#Solid Cedar Sliding Windows

[windowanddoorinstallation]

Why Western Red Cedar Windows Are More Popular Than Others

Cedar windows are hugely popular in Australia due to the warm look they offer to any property. Western red cedar is the most common version of cedar used in their manufacturing. This blog post covers the details of this particular wood and why it is preferred for windows across the globe.

What Are Western Red Cedar Windows?

Western red cedar is also called 'thuja plicata', and this wood grows in coastal forests where humus-rich soil mixed with softwood is found. This wood also grows in drier interior forests of western Columbia, Washington, and Montana. Because this wood is used in furniture production and the production of windows and doors, mainly western red cedar forests are managed and have controlled harvests.

Why Western Red Cedar Is So Popular For Cedar Window Manufacturing?

According to the experts of cedar window installations, several reasons contribute to this and the top one is the warmth and beauty of this wood. It is known for its exceptional beauty, even in its natural and finished state. It features a rich textured textile green combination with a palette of warm, mellow tones. The most common colours are light amber, deep honey brown and so on, and it is believed that no man made material can duplicate this wood's look and natural lustre. This factor has contributed a lot to the popularity of cedar window installations across the globe. This wood will enhance the looks of any structure, regardless of its type and design.

Cedar Wood – A Gift of Durability

Western red cedar windows feature natural oils that come as a natural preservative to make them naturally resistant to insects, pests and other factors that can wear down or decay them. It's popular because it is a dimensionally stable wood and stays flat most of the time. When finished and maintained well, it ages gracefully and can perform flawlessly for years and years.

Beauty Related Benefits

The beauty of western red cedar is unmatched; apart from this, the wood is also beneficial in several other ways. For example – the structure creates interior air spaces to make this wood create natural insulation inside the property. It has been noticed that rooms that have cedar window installations and doors remain cooler in summer and warmer in winter. This wood is also known for its excellent sound suppression and absorption quality.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico doesn't notice it, at first.

Most of the day his eyes are just blue.

Pretty blue, of course. Most of Will is; pretty that is. He sounds it, especially, rolling r's and loud lovely laughs and a lower voice that's right on the edge of raspy. He matches it, too, his voice, he has the wild golden curls and veritable spattering of freckles that match the paint-spatter splash of his very being. He is pretty the way dandelions are pretty, bright and explosive and covering hills as far as the eyes can see.

Nico doesn't talk as much as he does. Most people don't, honestly, if there's one thing about Will it's that he's got something to say. Nico likes it when he talks, he likes to walk along and listen or track the waving of his arms as he rants during breakfast. When he watches he can see his big big eyes widen and narrow with every raised and falling pitch of his voice, he can see them sparkle with something secret every time a tripwire gets pulled and someone blames the Hermes cabin. When he watches he can see the shimmery, sky-blue catch in the sunlight, glowing with the pride of his father.

It takes a morning on the silent Apollo cabin veranda for Nico to catch the difference.

It is a Sunday, and he's awake by force of habit. He's been out of his time-distant past longer than he's ever been in it, but ten years of waking up at the crack of dawn, or before in the winter months, to slide on a starchy shirt and squeeze into pinchy shoes he hated, dutifully if grumpily holding onto Mama's left hand and making faces at Bianca around the curve of the pews, has made its mark. He's yet to spend a single Sunday morning anything but groggy but conscious, glaring out the lone Cabin Thirteen window.

One morning, he catches movement across the common.

The way the cabins are set up puts Nico on a small hill. It's interesting, really, and Nico doubts it was on purpose -- what with the disastrous design of the cabin before Nico renovated it -- but nothing venerating Hades is ever looking down on anyone else. His father is quite pleased with it, he knows, and for it the cabin is always pleasantly warm, and smells slightly like turned dirt. Garden dirt, thankfully, not grave; Nico cannot be sure and will never ask but sometimes he suspects his stepmother might have something to do with it. Either way Nico has a clear view of the entire camp from end to end, including the line of cabins gently curving from his down to Zeus's. Three doors down, and smack at the crux of the curve, is Apollo's: in the warming, rising sun, the gilded walls glow, making the red cedar beams holding up the roof look warm and lively, like there's life still growing inside. On the rickety, camper-built porch sits Will, up earlier even than any of his siblings, curled up in the corner of a porch swing. He rocks it ever slightly with one bare foot.

Unthinkingly, Nico walks over to join him.

It's harpy time still, technically. They have reign until the sun is high and clear in the sky, even in the lazier winter months. They glare at him, now, some more restlessly than others, but they know better than to come at him. Nico's sword is dark and obvious from its spot at his side, hands twitching towards it. Besides that his death aura clears him for a solid radial mile.

Will smiles, when he sees him coming.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, voice soft in the barely-daylight. He taps the cushion next to him. "Come sit?"

It's pleading, almost, Nico notices. Not will you come sit, or wanna come sit. But come sit, as in here is your spot. Come sit as in I want you to.

Nico flushes and joins him.

"Yer up early."

His accent is thicker this early in the morning. Nico almost wants to shiver when he hears it, words short and vowels long. He looks like it, too, eyes closed and face mirroring the sun, tipped up to meet it. Long limbs curled up but bent, like the awkward ends of a sweet-tea straw. He bleeds warmth, from the foot of space between them.

"Sunday," Nico admits, just as quiet. He watches as Will drags a hand through his messy hair, smile tugging at the dimpled corners of his mouth. "Habit, I suppose."

"Yeah? Were ya up with them church-goers, once 'pon a time?"

Nico nods, suddenly restless. He sits on his hands to keep them from reaching out, to keep them from brushing along the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"My abuela -- my mama's gramma, that is -- was Catholic, too. Crack'a dawn every week."

"Oh."

Nico forgets Will has a mortal life, sometimes. He seems so cornerstone to camp, mentioned in passing in every other story, a part of the schedule from breakfast's daily mental health check-ins to sing-along at ten. Even the infirmary bears his name -- never you should probably head over to the infirmary, but go on and get Will. Nico tries to imagine him without the backdrop of the strawberries, or in the empty desert, and comes up blank.

"Y'seem surprised."

"I am, I guess."

"How come?" He cracks an eye open, grinning. "'M too much of a sinner for it?"

Nico snorts, thinking of the thundering of the Ares cabin last night, coming home after campfire -- where Will has been suspiciously and conspicuously absent for all but his little number at the end -- to each and every bunk and possession attached to the ceiling. As far as Nico is aware, they spent the night on the cement floor.

"Something like that, you menace."

Will smiles, a self-satisfied little thing, and settles back onto the cushions. He exhales as it rocks and all tension melts from his broad shoulders; his extended hand rests limp and tempting in the cushion between them and every cell in Nico's blood itches.

The run rises, slowly. It takes its time by the measured sound of Will's breathing, warming the cracking calluses of his bare heels to the wind-rustled hem of his shorts. With every inch of sunlight he gets brighter, and Nico gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

When more than half of it has pushed its way over the crest of the horizon, he shifts, stretching, turning to face Nico fully. He opens his mouth to say something or make a comment and Nico does not hear it, in fact his ears go long and ringing, because his --

His eyes.

For the first time that morning, he faces Nico head on, elbow off the curve of his forehead, blond eyelashes catching in the warm rays. For the first time that morning, eyes fully open, Nico can see -- not the languid spread of him, or the endless, summer-dark freckles, but the width of his irises, the shine of his pebble-sized pupil: in the bright, early-dawn morning, Will's eyes are endless.

Blue is no longer the right color for them. Desperately, Nico searches around the porch roof, above the chimney of the Big House, and there they are, reflected in infinity: Will's eye are every jealous painter's deepest desire, they are the exact makeup of the morning sky from the pale blue at the rounded top to the golden clouds reflecting the flares of the gentle yellow sun. There are even lines, cutting straight through, of pure, gentle gold; like the angular rays of Heaven looking kindly on the spinning Earth, so stretch the lines in Will's infinitely expanding irises. Layered in between the blue and the gold is the color Nico has never been able to name, the color like pillow softness, the color like soft hands on a fevered forehead, the color like coming in from the biting cold. The color like welcome on in and I got you, darlin'. The color like a long, easy inhale that sits soft and easy in your tired lungs.

"You're starin'," says Will, quietly.

Nico swallows. He doesn't even know what to think in response.

"Everythin' alright?"

Nico's hands twitch, again, and this time he doesn't have half to strength to stop them; unbidden they move slowly up the curve of Will's cheek, pinky lingering on the prominent tendons of his scarred neck. He rests his palms on the softness of his jaw and his thumbs on the dips under his eye, hands cupped like before the holy Eucharist. He waits, mouth dry, tongue poised in anticipation of the I believe.

"Your eyes," he breathes, finally. Its mirrored in the hitch of Will's chest. "My God above."

"Ain't nothin' special," Will argues, or tries to. Heat begins to bloom under the curl of Nico's palm, and Will's voice as gone reedy and thin. "I'm -- they're just blue, darlin', what have you --"

"They're not." Nico stops himself from becoming vehement, barely, but can't slow the firm shake of his head, the whip of his rapidly warming hair. "They're -- they're sky blue Will, gods." He tilts Will's head, slightly, and he goes, swallowing heavy. "This is the kind of thing artists dream about."

That makes Will blush, heavy and hard from the tips of his forehead to below the collar of his shirt. Nico smiles, fond, something heated along the bridge of his own nose, but he cannot help but notice that Will's eyes are still shifting, even as he narrows them, even as he cringes away from Nico's words; the golden along the bottoms spreads, now, past half his irises, like sunlight on shoreline.

"You're -- full'a somethin, di Angelo," he accuses, only his pretty voice cracks. "I dunno what's got you smoother than a polished river stone, but cut that right out, y'hear me?"

Or what, Nico wants to challenge. He is emboldened, now, by Will's embarrassment; as much as he squirms he does not move away. But as the sun crests higher and higher the gold begins to fade, irises smoothing bright and blue and reflective of the sky, still. Robin-egg pale at this exact moment. But familiar enough that Nico exhales, obedient, and drops his hands, scoots way.

"You got possessed," Will mumbles, still curled in on himself. But he smiles slightly to himself and Nico mirrors it, drinking in his shy, shocked pleasure. When he looks over and huffed there is a brazenness in his teeth, a sudden realization of what Nico has been seeing this whole time: he is pretty, and quite obviously so. Even in the neon of his Head Medic shirt. "Oddball."

Nico says nothing, knocking him gently across the shoulders. He settles back in the cushion right next to him, and together they rock, on the creaky old swing, watching lights flick on, shadows move across curtained windows.

Nico looks up into the brightening sky and finds it familiar.

[angstywaifu]

Assassination Attempt

Bodhi x Reader

Request: Hey, I'd love if you could do a fic where the reader was part of the Reason group and has an assassination attempt made on her at Basgiath after, with Bodhi comforting her and being overprotective.

Either with the reader and Bodhi being an established couple or with mutual feelings for each other (but neither have confessed).

TW: Mentions of blood and death.

Masterlist

I should have known my time was coming. Everyone else still at Basgiath had been assassinated or had an attempt made on them. Everyone but me. I should have been more aware, should have been smarter about walking around on my own. But I wasn’t. And now my head was throbbing, blood sliding down my face from where my head had been smashed against the mirror. Blood pooling under my hand where I apply pressure to the wound in my side. But I had gotten away. My assassin lying on the floor of the bathroom with the dagger they’d used on my shoved in the side of their neck.

There would definitely be a trail of blood leading from the bathroom I was hobbling away from. One from the blood I had definitely stepped in. And the other from my various wounds. All I had to do was get to this room. But with how heavy my eyelids were starting to feel, I was definitely pushing my limit. Definitely racing against the clock to get to his room.

Just a few more doors and I’d be there. My foot catches on a lip in the floor, sending my stumbling into his door with more force than I intend. A loud thud echoing down the empty hall. I wince, hoping I haven’t woken up anyone else. I know I’ve definitely woken him if he isn’t asleep, but I still raise my hand as I lean against the door way, knocking lightly on his door the same way I do every time so he knows its me. Two long knocks, followed by three shorter ones.

Seconds later the door is thrown open, his familiar brown eyes meeting mine. His usual smile graces his lips, but it falters immediately as he sees the blood running down my face. His eyes travel down my body, going wide as they see my hand clutching my side in an effort to stop the bleeding. As his eyes meet mine again I know my race against the clock has ended, my eyes finally giving into the tiredness wanting to claim me.

“Y/N?!”

I don’t know how much time has passed, but I know a lot of time has passed. I was attacked just before midnight, but I can tell its definitely morning now. The familiar sounds of movement meet my ears from whatever hallway is outside where I am. And the warmth of the sun hitting my face from a window lets me know it is definitely well past my usual wake up time.

I go to shift, but something has a strong hold on me. No not something, someone. Strong arms holding me in place. My movement causes them to stir, pulling me tighter against them. It’s then I realise my head is not resting on a pillow, but resting against a very solid chest. The familiar subtle scent of cinnamon and cedar, mixed with the common scent of leather and smoke lets me know whose chest I am lying on. Whose arms wrap around me in a tight embrace.

Bodhi.

I slowly open my eyes, and am met with the inside of Bodhi’s room, only confirming who lies beneath me. His chest rising and falling at steady rate, clearly still fast asleep. A far cry for the way my heart rate is picking up. Great, just great. Here I was, lying in the bed of the boy I’d been hopelessly crushing on for the last few months. I should be over the moon. But I was very sure that he did not harbour the same feelings I did. Treating me no different to Imogen or Violet.

I had no idea if Bodhi was a light or heavy sleeper, but I was about to find out. And find out I did. Almost as soon as I go to sit up, his grip on me tightens as he pulls me back down.

”Where do you think you’re going?” He grumbles sleepily, his morning voice making me want to melt into a puddle.

I angle my head to look up at him, but see his eyes are still firmly shut. “I was just going to go back to my room.”

He opens his eyes to look down at me, eyebrow cocked in a way so similar to Xaden. “You aren’t going anywhere unless its with me.” He growls out as his arms tighten around me.

The commanding tone I rarely hear in his voice lets me know I do not have a choice in the matter. Where I go, he goes. I mean I can’t blame him, I literally turned up at his door in the middle of the night, bleeding from multiple wounds.

”What were you thinking walking around alone in the middle of the night with what’s been happening?”

I shift my gaze from his. Honestly I had no clue. What was I thinking? It was stupid. All our friends had been attacked or we’re dead because of War Games last year. I knew my time was coming. I should have been smarter. His fingers grasp my chin, angling my head to look back at him. There’s a fire in his eyes I’ve never seen before. He’s angry. Shit.

”I-I don’t know. It was stupid. I’m sorry.” I stutter out.

His brows furrow before letting out a sigh as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Just promise me you won’t do it again. If you need to go anywhere after curfew or when everyone’s gone to bed you come get me ok?”

I reach up and cup his cheek, brushing my thumb over his cheek. He quickly leans into my touch, surprising me as he angles his head to kiss my palm before looking at me. This time the fire in his yes is gone, replaced by a longing I can’t quite place.

”Because I can’t lose you Y/N. I don’t know what I would do if you died because I wasn’t there. The moment you need to go anywhere you come get me ok?” He mumbles out.

”I promise.” I say with a nod, smiling softly up at him which earns me a smile back.

Bodhi shifts underneath me, rolling onto his side as he pulls me against him. Tucking my head under his chin as he nuzzles into it. As he pulls me into him, I rest a hand atop his chest, finding his heart beating just as fast as mine is. I can’t help but smile at the little hope the man holding me tightly might just have the same feelings I do.

[jjmichie]

In Too Deep Chapter 6

Just some Friday Stone-smut for ya! NSFW - 18+ only. Finally updating my fic . . . enjoy! In case you missed Chapter 5 you can find it here.

_____________

Stone fumbled with the crinkled sheet of notebook paper where Molly had scrawled directions to her cabin.  Squinting at curvy hand-writing, while trying to shield his eyes from the glaring sun and glaring snow, he struggled not to lose control of the steering wheel. 

“Turn left after Bear Gap Tooth?  No, Bear Gap Trail . . .?” he tentatively read aloud.  

