#about whether it’s okay to sell something you knitted from a pattern

[fingertipsmp3]

Do you ever see something and think ‘wow, I’m a people-pleaser, but not that much’

[starsstruck]

i just know that something good is going to happen.

part of the cloubusting universe. a continuation of the story of painter!harry and barista!mc. cold decembers baths, too hot baths, and even hotter confessions.

pairing: harry x reader warnings: language, sexual content words: 7.8k

series masterlist

a/n: hi. im back. this is just pure sweetness because why not. more will be coming from them, more from earlier on and later on in their relationship and time together💕 happy reading, hope everyone enjoys and please let me know what you think !💕💕

What time are you off ?

You glanced at the time after reading the text from Harry. The morning was incredibly slow, the drab December weather not enticing patrons to come out for a hot coffee.

3pm but I might be able to get out early

You saw the three little dots appear and disappear as Harry was typing, briefly glancing up at the door between looking down at your phone. As suspected, no one had walked in and no one needed anything from you.

I’m just heading home now Come by when you can x

Finding yourself smiling down at the phone, typing back a quick response before shutting it off and placing it back in your pocket to do some menial cleaning around the café to pass time.

Sounds good💕

Time flew by far too slowly. Three people came in between one and two o’clock, and you were left to mindlessly dust inside of cabinets and overstock the counters.

Saya was just as bored as you, the two of you chatting until you saw the clock hit 2:30 and decided that it was close enough for your time to head out. You had loose plans with Harry, him having asked you if you were free after work since he had the day freed up as well.

Which is why you now found yourself walking up the now very familiar steps to his place, finding his door propped open with a book for you.

You knocked once on the door just to let him know that you were there, before picking up the book and letting yourself in.

You saw Harry sitting by the large window, his back facing you. Still wrapped in your jacket, you hung the straps of your tote bag over the back of a chair and moved towards him. You were sure he heard you come in, how could he not have, but he still didn’t turn back to face you until you were standing behind him.

“Hi there,” he smiled with a quick tilt to his head. Your hands fell to his shoulders, leaning your front against his back as you hugged him from behind.

“What are you working on?” You hummed, chin resting against his shoulder. You didn’t get a chance to see what he was doing, as he quickly flipped close the two large sketchbooks he had in front of him.

“Secret,” he turned around on the chair, tilting his head as you quickly moved from his shoulder to avoid his chin hitting your cheek. “How was work?”

“Work was so slow – which I guess was okay. M’tired.”

Your arm circled around the back of his neck, as one of his own landed to your lower back, pulling you around him. Your lips brushed his temple.

“Lips are freezing,” he murmured, tugging you further into him until you were sat over his thighs. Keeping your arm around his neck as he held your back, he hugged you closer after you came in from the chilled December air. “Is it that cold out?”

You cozied in the warmth coming from him, even as you sat still wrapped in your thick coat. “The heaters are still broken at work.”

He titled his chin, lips brushing your cheek. “Are you still cold?”

You unwrapped your arms from around him, tugging at the buttons keeping your jacket together as you let it fall open. “Not as much,” you laughed lightly when his hand around you helped tug the thick coat off, neither of you caring when it hit the floor. “Just caught a small chill.”

He leant in closer as if pulled by an invisible force towards you, eyes locked. His lips nudged yours, catching them in a small kiss as you revelled in the warmth of his face. His cold fingertips brushing over his cheek, he pulled away with an overdramatic shiver. “You’re freezing.”

“Warm me up then,” you teased, as his grip tightened around you and his head dipped in to rest in the crook of your neck with a series of little pecks.

“I’m trying –” he muttered against your skin, before rising his head so that your eyes could once again meet. You brought your hands up to his shoulders, mindlessly tracing the patterns in the knit of his sweater.

You could practically see the strain in the muscles of his cheeks as he tried not to smile. “But I don’t think taking your clothes off is the answer right now.”

He pushed his cheek against yours, breath fanning over your ear. He kissed the corner of your jaw once more while his grip grew even tighter around your back so that you were completely flush against him.

You tapped your fingertips over his neck before muttering to no one in particular, “how’re you so warm all the time.”

He pulled his head back to face you once more, the tip of his nose gracing over your temple before puckering his lips over the same spot. Another kiss was pressed over your cheek, following the curve down until smooth lips captured your own.

Your fingers had moved up from his neck to his scalp, mindlessly trailing them through his hair. “How was your day?”

“Slow,” he nodded against you. “Went for a run, did laundry – that kind of day.”

You only hummed, a small silence falling over you as you embraced each other.

“I love…”

Harry shifted slightly from under you, his voice getting as he fell back into the crook of your neck. “I love the way you smell like coffee.”

His hot breath was felt when he spoke, nuzzling his nose over you for a moment before looking up towards you once again. You let out a soundless laugh, smiling down at him.

