summers ago.

The Minister gives him a small, sympathetic smile. “Because if something happened to her, you’d never forgive us if it was anyone else.”

[hell-drabbles]

You once said your favourite character was Mammon,now with the new characters has there been any change to who's your favourite and who's your least favourite?

Dante Anon

Least favorite is still Leviathan on virtue of how the devs clearly favor him to the point of making the MC even dumber than they usually are. Satan is just a meh character to me, and seeing people praise him as the "safest choice" rubs me the wrong way. Mammon was the favorite purely because he referred to himself as courtesan and I liked that, and that he specifically says that he's owned by the MC rather than the other way around. But he's been getting lower on the totem pole because of the devs going down the route of "Oh you own him but oh wouldn't it be sexy if the roles were reversed?" thing, which falls flat because the MC is such a wet fucking towel that they never played the role of the master in the first place, so nothing really changes but the narrative acts like there's a change???

I still have little clue about the rest of the kings, Lucifer takes first place for me if only because he gives me angel and Heaven lore. That and he's praised as being one of the most powerful, so much so that even the other kings are more cautious around him so that helps. Having that kind of powerful person under the my control sounds nice.

[undercover-ballerina]

Trailblazing & Stargazing - Chapter 29

The following Saturday afternoon, Draco flooed to Hermione’s house carrying a large ceramic pot with a vanilla orchid totem in full bloom and a bottle of elf-made wine. Hermione was nowhere to be seen. He called her but no reply came. He left the plant and wine on the dining table and ventured into her bedroom. There, he heard loud music blaring from the bathroom. He chuckled lightly. He could hear her voice butchering the tune as she sang at the top of her lungs. He walked back to the living room, not wanting to intrude. When he heard her walk back into the bedroom, he knocked to let her know he was there.

“Draco!” She said, opening the door. “I didn’t hear you floo in.” She was wrapped in a soft purple bathrobe, her hair tucked inside a matching towel, as she leaned in for a kiss.

“I heard you were holding a concert in the bathroom and didn’t want to disturb” A wet strand of hair had escaped her haphazard turban and he curled it around his finger. “Are you, per chance, related to Celestina Warbeck?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Hilarious, Mr Malfoy. I like to sing and I don’t give two hoots if I’m not good at it. I’ll do it anyway!” She scoffed, jabbing her finger to his chest.

“I’ll make sure to learn some tuning charms.” He kissed her lips gently. “Or, keep your mouth otherwise occupied.” He laughed and jumped away as she swatted him.

“You are vile!” She laughed.

[pbandjesse]

It was absolutely beautiful out today. And I felt a lot better. Like not perfect, but a lot better.

I slept fine. I keep ending up half off the end of the bed and don't know why. But it was fine.

I woke up at 650. And it was dark outside. Which was much better then being to bright. It took me a little to shake off the sleepies. But I got up and washed my face and felt pretty good.

James made the bed and had packed me lunch. They told me they would keep painting today and would finish up the white wall. I was excited to see that.

I was pretty upset when I got in my studio and saw that my fish Ari was dead. I was trying to not be to weepy but like. He was doing good!! And he was alive and eating last night! And now he's gone. Like I feel lucky I was able to get him well after being sick in January. I got a whole month extra with him. But I am still really sad. James would wrap him in a paper towel. I decided I would bury him at camp.

I had a nice drive. I would keep listening to my podcast. It would be a nice thing to have for the next hour or so.

When I got to camp I would get a spoon from the office and go and bury Ari right away. I dig a little hole under the totem pole. And told him I loved him. I hope he has a good life. He was a beautiful fish.

After being sad for a little l, I had my breakfast and started working on sending emails. I finished making the schedules for two of my groups. And started working on measuring out the yarn for my knitting.

I would take a walk over to the lodge to put away the tables and chairs. I saw that there was the whole group of turkey vultures again. They were really cool to see.

It would take me a while to get all the tables and chairs out back. And I would head back to the office and catch up on my knitting.

Sarah came in just as my podcast was finishing. We talked about the muffins she brought to share. Which were chocolate and I was excited to have one. She would also tell me the list of things they left us to do this week while everyone else is at a camp conference. I hope they are having fun.

Once I was done my knitting I would go to the hacienda to take down the old string lights. Sarah was surprised because it was tall and s difficult task. But I brought pliers and would climb up on the railing to get them down. Sarah said she would look out the window periodically to make sure I didn't continue the family legacy of falling off roofs. But I did not fall. I did get cut by the wire when the string lights were falling apart from being out in the weather. But I got them all down and thrown away.

I was listening to a YouTube video about fundamental deconstruction and how Christian fundamentalists make marriage sound terrible. And this one couple was laughing and talking about how hard being married was and the husband starts saying he thinks about killing himself rather then be married anymore but they are both still laughing and smiling! It was crazy! And so sad.