There. There it was.

A gorgeous cabin nestled in the pines and the snow, with gentle tufts of purple smoke rising from the chimney.  Cabin?  More like a luxury chalet, Stone thought to himself.  The early afternoon sun streaked through the trees, reflecting the beauty of the mountain scenery in floor to ceiling windows.  He checked the address on the paper once again.  All correct.  And, Molly’s jeep was there, shiny and white as the snow beneath it, parked to the side, as if to make room for his ugly station wagon.  This must be the right place. 

Was it?

Leaving the safety of his station wagon, he breathed in the chilly pine-scented air and felt the snow crunching beneath his feet as he walked to the door.  A solid redwood door with a deep rich stain welcomed him.  

As he was about to knock, the door opened.  His hand awkwardly pounded against thin air, as it fell away. 

“Hi Stone!”  She greeted him with her usual bewitching smirk. “You actually found it . . .”  

Her blue eyes met his, complemented by a long baby blue cashmere V-neck sweater. It snuggled against her hips, leading down to her shapely legs, which were clad in tight-fitting faded jeans with a hole in the knee, and finally . . . bare feet!  Bare feet with pale pink toe nail polish.  

“You look cold,” she informed him, and ushered him in, pulling him inside, into the warmth, away from the flurries that had come from nowhere to begin swirling around them. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I thought I looked hot.”   

“Ha ha!” 

He loved it when he could make her laugh.  She had the cutest laugh.  

“Do you want a drink?”  she asked, still smiling.

“Wow . . .” Stone was taking in the view.  The interior of the cabin was equally beautiful as the outside, much more modern than rustic, with stainless steel appliances, open floor, soaring ceilings and glass block accents.  But cedar lined walls and an enormous stone fireplace offset the modern austerity just enough to lend a cozy warmth.  Not to mention the stairway with a railing made of logs, leading to a loft overlooking the whole scene.  And across from the open kitchen, a huge wall of windows showcased a deck that spanned the entire length of the living room.  And beyond that, views of the snow-capped Cascades.  

God he loved Washington. 

“This is beautiful.”  he felt compelled to say, even though he was totally stating the obvious.  

“We like it.”  She handed him a lowball glass, with what he imagined was very expensive scotch swirling at the bottom. 

“We?” 

She smiled at him.  But didn’t answer. Instead she reached up and unraveled Stone’s damp scarf, which he had wrapped around and around his neck. 

“Can I take your coat too?” Still smirking at him, she hung up his coat and scarf, and returned to the kitchen. Stone watched as she began effortlessly preparing a cheese plate.  

“My family has a cabin near here too,” Stone told her, still admiring his surroundings. 

“Oh?” she looked pleased.  

“They ski.  I grew up skiing.  I’m not very good at it though.  Not as good as my dad.”  

“What??  And here I thought you were good at everything.”  She smiled and tossed some smoked gouda slices onto the platter. 

“Do you ski?” Stone asked, letting her comment slide by.  

“Not really,” she shrugged.  “Not much time for it.  We’re always in the city, just not able to get out to the mountains that much.”  She placed the platter on the granite counter between them.  Stone noticed she had somehow included fig jam and hazelnuts on the platter without him even noticing.

“Well, maybe now you and James will have time.”  Stone picked up a gooey wedge of brie and licked it off his finger slowly, making sure she noticed. 

“Maybe James and I will . . .” she leaned forward on the counter, watching his motions closely.  The v-neck of her sweater dipped slightly as she did, making Stone’s eyes flicker downward.  She opted for a chunk of chevre.  

Why did she have to be so hot?  He could smell her hair, the strawberry-scent of her bob that swung just above her shoulders when she moved, or walked, or made a cheese plate.  The aroma blended with the cedar wood, and the gentle smokiness of the fire that warmed the room. He wanted to lunge across the granite counter.  He wanted to melt into her eyes and her hair and her body and forget what she had just said.  But he couldn't.  He had been waiting for an opening to talk about James, and she had just given it to him.  

“So . . .” he began.  “Speaking of . . . James . . .” 

She didn’t flinch.  She continued to meet his gaze, waiting for him to continue. 

“Speaking of James,” he repeated, “when is he going to be joining you?” 

“Next week.” She grabbed another piece of cheese and took a gentle sip of scotch. 

Stone waited for any sign that she was going to elaborate.  There was none. 

“But . . . I mean . . . I don’t want any trouble.  What’s going to happen when . . .?”

“There’s some weed here, if you like.” She abruptly stood up straight and opened a drawer in the center island, revealing a baggie, paraphernalia, and several lighters. 

“Oh! Nice!  Didn’t know you smoked.”  

It was unsettling how easily Stone could be distracted. He grabbed one of the delicate glass bongs from the drawer, while his questions about James dissolved from his mind. He picked up the baggie and a lighter as well, and took them all over to the couch to settle in.  He wasted no time in packing the pipe, and taking a hit.  

“Want some?” he tried to ask her, while holding his breath.  

“Thanks,” she smiled, coming over to sit cross-legged on the couch with him. 

Stone let his breath out, letting the blue smoke twist around them, and handed Molly the pipe.  She took a long drag as well. 

“Mmmm,” she smiled as she breathed it out. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I’m glad you invited me . . .” 

They both let the moment settle over them, the curling pungent smoke rising in the air, blending with the smoke from the fireplace, the sun filling the room with an angelic glow. The warm room contrasting with the distant icy mountains and the swaying pines outside the window.  Stone noticed for the first time that there was jazz music coming from somewhere, one of the few genres of music that he wasn’t all that well-versed in.  But at that moment he loved it.  It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. He let his head rest on the back of the couch.

“Mother Love Bone is going to get SUPER famous, right?” Stone asked, his eyes beginning to feel bleary.  

“Yes.  Absolutely.”  Molly leaned her head back too and blew smoke high into the air.  

“I can’t wait.”  

“It will happen.  But for now, I think you should take another hit.” 

Never one to refuse, Stone giggled and took the bong again.  “Shit, this is strong!”  His head was starting to buzz and the sun was looking even more beautiful and the fire seemed to have a multi-colored halo around it, and he suddenly realized he wanted to eat the entire cheese plate.  

“Stand up,” she suddenly commanded, lifting her head, interrupting his reverie.   

Opening his eyes as best he could, Stone stood up, wobbling a little. “Okay. I’m up.”    

“Now . . . go in front of the fireplace.”  

“Yeah . . . did you notice that too?  The fire’s got like, this halo . . . do you want me to throw another log on?” 

“No . . .” Molly paused as she took another hit, and slowly blew it out. “I want . . . you to strip for me.” 

Stone froze.  He almost burst out laughing. 

“Uhhh . . . you want me to . . .what now?” he giggled. 

“You heard me.  Start with your sweater.”  

He looked at her.  Looked right into her eyes, which were wide and bright, despite the disorienting effects of the weed. She bit her lip and her nostrils flared just slightly.  She meant business.  He stopped giggling. 

He pulled at the bottom of the heavy wool sweater he was wearing, and pulled it over his head.  His hair crackled with static electricity as his scrunchy came loose, spilling his hair around his shoulders.  He still had a T-shirt on.  

“That next,” Molly said, looking at his T-shirt, not wasting any time.  

“Umm . . . okay,” he heard himself mumble.  He peeled off his t-shirt and let it fall to the ground.  A chill hit his bare chest and he shivered.  He crossed his arms and rubbed them with his hands, partly because of the cold, and partly because he suddenly felt shy.  And vulnerable.  

“Now, Stone,” she whispered.  “Please take off your belt and bring it to me.”  

He felt his heart starting to pound.  And his breathing was becoming heavy.  He slowly undid his belt and snaked it through the hoops of his jeans until it was free.  He looked at her, and at the belt in his hand, and walked towards her, extending his arm.  

“Thank you,” she snatched it and put it beside her on the couch.  “Now, your jeans.”  

He felt his cheeks flushing, the chill gone, as he slowly undid the button and zipper.  He looked up to meet her eyes.  She nodded at him.  She was slightly flushed too, he noticed.  He inched his jeans over his slender hips, and pushed them down, down past his knees, leaning forward to awkwardly pull them over his feet, hopping a few times to not lose his balance. 

“Good . . .” he heard her say as she took another hit.  Her eyes were roving over him, the way they had that day in his parents house.  

Standing there in only his boxers, he could feel his cock pushing against them, growing in anticipation of her touch.  

“Now what?” he finally asked, his voice barely audible. 

“Now I want you bare-naked.”  She motioned with her finger that his next instruction was to pull down his boxers, to take them off completely.  

He was totally hard now.  He knew she could see it through the delicate silk of his boxers, and that she was about to see everything.  He couldn’t hide the effect she had on him.  He took a deep breath.  He suddenly heard Andy’s words again – they seemed to be haunting him. I can’t let you do this! Why was he doing this?  Why was he taking a risk like this?  But then he looked at her, her beautiful body, her beautiful teasing smile, her bright eyes.  She wanted him.  She was asking him to strip for her.  How could he NOT do this?   

“Hey . . .” she said softly.  “I gave you an order.  Are you going to make me come over there?” 

Stone bit his lip, his cheeks red and his dick throbbing.  Slowly, slowly, he slid his long fingers around the elastic waistband, and started to lower it.  He looked down at himself as his pubic hair was exposed, and then his long shaft.  It was sticking straight out at her.  

He heard her breathe in sharply, and then saw her get up and come towards him out of the corner of his eye.  He was still looking down at himself, at his boxers clinging to his thighs. 

“Mmmm, is that for me?” she cooed. 

He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes, and nodded.  He felt his boxers sliding down his legs.  She had a hold of them and was pulling them down.  He stepped out of them when they reached his feet.  He felt her hands running up his legs, and then around to his ass, and finally up to his stomach, as she stood up.  But she didn’t touch his hardness.  Not yet. She left him dying for it. 

“Stone . . .” she whispered in his ear.  “Bend over.”  

He immediately did.  

And he felt the slap of the belt against his bare bottom.  

“Oww!” he cried in surprise.  

“You like that?” she asked.  

“Umm . . .” 

Another slap. 

“Yessss,” he hissed.  “Yes!”

Another slap.  Harder this time.  

“Good boy,” she began rubbing his ass gently, where she had hit him. “You’re nice and red. Now I want you to lie down.”  

He immediately got to the floor, and laid down on his back, looking up at her, his cock still standing straight up. 

She smiled at him, at it, and took off her own sweater, the blue cashmere sweater that had outlined her body so beautifully.  To Stone’s amazement and delight, she had nothing on underneath it.   The soft yarn had been playing against her tits this whole time. Stone couldn’t help but wonder how that felt. She squeezed her arms together slightly, giving him a delicious view of her bare chest, and then she undid her jeans as well, sliding them down over her hips and feet without any of the awkwardness Stone had encountered.  She never lost her grace or elegance.  No panties!  She had been completely nude under her sweater and jeans.

And then she was straddling him.  She took hold of his cock with one hand, and rubbed it against her wetness for only a few seconds before pushing it in deep.  Really deep.  

Stone couldn’t help but cry out.  She felt so fucking good.  

He opened his eyes and watched as she started riding him, the sunlight now creating a surreal halo around her, her eyes boring into his, her mouth open.  She leaned forward and took hold of both his wrists, pinning them to the wood floor beneath them, while she fucked him harder and harder.  

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Stone you are huge.  I knew I’d love your cock in me.”  

“Ahhhhhmmphfhh,” was all he could say. 

Continue to Chapter 7

[spnbaby-67]

Craving You (Revised Edition for 2025)

Chapter Nine: Swings and Fists

Jensen pulled into the driveway at exactly 2:50 PM, giving us a few stolen minutes together before Jo inevitably came knocking on the window.

He undid my seatbelt and gave me a little tilt of his head, motioning for me to slide closer.

I didn’t hesitate. When a man like Jensen Ackles asks you to come closer, you don’t question it—you go.

I scooted next to him, slipping easily under the crook of his arm. His arm wrapped around my shoulder, and I rested my head on his chest like I belonged there. My eyes fluttered shut for a few seconds. He smelled like heaven—like cedar and mint—and his body was warm and solid against mine. I could’ve stayed like that forever.

It still didn’t feel real. We’d only met yesterday—barely 40 hours ago—and somehow he made it so easy to be myself, to relax, to just be. I didn’t want to overthink it. But deep down, I was terrified. Lord, please don’t be playing games with my heart again.

I sighed quietly, hoping he didn’t hear it.

He moved slightly beneath me. I tilted my head up, and just like that—his lips found mine.

The kiss was slow, intentional. He shifted so we weren’t in an awkward angle, his mouth molding perfectly to mine. His tongue gently swept across mine, and I responded by sucking on it, which he clearly didn’t mind. He tasted like coffee and mint—my two favorite things—and I melted. His hand gripped gently in my hair as our lips danced, small breathy moans escaping between kisses.

We didn’t even hear the knock on the window.

Jensen pulled away just slightly, grinning down at me.

“Jo always knows when to interrupt,” I muttered, trying not to laugh.

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear with that familiar tenderness. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m sure we’ll steal more time soon.”

He opened the door.

Jo stood outside with her arms crossed, smirking like a cat who caught a canary. “About time. I thought you were going to swallow her whole.”

I glanced at her with a sheepish grin. “Actually, it was the other way around.”

Jensen just laughed as he slipped his arm around my waist, holding me close, not ready to let go.

“Mmhmm. I see that,” Jo said, linking her arm through mine. “Come on, missy. You and I have plans.”

She pulled me gently away, and I caught Jensen’s eye one more time.

“See you at the ballfield?” Jo called over her shoulder.

“I’ll be there,” he said, winking.

And just like a giddy schoolgirl with a massive crush, I blushed and giggled before quickly looking away.

Back inside, I peeked through the living room curtains, watching him drive off. Jo came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

“Someone’s falling,” she whispered sing-song, hugging me tightly before dragging me to the couch.

We curled up together. “So?” she asked. “You like him, don’t you?”

I bit my lip, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I really do. But it’s weird, Jo. I mean, we just met. And it feels like I’ve known him forever. I feel like I’m gonna wake up and find out I hit my head or something.”

She smiled, squeezing my hands. “Babe, Jensen is a great guy. I see how he looks at you. You two looked so natural in his truck—it was like you were always meant to be there.”

“I know…” I sighed. “But it’s hard to believe. I’ve got bills, I’m drowning in debt, and I’m just… me. Meanwhile, he’s perfect. And I’m supposed to be here spending time with you—not falling for someone I just met.”

Jo lifted my hands to stop them from waving frantically in the air. “Okay, first of all, breathe. Second—this is what fate looks like. It doesn’t always wait until you’re ready. The fact that you met him yesterday and then again on the plane? That’s something rare. Give it a chance. Day by day.”

I nodded, cheeks warming. “His kisses, Jo… God. They’re unreal.”

Jo bumped her forehead against mine. “You deserve this, {Y/N}. You’ve had such a hard life. It’s about time something good found you.”

“I’m just scared,” I admitted. “He’s him. I’m… not.”

“You’ll know it’s real when your heart skips every time he walks into a room,” she said softly. “And from what I can tell, it already does.”

I smiled, remembering how he held my hand through the school tour. “We even ran into Lisa Braeden.”

Jo’s eyes widened. “What?! Did she start something?”

“She wanted to. But Jensen stepped in, said what needed to be said, and she walked off. He held me the whole time. I felt safe.”

Jo’s face darkened a little. “Ugh. She’ll be at the game tonight. Her husband is Jeff’s boss, unfortunately. Stick close to Jensen or me, and you’ll be fine.”

We talked more over lunch at the café, then headed to the ballfield where Jeff was already warming up the team.

As we set our bags down on the bleachers, Jo froze.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Lisa Braeden.

Miss High School Queen. Miss Most Likely To Succeed. And my personal high school bully.

“Well, well,” Lisa cooed, strutting toward us. “{Y/N}. Twice in one day. Miss me?”

I crossed my arms. “Nope. Not even a little.”

She smirked. “You sure? Graduation was what… your best day ever?”