“Hm,” you could feel the hum come deep from his chest. He inhaled in an exaggerated way, bending his neck down so that his nose brushed along the exposed skin above the neckline of your sweater. “Smell like honey actually – like honey and jasmine.”

You let out a little laugh. “You’re saying I smell like coffee and tea?”

Although teasing, you were aware of the hint of jasmine in the perfume that was spritzed onto your neck earlier that day and almost surprised that he could tell what it was.

“I’m saying I love the way you smell.”

Even from the slight unfocused way you saw him, you watched the way his lips curved around the word “love”, unable to help noticing how often he used the word.

Not answering, instead you lowered your head to rest against his shoulder as you simply embraced each other for a moment. From the way your neck was titling, a small pain was starting to grow in the corner of your neck that had you having to pull away.

Rolling your head back on your neck in a feeble attempt to stretch out the kink, Harry’s fingers squeezed your hips.

“You okay?”

“Just sore.” The pain that you got from your ribs and shoulder only seem to grow instead of subside, new knots forming every week. “Keep forgetting to make an appointment at the physio.”

Harry hummed, watching as you unlatched one arm from around him to rub over your shoulder. “Take a hot bath – it’ll sooth your muscles and warm you up.”

“I don’t have a tub,” you watched him, “you know that.”

“That’s true,” he smiled. “But I do.”

The two of you had been together for just over two months, but he still blushed slightly as you held his gaze and rolled your lips in against your teeth.

“If you want – we don’t have to bathe together or anything if you don’t want to. Would be nice for your back though.”

You only smiled at your partner. “That sounds perfect, actually.”

For some reason, the idea of taking a bath with someone else was so extra intimate to you. Showers were one thing – whether Harry’s hands were lathering shampoo in your hair or pushing you against the tile, there was always something a bit quick and rushed about them.

Baths were slow, and peaceful, and had the sole purpose to sit and do nothing other than let yourself relax.

Harry had a surprising amount of bath products, not that it was news to you as you were already familiar with the contents of this washroom cabinets. You found a lavender bubble bath that you poured in, and some epsom salts that were scented with some fresh smelling essential oils.

Waiting for the tub to fill, you rubbed make up remover that you kept at Harry’s over your skin. Taking your time with the process, patting small layers of moisturizer over your newly washed faced.

Sweater was already sitting on the countertop, you did your skincare routine standing in your bra and jeans.

Your attention turned away from your reflection in the mirror when there was a soft knock on the door, followed by Harry speaking your name just loud enough to be heard over the crash of the water falling into the tub.

You giggled lightly as you turned the knob to open the door, endeared by the fact that he knocked first.

“I found these,” he stood at the door way, two little white candles in hand. “One of them smells like vanilla.”

You hummed in approval, grabbing hold of them, bringing both under your nose as the soft sweet smell surrounded you.

He smiled softly, eyes dropping down to take in the already relaxed state you seemed to have settled into. “Take all the time you want – I’ll start making something to eat.”

You furrowed your brow. “You’re not joining me?”

“Oh – figured you want some time alone, no?”

You shook your head, bottom lip between your teeth. “No. The water is hot, I put way too much bubble bath in – it’s the perfect recipe for a bath.”

He laughed, walking past the doorway to near you and wrapped an arm around your back so that you wouldn’t move back. “I think just being in there with you is enough of a selling point.”

A kiss was pressed to your nose, and then your lips, before the hands on your lower back were smoothing over your bare skin. You could feel his fingertips fiddling with the clasp of your bra, undoing the garment and letting it fall free from your body.

He moved away, just far enough so that he could pull the blue fabric off of you and he let his eyes trail over the skin that was just exposed to him. “I’ll go grab some towels.”

When Harry came back, you had fully stripped down and already settled into the tub. Your back resting against one side, water hitting just at the middle of your chest with bubbles sticking to the skin of your breasts.

The water was too hot, but in a good way. In the kind of way that you took a bit longer to fully settle yourself in, but once you were in you didn’t want to leave.

“How is it?”

You only hummed in response; eyelids half closed. You could still see him move around the small space of the bathroom, shutting the door and flicking a lighter until the wick of the candles was crackling. He turned off the overhead lights, eyes glancing at you as if to check if you were okay with it.

The melodic songs of Francoise Hardy filled the room, echoing nicely around you. You could hear him shuffling around, and you peaked an eye open to catch him just as he was tugging his sweater over his head.

He placed it next to your clothes on the counter, already pulling up the teeshirt he wore under it. His back was turned to you, the orange glow of the candlelight lighting up his skin. Every dip in muscles was accentuated with a deep shadow, and you shifted a bit in the tub to get a better view of him.

His baggy pants were easily kicked aside, and it was just as his thumbs were hooking into the elastic of his briefs that he caught your eye through the mirror. “Enjoying the view?”

“I am, very much so,” you watched the smirk pull on the corner of his mouth at your words.