This lead me to tell Sarah all about the weird sex Ed and talks we went through at my school. All the allegories/examples (food dye in a water bottle, tape, gum) of your soul. The examples we were given about being a wife. It is like. Very dark to think about. I am glad being married for real is so much nicer and also easier. People who say being married is the hardest thing theyve ever done are stupid. Loving James is easy.

I would spend a lot of time doing research today. Some about wall paper. Some about projects. More emails.

Sarah went for a walk. And I answered some emails. I even answered the phone! And was able to actually be helpful!

The afternoon would have me driving the gator around to pick up the old archery targets. I also moved the pig target. But I love him so I just moved him to the art building. At least until we know where he will live.

The weather was beautiful at this point. Just perfectly warm with a little breeze. I would drive the gator around a little longer. Saw a door of a cabin was open so I went to close that. And eventually ended up back at the office.

After taking a little break I took a walk to get one of the signs we forgot from the open house. I stopped at the fort first to get the broken light bulb out of the outside light. And headed down to nature to see if there were any feathers from the vultures. And ended up having a really nice talk to Joe about changes at camp and the glitter conspiracy theory and I really like Joe so it's really nice to get to have long chats with him.

We would stand around and talk for a long while. But eventually my hands hurt from holding the signs so I said goodbye and went back to the office.

When I got back there I remembered Elizabeth wanted me to make a PowerPoint slideshow of wedding photos. Can do. We have a lot more photos of those so I did not get it finished by 330. But I got to a good spot and I'll finish it tomorrow.

I got myself together and soon would say goodbye to Sarah. I had to backtrack because I forgot my laptop. But then I was done and ready to go.

I decided I needed to listen to music to scream to and had a really excellent drive home. Just a full music video staring myself. It was so fun. And I got home at 415. Where I was thrilled to see James. They were almost done painting the wall and it looked great. While they worked on that I would start cleaning the tanks. I decided to vacuum Ari's tank and move omelet over there temporarily. And do a deep clean on the frog tank to try and deal with the snails that have gotten out of control over there. It would take a lot of water changes and vacuuming and honestly it's still not totally clean. But I took all of the decor out and I am going to wash it really good at camp tomorrow. And maybe just redo the whole set up. But regardless I want to get the tank really nice. And maybe I'll get a new fish sooner rather then later.

When James finishes the painting and it dried we started decorating the shelf and I'm really excited about how it looks. Like just so fun. And I still have the whole bookcase too!! It's very exciting and I'm really happy with our little home.

James made me a grilled cheese. And we hung out on the couch. Eventually they would have a nice phone call with their friend to talk about a book they were reading. And I just enjoyed laying on the couch with sweetp. It has been a really nice evening.

I am going to go take a shower and get ready to sleep soon. Tomorrow I have some documents to make up for programs I have the next two weeks. And me and Sarah are planning on making craft examples. And organizing the games we have in the attic to make rainy day boxes for cabins and groups. I hope it's a fun day.

I hope you all have a really nice night. I love you all. Goodnight!!

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Vancouver's Spring Tapestry: Weaving Unforgettable Experiences

Spring in Vancouver offers a vibrant array of experiences for outdoor enthusiasts and adventure seekers alike. As the city awakens from its winter slumber, the crisp air and blooming landscapes beckon visitors to explore the city's natural beauty and cultural attractions without breaking the bank. From leisurely strolls through iconic parks to hiking trails winding through lush forests, Vancouver promises a wealth of free adventures for those seeking an unforgettable spring getaway. Whether you're a local or a visitor staying at one of the convenient hotels with airport shuttle Vancouver, this guide will unveil the city's hidden gems, inviting you to embrace the great outdoors and immerse yourself in the vibrant spirit of this West Coast gem.

Stanley Park Strolls

Nestled in the heart of Vancouver, Stanley Park beckons visitors to embark on a serene journey through its verdant landscapes. With over 1,000 acres of lush greenery, this urban oasis offers a respite from the city's hustle and bustle. Wander along the scenic seawall, a 5.5-mile pathway that hugs the coastline, offering breathtaking vistas of the North Shore Mountains and the tranquil waters of the Burrard Inlet. Along the way, discover hidden coves, sandy beaches, and diverse flora and fauna, including the park's famous totem poles carved by Indigenous artists. For a more immersive experience, explore the park's numerous trails, from the easy-going Beaver Lake Trail to the challenging Prospector Stream Trail, each offering a unique glimpse into the natural wonders that Stanley Park has to offer. Whether you're seeking a peaceful escape or an invigorating outdoor adventure, Stanley Park's strolls promise a rejuvenating experience in the heart of this vibrant city.