“Second-best,” I replied evenly. “First was moving away. I’ve got a good life now. A better life. But you? Still the same. You haven’t grown up one bit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think I abused you? You were a joke, {Y/N}. You made it easy. With your dirty hand-me-down clothes, your sad little prom dress—what was that, a feed sack?”

My fists clenched at my sides. My cheeks burned hot.

Jo grabbed my arm.

I tried to stay calm. But it bubbled up like lava. “You don’t know anything about what I went through. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the abuse at home. Between you and my dad, I don’t know who was worse.”

I took a step closer. “So yeah—go to hell, Lisa. And by the way? I heard about Gabe and Becky in the janitor’s closet. Karma’s a bitch.”

Smack!

Her fist caught my eye and sent me stumbling.

Straight into Jensen’s arms.

I didn’t even see him arrive, but he was there, holding me back before I could lunge at her.

Lisa crossed her arms like she was proud of herself. “That’s right. Let your bodyguard do the work.”

Jeff and Jo rushed over. Jeff’s face was stone.

“I don’t care who started it,” he barked. “This is a public place—filled with cops and feds. If either of you causes trouble again, I will arrest you. Got it?”

Lisa huffed and walked away.

Jeff turned to me. “Stay away from her. Her husband’s my boss. I don’t need drama. Am I clear?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But she started it.”

Jeff raised a finger to his lips. “Not another word.”

I zipped it. Literally.

As the crowd gathered and the game got underway, the tension finally began to ease. Jensen sat behind me on the bleachers, legs bracketing my body as I leaned against him. He gently held an ice pack to my eye.

Déjà vu or not, it was like high school all over again. But this time?

I had someone in my corner.

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[justsomeclintasha]

The hallways of Shield are empty. She supposes they should be. It’s just after 2am. A water fountain hums. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes. The sounds are annoying and she tunes them out.

“Agent Romanoff?” His voice startles her out of her thoughts. “Natasha?” he tries again. Coulson smiles kindly as she turns to face him, tension radiating off her. Her nails pick at the cuff of her sweatshirt. Dark circles line her eyes. She looks smaller than usual, hair thrown up in a messy bun atop her head.

“Don’t you ever go home?” Deflection. He motions for her to follow him and she does. She’s always liked his office. It’s neat and organized, smelling of clean cedar and pine. Personal touches linger around- a plant, medals, books. A comfortable couch is along the wall underneath the window. The purple throw blanket was surely a gift. She chooses to sit in a chair instead.

Wordlessly, he moves to a coffee station in the corner and makes her a cup of tea. She wants to ask for something stronger. The cup is warm as she takes it in her hands and mumbles a thanks.

“You know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Right to business then.”

“It wasn’t.” He sits across from her in an identical chair, sipping his own cup of coffee. His gaze unnerves her. She fights the urge to flinch. Instead she sets down her drink and curls her arms over her chest. “Have you slept since then?” She shakes her head. “It’s been three days, Natasha.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” The admission catches him off guard and he waits for her to continue. “I failed. You should have punished me. You should have-“ Her voice breaks. Suddenly she wants Clint, but he’s away on a mission and probably asleep. She blinks towards the ceiling.

“That’s not how this works here,” he reminds her gently. “Natasha. Look at me.” A shaky breath leaves her lips and she meets his eyes. “The intel was bad. It wasn’t your fault. What is really bothering you?”

Of course he would see through her. She can lie to her therapist, but she can’t lie to him. A flashback pushes at the edge of her thoughts. The facility they had infiltrated was so familiar. But it was that one room. One solid white room with a chair in the middle, leather wrist straps at the ends of the armrests.

“No, no, no.”

“Natasha.”

“No-” Fear. Weakness. She slides to the floor and he carefully kneels in front of her, not touching. One of her hands grips the front of her sweatshirt.

“Shhhh. You’re alright. Breathe. You don’t have to tell me. Inhale.” Heat flushes her face. She slowly regains her breath, eyes on the grey carpet underneath them. “Come on. Up.”

He offers a hand to help her and she accepts it. She settles on the couch. The purple blanket is soft and warm around her shoulders. He dims the lights, sitting back in his chair.

“Who are you texting?”

“Maria. I’m pulling Clint back early. He’ll be here in the morning. Get some sleep.” She closes her eyes, trusting his presence to keep the nightmares at bay. For the first time in days, she feels safe.

[mmvalentine]

The Birchin | Feysand x Bat Boys

So, I have to imagine this scene has been written a thousand times to Sunday but firstly, I haven't actually read one and secondly, I JUST HAVE TO. Scene lift from ACOFS. The dirtiest, filthiest thing I have ever written and arguably too long for a oneshot sorry. Smut warning, OBVIOUSLY.

Azriel won.

His one-hundred-ninety-ninth victory, apparently. The three of the had entered the cabin an hour later, dripping snow, skin splotched with red, grinning from ear to ear. Mor and I, snuggled together beneath a blanket on the couch, only rolled our eyes at them. Rhys just dropped a kiss atop my head, declared the three of them were going to take a steam in the cedar-lined shed attached to the house, and then they were gone.

I blinked at Mor as they vanished, letting the image settle.

"Another tradition," she told me. "An Illyrian custom, actually- the heated sheds. The birchin. A bunch of naked warriors, sitting together in the steam, sweating."

I snorted. "So the three of them are just in there. Naked. Sweating."

Mother above.

Interested in taking a look? The dark purr echoed into my mind. Lech. Go back to your sweating. There's room for one more in here. I thought mates were territorial.

I could feel him smile as if he were grinning against my neck. I'm aways interested to learn what sparks your interest, Feyre darling.

I paused.

How... interested?

Dark amusement rolled down the bond. Why don't you come in here and find out?

I felt my neck grow heated at the invitation. Was he serious? And for that matter, was I?

At that moment, Rhys trailed a single talon down my shields. I didn't know what he was up to, but I let him in. And saw what he was seeing.

The room was thick with steam, and for a moment, white clouds were all that was in front of Rhys. Then the vapour dissipated, and I became aware of Cassian and Azriel's voices in the room. They were both sitting in opposite corners of the room, elbows propped up on the backs of the bench. Their dark hair was pushed back off their faces, although a lock fell into Azriel's eyes. The black of the Illyrian tattoos stood out even in the steam. And both of them were completely, gloriously naked.

My eyes travelled very, very slowly back and forth between the two of them. Gleaming hair. Powerful shoulders. Broad, patterned chests. Abs you could count. Lower.

Rhys snapped his shield neatly back down, and it felt like a window closing on my fingers. I snarled down the bond, and Rhys just laughed.

Want more? He purred. You'll have to come look yourself.

I was back in my own head now, but the images still danced before my eyes. Rhys' invitation glittered darkly before me, and I turned it over in my mind. Would he really be okay with that? Would I be okay with it? Were the Cassian and Azriel actually interested?

Cassian and Azriel. Rhys' best friends, and males I now considered kin. I wondered how something like sex might change our dynamic, and if finding out would be worth it.

Then I remembered that Mor had tangled with them and remained close as ever. Maybe five hundred years was a very long time, and new experiences were not so daunting to them.

At that moment, Mor yawned hugely and stood to her feet.

"I think I'm tapped, kiddo," she said. "I'm winnowing home." "You're not staying here?" "Sleep in my own bed is rare," Mor said, "and I take it when I can get it." She kissed me on the cheek and picked up her coat. "Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?" "Definitely," I said, and with a wink, she was gone. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I looked toward the birchin, and my heart drummed fast in my chest. Before I had fully made up my mind, my feet were taking me toward the door.

I stood in the snow, the wind icy but my cheeks burning. I couldn't bring myself to knock, not just yet. But I couldn't quite walk away, either. So I reached out with my mind.

Rhys? The endless amusement, again. Yes, my love? I'm here.

For a second, there was silence, and Rhys must have felt my apprehension because when he spoke in my mind he was gentle.

You know I'd never want you to do anything you're not comfortable with. That wasn't the part I was worried about. Do... do the other two know you invited me in?

Rhys paused again, and I could hear the feline grin in his silent voice.

They do. And, I asked. Do they... want me here?

The grin stretched.

They do, he said again. I have no idea how to convey to you how fucking stunning you are. You walk in here, and they will kiss the ground beneath your feet. Amongst other things.

The idea sent shivers down my spine. I put my hand to the wooden door, and stepped inside.

The first male I found was Rhys. Strong as our bond was, I often found myself turning toward him like a compass. So I wasn't surprised when my eyes sought a face and found his. He had an animal grin, and his eyes burned.

"Hello, Feyre darling," he said aloud. Down the bond, he said, You naughty, wicked thing. I can't wait to see you play.

Rhys reached for my hand, and tugged me to stand between his legs. The heavy air settled itself on my skin. My heart jumped at the sight of him, slick with sweat and bare before me. He was already hard, and my core pounded in response. I wondered in that moment if the mating bond, the wanting him, would ever lessen.

"It's very, very warm in here," Rhys said. "You won't be needing this anymore." He took hold of the hem of my sweater, and slowly pulled it over my head, keeping eye contact the whole time. Making sure I was okay with this.

"Or these," he added, and slid his fingers into my waistband. I hadn't looked Cassian or Azriel in the face yet, but I could feel their gaze as Rhys slid my leggings off me. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself as I stepped out of them, and as he straightened back up his fingers trailed up the inside of my leg. I shivered, despite the heat.

"In fact," Rhys went on, "warriors in the birchin get undressed completely, as a rule." My underthings were pulled off too.

Now, I was fully naked in front of him. Rhys' eyes roved over my body, and his hands followed. I still hadn't turned to the other two. And then Rhys put his hands on my hips, and very slowly, rotated me around. I leaned back into him slightly for reassurance, and he squeezed warmly.

"Feyre," he said, his lips at my hip. "Azriel won the snowball fight today. I would like you to be his prize. Would you do that for me?"

And then I looked at him. Azriel was still in the relaxed position I had seen him in through Rhys' eyes- leaning back, arms on the back of the bench, wrists limp. But his eyes were hard and glazed with lust, and now that I was here in person, there was no hiding the solid length of him.

I could feel myself staring, but I couldn't drag my eyes away. Not when Azriel brought his bottom lip between his teeth, without moving a single other muscle, and I could see him staring right back at me.

"Would you give him his prize, Feyre?" Rhys asked again. He kissed the back of my hip.

I was too nervous to say anything, so I just walked. One foot in front of the other, and as I got closer I found that I wasn't so nervous, after all. Because now I could fully see the hunger on Azriel's face. Rhys hadn't been lying. Azriel wanted this, too. I stopped in front of him, and made sure to keep my eyes on his.

"Congratulations, Azriel," I said shyly. "Give him a kiss, Feyre darling," Rhys drawled. "Azriel is the best snowball fighter in all of Prythian."

I stepped over Azriel's knee and settled myself carefully in his lap, facing him, relishing the feeling of his breathing speeding up beneath me.

"Feyre," Azriel said softly. His eyes searched mine. "Can I touch you?" "Yes," I breathed, and waited.

Azriel's hands came up cautiously, and glided over my hips. A groan so low I almost missed it issued from his throat. He met my eyes again, and I gazed steadily back at him. Azriel's hands moved now, up my sides and down my back. They were so hot on my skin, that I relaxed into him. When they slid back down, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.

In all the time I had known the Shadowsinger, I had never seen him ruffled. That was kind of his thing. Every movement Azriel made was controlled, calculated, intentional, and it made him the perfect spymaster. Not this time.

As soon as my lips touched his, Azriel inhaled sharply through his nose, and his arms came up around me. He was so beautiful, I had always wanted to touch him. But I hadn't expected the sudden tenderness, the emotion that seemed to pour forth from him as he crushed me to him, and the fluid motion that replaced his utter stillness of just moments ago. Then his tongue touched mine and this different, unfamiliar taste was intoxicating. I suddenly wanted more, so much more, and my shyness was completely forgotten.

A nudge between my legs alerted me to his growing hardness, and knowing he wanted me was fuel to my fire. With both of us naked, there was no going slow, no stopping his cock from sliding under me. He was slick from the steam, and his sweat, and what I was now realising was my own increasing wetness. I was losing myself in it, when Rhys cleared his throat.

I turned at the sound, and looked at him from Azriel's lap. I pictured myself through his eyes- lips reddened and eyes hooded. From kissing someone else. Rhys' violet eyes danced dangerously, and for a second I thought he was going to call me back to him. But instead, he said, "Azriel, share please." Then beckoned Cassian over without moving his eyes from mine.

I had honestly forgotten about Cassian, sitting in the opposite corner. But now I turned to watch him as he stood, taller and broader than his brothers, and walked toward us.

Sometimes I got too comfortable with Cassian, and it made me think he was another regular male. Sometimes he didn't seem so big. But now he towered over us both, and when he kneeled behind me he was still a head taller than me. He spoke in my ear, his voice like bottled thunder.

"Where do you want my hands, High Lady?" He hadn't touched me yet, but I felt it right down my spine. "Everywhere," I breathed. Cassian obliged.

First, his enormous hands closed over my shoulders. He squeezed, massaging me so I became liquid beneath his touch. His fingers probed the back of my neck, and my eyes slid closed in pleasure. So like Cassian to bring me this gentle strength.

Then the hands coasted down my shoulder blades, around to curve over my stomach, and up. To cup my breasts. I thought that anyone touching me like this who wasn't Rhys would be abhorrent, but I found that I trusted Cassian absolutely. The feeling still thrilled in my chest, but it didn't scare me like I thought it might.Then my nipples were sliding between his fingers and I heard my own moan before I knew I was making it. Sweat beaded down my back, and Cassian ducked his head and licked it off my skin, up my spine. My second moan was louder.

This seemed to awaken Azriel, who leaned forward to kiss my jaw, at the same time as Cassian put his teeth on the join between my shoulder and neck. Both of them grasped and massaged with their hands, and the pleasure was everywhere. My mind started to slide in and out of clarity, accidentally relaxing my shields enough for Rhys to slip in an image of us from where he sat. The two males all over me. And Rhys watching with his cock in his hand.

Does this turn you on? I asked him hazily. His answer rumbled down the bond. Does the sight of you naked, in heat, and being worshipped, arouse me? Oh yes. Yes I'd say it does.

I turned my head to see him with my own eyes, and the sight of him stroking himself as he watched me brought my blood to the boil. My skin grew extra sensitive, and being touched all over by the other two males was suddenly almost overwhelming. My head dropped back, and then there was Cassian, his hand on the back of my neck and turning my head so he could catch my lips with his.

Cassian did not kiss like Azriel. Not soulful and sensual like the Shadowsinger, but rough and unrestrained. His mouth was on mine only a moment before teeth and tongue were clashing with my own, and at the same time his fingers fisted to scrape against my scalp and pull at my hair. One of my hands floated to touch Cassian's face, but the other clenched on Azriel's shoulder. Somewhere far away, Azriel was scratching his nails up and down my thighs, as he watched me kiss Cassian while still seated directly over his own cock.

"Feyre," Rhys' voice carried from the opposite side of the room. "I want to see you while they work you. Turn around for me."

Cassian leaned back to let me up, and I stood and turned to face Rhys. He had slipped further down the wall, more slumped than he had been, and his eyes stayed on mine as he continued to move his hand over himself.

"That's right," he said. "Show me how much you're loving this."

Azriel's hands came up from behind me and pulled me back into his lap, now facing forward. Cassian, still on his knees, put his mouth on my nipple, and his hands gripped just above my knees as he sucked and flicked his tongue. I gasped and grabbed onto Azriel's thighs as my a shudder wracked through my body- but I kept my eyes locked on Rhys, and the hand that was now speeding up between his legs.

Now Azriel was moving. His lips meandered from my shoulder across and up my throat, and his hands... his hands were sneaking across my waist with gently, stroking fingers. Under my breasts, still beneath Cassian's busy mouth. Down my sides. Over my belly. Lower. He squeezed my hips once before his fingertips drifted between my thighs. The light pressure on my clit had my head dropping back and my knees falling open.