He kept his eyes locked with yours as he tugged the last piece of clothing off. He didn’t miss the way your eyes dropped, followed by you quickly looking away and shutting your eyes as if embarrassed to be caught staring. Although there was a smile that lingered on your lips, and the both of you knew that you were anything but embarrassed.

Your eyes only reopened when you heard a splash followed by a little hiss, and after peaking an eye open you saw him sitting at the edge of the tub with half a leg submerged in the water.

“It’s really hot,” he laughed a little, slowly sinking the other leg to join the other.  

“It’s nice,” you hummed, watching as he pushed himself off the edge and slowly eased into the tub. Sitting across from you, he extended his legs out.

Your limbs moved with a splash as you brought your knees to your chest, allowing him some room for his legs.

“Bring ‘em over here,” he hummed, a little wave of his hand as he motioned to your half-hidden legs. You placed them over his under the water, immediately feeling one of his hands gripping onto your calf to adjust you slightly.

He sank down against the back of the tub, settling in nicely. Your gaze remained on his, watching a little drop in his eyelids as he relaxed. “It is really nice.”

You opened your eyes further at his words, blinking some haze from your vision as you fully focused on him. “I should take baths much more often”

“Of course,” he continued, “it’s not the same when I’m alone.”

You couldn’t really see through the bath water given the amount of bubbles, but his hands never ceased moving over your legs. Small traces of fingertips mixed with the kneading into the skin, you found yourself subconsciously slipping deeper into the tub and closer towards him.

The peaceful silence settled around the two of you. The only sound was coming from the speaker, quiet lulling of the music fitting the mood perfectly.

Harry’s hand on your leg was mindlessly rubbing on your skin, dancing from your ankle to your knee with slow movements before repeating the same action on your other leg.

“Feels nice,” you murmured after a moment – a few seconds a few minutes, you had no idea.

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” you hummed, not missing the little twitch in his lip. “You know I love your hands.”

He laughed, thumb massaging into your calf. “And what else do you love about me?”

You knew he was teasing, but you felt your heart beat a bit faster in your chest. Only letting out a breathy laugh, giving him a shove with your foot before he joined in your laughter.

“You know,” he said, after a moment in silence. “I can try and massage some of those knots out your back if you’d like.”

“You think so?” You asked, even though you knew that he was probably right, you didn’t know why you’d never thought of it before.

He nodded. “Especially with your muscles all relaxed in this hot water.”

You didn’t need much convincing after that, the idea being one of the best you’d heard all day.

Turning a bit awkwardly in the tub, you moved until you were sitting between Harry’s legs with your back towards him. Rising your legs a bit, you leant forward on to rest your elbows on your knees so that you could expose more of your back.

With a splash in the water, Harry brought both arms out and placed his hands on either side of your back. His hands were warm, the entire bathroom was steamy and warm but Harry always seemed that much warmer.

You felt him trail his palms over the upper part of your back, gently pressing into your skin. He more or less knew where you had issues, but he wanted to feel it out first.

“It’s here?” He spoke, voice cutting though the comfortable silence after a moment as he gently pressed his fingertips under one of your shoulder blades.

You nodded, before speaking. “Yeah,” bringing one of your own hands around to press into a particularly tight spot just under your shoulder. “And here too, and then –” you moved your hand lower to the beginning of your ribs. “Here.”

He only hummed, both hands on one side of your back before he slowly pressed a thumb into the skin under your shoulder. You tightened your muscles on instinct, tensing up at the slight pain before willing yourself to relax back down.

“Relax, m’love,” he hummed into your ear, letting his lips brush over your neck before moving back again. You still hadn’t gotten used to the way he talked to you so affectionately, especially when he added “my” in front of his names for you. He really made you swoon in ways you had never thought possible.

You dropped your shoulder, doing your best to relax your muscles as much as they would allow. “Really tense,” he spoke again, few more seconds of rubbing into the knot.

It was already feeling a bit better, although the knot was tight and hurt when he applied more pressure you knew he could apply a bit more. “Can you press harder?”

He wordlessly followed your instruction, having your head dip down a bit until your chin hit your chest and your eyes were falling shut.

He massaged into your skin while slowly adding more pressure, both hands moving along the expanse of your back.

You hummed low in your throat when he pressed against the spot by your ribs. Shifting a bit in the tub, feeling Harry’s thighs squeeze your hips. “Is it okay?”

“Yeah,” your voice cracked, needing to pause to cough slightly before you spoke again. “Just a really sore spot.”

He didn’t say anything else from behind you, fingertips moving away from the spot for a moment. You could hear him shift in the tub behind you, water splashing as he readjusted himself.

Feeling a very light pressure, one that that wasn’t his fingers but rather his lips against the knot in your back as pressed a gentle kiss on your sin.

He pressed another, and another before his hands were back on the spot, tightly kneading into the skin. “Feels good?”

You only nodded with a hum, as he continued to work on the spot with the occasional kiss to your skin.