Granville Island

Granville Island, a vibrant hub of arts, culture, and culinary delights, beckons visitors to explore its charming streets and bustling markets. This pedestrian-friendly island, located across False Creek from downtown Vancouver, is a must-visit destination for those seeking a unique and lively experience. Stroll along the waterfront, where you'll find a plethora of artisan studios, galleries, and street performers entertaining the crowds. Indulge in the tantalizing aromas wafting from the Granville Island Public Market, where you can savor local delicacies, fresh produce, and mouth-watering baked goods. After a day of exploration, unwind at one of the convenient hotels with airport shuttle Vancouver, ensuring a seamless transition to and from this vibrant island oasis. Whether you're a foodie, an art enthusiast, or simply seeking a lively atmosphere, Granville Island promises an unforgettable adventure without breaking the bank.

Beach Day at English Bay

As the sun's warm rays caress the shoreline, English Bay beckons visitors to indulge in a quintessential beach day experience. Nestled in the heart of Vancouver's West End, this sandy expanse offers a perfect blend of urban convenience and natural beauty. Stroll along the iconic seawall, taking in the stunning vistas of the North Shore Mountains and the glistening waters of the Burrard Inlet. Spread out your towel and soak up the sun's radiant warmth, or dive into the refreshing waters for a rejuvenating swim. For those seeking a more active adventure, English Bay boasts a vibrant beach volleyball scene, with courts available for friendly matches or simply spectating the skilled players. As the day winds down, savor the stunning sunset painting the sky with hues of orange and crimson, creating a breathtaking backdrop for a picnic or a leisurely stroll along the shoreline.

Hiking in Lynn Canyon Park

Immerse yourself in the natural splendor of Lynn Canyon Park, a verdant oasis nestled in the heart of North Vancouver. Just a stone's throw away from the bustling city center, this lush haven offers a multitude of hiking trails that wind through towering evergreens and alongside cascading waterfalls. Embark on the iconic Baden Powell Trail, a scenic route that meanders through the park's lush forests and across the breathtaking Suspension Bridge, suspended 50 meters above a tempestuous pool. For a more leisurely exploration, follow the Twin Falls Gate Trail, leading to the park's stunning twin waterfalls that tumble gracefully into pristine pools below. After your invigorating hike, retreat to one of the conveniently located hotels with airport shuttle Vancouver, ensuring a seamless transition from your outdoor adventure to urban comfort. Lynn Canyon Park promises an unforgettable escape into nature's embrace, without the need for expensive excursions.

Visit Queen Elizabeth Park

Queen Elizabeth Park, a verdant oasis perched atop the highest point in Vancouver, offers a tranquil escape from the city's urban landscape. This 130-acre botanical garden boasts a diverse array of flora, meticulously curated and showcased in themed gardens, including the breathtaking Quarry Garden, carved into an abandoned quarry site. Stroll along the winding paths, taking in the vibrant colors and intoxicating fragrances of the blooming flowers that adorn the lush surroundings. For spectacular panoramic views of the city skyline, the North Shore Mountains, and the glistening waters of the Burrard Inlet, ascend to the park's iconic Bloedel Conservatory, a domed structure housing exotic plants and birds. After exploring this natural oasis, retreat to one of the convenient hotels with airport shuttle Vancouver, ensuring a seamless transition from your outdoor adventures to urban comforts.

Public Art and Street Performances

Vancouver's vibrant streets come alive with an eclectic mix of public art and street performances, offering a captivating cultural experience for visitors and locals alike. As you wander through the bustling neighborhoods, you'll stumble upon stunning murals adorning the walls, transforming ordinary spaces into vibrant canvases that reflect the city's diverse artistic spirit. From thought-provoking installations to whimsical sculptures, these public art pieces invite you to pause and appreciate the creativity that permeates every corner.

Beyond the visual delights, Vancouver's streets are alive with the sounds of talented buskers and street performers. Whether it's a melodic guitar riff echoing through an alleyway or a mesmerizing dance routine unfolding on the sidewalk, these impromptu performances add an enchanting layer of spontaneity to your urban exploration. Embrace the energy of these artistic expressions, and let them transport you into a world where art intertwines seamlessly with everyday life, creating a truly unforgettable and free adventure in the heart of this captivating city.

Conclusion

As the sun sets over Vancouver's skyline, reflecting its golden hues on the tranquil waters of the Burrard Inlet, you'll find yourself inspired by the city's boundless free adventures. From the serene strolls in Stanley Park to the lively street performances that enliven the city's streets, Vancouver has proven itself to be a destination that caters to every adventurer's spirit, without the need for an extravagant budget. As you bid farewell to this enchanting city, carry with you the memories of the stunning natural landscapes, the vibrant cultural experiences, and the infectious energy that emanates from every corner. Vancouver's free adventures have left an indelible mark on your soul, igniting a desire to return and continue exploring the endless wonders that a wait around every turn.