Look at me. The demand flashed through my mind. I pulled my head up, so heavy now that Azriel's fingers were moving. That's it, Rhys said, gentle again. Just keep those gorgeous eyes on me.

So I stared into the bottomless violet, even as my focus faded in and out with the steady, rocking rhythm Azriel was making. The same rhythm Rhys kept with his own hand. The realisation brought a gush of wetness between my legs, and Azriel moaned softly behind me as his fingers slid through it.

Cassian stood then, and his hips were level with my face. He brought his cock into his hand, and now the tip was at my lips. For a moment I just stared. Cassian was thicker than Azriel, in every part of his body, it seemed. There was something intimidating about it but also... very sexy as well. I opened my mouth, and Cassian placed the head of himself on my tongue.

Cassian's groan was deep and rolling, as he slid up and down. I closed my mouth over him and sucked as he pulled out, and then moved forward to take him as deep in as I could. Cassian's eyes closed as his hand slid around the back of my neck, and as I started to speed my pace, Azriel matched it with the movements of his hand on my clit. My moan was muffled in my full mouth.

Then Rhys coughed, and we all paused. Azriel was the first to move, standing up so I was pushed off his lap, and then turning me to the side before dropping to the floor behind me. Cassian took a step to the side too, and now Rhys' view of me was unobstructed once more. I resumed my work on Cassian, concentrating on breathing through my nose and flicking my tongue over his head.

It meant I was distracted, and taken by surprise when Azriel put his hands on my ass and licked right up the core of me from behind.

I pitched forward, grabbing onto Cassian's hips for stability, and choking slightly as his cock was pushed further back into my throat. I had to take him out of my mouth, and just brace against him for a moment as Azriel continued to slide his tongue into me, and stars burst before my eyes. Then Cassian was tapping his cock against my lips and I opened for him. I eased myself back and forth, pumping Cassian in my mouth but also rocking against Azriel's tongue. Cassian's head lolled back, and his fingers slid back into my hair. I opened my eyes, and looked sideways at Rhys.

It was too much. Azriel's mouth building me up. Cassian filling me with the thickness of him. Rhys staring right at me as his hand moved steadily up and down his beautiful hardness. The four of us, moving together, slicked with heat and sweat and sex.

My knees started to shake as I stood there, bent over, and my release started to trickle down my spine. My mouth salivated over Cassian's cock and made a dripping mess of it. But despite having much, much more than I had ever had at one time, I knew I couldn't come like this. Not without him.

Rhys, I begged silently. Rhys, please.

In what seemed like a single, fluid motion, Rhys had stood and crossed the floor toward us. Cassian and Azriel withdrew as soon as he approached, automatically deferring to their High Lord.

Rhys sat down on the floor, his back against the low wall. He pulled me into his lap, and for a minute I was relieved to be back in his arms, all of home to me. I took a deep breath, recovering slightly from the overwhelm of having the two other males all over me.

And then Rhys lifted my hips and sat me down on his hard cock.

Wet as I was from Azriel's tongue and the heat of the steam room, I came all the way down around him, and a loud, wanton sound escaped from my lips. Rhys waited for me to adjust, then started moving beneath me, and suddenly I was right on track for that orgasm. My eyes shuttered and my jaw dropped open as he thrust in and out of me. Then Cassian lay down on his stomach and sucked my clit into his mouth, and at the same time Azriel lowered his cock to my lips, not as thick but possibly longer than Cassian had been. I tried to move my head for him, but I was fast losing control of my muscles.

Rhys smoothed my hair back as he fucked up into me, and my head fell back against his chest. Since I couldn't move, Azriel started pumping himself in my mouth. Rhys' hands squeezed over my breasts, and Cassian's tongue flicked over my clit the way I had done over his head before. I was dimly aware that he had started jacking his own cock in his hand.

How does it feel, Feyre? Rhys asked silently. I could barely comprehend him. How does it feel to be fucked three times over like this? To have all these males, wanting you so badly? I tried to reply, but I couldn't even form words in my mind. All I could do was whimper down the bond, and Rhys fucked me harder. I was strung out like a taught bow, and started to seriously doubt I could survive this.

Behind me, I felt Rhys' attention shift.

"Azriel," he said, "you can come now." He slowed his hips and ground into me in circles, instead. It had me wound even tighter. "Come on her chest, Shadowsinger."

I was so caught up in my own pleasure that I was only now recognising the taste of precum on my tongue, and just as I did, Azriel pulled out, grabbed himself with his right hand and shot hot, white cream right over my breasts. It dribbled down over Rhys' fingers.

"For winning the snowball fight," Rhys said. "Congratulations."

Azriel slumped onto the bench, and watched the remaining three of us.

"And you, Feyre?" Rhys said. "Would you like to come, too?" "Yes," I babbled. "Gods yes." "Well," Rhys said to Cassian. "You heard her."

And then Rhys was kneeling up, keeping himself inside me, and pulling me up with him. Cassian had to shift upward too, and kept his tongue moving in this new position.

Now, upright but on our knees, Rhys could get an angle that meant he was that much deeper inside me. He pulled almost all the way out, then plunged in to the hilt, over and over while Cassian kept up the pace over my clit and the stubble of his chin added extra sensation as his jaw moved.

"Go on Feyre," Rhys said, breathless now. "Come for me. Come right between me and Cassian." No sooner were the words said than my climax ripped through me, the two males holding me up because there was no way I could hold myself. I shuddered hard against them, the intensity that had been threatening to ruin me this whole time finally breaking like so many ocean waves. Through the aftershocks, I watched as Cassian came jerkily in his hand without a sound.

As my body finally stopped shaking, Cassian rolled over and closed his eyes. His head rested against Azriel's foot, and although I was sure no one could fall asleep that fast, that's exactly what it looked like.

"My turn," Rhys breathed.

He let me down so I was on all fours, gripped my hips in his hands, and started pounding into me with no mercy. I thought I was spent, but my body reacted the way it always did to Rhys. I didn't see my second climax coming, but as Rhys knocked that spot inside me over and over, the orgasm hit me like a sledge hammer.

I came so hard I barely noticed Rhys coming, slamming into me from behind and breaking apart inside of me until it was running down the backs of my legs.

We dropped to the floor together, Rhys pulling me into his arms and my head onto his chest. With a glance, his magic cleaned us up and then we just lay there, breathing in the steam. My leg was draped over Cassian's, and he was indeed now asleep and snoring. Azriel was dozing off, too.

"I don't think you're supposed to fall asleep in a steam room," I said to no one in particular. I turned to look at Rhys. "Should we try to get everyone back into the cottage?"

"In a second," Rhys replied, his lips on my temple.

So I closed my eyes too, snuggled into his chest, and let the heat settle over all of us like a blanket.

****

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111

MASTERLIST

[semperintrepida]

100% Relative Humidity

Kassandra had just finished inspecting the fenceline along the back forty when she saw the flash of red — not the orange-red of fire or the arterial red of blood, but the deep bright red of ripe berries, the kind that caught the eye and made the mouth water with imagined sweetness. The berries stood out against a backdrop of Kermit-green leaves the size of her hand, and she grinned with recognition: thimbleberries. Kyra's favorite.

Perfect. She'd been daydreaming about Kyra all day. Kyra, bent over the kitchen table. Kyra, pressed against the bookshelves downstairs. Kyra, splayed across their linen sheets, her skin dusky with arousal, whispering—

Soon. She'd have Kyra in her hands soon enough. She dug out a handkerchief and set to picking, despite the cloudy skies threatening rain, and she was careful to keep from damaging the fragile fruit as she placed them into the sling of fabric. All sorts of berries thrived in Oregon, but the thimbleberry had resisted all attempts at cultivation. Too wild, too graceful to tame, it carried its nature within its delicate flavor. All other berries paled in comparison.

A big handful was all she risked picking — too many in a pile and they'd crush themselves — and then she journeyed through the woods back to the house she and Kyra had built on a hillside overlooking a hollow in the Coast Range, in one of the last stands of wild forest left after the timber companies had clearcut every mountainside and replanted them with nothing but Douglas fir.

There were Doug firs here, yes, but also western red cedars, hemlocks, spruce, and pines, and she'd even found a few Pacific yews scattered across the acreage. After a career of trying to save forests from wildfire, she'd finally gotten some trees of her own.

Raindrops pattered the grass around her as she knocked the sides of her boots against the post at the bottom of the stairs up to the house. Even in Oregon it was rare to see rain so early in August.

Inside the mudroom, the door to the kitchen was wide open, and she shed her boots without making a sound. Kyra was standing at the kitchen sink, humming as she cleaned a paintbrush, and Kassandra crept up behind her, silent in her sock-covered feet. She carefully avoided the squeaky floorboard near the woodstove, then slid her body against Kyra's, pinning her against the counter so she couldn't turn around and deck her after being startled.

"What—" she gasped, then blew out a breath of exasperation. "Did you have to scare me?"

Kassandra smirked. "You'll forgive me, 'cause I have a present for you," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"Close your eyes and open your mouth."

Kyra did. No hesitation. And Kassandra rewarded her with one of the thimbleberries.

A moment later, she turned around as far as Kassandra's hips let her, her face beaming with delight. "They're finally ripe?"

Kassandra smiled and nodded.

Kyra had a smudge of dark green paint above her brow and another under her chin. "We need to go picking."

"Yep." She held another berry to Kyra's lips. "Maybe tomorrow. Rain's starting up."

Kyra sucked Kassandra's finger into her mouth along with the berry, and she flicked her tongue against the pad of fingertip she'd captured, her warmth erupting into heat. Then she set Kassandra free, gifted her a silky smile, and turned back to the sink.

Kassandra's heart revved up, valves opening wide, the pump coming online. She set the berries on the counter. "Are you done for the day?"

"Yeah." Kyra flicked the brush, the water in the sink milky with paint. She'd spent all day working in her studio. It was once the old machine shed, and they'd knocked out the wall that faced the valley and put in floor-to-ceiling windows. If Kassandra knew mountains and forests by the miles she'd walked across them, Kyra knew how to capture them with paint, in large-scale landscapes of rocky crags and misty woods and still waters.

Ten years they'd been together, as Kassandra worked her way up from her first Hotshot crew to leading a crew of her own, and Kyra began making a name for herself with her paintings. Ten years, but they'd spent much of it apart for months at a time, as Kassandra's crew shipped out to fight fire from Washington to New Mexico. She'd even gone to Australia a couple of times.

There was nothing else like it, the way a wildfire moved like a living thing, how it could be benevolent when contained, or demonic when left to its own devices. And she'd loved her work: the camaraderie of her crew, the challenge of 16-hour shifts over days and nights, the satisfaction of a fire contained. She'd even loved the danger.

But a couple years back, when that deadfall had caught her and nearly taken her arm off above the elbow, Kyra had begged her to quit if her arm didn't come back right.

Her arm healed, almost good as new. She'd always been good at that.

But she still quit anyway.

The wildfires were bigger now, the terrain more rugged, the seasons longer. She used to work for six months at a stretch; now she could work almost year-round if she wanted to. But every shift was a gamble of life and limbs, and Kyra had already spent years waiting for her at home, dreading every phone call.

It was time. Her life was no longer hers alone to risk, not if she wanted to spend a good long chunk of it with Kyra, and she needed her limbs, to do things like slip her hand inside the waistband of Kyra's trousers, to slide along the curve of Kyra's ass, to find the source of Kyra's heat. She'd always been good at that, too.

Kyra was damp and only a little swollen. Disappointing. "You didn't think about me at all today, did you?" she whispered into Kyra's ear, a pout in her voice, milking it for all it was worth.

Kyra's ass pushed back against Kassandra. "I... had to focus." She'd been finishing up a painting, the canvas almost as tall as Kassandra, bound for some rich man's house up in the San Juans. The sale would pay their property taxes for the year.

She'd been working so hard lately. She deserved a reward.

That was something Kassandra could give her. "How about focusing on this?" she said, and she slid her fingers close to Kyra's clit, close, but not quite touching, and grinned when Kyra dropped the paintbrush into the sink and pressed her palms into the countertop.

"Fuck," Kyra said, her voice quivering, and soon her muscles were quivering too, as Kassandra's fingertip set a fireline around her clit and Kyra's body answered with wet, sticky heat.

"Patience, love."

Kyra's laugh was short and incredulous. "Patience? That's rich, coming from—"

She slipped two fingers inside and stole the rest of the thought, and Kyra gasped and rocked her hips in reflex. Kassandra leaned forward and pinned Kyra harder up against the counter, and she buried her face into Kyra's hair, breathing in the toasty scent of her, warm and familiar and perfect...

Then she heard Kyra's voice, saying, "How long can you hold out, really," the burr of it vibrating into her own chest and lodging there as Kyra clenched her muscles tight around Kassandra's fingers.

"Sounds like a challenge," Kassandra said, and her free hand brushed Kyra's hair aside to expose her neck, stroked across her solid shoulder and bicep and forearm down to her hand, and their fingers entwined as Kassandra bent and started branding hot kisses into the arc of her neck. And sometimes it wasn't a kiss — it was the sear of raked teeth, or the burn of suction, Kassandra's wants flaring against her surface.

Oh, how she wanted. The heat in her belly burned along her veins, like fire spreading through tree roots under the forest floor. She wanted to fuck Kyra hard until she came, then fuck her again and again. But the gauntlet had been thrown. How long can you hold out?

Now Kyra was trembling and panting as Kassandra worked her up with short, teasing strokes that climbed but never peaked. But as rarely as Kyra ever begged out loud, her body always did it for her, her mouth falling open, her thighs spreading wide to expose how fucking soaked she was.

Oh, how Kyra wanted, too.

She was so wet that she ran down Kassandra's fingers, pooling in the palm of her hand. Ready and willing. And so Kassandra smiled, flexed her fingers, and...

Stopped.

Outside, it was raining hard enough for fat droplets to splash in through the open window. Kassandra pulled her hand away, her heartbeat doubling up at Kyra's whimpers of frustration, and she reached across the sink and tugged the window closed.

Her hands on Kyra's hips, firm, pulling her around so they stood face to face. A kiss as she loosened buttons, tugged trousers down. And then she lifted Kyra up to sit on the edge of the counter next to the sink, and Kyra stared at her, breathless and flickering.

She ran her hand through Kyra's slick heat, eased the tips of her fingers inside. Kyra sighed and her thighs spilled open wider. Wanting more. God, she was beautiful this way.

Then Kassandra leaned closer so their foreheads touched, and Kyra lifted her arms and circled them around Kassandra's neck, and they breathed each other in, and Kassandra closed her eyes and listened to the surge and splash of her own blood.

"Kassandra?"

"Hmm?"

"If you don't do something in the next two seconds, you're sleeping in the studio tonight."

Kassandra played dumb. "Oh, was there something you wanted?"

Kyra rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious?" She always had an attitude when she was being done to.

"Something like this?" Kassandra asked innocently. And she stroked deep deep inside, easily, languidly, until Kyra tilted her head back and let out a moan in perfect counterpoint to the rain drumming against the roof.

Kassandra was retired now. She had all the time in the world, and she made sure Kyra knew it, knew that the stamina that had powered Kassandra up and down mountains while carrying fifty pounds of gear and a chainsaw was now going to keep Kyra right on the edge of orgasm as long as Kassandra wanted.

Rain on the roof, dripping from the eaves, soaking the earth, the air scented with dark rich soil and the musk of need as they moved outside of time. "Oh god," Kyra said at some point, as she wriggled on the countertop, eyes closed, arms a circle of tension around Kassandra's neck. She was close, too close. Kassandra pulled back. Slower now. Not so deep. Feel Kyra quivering around her fingers, feel Kyra want.

All Kyra had to do was say please. She knew it, always had. But she was stubborn, so stubborn that it gave her secret away.

"You love it when I do this," Kassandra said, and then she leaned forward and kissed Kyra, helping herself to that sumptuous mouth while her fingers kept moving in the rhythms of build-up and denial. "I haven't been taking care of you well enough, if you could go all day without thinking about me."

"'s not true."