Minutes passed, and you were slowly relaxing further against him. Your legs unfolding and extending forward, feeling Harry’s legs on your side close you in further. Although there was still a small distance kept between your back and his front to make room for his hands, you found yourself shifting closer to him.

His hands moved around your sides, thumbs pressing gently into the sides of your breasts. He was kissing over every place his fingertips touched on your back, soft hums against your skin as his chin nudged your spine.

He rested his chin over your shoulder, cheek nudging your neck as he muttered close to your ear.

“Feeling better?”

You again had to clear your throat before speaking. “Feels a lot better thank you,” you hummed, turning your head slightly to catch the corner of his grin in a kiss.

He clicked his tongue. “No, no I’m not done.” His hand moved to your jaw, gently turning your head back to face forward once more.

You laughed lightly, following his order and facing the off-white tile of the wall in front of you.

Though he said he wasn’t done, he didn’t start to massage into your skin right away. Instead you felt his lips press on the crook of your neck, moving down to your shoulder as he trailed a series of kisses down your skin.

“Mm,” he hummed, sound low in your ears. “I love how you still smell like coffee.”

“I do not,” you laughed softly, lifting your hands from under the water with a splash.

“Yes,” his mouth moved against the curve your shoulder, “you do.” His teeth nipped over your skin.

He sighed heavy in his chest, lips sliding over to the nape of your neck. “I love how you always get goosebumps,” he spoke quietly. “Even now in the steaming hot bath.”

Your shoulders shook slightly with a quiet laugh, knowing he was right that you often got goosebumps under his touch, not matter the temperature around you.

His hands slid down your shoulders and to your front, wrapping around your tummy and pulling your closer to him along the bottom of the tub. “I,” he sighed heavy again, chest rising over your back. “Love how you feel with me – can’t seem to get enough.”

His thumbs grazed the underside of your breasts. His lips were still against your skin, feeling them move as he spoke and pressed random kisses over your back.

He murmured your name, sounding so soft off his mouth and deep from his chest. Your head was spinning; you didn’t know if it was from the heat in the air, from the lack of hydration or from the words the man behind you was kissing into your skin.

“I love you.”

The words were quiet, so quiet that if you weren’t pressed against him you wouldn’t have heard it. He kissed a spot over your spine as he whispered the three little words, no doubt feeling every function of your body come to a stop.

This time he didn’t stop you when your head turned over your shoulder to face him.

He quickly spoke again. “I don’t expect you to say anything, I just –” he paused with a slow exhale, like he was letting go of everything he was possibly holding on to. “I just wanted to tell you.”

You shifted around, legs moving so that you could bend them and fully turn around in the space of the tub until your front was facing his.

He moved as well, allowing your space so that you could sit on his thighs in a straddle. Hands wrapped around your back under the water, holding you in place on top of him.

His eyes were intent on you, jumping between each of your eyes as he tried to gage any possible reaction you could have to his words.

There was a small furrow between his brows, one that you wanted to smooth your thumb over and kiss. Lifting both arms out of the water, you gently wrapped them around his neck to pull him in even closer.

“You do?”

You felt drunk on him. The slight teasing tone in your voice wasn’t completely on purpose, you couldn’t help the words tumbling from your mouth.

Though, Harry laughed. A small laugh that came from his chest, as that furrow between his eyebrows disappeared and a smile graced his mouth. He dipped his down forehead falling against your shoulder for a moment.

“I do,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck before lifting his head back up. “And I really – I really love you.”

Your shoulders dropped, letting go of tension you didn’t realize you were currently holding. His hands on your back squeezed your skin lightly, pulling your tighter against him.

Face nearing yours, you didn’t realize how close you had gotten as you were subconsciously leaning in closer with your eyes zeroed in on his.

Your voice came out a bit hoarse, a quiet little rasp from the back of your throat. “I love you too.”

His hands gripped your even tighter, causing you to shift over his thighs until your chest were fully pressed together. “Do you now?”

You wanted to laugh out loud, instead a quiet laugh shook through your chest as you felt your chest warm more than it already was. You pushed against him with your palms pressed flat above his chest. “Stop that.”

His hands slid lower on your back, squeezing the skin above your hips as he smiled wide. “Tell me again.”

“No,” you dipped your face against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his neck.

“Tell me,” he chuckled, gripping the soft skin of your hips with a nudge of his chin over your temple. “I wanna hear you say it again.”

You peppered a light kiss over his collarbone. One hand moved up his chest, cupping his jaw loosely as you pulled away from the curve of his neck. Not saying anything, you met his happy eyes with your own while following the curve of his cheek with your thumb.

Brushing over his skin, the tips of his hair falling forward ticking your hand as it moved up his jaw, parted fingers weaving through his hair. Your other hand repeating the same motion, this time lightly moving your thumb over his pinkened lips, keeping a firm hold of his jaw.

You pushed moved yourself closer to him once again, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. His lips instantly puckered with yours, eyes falling shut when he moved to meet your mouth.