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Conventional Wisdom

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Winter Camel Scarf

If your basket contains “web” item and “shop” merchandise , two separate orders are created. You may object to the use of information regarding you and withdraw your consent at any time by addressing your request to This merchandise will be shipped to you inside 5 working days. In Argentina is 3 to 7 enterprise days and up to 10 days for international places https://strandfirm.com/product/camel-cashmere-scarf/.

Large scarf crafted from ultra-soft child Camel Wool, with light fluffy texture. In order to keep up over years, the scarf must be washed preferably by hand utilizing only delicate soaps without surfactants. Washed clothes ought to be laid on a dry towel to have the ability to preserve their form and be left to dry if attainable in the open air. Also, we current weekly style inspiration together with seasonal highlights, sartorial guides and common tips.

Accessories are the crowning glory that can make all of the difference in your outfit.

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A pair of slippers are the final word shoes for leisure.

A pair of slippers are the last word sneakers for leisure. At Baltzar we offer premium slippers from Swedish Inabo. At Baltzar we provide boots from Spanish Carmina along with British Drake’s and Sanders, all are well renowned for their high quality and long heritage. It’s typically said that you could tell lots about a man by his sneakers.

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To get essentially the most out of your Colorful Standard products, we advise taking correct care. Please enter your email tackle under to create account. Returns and replacements within 14 days from supply. If you wish to trade an merchandise for a different size or colour, please return it and place a brand new order.

Camiceria Mazzarelli is a third-generation shirt firm situated in the south of Italy. Traditional Aran stitching is executed within the best yarns to create trendy yet camel cashmere scarf genuine designs. For over 30 years Codis Maya has been creating unique jewellery for shops all round the world. Based on the island of Mallorca, Carmina has been making Goodyear-welted sneakers since 1866. Still today, they are made in England by a brand new generation and eternally treasured by their shoppers worldwide.

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Classic TOTEME scarf made in Italy from responsibly sourced wool. It has a rectangular shape measuring 220x50cm with fringed edges and a monogram label. Wear it throughout winter over your favourite coat or jacket. Your preorder might be shipped as quickly as all gadgets are in inventory. A refined casual accessory that is good for each metropolis dressing and winter days in the mountains.

Knitted or woven, at Baltzar we try to each season supply an in depth assortment of robust colors and numerous designs for you to browse at your leisure. At Baltzar we offer a broad array of Blazers from brands such as Canali,Tagliatore, Lardini, De Petrillo and Eduard Dressler. This scarf in regenerated cashmere and wool is an envelope of softness and a hymn to circularity. If you favor hand washing, soak your cashmere quickly and wring it out gently in a terry towel with out deforming it.

From a vibrant pocket square or bandana, to a classy silk tie or classic pair of cufflinks, the proper equipment can add that extra flair to your look. Baltzar provides ranges composed of soppy breathable long-staple cotton from one of England’s most established underwear makers – Sunspel. At Baltzar we satisfaction ourselves with a wide assortment of shirts from specialists such asStenströms, 100 Hands, and Mazzarelli. At Baltzar we provide a large assortment of denim from manufacturers similar to Tramarossa, TWC and Zaremba. You have 14 days from receipt of your order to ship your return to Maison Douillet.

We are only offering self-postage for Bulgaria within our return portal. You can both select to buy a return label or choose self publish within our return portal. If selecting self-postage we recommend you save your return receipt and camel cashmere scarf monitoring quantity in case you want them later. Camel wool scarf is a refined casual accent that's good for both metropolis dressing and winter days in the mountains. Very versatile, may be draped in several ways to create a sophisticated ensemble. A luxurious mild camel beige scarf from famend makers Johnstons of Elgin.

Here at Baltzar, we're proud to supply a big selection of belts in numerous materials, to cover all needs.

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Made from 100 percent recycled merino wool, it's warm, clean, and long-lasting, with a high-quality look and feel.

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Cowl/snood Scarf Retro Circles Coral Camel Beige Brown Ivory Grey Multi

Please enter your e-mail address to be up to date as quickly as this product is on the market. In the case of an item order "boutique" solely, the rates of the service apply for delivery costs. As a part of the loyalty program, the advantages do not apply to orders from retailer stock. Free worldwide shipping for all orders of 80€ or above. Scarf in camel jacquard wool mix with A.P.C. logo.

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Nina Simone's Eraser Odyssey

Nina Simone’s Eraser Odyssey

(Paris) This is the story of an eraser by Nina Simone, stolen after a concert by the star by Warren Ellis, accomplice-musician of Nick Cave, remained 20 years in a towel, then exhibited in Denmark and today in a safe in Montreal. Posted at 10:05 a.m. “For me it wasn’t a fetish act, I don’t even know why I took it, but very quickly it became very important to me, like a totem, touched by her, I…

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