"Maybe I should wake you up every morning like this." Her fingertips sought the deepest place, that soft, hidden spot, and she lavished it with gentle attention until Kyra was writhing against her. "Work you up so you're just about to come, and then... stop." And she stilled her fingers to match her words.

Kyra buried her face into the side of Kassandra's neck, shuddering into her in long, rolling waves.

"You'd think about me then, hmm?"

Kyra groaned into her skin.

"I like this idea."

Kyra lifted her head and stared at her, eyes dark as loam and filled with pure, naked wanting. Her lips parted, and her mouth moved soundlessly as she breathed, showing flashes of tongue that made Kassandra's clit burn. Later. They'd plenty of time for that too.

Kassandra smiled. "So remember this part," she said, and then she fucked Kyra for real.

It was glorious, the way Kyra arched her back in offering, the way the muscles in her neck and arms corded as she held on tight, the way she cried out with the fierceness of a hawk as she came. She rippled around Kassandra's fingers, her pleasure imprinting itself into Kassandra's skin, and Kassandra pulled her close, held her as she trembled and caught her breath.

"Fuck," Kyra whispered.

"I was planning to," Kassandra said, and she scooped Kyra up from the counter and carried her in her arms.

"Oh yes. More," Kyra said, smiling her slow, silky smile. "But this time in bed."

Kassandra was already on her way.

Part of the Heat Index...

[sky-arcobaleno]

The Bouloo Homestead

They say home is where the heart is. But what is home if the heart is haunted by the past?

I went of a description spree really. 

The Homestead Exterior:

Built of Southern Red Oak, the Bouloo Homestead stands at a gorgeous height of 28 ft. tall - Each story (2) being about 11 ft. tall.

With cedar wood shingles, a second-story balcony, and a full-coverage covered porch, the homestead is perfect for large families and beautiful pictures.

The full-coverage covered porch is made of the same Southern Red Oak as the rest of the house. However, the railings of the porch are made of wrought iron with a design similar to blooming wild flowers - a different flower for every support beam captured section {no section/flower is the same}

The Homestead’s First/Ground Level:

When you come in from the driveway, using the front yard’s gravel path, you enter the foyer using the half-glass, two-vertical panelled Oak door. You noticed how the doro had a half glass panel on each side, a flower design engraved in the glass on the door and panels. Yet, you can’t identify the flower.

Entering the foyer, your shoes hit wood hard flooring. It is Oak wood, with a gray finish. Taking your shoes off, you hop the one step and enter the living room, or as your Gam Gam called it - the Great Room.

You pad along the hard flooring and, in passing, look at the hearth. Encompassing the fireplace are heavy stones found from within the nearby woods. A fond smile appears as your eyes travel up the fireplace. The coarse rocks went up the ceiling of the first floor, through the second, and finally stopped on top of the roof, where a square copper-based chimney cap was mounted to keep away the elements from the fire below. Then you looked towards the road-side, where a window made of two double-hung and a picture frame was laid. Its view of the front yard meadow forces happy memories to your mind. Returning to the fireplace, you catch the sight of two more double-hung windows, one on either side. You forgot how much your Gam Gam liked the natural sunlight.

Returning to your tour, you look up right before you enter the kitchen. There, the upper floor’s wooden railing stood, protecting the top from the bottom. Your eyes gazed to your left. Behind the wall there were the stairs leading up.

Entering the kitchen, your feet remained on gray oak flooring. Examining the kitchen, you saw how there was a snack bar in place of the dining area. It was about 4 ft. tall, made of cedar wood with a wooden top. Passing the snack bar into the appliances zone, you raised an eyebrow at the MayTag logo. Your father had kept his word. Over the farmhouse sink was an awning window that extended outside. You followed the wooden countertop all the way to the refrigerator, where just a few feet away, stood the other outside entrance. It was a two-lite patio door, fully made of glass, with a white wood finish. Pulling the full curtain over the door, you turned towards your left, where the utility room was. It was sealed by a full-wood door.

Uninterested, you turned a bit more to your left and took the flight of wooden stairs up. Holding onto the wooden railing as you went.

On the Second Floor, you arrive at the loft, or study, as Gam Gam called it. There is a small entrance to the attic and the familiar wooden railing that looks down upon the Great Room. In the loft, there is a tiny pocket where a casement push-out window lays. Looking upon the wooden forest behind the homestead.

Walking along the gray oak flooring, you reach the master suite of the house. The master bedroom holds a walk-in closet with a single sliding panel door, a storage area pocket that also holds an attic entrance, a balcony, and of course, the master bath. You pass the king-size bed and open the glass doors with a simple push.

Amazed, you understand the balcony’s beauty. The door looks like a regular door, until you push in the middle, where it splits away, revealing to glass half-doors. Like a princess door. Your fingers trace the abnormal glass design. Unlike the flowers that were at the foyer’s doors, or the floral patterns of the covered porch railings, a mighty dragon soaring towards the sky was encrusted here. Turning away, you reach the edge of the balcony, where wrought iron railings guarded the fall. The design here was also atypical. Three sleeping dragons held up the railing, but encased each of the dragon was an empty case. As if something is supposed to be there, yet nothing was. Pushing away the urge to search, you returned inside, locking the balcony’s doors behind you.

Entering the master bathroom, the oak flooring finally changed to glazed ceramic tiles. Your anxiety lessened at the sight of simple glazed ceramic tiles. Looking at the shower, a hazed glass panel answered your unasked question. Looking to your right, the tub big enough for three hushed your fear. You would definitely fit here. Unlike that tiny apartment one. Shaking your head you passed the wide glass mirror that stood above the double sink with a wooden countertop. At least Gam Gam kept the theme through the whole homestead. Leaving the master bathroom, you looked at the tiny pocket where another double-hung window perched. Your gut dropped however, as you took a few steps towards it. This pocket was...no ordinary pocket you recalled. Sea-sunk memories arose, but you immediately left the room in search of present memories. The Homestead was both pleasant and unpleasant.

Returning to the ground level, you passed through the great room and foyer, entering the forest bedroom on your left. Immediately, your mind went to a happier place. This was your old, childhood bedroom. The peeling wallpaper of soft flowers was the tell-tale sign. You looked at the window facing the road. It was the bigger of the two the room had. This window, a glass block divided 2x3, was covered with a yellow-stained white sheer curtain. Turning to the other window, your heart seemed to fall beat in fondness. A tiny clay model of a little girl stood, holding a basket. Your child-self’s remodel of Red Riding Hood. She stood alone on the sill of the storm window Wiping away your tears, you left your childhood bedroom and went to the bathroom.

It, unlike the recent bedroom, was still in kinder condition. The single-person tub and shower was shielded by a plain tan shower curtain. The single sink, with a fracturing mirror, had rusting stains. Ceramic glazed tiles similar to the master bath reflected the soft white light bulb. With a brief reflection in the fractured glass, you see the reflection of childhood you. Carelessly smiling with a blue thumb print of her cheek and orange paint smeared down the right eye to her neck. Then, with another blink, she was gone. You left, turning off the light bulb.

Finally, you stood in front of the final bedroom. Your hand sat coldy and sweaty on the silver door knob. To open meant accepting. To keep close meant a good night’s rest. Taking a few minutes to breathe, recuperate, and settle racing thoughts, you grabbed the door knob and turned.

Inside the final bedroom, the same scene appeared like it did some many years ago. A full twin bed, with camo bedspread, a wildlife wallpaper, blocking sunlight from the two storm windows on either outside-facing wall, was a tree-canopy green curtain. At the bedside, a chest with a keyhole lock stood gathering dust . Feeling the chill of the hardwood flooring through your socks, you decide to leave the room without a final glance. It was like a deep cut was reopened and sea salt was rubbed into the squishy, bloody flesh in a hard, pressing motion.

Finishing with the homestead’s interior tour, you left out the foyer’s entrance. Now on the covered porch, you walked with your fingertips grazing the wrought iron railing. With the creaking of the wood boards beneath, you stopped at the back of the porch. Where a three-step stairwell led down to the grand backyard before the tall grass bloomed into the treeline, marking the forest’s turf. You stared at the mighty trees, who watched the homestead for a solid 6 generations. Without conscious thinking, you have reached the backyard stairway. Yet, it was the way the forest seemed to phase between real and magical that stopped you from taking the three steps. Your body was telling you that danger lurked within the wooden world only feet away. Turning your back on the forest, you returned to the road side of the homestead. Walking down the three-step stairwell, you walk back towards the gravel driveway. There, in front of your car, is the three-car garage.

It is made of Southern Oak Red wood as well, but the garage reflects the natural wood beauty. With a dark white finish and dark red wooden garage doors, the garage reflected the grandeur of the homestead. Each garage door had a sunrise window in the center and meticulously burned into each garage door was a name. The furthest left, ending with the symbol for earth, was the name Yia Bouloo. In the middle garage door, with a fire symbol, was Xiou Bouloo. Finally, the final door held the name Zaly Bouloo, written in a simple way, with the symbol of air at the end. You gave a soft, sadden smile before walking over to the driver’s door and entered your hand-me-down vehicle.

The Bouloo Homestead, a place of joyous memories and momentous griefs. As you back in reverse and quickly change to drive, you take a final glance in the rearview mirror. The Homestead stayed lit and happy. As if awaiting your next return. Yet, the way the shadowy forest rose behind it made you nervous. You couldn’t remember the last time the forest clung to the building. As if trying to hide secrets you should know. Yet, you didn’t know these secrets. At least not yet.

[otonymous]

Afternoon Delight (MLQC Lucien - NSFW)

Description:  Your afternoon date with Lucien takes an unexpected turn. Warnings:  NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Spoilers for the “Afternoon Date” with Lucien, NOT for the main plot Word Count:  2732 words (~14 mins of smut) AO3: read here Author’s Notes:  I recently started playing Mr Love: Queen’s Choice and am now completely addicted to this game.  I absolutely love it, especially Lucien’s character.  So in order to quench my Lucien thirst, you know I had to write some smut. This story is a variation on Lucien’s “Afternoon Date.”  The lines marked with an asterisk were taken directly from the game.  Please keep in mind that at the time of writing, I have only reached Chapter 5 in the game, so apologies to all the readers who have advanced much further if Lucien seems out of character.  Happy reading!

Tagging: Fellow Lucien lovers @alva-radio @tomeyooo

And other lovely readers: @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons, @artemira-sengoku, @dear-mrs-otome, @pseudofaux, @fieryanmitsu, @otomediary, @suzi-q-uinn, @kitty-kat-ty, @saizoswifey, @belxsar, @anyakane, @friedchikyorice, @whalebubblez, @selenecrawford, @akiza-hades-rose, @rubyleeray, @heavenzfiend, @duerme07, @classy-mc, @dani677, @kitsune-mana, @azuchi-princess

All characters & Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex.

It was wholly irrational, the anger that had you seeing red when you caught a glimpse of the girl in his office.  She had the annoying habit of twirling her hair around one finger, biting onto her perfectly glossed lower lip as she stood just a bit too close to Lucien for your taste.

Yes, it was irrational indeed, considering how everything about his body language indicated in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t interested in the slightest.

Yet somewhere in the back of your mind, you entertain the possibility that it wasn’t red that you saw, but the vivid, verdant green of jealousy.  As much as Lucien remained an unreadable mystery, you could not deny the irresistible sway of his attraction, whether or not he was aware of the power he exerted over you.

Sharp eyes with their fathomless depths.  Baritone laughter, all at once smoky and sweet like burnt caramel.  White lab coat stretched over the broad musculature of back and shoulders.

Everything about the man was mesmerizing.

“Don’t be so afraid of me,” he had asked of you that day while seeing you home from the shoot.

His request had given you pause then as it does now, hiding behind a pillar outside his office like an overgrown child.  Was it fear that Lucien had sensed in you that day?  You weren’t sure at the time, but the unpleasant emotions currently churning in your gut shed new light on your predicament.

No, you did not fear Lucien.  Quite the contrary.  In this day and age where courtship was a game of smokescreens and ulterior motives, it was rare for someone to be as upfront with their feelings as Lucien was.  While refreshing, you never really knew what to say in response, so preoccupied were you with hiding the heat that crept onto your cheeks whenever he behaved that way.

Perhaps the only thing that gave you pause was how deeply in love you would inevitably fall with Lucien once you owned up to the truth.  And if your reaction to seeing that girl’s attempt to flirt with him were any indication, you were already in way over your head.

So much so that you it took you a moment to realize you were crushing the box of cream puffs in your hands, a gift you had made to thank him for helping with the shoot.  You gasp audibly, quickly relaxing your grip while hoping its contents were still intact.

“And who do we have here?”

You startle at the sound of Lucien’s voice by your ear and quickly look up to see the man leaning against the pillar, the striking features of his handsome face hovering mere inches away from yours.  And in the background, your peripheral vision catches the girl shuffling away from his office, head hung in dejection.

“Oh, Professor Lucien!  What a coincidence!  What are you doing here?”*

Stupid!  Stupid!  You didn’t realize how dumb you sounded until the words already left your mouth.

“This is my research centre…of course I’d be here.  A “coincidence” indeed.”*

“I…I…,”* stammering, you briefly glance around for a hole big enough to crawl into and found, much to your dismay, that there were none.  Luckily, ever the gentleman, Lucien saves you from your own embarrassment.

“And since it’s such a coincidence, why don’t you come in?”*

Straightening up to his full height, the man gestures towards his office with an outstretched arm, the other falling around your shoulder to gently but insistently usher you inside.

The door locked behind him with an audible click, but you were already too enthralled with the view of the impeccably landscaped campus from his office to notice.  

“Take a seat.”

Despite the soft tone of his voice, there was no mistaking the command, and you were suddenly hyperaware of the subtle notes of musk and cedar wood in his cologne as Lucien perched on the edge of his desk, long legs so close they almost touched your knees.

“Shall I assume that part of the reason for your visit pertains to that box in your hands?”  

“Oh, yes!  These are cream puffs that I made to thank you for your help…”

Your words dropped off as you lifted the lid to proffer the desserts to Lucien, so mortified were you to find that they did not survive your overzealous death grip from earlier.  The battered puffs lay in a messy pool of cream.

“I-I’m so sorry!  I didn’t realize I crushed them!  I swear I’ll make it up to you another way!”

Lucien stared at the contents, his face an expressionless mask.

Great.  First, he finds you hiding behind a pillar like a stalker.  And now you can’t even manage to deliver cream puffs intact!  Surely you must’ve been mistaking Lucien’s kindness for more amorous advances…

The sight of him dipping his index finger into the cream and bringing the elegantly tapered tip to his lips brought an abrupt end to your internal monologue, for you found it entirely impossible to focus on anything else besides how incredibly...erotic he looked.  And in the back of your mind, you wondered if Lucien could see the flush rising to your cheeks as surely as the heat gathered at your core.

“Don’t apologize.  It’s delicious.  Care to try?”

That finger dipped back into the box to reemerge with a dollop of cream.  Bending forward, he brought his finger so close to your lips you could smell the fragrant sweetness.  You shifted in your chair, feeling your nipples harden beneath the lace of your bra as you shyly peeked your tongue out to seek that flavour, licking at his finger like a kitten lapping milk.

Lucien swallowed, and your eyes were drawn to the bobbing motion of his prominent Adam’s apple, silently wondering how he would react if you were to run your tongue up and down the length of his throat instead.

“What do you think?  The flavour is…rather tantalizing, isn’t it?”

Your eyes flit back to his face, breath catching in your throat to feel the pad of his finger tracing the contours of your lips.  And when the tip pushed insistently into the warmth of your mouth to gently stroke your tongue, you are so surprised you cannot help but nod obediently.  Lucien smiles, eyes intense as he says,

“Make sure to suck it clean.  We don’t want to waste a drop of something so precious, now do we?”  

Has his voice always sounded so low and husky?

You could already feel your back arching, instinctively lifting your chest towards Lucien.  Then suddenly, he pulls back, finger leaving the pucker of your lips with a slight pop to break the spell.  Or so you think, until that same digit disappears back into his own mouth for a moment before he adds,

“The taste is dangerously addicting.  I’m afraid my appetite for this sweet treat may prove insatiable.”