He kissed you lightly, although the firm hold that he had around your hips told a different story. Moving you closer to him, your knees readjusting under the water as they planted firmly against the smooth white of the tub.

Hips jutting into his, you gripped him tighter. Your lips parted with a subtle smacking sound that would have been inaudible to anyone else, kissing one, two, three more times on his mouth before whispering, “I love you.”

You felt his lips turn up against yours, his cheeks rounding under your fingertips.

One of his hands rounded around the back of your neck, pulling you back in to kiss him deeply. His tongue easily met yours as you sighed into his mouth, twisting your fingers through his hair. He quietly whispered your name against your lips, licking over your lips gently before pulling you in for another kiss.

Your hands now slid down his shoulders, down his chest under the water in the tub. You felt him shiver against you, unsure if it was at the affect of your touch on him or of the cooling water of the tub Your mouths parted with a wet smack, his lips nudging the underside of your jaw as he nipped at the sensitive skin.

Your own lips were resting against his temple, hands circling around his hips as you could feel his hardening length pressing into your thigh.

“You’re hard,” you observed, mumbling into his skin.

He laughed lightly, voice sounding a little breathless. “I got the most gorgeous girl sitting on my lap, telling me she loves me,” he pulled you forward, causing the water around you to splash against the side of the tub. “How could I not be?”

You giggled against his skin, letting him tug you closer until the bubbles stuck to your skin were getting squished between the both of your chests. Moving one of your hands from his hips to land it gently under the way over top of his thigh, letting your nails dig gently into his skin.

Lips slid against each once again, a bit more fire under your actions as your tongue slid against his and your chests heaved with heavier breaths. You could tell that he was extremely aware of the soft brushes of your fingers over his thigh, as you slowly inched your palm higher up.

You could hear his breath hitch and his mouth slack over yours when your hand slipped up to grab a light hold of his cock. Simply holding him in your hand for a beat, letting your lips fall from his mouth down to his jaw, before licking wet stripe under his earlobe. He was leaning into your touch, chest falling against yours as his arms wrapped tighter around your lower back.

His legs jolted slightly when you stroked your hand over him, his knees rising with a small bend in his legs that had you falling into him even more. He brought one of his hands from your back and up from under the water, taking a light hold of your chin to tilt your head back up to his.

His mouth was on yours in a matter of seconds, biting into your bottom lips before kissing your deeply. You tugged on his length from under the water, thumbing over his tip as circled around him. Your hand falling over him again, applying more pressure when he moaned quietly against you.

“Fuck,” he called softly, as you kept working your hand over him. Moving away from you again, he leant against the back of the tub with a blissed out smile over his lips and heavy eyelids. “That feels good.”

You leaned in to him, kissing over the skin of his neck that was newly exposed to you. “Good,” you breathed over his neck, your thumb following the vein that ran on the underside of him. “I love making you feel good.”

Leaning forward to kiss over his collarbone, tasting the slight remains of soapy bubbles on his skin as your lips moved over him. You grazed your fingertips along his sensitive skin, as he involuntarily bucked his hips up into your hand, soft moan coming from his throat.

His fingertips dug into your skin. “Do you,” he breathed. “D’you want to get out of the tub? The water’s getting cold.”

You hummed against him, not stopping the motions of your hands under the water. “What do you say we do after then?”

A quick tug at your hips had him bringing your attention back to his face. One of his hands nudged the bottom of your chin, further tilting your head up to his. “Going to take you to bed.”

You were both quick, not too quick as to not slip on the bottom of the tub, to get out and drain the water. Harry had wrapped a big warm towel around your shoulders, rubbing at your arms as he hugged you from behind.

His hips were pressing tightly into your backside, a quiet grunt was heard from him as you pushed back into his hardening cock. With his arms around you, he dipped his head down to quickly find your neck with his lips, gracing it with a smattering of kisses.

“Harry,” you murmured, tightening the towel around your shoulders. Watching him through the mirror, you brought a hand up to brush through his hair. “Harry,” you called, tugging lightly on the strands to get his attention.

“Sunshine,” he mumbled against the skin of your neck, arms tightening around your middle. You felt him pressing hard against your bum, teeth nipping into your skin over your shoulder.

“Thought you said something about taking me to bed.”

He took you off guard, spinning you around in his arms so that your backside was pressed against the ledge of the bathroom counter. He glanced at you with a glint in his eyes. “We have to get dried off first.”

His hands rested over yours, easily having you release the towel from your hold as instead he grabbed the soft material. Dragging the fabric over your back, letting the front fall open as his gaze fell along with the towel.

Bending at his knees slightly, dipping his head down to kiss over water drops that were running down your chest. You held your breath, already feeling wetness pool where you knew he was headed, and you were growing slightly impatient.

He fully dropped down to his knees, letting the towel fall down to your legs along with him. His towel covered hands ran along your calves, moving up over your knees in small motions. You glanced down at him, watching as he focused on ever small drop of water covering your skin.