You press your thighs together beneath your skirt, the damp satin of your panties clinging so uncomfortably to your skin you wished for nothing more than to be rid of them.  Unable to withstand the heat of his gaze any longer, you push up off your chair and wander over to the windows, feigning interest in the sight of the campus to take your mind off the question of how well-endowed Lucien was beneath his dress pants.

“You have a beautiful office.  I love this view.”

You cringed at the sound of your voice, so meek and strangely foreign to your own ears.  And from behind, you heard Lucien approach to stand much closer to you than that girl in his office ever hoped to achieve with him.

“Don’t be so afraid of me.”

There was that line again, except this time it was delivered against the shell of your ear.  Your knees shook so badly you were afraid you would buckle and fall.  Seeming to sense this, Lucien brought his hands up to your bare arms, palms running soothingly up and down their lengths as his fingers grazed the capped sleeves of your silk blouse.

“I would never do anything to hurt you.”

His whisper is so soft, so sincere, that you cannot help but turn your head to look at him.  And when you find that gorgeous face a hair’s breadth away, close enough for you to inhale the last breath of his exhalation, your lips naturally find his, open and ready.

Mint and a hint of sugar.  The taste of Lucien was delectable and you became ravenous, tongue sliding against his in a fervent exploration of his mouth.

He responded in kind, his kiss masterfully seductive in a way you had never experienced before — intense one moment and gentle the next, drawing back and pressing forth in a teasing dance that enticed you to give chase after those lips which inevitably drew into a smile once caught.

Solid chest at your back, his hands inch towards your stomach, fingertips tracing languid circles on the swell of your hips before they make their way below the waistband of your pencil skirt, the silken slide of the blouse against your skin as it came untucked leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Ahh, Lucien…”

His name rolls off your tongue as his hands roam hot on the skin beneath your blouse, seeking the knowledge of every dip and curve.  And when his fingers tug on the cups of your bra to gently knead the supple flesh within, he presses you up against the window, Lucien’s arousal hard and evident as he whispers into the nape of your neck,

“Do you trust me?”

You were well aware that this may become a decision you regret days or even weeks later.  You had only recently met Lucien, and while you knew of his professional activities, the subject of his personal life was as much of a mystery as the man himself.

Yet you couldn’t deny that instinctively, you did trust Lucien, that you believed him wholeheartedly when he said he would never hurt you.  Perhaps it was naïveté, but you also couldn’t deny the fact that every fibre of your being called out for his touch.  There was no stopping this now.

Placing both hands upon the glass to steady yourself in anticipation, you replied,

“Yes.”

With a grip strong and sure, Lucien pulls your hips towards him, hands slowly sliding down the sides of your thighs like viscous honey until they reach the hem of your skirt, dragging it higher and higher to bunch at your waist in haphazard folds.

You watched the students below crisscross the paths of the campus like marching ants, aware of the possibility that all it would take is for one person to look up at that exact moment to see the faint outline of two people embracing before the floor-to-ceiling windows.  You were also aware that the only thing blocking you from the view of passers-by in the hallway was the swell of Lucien’s lab coat.  

But as you quietly moaned to feel his mouth around the lobe of your ear, his long fingers pushing aside damp satin to gather the wetness on your folds before deftly penetrating, you found that your concern with potential witnesses grew smaller and smaller with every curl of his fingers deep within you.

And if you were at all embarrassed by being exposed to the world — panting and clothes disheveled in a way that left little to the imagination — it was nothing compared to how Lucien’s words made you feel.

“Your pussy is gripping onto my fingers so tightly.  I can’t wait to know how you’ll feel clenching around my cock.”

You bite back a moan of disappointment when he pulls his hand away, but then are mesmerized by the sight and sound of him humming in approval as he licks your arousal off his fingers, saying,

“You are indeed quite talented at making the most deliciously sweet cream.”

“Oh my god, Lucien…”

So it was with the man who always knew just the thing to say to throw you off-kilter.  And if your cheeks weren’t inflamed before, they certainly were now.

You heard him chuckle in response, the melodious sound melding with the clink of his belt buckle coming undone and when you could wait no longer, you glanced over your shoulder to see Lucien extricate his cock from his trousers.  Your suspicions were confirmed: the man was incredibly well-endowed, so much so that you wondered about your ability to accommodate him, knowing you were more than willing to try.

Shivering to feel the length of his cock settle between your ass through the flimsy fabric of your underwear, you let Lucien adjust your hips until you are flush against the hard plane of his pelvis.  Then, he pushes aside the crotch of your panties for the second time, only to introduce something much larger than his fingers.

Your breath fogs up the glass to obscure the view before you as you try to relax, feeling so incredibly stretched as Lucien slides into you, your arousal making a complete mess of your underwear each time the man pulled out only to bury himself even deeper inside.

“Does this feel okay?”

Incapable of finding your voice in between pants as Lucien settles into a hard and fast rhythm, you merely nod.  All the same, you try to lower the volume of your gasps, uncertain of how soundproof the walls in his research institute were.  You could only hope that no one in the vicinity could hear the telltale rhythm of skin meeting skin, or the undeniable fluid squelch of pleasure.

But then Lucien’s hand snakes from your hip to your pussy, and you look down to see the sleeve of his white lab coat before you feel his fingers circle your clit, the sensation pushing you over the edge until your knees tremble and you’re biting into your fist, desperately trying to suppress a scream as you violently come undone.

You clench down hard around Lucien and it isn’t long before he grunts softly into your hair, yanking down the back of your panties as he withdraws only for you to feel the heat of his release paint the cheeks of your backside.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.  You have a great ass.”  

Lucien chuckles as he grabs a box of tissues from his desk to wipe you clean.  Clearing your throat, you say,

“I have to admit, this was not what I was expecting when I came to deliver the cream puffs…”

You turn to face him in the midst of tucking your blouse back into your readjusted skirt.  A look of uncertainty passes his face, and for some reason, it makes him seem even more endearing.  

“…But it definitely made for a nice surprise.”

His lips curve into a smile, mirroring yours.  He watches intently as you suddenly start, hiking up your skirt again to pull your panties down and gingerly step out of them in your heels.

“No use holding onto these now,” you say as you throw the damp mess into the trash can beneath Lucien’s desk.

“You’re leaving without wearing any underwear?”  His brows are raised.  You shrug, secretly amused by how disconcerted he seems to be at the prospect.

“I don’t live that far from here.”

Lucien lifts a finger, motioning for you to wait as reaches for the phone on his desk.  

“Hello?  It’s Professor Lucien.  Could you please cancel my two o’clock lecture and reschedule it for Thursday?  Thank you.”

You blink, bewildered by this turn of events as Lucien steps away from his desk, grabbing his coat from a nearby rack.

“Lucien, what are you doing?”

Closing the door to his office behind him, he places an arm around your shoulder as he leads you to the elevator.

“Giving you a lift.  There’s no way I can let you wander the streets without wearing underwear.”

“You do realize that we just flashed the entire university campus from your office window?  Besides, it’s not like anyone will know I’m going commando.”

“I will know…”

Ding! The doors of the elevator slide open to reveal an empty car.  And as you both step inside, a mischievous light glows in Lucien’s eyes as he continues,

“…And you can’t expect me to let this opportunity slip by.  What do you say to a nice, long drive?”

Thanks for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[darlinrogue]

"You know,"—Kenny lifts his head, weary, from the window and glimpses Adam, exhausted as he drives through the vacant streets of whatever city he'd managed to drive to without Kenny noticing—"you mentioned a girlfriend before?" An incongruous question, perhaps, but Kenny, truthfully, has wondered often about Adam's sexuality. And at three o'clock in the morning, he and Adam have to stay awake somehow: introspection it is. "Do you, uh, only like women? You don't have to answer—"

Comfort for Sol after the Dec 2. Dynamite We NEED IT

Adam and Kenny

A light waltz rolled from the radio in three-four time. A Strauss, Künstlerleben op. 316, written in 1867, a jovial, ‘gay,’ piece. Interjected into a Vienne at the edge of disaster as Austria crumbled around the carnival city. The song infused with a melancholic melody and yearning string instruments. The decaying nobility dreams of a glory day long past and danced the inevitable fall of their dynasty away. So, explained the smooth voiced disc jockey that introduced the piece with all the confidence of a history nerd who probably got shoved in a locker in high-school. Adam wouldn’t pretend he was smart like that, this station wasn’t his first choice. After five hours in the car they had cycled through: Adam’s playlists, Kenny’s playlist, and every other radio station on air. Thirty minutes into a marathon of Norteña music, Adam cracked first and turned on the benign classical music, played on a public air wave. All just to eke out some variety from the bland monotonous strips of American highway and interstate. Besides, no words, and especially no Spanish that he only half-understood in his current state, meant it required less brain power to process. A resource that was in dwindling supply for Adam. 

Adam tapped his finger against the steering wheel in time with the waltz. Apparently, this was like old fashioned twerking. A dramatic, intimate dance where partners held each other close and danced vigorously. Despite the song being undeniably wonder bread white, Adam found a natural ebb and flow that sparked a desire to move in some way. Bob his head a little bit, tap his foot, all as he nudged the cruise control-up another notch. The car engine revved and the speedometer edged in at a solid eighty miles an hour. With no one else on the road Adam dominated the left lane. It was a pure head rush, breaking the speed limit with no restrictions and no witnesses. All while listening to a playful violin trill. Brights on, illuminating the tall cedar, oaks, and pines, twined with dense underbrush on the sides of the road. The, black, ominous trees walled the interstate, trapping them, forcing them the only way forward. The white and yellow marked pavement extended far into the twisted dark, with hints of gentle turns far off. A couple miles down the road, twin red taillights glowed like angry eyes. The mapping program on his phone noted their exit was next. He compressed the breaks, the cruise control flicked off and Adam coasted onto the ramp. 

Kenny shifted, and the movement drew Adam’s attention for a split second. Kenny sat in shotgun with the chair leaned back. His hands threaded through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. Best as Adam could tell he had spent the past three hours passed out and had not even been roused when Adam smack him for snoring. In a moment or two he was upright and alert, peering-out the window, his curly hair like the silhouette of a mop. Adam explained they were taking a diversion into Knoxville for the sole reason that Adam had to go pee. Kenny muttered his assent. 

Google Maps took them to a beat-up 24/7 gas station at the edge of the city. Moth riddled, flickering and humming, fluorescent lights illuminated the cracked pavement of the parking lot. Lined beneath the front windows was stacks of firewood, an ice machine, and a tire pressure gauge. Adam left Kenny to fill-up the tank while Adam lunged out of the car to make use of the facilities. Inside, an exhausted looking twenty-something attended the counter and her phone. Over the top of the rows of junk food riddled shelves, Adam saw the bathroom. After taking care of his physical needs, on his way-out he perused the aisle while Kenny took his turn in the Powder room. He bough a couple packages of cookies, crackers, and bags of chips. Then, a coffee from himself from a somewhat suspect machine and a bottle of 2% from the fridge, for Kenny. Adam paid at the register and sipped on his caffeine as he stepped-off the curb outside the station. Cars rolled by on the road, whispering with the heated Summer wind. Kenny, already back outside, stretched-out beside the car, his gold hair white-washed by the lights. Sliding into the front seat, Adam offered Kenny the milk on one stipulation: Adam could use it to thin his coffee. It turned-out that he had purchased mud water. Kenny agreed and they were back on the trail, navigating the downtown and suburbia, in search of the road North. The street lights faded, and into this darkness, as Adam waited for a red light to turn green, Kenny began his thought: 

You know. 

Green light, go, Adam hit the gas, and rolled through. For a second, once through the intersection, he glanced at Kenny. In the dark car, lit by the thin dashboard glow, Kenny peered at him, curious, bur not pressing. There was a glimmer in his blue eyes. Adam returned his gaze to the windshield and the passing silver screen of Knoxville scenery. A right took them back onto the highway and Adam merged with the sparse traffic as he processed what Kenny asked him. You mentioned a girlfriend before? Do you only like women? Back on the smooth sailing of the interstate, Adam sunk back in his seat and sought comfort from the shitty coffee. It tasted bitter and yet smoother with the milk. 

“You asked me two questions, there,” Adam observed, lifting a corresponding number of fingers. It’d be easy to only answer one, Kenny wouldn’t force it. He resolved, tongue darting over his chapped lips, to answer both. He reached-out and turned down the radio to but a couple notches. “And uh, well, I guess, the answer to both is it’s complicated.”

“I mean, yeah, these things usually are,” Kenny joked, he leaned back his seat a little bit and propped a foot on the dash. He glanced at the mapping program on Adam’s phone and the oppressive number of hours left, “We got time though, so take as much as you need. Like, I’m just curious is all, and if I keep sleeping in this chair I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow, Piz.”

“Well, to answer the first question,” Adam chuckled. “I did have a girlfriend, once, back in college.”

“Ah, a college sweetheart--” Kenny teased. “That’s classic.”

“Yeah,” Adam chuckled. A fond smile spread on his lips. Like those arrogant, dancing nobles in Vienne, he thought of a time long gone. “We’re still friends, you know, we talk every now and then, meet-up for lunch or something, she’s married now, pregnant, with her first kid.”

“Okay, but that’s all past tense, what happened? Give me the details, man,” Kenny said. He interlaced his hands behind his head, shifting in the car seat. “I mean, if it’s not too hard, or anything.”

Adam shrugged, one shoulder-up to his ear with casual dismissal. Maybe a few years ago it would’ve been 'hard’ but things had changed. He had changed-- or rather, something had changed around him. There was someone else now for him to be heartbroken over. The old stuff were all scars now, not wounds that leaked with the slightest prod. Not like they used to. 

“So, the deal is I went into college with like, two years of credit, yeah?” Adam said, he checked over at Kenny to make sure he was following. “You can imagine this kinda put me in a weird spot. I was a Freshman but also basically a Junior and I was taking the classes in my major right away. I didn’t make a lot of friends that way, though. So, yeah, she was a little older than me and her name was Amanda. Long black hair, dark eyes, kinda short, but pretty, she was an art student, so we met in like this advanced drawing class. And Kenny, holy shit, I have to show you pictures of some of the stuff she does, when we get to the hotel, it’s nuts. Like these hyper realistic watercolor and oil paint portraits, that look even better than the actual thing. She works as a like, a background artist in L.A., now, so she’s legit. Way better than anything I could do.”

Kenny hummed, low in his throat, and Adam took that as a cue to continue.

“So, we met in class, and, over the course of the next semester we got to know each other, really well,” he said. “Like, I was hanging-out in her apartment to do projects and she was hanging-out in my dorm. I moved in with her for my Senior year, after she graduated. She just needed a roommate, you know? And not long after that we just, kinda started dating. I don’t know, it’s-- it’s hard to describe, even now, how I felt about her. Like, just this intensity I never experienced before. I really thought I was sick, actually-- like my stomach hurt. I called my mom and she told me I was a dumbass, and that I had a crush. It’s just that I was never interested in dating in high school, like I talked to girls and stuff, went to prom with one of my friends, but nothing like, you know?” Adam made an almost helpless gesture with his hand.

He rested his palm against his thigh. His other hand guided the steering wheel. Then, real quick, Adam focused on setting-up the cruise control again. If he had to compress the gas for the whole trip, his right hip would be sore as hell by the time they reach their destination. A couple nudges and they were flying at a clean eighty again. Adam took that time to organize his thoughts. Kenny didn’t say a word, but Adam could tell he was waiting for the elaboration.

“I really thought,” Adam murmured, his voice softened, wistful. “That I was going to marry her. Like, I was going to jewlery stores, looking at engagement rings, trying to figure-out how to save-up.”

“What, really?” Kenny asked, he leaned forward in his chair, elbows digging into the arm rest. “Seriously, man?”

“Yeah, we dated for almost two years after I graduated,” Adam said. “I was working as a teacher and she was a freelance artist, it was really great. Of course, I was traveling a lot-- on account of the wrestling thing, and she came to some shows, I don’t think she really got it? Amanda was sensitive, wouldn’t hurt a fly and she didn’t really vibe with fighting. Which, is fine, I was fine with it. I mean she watched these soap operas that I didn’t get, so it was kinda even, you know? But I think all that time away from home didn’t do a lot of good for our relationship. You know I was young, Kenny, like twenty-two? And she-- she got a job in California, and we talked about it, and--”

“Just didn’t work-out, huh?” Kenny asked, voice low. 