“So soft,” he murmured, one hand skimming and pulling over the skin of your thighs. He brought his other hand with the towel to brush over the swell of your ass, gripping and releasing the skin a few times in his hand before letting the towel fall to the ground and wrapping both hands around your hips.

You couldn’t keep your eyes away from him, surprisingly not feeling cold as you usually did when you got out of a bath or shower. He wrapped a hand around your hip to pull you closer to him, one of your hands still resting against the bathroom counter. His other hand slowly smoothed around your inner thigh, pulling on the soft flesh as he prompted you to part your legs wider for him.

He leaned in closer, pressing a single kiss to your inner thigh with lingering lips. The simple motion had you in a frenzy, your heart starting to beat faster in your chest as you could practically hear his thought process.

In the time you had been together, although still quite short, you had quickly learned Harry’s affinity for getting a taste of you. Whether it was slow and deep as he edged you on, or quick and wet to bring you to a quick orgasm, he seemed to continuously enjoy going down on you.

Which was no surprise when he glanced up at you with a stupid little smile, telling you “I think I have to dry you off with my mouth.”

The comment was a completely ridiculous concept, but you didn’t have a chance to tell him as he nudged you against the counter, keeping your thighs parted with one hand and leant in to plant a kiss over your clit.

Wrapping a hand around your thigh, with the other pushing against your folds to part them further as he teased over you with his fingertips. Kissing over you once more, his tongue poked out from parted lips to flick over the sensitive bit of nerves.

You knew you were wet, had been before he had touched you and obviously, he knew it too, but it still sent a warmth through your tummy when Harry muttered “don’t think you’re just wet from the bath, angel.”

You whined into the air, not having the capacity to think of anything to say back to him as he licked over your slit, finding wetness pooling at your entrance. You jolted under his touch when he moved his tongue back up to your clit, lips circling around it with light flicks with the tip of his tongue.

A hand landed in his hair, gripping on his tightly when he dragged his fingers around your sensitive inner thigh and to where you wanted to feel them. As much as he liked to get a taste of you, he liked to tease you.

Keeping light movements over your clit, his tongue darted down to circle around your entrance once more with a muffled moan when you whined his name. Pulling back for a second, be placed a light kiss over your clit as you spoke a broken call for him once again, before he was pushing a finger inside of you.

As much as he liked to tease you, he loved to give you what you wanted just as much.

It was rushed, and messy, and just like two people who wanted to feel the other as much as they could, far too desperate for the other.

He had you gripping the countertop tightly with on hand, the other hanging on for dear life in his hair. You could feel the beginning of the burn in the pit of your stomach, and you tugged on him just a bit harder to grab his attention. “Harry,” you whined, repeating his name again.

Humming against you, he moved his mouth over to the fleshy inside of your thigh and bit over the skin with a wet kiss. “What’s that?”

“Take me to bed,” you breathed, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside of you. “Fuck me.”

He gazed up at you for a moment, dark eyes meeting yours before peppering another kiss over your thigh. Moving up slightly, slowly lifting himself from his spot kneeled between you. Grazing light touches over your hipbone, over your stomach, over your breast.

Pressing your palms against his shoulder, pushing him back slightly as you searched for one of his hands to grab. He easily complied to you as you pushed off the counter, sidestepping Harry as you pulled him by the arm.

He wrapped that arm around your chest, standing behind you as he let you lead him out of the washroom. Walking you to his bed with his arm swung around your front, keeping your back pressed closely against him while messily kissing the side of your face.

Blindly finding his bed, you turned and fell out of Harry’s grasp as you let yourself fall onto the soft comforter. You were both slightly damp, but neither of you cared.

Moving until your head rested by the pillows at the head of the bed, Harry didn’t follow over you right away, and instead walked around the mattress to stand by the side.

“C’mere,” you spoke quietly reaching out to grab hold of his hand.

He met the edge of mattress as you pulled him closer to you, wanting to feel him over you. He held your gaze with a slight grin, biting his lips before leaning down towards you and murmuring, “not going to fuck you,” his breath sent goosebumps all over your neck. “Gonna make love to you.”

“Come here.” You repeated, grabbing his hand and tugging him down as he let out a small laugh while he fell over you. His lips landed over the crook of your neck, as your legs parted to make room for him over you.

“That’s it,” he hummed over your skin, pushing his hips against yours as his lips danced over your skin and his hands roamed your sides. “D’you want me like this?”

You whined into the air, his palm smoothing over your breast as he pinched your nipple between his fingers and brought his mouth to yours.

“Yes,” you paused, hugging his waist with your thighs as you hooked a leg over his ass to push him further against you. “Just like this.”

His lips fell from your mouth, forehead pressing into your cheek. You could feel him over your folds, nudging his hips up so that his tip pushed over your clit. Involuntarily spreading your thighs wider for him, you whimpered at the light contact.

Impatient, you brushed your hand down from his shoulder and over his hips, reaching for his cock between the two of you to help slip him in. Rising his head from the crook of your neck, he glanced at you with a lazy smirk when you gripped his length in your palm.

Running him over you, you let one of your knees hit the mattress as he slowly inched inside of you. Each letting out sounds in unison; you a breathy moan at the feeling of him filling you and him a quick grunt as he bucked into you.

“Every fuckin’ time,” he groaned, lips mouthing against your jaw.

He gripped your thigh in one hand, fingertips digging into the skin as he hooked your leg tighter around him. Hugging him with your legs, you urged him to keep moving as the slow grinds into your hips were driving you crazy.

He seemed to feel the same way, pulling back and fucking into you harder each time. He had your head nudging the pillow under your head, your fingers holding on for deal life in his hair and you were moaning up against his jaw.

He was unable to go long without having his mouth on yours, stealing sloppy kisses as his hips pumped into yours with muttered praises along the lines of “such a pretty cunt,” and “taking me in so good.”

The way his lips grazed over your earlobe as he spoke, the way he let you hear every moan and whimper that left his lips, the way he spoke to you with a deep low drawl made you whine into the air with nothing but desire for him.

Having him so desperately and passionately made you feel drunk, like you were going to float off the bed. That is, if the feeling of your hips digging into the mattress with ever pound of his hips, and his weight over and inside of you was not making you bite your lip so hard at the sheer intensity of it.

“You feel good?” He posed it as a question this time, lifting his head from where he was biting into your neck as his nose nudged yours.

You repeated his words from before with a nod, a throaty moan when you met his eyes. “Every time.”

He groaned over you, catching your mouth in a kiss. “Love fucking you –”

You were pushed up on the mattress again, the pillow bending oddly under your head but it was the last thing on your mind right now. His hand smoothed over the side of your face, caressing your forehead lightly – a contrast to the fast and sinful pumps of his cock inside of you.

Blinking your eyes shut, you were surprised to find a damp coldness caught in your eyelashes. Realizing the small tears – only out of happiness – lining your waterline as you quickly blinked again.

He stole a kiss from your mouth, as you lifted your head up to meet him hallway. “Love making love with you –”

His hand left your hair, instead reaching up to grip the headboard with a quick desperation. Your head fell back against the pillow, a strangled moan past your lips as all you could do was nod in agreement. You raised your hand from his shoulder, reaching back as you blindly searched for where his hand had his tight hold over the worn wood. Covering the pack of his hand with your palm, both of you holding for dear life as you grew more desperate to cum.

“Oh –” you arched your back against him, meeting his movements halfway. His other hand was still holding a firm hold around your thigh, hitting a new deepness when your hips met up with his. “Like that – again.”

“Yeah?” His breath fanned over your chinned, his hair falling down over his forehead as his pace was unrelenting. “Wanna give it to you – fuck,” he cut himself off, feeling you squeeze him tighter. “Please tell me your close.”

You dug your nails into the skin of his back, calling his name into the air as his lips found your neck. “Yeah,” you voice was breathy, distant. “Just a bit more.”

He was hitting the perfect spot inside of you, repeatedly making you see stars. His hand unwrapped from your hip, sneaking between both your bodies as his fingers quickly found your clit. Collecting wetness from where you connected, then met the sensitive bundle with messy but effective strokes.

You loved every kind of sex with him – slow and passionate or like now, quick and both desperate for each other that neither of you cared it didn’t take very long to get there.

You were pushing your hips to his, gripping for dear life on his hand over the headboard while call after call of his name left your mouth.

“Love you,” he whimpered, lifting his head with a nudge of his chin over yours. “I love you.”

You felt as if your eyes were rolling into the back of your head. He felt so incredibly deep and close to you. Confessions of love over your mouth had your stomach flip and your core clenching around him. You realized you had never had a partner tell you they loved you during sex, you had never felt this intimately close to anyone in your life.

“Love you more –” the end of your sentence was cut off by your own moan.

Meeting your release around him, whimpering his name against his skin as he was unrelenting over you. Your hips bucked with his movements, pushing yourself against his hand that paid attention to your clit. It was all for too overwhelming, mixed with the confessions of love that ran through your head.

Your motions were getting slower, the hard pumps of his hips over yours the last bit of what he needed. Barely getting the chance to warn you, a quick breath of “I’m coming –” over your ear before he was pushing everything he had inside of you.

His hand let go of the headboard along with yours, flipping your palm in his to interlocked your hands over the duvet cover. He was muttering endless praise to you, endless breaths of your name as you both came down from your highs together.

With his chest pressed against yours, he gazed up at you with heart shaped eyes. He bit his smile down, a little laugh leaving past his lips as you raised a hand from his bicep to push his hair out of his face. You kissed his smile, his mouth easily opening for you as you both savoured the other in a brief calm moment.