Adam shook his head, lips pressing together into a thin line. He still recalled that conversation over the dinning room table. His hands interlaced in front of him, her on the other side, going through the logistics. She was so good at that, planning. That was something they shared in common, overthinking. This move was a dead necessity for her career. Texas just didn’t have the same opportunities that the City of Angels did. Except, Adam was training in Texas, fighting in Texas, teaching in Texas. It was the middle of the school year during his internship. He couldn’t pack-up and leave. The suggestion she came to was obvious but it didn’t make it easy. They break-up, go their separate ways, not try to force all of this to work to the determent of them both. For years Adam cursed himself for agreeing. He believed, as he laid in bed alone and cold, ruminating on his failures, he should’ve fought harder. Fought harder for them. Hung-up on what could’ve and should’ve been. It hurt more when she found a new guy in California. He still went to her wedding and was her best man. Because Adam still loved Amanda and he always would. 

And he was okay with being next to her, because their relationship, their bond, was more important than his wounded pride. 

“Yeah, it didn’t work-out,” Adam agreed. “I was, upset, for a while. A long while, actually, like, I really thought I’d never get another chance like her again, but--”

He paused, and ended the thought there. Amanda was so amazing, so brilliant, so awesome, and funny, and caring and kind, and she loved cats. She picked out local art for their apartment. Yet, Adam also remembered her occasional moods where she just couldn’t be talked to until the storm passed. The way she set her mind on things was sometimes endearing, sometimes frustrating. She wasn’t perfect, but she was great. It was apples-to-oranges, to compare her and Kenny. They were completely different people and Adam loved different things about them-- yet, it was still love. It couldn’t be measured or quantified. The only time he had ever felt this intensity before was with Amanda. He really didn’t think there was another person on this planet who could steal his heart like Amanda did. Then he met Kenny, and fell in love with Kenny.

And whoops, there was at least one other. 

“You know, you live, you grow, you move-on,” Adam said, he shrugged again and nodded to himself. “If we hadn’t split I probably never would’ve gone to Japan, or met you and the Bucks. Or, joined AEW, never been tag-team champion. It’s a real Robert Frost poem, I could be a teacher in L.A. right now, instead of-- well, driving eight hours to Chicago in the middle of the night, but my point stands! I-I imagine you get it, picking between your career and well, sometimes relationships.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get,” Kenny muttered. He looked out the window. His nails scrapped against his jeans. “You know how it was with me and Ibushi. How leaving Japan felt. Especially, after we reconciled after so many years-- but that’s how it is.” He trailed off, leaving the thought behind.

“So, like, were you two ever,” Adam interjected. He glanced over at the same time Kenny did. Adam darted his gaze back to the red, feeling his cheeks heat and rosette. A deep appreciation for the late hour filled him. “I mean, like, I don’t know how to ask this. Were, you and Ibushi, you know, together? Like, together, together. Obviously, it’s not my business, but I’m just, just curious, is all. Like, the Golden Lovers, man? There’s some crazy rumors out there.”

Kenny laughed, a full chuckle that churned Adam’s stomach and yet set his face on fire. That sound made Adam feel warm, he wanted to hear it again desperately. “Yeah, Kota and I dated. We were together for like six years, and yeah, like you, if same-sex marriage was legal in Japan, I would’ve married him.”

It was such an upfront statement. a matter of fact If he could, he would, but the lack of gold ring on Kenny’s left finger told Adam he didn’t. Kenny nodded to himself but the silence lingered, the sentence wasn’t finished. The clock turned over to 3:23 and they passed an exit with bleeding, gold lights, with hotels, restaurants, and street lamps. 

Kenny continued, but his voice was softer and more raw. “But then-- well, I screwed it up. I mean, I really messed-up. It wasn’t like you and your girl, where it was a pretty understanding with a clean break. I didn’t trust him, like I should. I thought he was going to leave me and so, I left first. Then like an idiot, I lashed-out, and ruined everything we built, and it ended. Just. Like. That--” Kenny snapped his fingers-- “We never got back together but, we’re friends again, we made-up, you know that, but the things I did, the things I did to Kota-- it's something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

The night hid Adam’s expression. The darkness was a comfort. It hid the monsters in the back seat. The purr of the engine whispered in the absence of Kenny’s scathing indictment of himself. Like, he was judge, jury, and executioner, of his own tarnished soul. Adam could imagine what Kenny saw. His face in profile, the tree line whipping by the car windows, an impassive, emotionless, and neutral party, listening without comment to Kenny’s story. He wouldn’t  see the slight grimace or twisting of Adam’s lips. Remembering all the shit Cody said about Ibushi. Adam, twisting Ibushi, Kenny’s arms back, while Cody reared with a chair. Holy fuck, was he such an embarrassing idiot, a complete moron, a destructive piece of shit. If Kenny saw the guilt in Adam’s eyes their conversation would screech to a sudden halt. Akin to if Adam slammed the breaks on the car right now. Instead, Adam allowed Kenny to mourn and didn’t derail to his own bullshit. It was the only way he would’ve heard the next bit, whispered into open air. 

“He really was the first man I loved.”

Kenny sighed and leaned back into his seat, defeated, limp. Now, Adam realized, was definitely time to shift gears. Car analogies aside, Kenny couldn’t be left to ruminate. If there was a person who understood how much it sucked to obsess over an old ex, it was Adam Page. 

“So, you’re like, gay?” Adam asked. He placed both of his hands on the wheel. Shifting, he rubbed his fingers over the rubber and plastic, feeling the coarse texture. Sweat pricked his palms and he heard his pulse skip, skip, and then it was off to the races. “That’s cool by the way, I’m totally cool with that, I mean--”

“Close, but actually, I’m bi,” Kenny said. He chuckled and then nudged Adam’s elbow with his hands. The brief, familiar contact enabled Adam to crack a grin. “Bisexual, guys, gals, non-binary pals, it’s all good to me. I know I don’t talk about it a lot. It’s not something I really like to have out there, circulating. It could cause problems in Japan, and it could be a whole thing, but I trust you. We’re partners, and, it’s kinda something I want you to know, actually.”

Adam grinned to himself and nodded along with Kenny points. He straightened in his seat, wiggling his butt back so his shoulders were flush with the chair. With a crick of his neck he popped a vertebrae with a satisfying ‘clunk.’ 

“Yeah, I was, actually going to say,” Adam began, he swallowed. “I uh-- I am too, bi, I mean, like I think I am. I haven’t tested it but, I’m, pretty sure. I haven’t... done anything, with a guy, before? I just have these feelings? Right, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Kenny said, drawing-out the syllable. Adam could hear the smile in his voice. “I know how it is. I know, I get it, it’s all in your chest, right?” Kenny moved his hand over his heart to indicate what he meant. “You see a guy and it all kinda clicks in your brain, same way it does for a girl. I get it.”

“You know I don’t think I’ve ever really told anyone that,” Adam said, a little breathless. 

Kenny shifted and his chair cranked upright. A fleeting, fluttering touch on his left elbow drew Adam’s gaze down. Kenny placed his hand on the center console between them, palm-up. He wiggled his fingers, an expectant invitation. Adam steadied his grip on the steering wheel and wiped his right hand down his jeans to clean the sweat off. He laid his hand in Kenny’s and Kenny interlaced their fingers, then squeezed. Adam wondered if Kenny could feel his stuttering pulse through the connected vital points of their wrists. Or, if he minded that Adam’s hands were damp. Yet, his nerves and troubled thoughts soothed, mostly to a stream of ecstatic proclamations about how he was holding hands with Kenny. 

“I appreciate you being honest, Piz,” Kenny said. “I know it’s hard. Especially, when maybe you don’t have all the answers, but I’m glad you’ve figured some of it out. I don’t think I knew until I was in my twenties-- how about you?”

“Not long,” Adam admitted. Feelings, ideas since he was in high school, but nowadays he was totally certain. he rubbed his thumb over Kenny’s knuckles. Kenny had long, thin fingers, but a strong grip. Adam could feel his coarse callouses. The warmth of his hand. “In a way I always knew, this has always been a part of me. It was Amanda who helped me figure out the name for it, though.”

So, you’re bi, Amanda had said and Adam had stared at her like he was an idiot. Anytime Adam was around Amanda he felt like an idiot, but only because she was so smart. She had laughed at him and sipped on her beer. They sat outside on the porch, in cool Spring air, a rare balmy day at the outskirts of Los Angeles. She told him she was pregnant. He told her about Kenny. It was a fair exchange-- until Amanda asked him to be her kids godfather, or something similar, or whatever. And Adam had actually started crying, like a total sap. Yeah, yeah of course, that kid’ll be the best fucking horse rider this side of the Mississippi. She patted him on the shoulder and told him she’ll be cheering for him and Kenny. Next time she watched AEW-- because she did that every now and then these days. 

She really liked Sonny Kiss-- Adam always knew she had good taste.

“She sounds great,” Kenny noted.

“She is,” Adam agreed, nodding. “If you ever get to meet her, I’d think you’d like her.”

Adam cocked a slight grin. Something was lighter in him, the air a little clear. It felt better, it felt right, to say it. Adam Page is bisexual, he likes guys and girls, and other stripes of human beings. It was the only way he could feel what he felt for Kenny. Exactly like it was for Amanda. Stomach full of butterflies, every emotion magnified to a soul-aching need, so Adam was raw and on edge. This terror, nausea, built like a screaming tea-kettle, into agony the demanded a release to relieve the pressure. This time, though, Adam found no outlet. Amanda was the one asked him out first, to the movies, to see The Avengers. He remembered sitting in the darkness of the theater, alone and sweaty, until she laid her head on his shoulder. Amanda who confessed first and who drew-out of Adam the depth of his feelings. Now that Adam thought about it, it was Amanda who texted first, Amanda who called first, Amanda who kissed first. Amanda who broke it off first. Adam Page was not known for taking the initiative in his relationships. Yet, he always figured it out, caught-up learned, and followed her lead. If he could just do the same for him and Kenny-- that was a pipe dream so obscure it almost made Adam scoff.

He couldn’t ruin another good friendship, he just couldn’t. 

Adam was running out of bridges to burn. 

“You know, it’s weird,” Adam said. “Because it’s like, I’ve never done anything, with a uh, you know-- a man before. The opportunity has never really come-up. I just kinda wonder, how am I supposed to know these feelings are real?”

“Well, I don’t know if I can answer that one for you, Page,” Kenny said. “But I definitely didn’t know until I met Ibushi. Then, it was real obvious. Yet, I always had a sense of it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Adam murmured. He squeezed Kenny’s hand and Kenny squeezed back. 

He definitely got it. At first, in the infancy of these feelings he’d thought they’d die or go away, like a bad head cold. Because Kenny Fucking Omega, could never love Adam Page. They were not in the same league, the best wrestler in the world and the weak link of the Elite. Then they were tag-team partners, and absence is not what makes a heart grow fonder, presence is. Long car drives,  where they shot the breeze about anything and everything-- just like this. Hours spent chilling in the same hotel room, showing each other stupid memes, or watching TV together. Plane rides with their heads stacked on each other and complaining about the pressure change. Working-out in the weight rooms and spotting for each other. Training together, practicing the Last Call ‘till they got it right and didn’t fucking hit each other anymore. The longer Adam spent with Kenny Omega, the more certain he was that he loved him. 

Loved him in a way he’d only felt once before. Loved him in a way that was different than how Adam felt about his mother. It was love, 100% all the way, love. True love-- wove, twue wove, to quote a good movie. Love that had all sorts of implications not just for his relationship with Kenny but Adam’s relationship with himself. How he understood himself and who he was. At twenty-nine years he was uncovering more and more about the person of Adam Page, the Hangman. Most of it, Adam didn’t like. Some of it, he did like, and he did like loving Kenny. Even if all he got to do was hold hands and talk. 

“There’s a pool at the hotel,” Kenny said, suddenly, breaking Adam from his introspection.

“Yeah?” Adam asked. 

“Yeah, I checked it out earlier,” Kenny said. “Listen, after we pass-out for a few hours-- you wanna go swimming? Of course, there’s the weight room and all that, we can do a few sets, blah, blah, blah-- but I wanna go swimming too.”

“I didn’t pack swim shorts-- did you?” Adam laughed. He had to wiggle his hand free, unfortunately, from Kenny’s grip so he could make a lane change. 

“Bro,” Kenny stated, and Adam could feel Kenny’s eyes drilling into the side of his face. Intent, focused, and dead serious, “We have large, ample salaries as the Tag-Team Champions of AEW that can fix that problem.”

“Fair point,” Adam admitted. He shuffled his hands on the wheel a little bit and then cracked a big grin. “But yeah, I’m down to work-out, I need to work on my bi-ceps.”

Silence, total silence, Adam shot Kenny the most shit eating grin. For a moment Kenny stared at him, wordless, as if processing that nuclear bomb. Adam had to return his eyes to the road. Then, Kenny smacked Adam’s shoulder. Adam laughed and then laughed harder, when he heard Kenny break into chuckles. 

“Do you think Tony Khan will let us change our team name to the Bisons?” Adam asked.

“No,” Kenny wheezed, his voice strained. He covered his eyes with his hands, shoulders shaking. “No, I don’t think so.”

In the wake of the laughter, Adam settled. Kenny leaned back his seat and despite his fear of cramps, was dozing in a few minutes. Dawn broke before they hit Cincinnati, a brilliant glow of purple, pinks, and golds on a distant blue horizon. It was right to Adam, to park on the 3rd level of the deck and to haul all their shit out of the car. Check-in, bleary eyed at the front desk, and then shuffle into the elevator, with a bagel, stolen from the breakfast, wedged in his mouth. Brush his teeth in the bathroom, kick off his shoes and pants, and then flop into bed. He vaguely recalled Kenny telling him good morning before they fell asleep. 

[konohagakurekakashi]

Rinne-Whoops (Who Died and Brought you Back out)

Thread continued from here.

All things considered Kakashi thought that the Yamanaka Clan Head was taking the whole, “living-dead” situation and his half-assed theories rather well, if the flicker within the man’s  narrowed, emerald hues and the incredulous bowing of his brows could be considered as such. At this point in time Kakashi was opting for a “glass half-full” standpoint, seeing as he has yet to be carted off to the Hidden Leaf’s Performance and Psychological Evaluation Unit or at the very least, the tent that now served its function. At the Yamanaka’s cautious query the Copy-nin managed a hum dipped in a confirmative tone and a nod of his head; his calloused digits releasing the curtains to settle back within the nadirs of his pockets. 

“Hai…I’m sure. Should death occasioned the sudden dullness of my senses however, I made a Raitōn clone to cover my…or should I say our…tracks...” After amending his sentence, his stare found the slumbering lump on the Futōn once more, before said gaze flickered up at the creak of cedar, the sliding doors giving way to reveal a sheepish Ino.

Kakashi appreciated the way the kunōichi warned them both of her presence, before physically ‘alerting’ them, despite being off the clock and within her own home. Her clever foresight (while wholly unaware of the seriousness of the situation) a tell of how much the girl has matured since her Chūnin Exam match against Sakura. ‘Kami was that really so long ago?’ Somehow Kakashi felt ancient despite only being in his twenties, another confirmative hum leaving his throat at Inōichi’s pointed glance, before following it up with a friendly eye-crinkle for Ino’s benefit. 

Should he be honest Kakashi doubted that he would be able to stomach tea or the awkward small talk that usually followed it (especially if the tea-sipping event would only involve Tsubaki-san; a retired Kunōichi he’s only ever greeted over a tinned-tomato shelf and her daughter) but Kakashi already breached their doorstep with enough trouble to incite a civil war upon the upcoming war against S-ranked terrorists; he couldn’t very well deject Inōichi’s words and hospitality after requesting his help--not when the tea leaves were already steeped. Kakashi liked to believe that he had some sense of decorum, regardless of what his kids believed.

Plus the glimmer of disappointment evident within Ino’s teal gaze once it was clear that her father would not be joining them, was nothing sort of a B-rank Genjutsu and really, Kakashi did NOT want to add to /that/--Notwithstanding the fact that thinking about his Raitōn clone flared his worry anew. Maa, he supposed that it was a good thing that it was still active and has yet to be dispelled. ‘Glass Half-full mentality and all that’. As soon as the door slid shut once more, Kakashi exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching within his pockets.

“Iie…Your loyalty was never in question, Inōichi-san.” He knew from both the Sandaime, Yondaime and Godaime’s affirmations that few were as loyal as those who formed part of the Ino-Shika-Cho trio; but with the Godaime indisposed and the winds of change tugging at the Hashirama branches, Kakashi just didn’t want to risk putting them in a position where they would have to put old allegiances, before new ones. He didn’t want to force them into a position where a warmonger might brand them traitor for doing a good, solid thing. Yet, Kakashi didn’t voice this. Instead he gifted the elder Yamanaka with the same lazy eye-crinkle he awarded his daughter but a few beats prior. He had no other choice. “…I know you’ll do whatever you can to help sensei…So Gambatte ne...Inoichi-san.” Kakashi then ambled towards the study door without any further input, closing the study door behind him with an audible ‘click’.

He would just have to have faith that Shikaku would manage to ward off Danzo’s ‘grabbing motions’ for the Hokage hat and win Tsunade-sama more recovery time via his infamous logic and hereditary Nara deadpan. ‘Glass half-full. Glass half-full’. Incongruously so, his positive mantra shrivelled and died (a quick, embarrassing death) as soon as the Hatake stepped over the threshold into Tsubaki’s kitchen, the vortex of scents and the intensity of her welcoming grin giving the Jōnin pause; afore the matriarch lunged at him with a speed that could rival one of Gai’s whirlwind kicks, then warm hands tightened to haul him into the direction of an expertly set table; a flurry of questions (all involving girlfriends and future, marriage prospects) accompanying each tug at his elbow. ‘Glass half-full? Glass half-full? What Hogwash.’

Viewpoint ☼ skippety ☼ skip ☼ skip ☼

Within the Akimichi compound, Akimichi Chōza was in the midst of simmering a mixture of flour and cooking fat in the hopes of making a thick roux, one of the main ingredients for his clan’s yellow, curry pills. The house was quiet, save for the steady bubble of the lard and the creak of the floorboards each time he moved or adjusted his weight. The lack of bustle was due to the fact that Chōji and Shikaku’s kid were having dinner with Kurenai and his dear wife was still out with her friends from the Haha Rengōgun; the ladies opting in taking turns since the Pein Attack™ to scrunch up and serve meals for those confined to the make-shift, tent barracks. Chōza didn’t mind the stillness while he was working however, the calm from his usually brash household affording him the ability to reflect. Bulky, calloused fingers coiled about a handful of beet chips, whilst the other hand focussed on stirring the roux, swift crunches joining the creak of wood and the bubble-gurgle of fat.

Like most Shinobi of his rank, the Clan Head’s thoughts wandered towards the Fire Capital and like all of the other Jōnin said thought was followed by a deep, weary sigh. He had the utmost faith in Shikaku and would gladly walk into an active volcano to be roasted like a seasoned, pork belly, if the action was penned in one of the Nara’s strategies for the betterment of the Leaf. But the Akimichi also knew Danzō and was one of the few present outside of Tsunade-sama’s tent when the war-hawk started to cajole the other members in the Go-Ikenban into leaving for the Daimyō’s palace. 

The Elder’s hunger for the title of ‘Fire Shadow’ was as infamous as the gluttony of a goldfish and with the title finally within his reach (more so than ever before, at least) Chōza believed that the old shinobi would do absolutely everything within his power to finally clasp onto the hat for real—the wishes of the Jōnin and Clan Council be /damned/ (and oh how they refuted the idea of another timeworn Hokage, even the Hūyga, who usually tended to supplement the decisions of the advisors).

The roux was soon joined by Tonkatsu, soy and a dash of honey, afore the Akimichi paused to grab another fist full of chips. One of the mauve crisps escaped his hold and plopped onto the floor, causing the man to ‘tsk’, disappointed and shake his head, his red mane swaying at the action. “Yare…Yare, making me bend my knees like this. You really don’t deserve to be eaten, I don’t care how good you look, I should just throw you out of the window…” 

Chōza was about to pluck the escapee from beside his feet when the tinge of warm, candle-wax suddenly oozed above the spoor of curry; effectively grabbing the Akimichi’s attention. He shifted, beady hues travelling about the length of his kitchen until his stare settled on the faint glow of orange within the shadow of his wife’s fruit bowl (an anniversary gift from the in-laws). There, only detectable to the one the message was intended for, pulsed Kanji in the unmistakable hand of his teammate and oldest friend. Speak of the devil and he will appear—or in this instance, his Fūin.

急

Still within Capital. Danzō declared official Rokudaime Candidate. Root agent sent ahead. Something amiss in Konoha. Require status report asap.

急

At the confirmation of his earlier, grave musings the clan head cursed, twisting around to remove the roux from the stove and to switch the appliance off. Without a constant heat-source, the curry would be ruined; but alas, it would appear they had bigger fish to fry and Chōza really didn’t want to add a blazing forest fire to the ever growing list of catastrophes that Konoha seemed to be a steady beacon for. The Akimichi then proceeded to stalk out of his kitchen, crushing the ‘escapee-chip’ underneath his heel and not bothering with concealing the message that was already starting to fade. Taking the Engawa steps two at a time, Chōza then power-walked into the direction of the Nara Forest, hoping that Inōichi would be home and that he or Tsubaki wouldn’t mind the impromptu visit. Damn Nara, how he hated being the bearer of bad news.

Two metres and twelve steps over the forest boundary, Chōza glimpsed the approaching figures of his son and Shikamaru, the first waving what seemed to be a milk-bun back and forth. “Eh, Tou-san? Konbanwa!! Why are you walking so fast, are you trying to lose weight again?” The Elder Akimichi ignored the seemingly innocent query to pin both boys, iie, /Shinobi/ with a leaden stare, effectively halting their strides. 

“Chōji, Shikamaru, I’m on my way to the Yamanaka Compound. Chinatsu-san is not home yet, so I need you both to go to Godaime-sama’s tent. Tell Shizune-san that we’ve received word from the capital. No one should be allowed into the tent, Tsunade-sama’s guard is not to be rotated and anyone trying to gain entry into the tent, especially Anbu, should be detained until either Shikaku or Ibiki can question them. Understood?” To their credit and with a sliver of pride eddying within Chōza’s chest, neither of the boys dared to ask further questions, merrily nodding their heads in the affirmative, before setting off in the direction they ambled from once more.

Chōza watched the boys go for a moment longer, troubled orbs almost staring through their retreating forms, until the cry of a Sparrowhawk overhead pulled him from his reverie and reminded him of his task. He so wished that they didn’t have to see the terrors of war, but really, Chōza surmised that sixteen, care-free years were all a Shinobi and a Shinobi parent could ask for; demanding more would be akin to testing the fates…still. Another, bone-weary sigh followed afore the 15th Akimichi Clan Head started forwards once more. Bearer of bad news indeed.

@senjutsunade @minaa-munch

[architectnews]

Natalie Dionne raises Forest House I on three-metre stilts for better light and views

Canadian architect Natalie Dionne has completed a forest retreat in southeastern Quebec, which is raised up on stilts to meet the level of the rocky landscape.

Located in the Eastern Townships, around 60 miles southeast of Montreal, Forest House I was designed for a couple looking to live closer to nature.

Forest House I is built on a rocky outcrop in the Eastern Townships

The site they had chosen for their home featured a rocky outcrop, including one particular boulder that rose three metres above ground level.

Both Dionne and the clients agreed that the house should meet the level of this rock, so they designed a house raised up from the ground surface on stilts.

The house is raised three metres to meet the level of the ridge

As a result, more natural light is able to penetrate the living spaces. Also the house can benefit from better views, looking out over the ridge towards the forest landscape beyond.

"Raising the house on pilings is not a big deal," Dionne told Dezeen. "No one would think twice about doing it a couple of feet off the ground."

The additional height improves light and views for the interior

"In our harsh climate, however, you have to figure out how to ensure the continuity of the building envelope from below," she explained.

"At three metres you just have to make certain that the structure is adequately cross braced and that it is as discreet as possible."

Eastern white cedar clads the building's exterior

A desire to make the house environmentally friendly led to the use of wood for much of the house's structure and surfaces.

While concrete and steel was used for the main framework, and particularly the raised elements, the roof is supported by a structure made from engineered wood produced from Northern Québec black spruce.

Meanwhile the facades are cold with eastern white cedar, which has been pretreated to make it more durable, which will also allow it grey faster.

The roof structure is made from engineered spruce

Dionne's aim was for this material to "blend into the landscape like a chameleon sunning itself on a rock".

"Although most Canadian homes are structurally constructed out of wood, we buy into the idea that using sustainably harvested, locally sourced forest products whenever possible contributes positively towards reducing the carbon footprint of any project," she said.

The kitchen islands are among several elements made from solid maple

"When appropriate, we like using prematurely aged local white cedar because, in theory, clients can just forget about it once it is up," she continued.

"In a forest environment such as this, we like the fact that the grey wood makes the home blend into the natural surroundings, thereby minimising the visual impact on the landscape."

A staircase separates the living spaces from the master bedroom

The building contains two storeys, covering an area of 215 square metres, or 2,300 square feet.

The lower level, which takes up just a fraction of the overall footprint, is predominantly an entrance level, although it also contains a guest room containing bunkbeds – room for up to 10 guests to stay.

Surrounding trees give privacy to the master bedroom

Upstairs, the staircase divides the floor into two sections. On one side is the master bedroom suite, which nestles into the trees to the south. The other side contains a large lounge, kitchen and dining space.

Sliding glass doors allow the living space to open out to a large, partially shaded terrace. This terrace extends out to the meet the ridge, allowing the house to feel like part of the landscape.

The master bathroom features a bath tub with a view

Wood is a recurring theme through the interior. The staircase is made from solid maple, as are the kitchen islands and the vanity units in the bedrooms. Other built-in cabinetry is made from Russian plywood.

Other surfaces are more clean and minimal, preventing a log-cabin aesthetic. Floors are polished concrete, while the windows are framed by natural aluminium, another material that is easy to recycle.

A bunk room on the lower level can sleep 10 guests

"The clients love their new home and so do their lucky guests," added Dionne, who also recently completed a renovation of an apartment building in Montreal.

She concludes: "There is something particularly pleasant in the feeling that you are floating above it all as you drift seamlessly between interior and exterior spaces, basking in the light and the tranquility of the forest."

Photography is by Raphaël Thibodeau.

Project credits:

Architects: Natalie Dionne Architecture Design team: Natalie Dionne, Corinne Deleers, Rosemarie Faille-Faubert, and Martin Laneuville Clients: Martine Bleau and Louis Barrière Engineer: Latéral

The post Natalie Dionne raises Forest House I on three-metre stilts for better light and views appeared first on Dezeen.

[garagedoorrepairmonroewa-blog]

How to Choose a Garage Door Company In Monroe WA

Because garage doors have become a well-known part of the façade of new homes, garage door manufacturers are now offering more styles, materials and color options more than ever before. For those in the market for beautiful new garage doors, here are a couple of options to consider.

Decide on Which Material to Choose

When researching different options, there is a lot to consider such as maintenance, durability, cost, design. Wooden doors are known to take much more abuse than metal doors, which show dents and dings and can start to rust and get pierced. When it comes to choosing wooden garage doors, the most popular choice is cedar. Mahogany is also a popular choice; a homeowner can get anything they want as long as they have the budget. There is also the issue of aesthetics, some homeowner like to match the style of the garage door to their house windows. Having a white door and white trim is a traditional look. With modern homes, homeowners can go a little crazy with materials such as glass doors and attractive wood designs.

Material Types

Aluminum • Comes in a variety of styles, designs and colors • Offers low to zero maintenance • Anti-rust feature - this is a good choice for home owners who live in humid or salty environments • The material's lightweight makes it less taxing on the garage door's operating system, the door's tracks and openers. It is also easy to operate manually. Disadvantage: This material is less durable than steel. It also dents easily.

Steel • Stronger than aluminum • Comes in different colors, styles, and finishes Disadvantage: Can start to rust when it is dented or scratched

Wood • A great choice for the traditionalist, comes in a variety of custom designs • Overlays or veneers provide the look of wood at a cheaper price Disadvantage: Needs regular maintenance (staining or painting)

Fiber Glass/ PVC Overlay • A variety of styles and designs • Much more durable than metal and woods, but it can crack if it hit hard • Considerably new to the market and is not as popular as metal and wood Disadvantage: Typically, costs more than metal and is less solid than wood garage door.

Choosing the Right Color • Generally, the color that is chosen for the garage door should complement the home and blend seamlessly with the general structure instead of standing out like a sore thumb. Vivid colors and extreme contrasts should be avoided. • The door should be matched to the home's window trim instead of the front door. A color that blends in with the home's brick or sliding should also be considered. • Some homes feature red bricks, for less contrast with red bricks, tan or beige color should be chosen. These colors match the mortar in the brick.

After choosing the right door, it is also important to contact a reputable and reliable garage door company to have the door installed properly. Many companies also offer garage door repair and maintenance services as well.

Article Source

[myhouseidea]

The firm APPAREIL architecture opted for a minimalist, uncluttered and Nordic style for the renovation of a typical Montreal duplex, and ecological materials and natural light have been put forward to meet the needs of its residents. Photography by Francis Pelletier

#gallery-0-6 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-6 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 25%; } #gallery-0-6 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-6 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

The original building was chosen for its large backyard as well as for its prime location near the city center and public transport, which was perfect for the green lifestyle of its new owners. Urban integration, sustainable materials and simplicity were the main guidelines for the transformation of the place, which was completely redesigned by architect Kim Pariseau and her team.

The firm first converted two dwellings into one single family home. The front of the residence has been modernized with a sober and simple facade, in order to respect the usual shape and style of this typical duplex and to blend well in with the other houses in the neighborhood. The clients also wanted vast living areas and a great luminosity, and APPAREIL opened up the floor plan to create airy rooms. Large sliding doors and windows were added at the back of the house, where the kitchen and dining room are now located, offering a nice continuity inside/outside.

APPAREIL played with different levels and volumes in order to define the space into separate zones without adding partitions. The living room, located at the center of the ground level, was sunken about 16 inches compared to the rest of the main floor, giving a certain frame to the space and an inviting feel. A dual-level was created to enhance the light coming from an existing skylight; the upper floor is now an open and spacious mezzanine, where glass partitions were used to establish a visual connection with the ground floor. The staircase, now a great focal point, was designed with glass railings to allow the light to pass through the different levels.

Bioclimatic studies were completed with a certified consultant before the renovations. The insights gained, such as influx of natural light and heat intake, helped to rethink the space accordingly and to have a positive impact on the building performance. The polished concrete floor was chosen mainly for ecological reasons; it reflects light and provides an interesting thermal mass by storing heat from the sun, which is an important asset especially in winter. The new high efficiency walls offer a reduction of heating and cooling costs. Furthermore, a special attention was given to the use of local materials. The staircase, some of the flooring and the custom made built-in furniture are all made from ash from the province. The front facade of the home was covered in brick made of recycled components, while the back is clad with Eastern white cedar, another durable material from the area.

The firm would like to thank its collaborators on this project Contractor: Ook construction Consultant in green building: Etienne Ricard, Urbanéco Construction Concrete floor: Atelier B Glazier: Latour Vitrier Carpenter: Steve Tousignant

EQUINOXE residence by APPAREIL architecture The firm APPAREIL architecture opted for a minimalist, uncluttered and Nordic style for the renovation of a typical Montreal duplex, and ecological materials and natural light have been put forward to meet the needs of its residents.