He kissed the side of your cheek, leaving a small trail as he kissed over the corner of your eyes, not doubt noticing the small wet patches from the small tears that escaped your eyes in the overwhelming intimacy.

He didn’t say anything right away, but you could see the corners of his lips curve to a light smile. “You okay?”

A slow nod, you took a heavy swallow to help your dry throat before speaking. “Yeah, I just,” you paused, searching for the right words. “It’s never been like that. I’ve never… felt like that.”

He was silent for a moment, watching you intently. “In a good way,” you quickly added. “In the best way.”

“I know,” he muttered against your mouth, pushing himself up over you as you unhooked your ankles from around his thighs to let him move off of you. Withdrawing from inside of you, you could already feel him making a small mess over the crest of your thighs but you didn’t care, that was a problem for later.

You let out a breathless sigh, grazing his cheek with your fingertips as you watched his eyes flick over every inch of your face. Slowly lowering his face once more, pressing a soft but firm kiss over the corner of your lips.

He fell to his side, lying on his hip with his up half still supported over top of you. “Think I love you even more after that.”

[jasperwhitcock]

03. OBSERVATIONS

my bella as a cullen & edward as a vampire fanfic inspired by an au from @bellasredchevy is now on AO3, so you can read the new third chapter here or the full work thus far here. also all of my chapters are now being tagged as #equinoxjw if you want to follow along on tumblr. i’m new to using AO3 as a user, so...bear with me. i feel like a boomer. 

My stomach tightened in strange, foreign ways as if it could fall into my abdomen at any moment. There was a vague familiarity about the sensation, and after some thought, I realized that this was something like the faded memory of what anxiety did to my body as a human. It was an entirely different feeling in my unchanging form. Far more unnerving.

I felt silly and small walking directly behind Emmett and Jasper while Rose and Alice flanked me. We were positioned like some ridiculous protection detail, though the danger – myself – was in the center of the defense. I longed to curl into a ball on the floor of my room, but I was far too stubborn to spend another day at home avoiding school like a coward.

At the same time, I was not stubborn enough to have the confidence to completely sell my bravery to my overprotective siblings, so I allowed them to hover more than I would have liked. It felt unnecessary, but I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not I could trust myself yet.

Once we were a few yards from the old building of my first class, I halted our formation.

“Alright, I’m fine. Thanks. I’m sure that didn’t look weird at all,” I grumbled sarcastically, moving forward to step between my brothers at a slow, human pace.

They all held their positions, hesitant.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Their vigilance displayed no signs of relaxing. “I swear that I am fine! Alice?” Irritated, I snapped my head around to examine her vacant expression, hoping she’d foresee something that would support my claim.

“It looks as if...everything will be okay,” she smiled a brilliant, annoyingly over-encouraging smile when the light returned to her golden eyes.

I repressed a sigh of relief to keep from exposing my own concern and setting off any alarms as a result. “See? Another obnoxiously perfect, boring day.”

In case they continued their reluctance to move aside, I walked around rather than through the frontline.

“And I don’t require any further chaperoning. If Alice sees anything, I trust that she’ll take the preventive measure of biting my head off,” I whispered too faint and fast for human ears as I entered the classroom.

“Exactly,” Alice smugly agreed, making me smile for the first time today.

I had been wrong earlier. There was nothing obnoxiously perfect nor boring about this day. I spent the majority of my morning classes hyperalert, over-examining every noise from the clicking of ants on the aged tile to the trickle of a raindrop sliding down the rooftop to the sneeze of a student on the other side of the school grounds. I overthought every movement of air that brushed against my skin, nervously awaiting the circulation that would carry his irresistible scent and once again derail my self control.

Of all my ongoing polarities, I preoccupied myself with deciding between the choices of the simplest question: should I hold my breath or should I not? It would be irrational to think I could deprive myself of a sense of smell forever. Of course, I was physically capable as my body didn’t require oxygen, but I’d need to speak in school eventually. That would require inhalation.

And then the boy would die.

With how incoherent my resolve had been at first encounter with my unfortunate biology partner, was it worth the risk? On the contrary, would the memory of his scent allow me to anticipate the upheaval, and therefore equip me with the mental preparation to withstand more effectively if I did choose to breathe? Would the potential desensitization if I allowed myself this provide him a better chance to live?

I couldn’t decide, so I endured long stretches of both. Instinctually, I preferred the flow of air to my lungs, but with every breath, it seemed I was inhaling more apprehension and exhaling none of it. I was relieved that the air was diluted with the scent of the other students. Of course, if I wanted to, I could find him. I could track him down easily with the treacherously appealing aroma perfectly recollected in my mind guiding me towards him…

I decided against breathing again. I wished that I could decide against thinking as well.

In the duration between periods, I noticed that I could easily locate a member of my family lingering casually in my peripheral vision as I headed to my next class. Casually, if their schedules had qualified them to walk along the same route that I did. That was rarely the case. The distant escort was far more awkward than the tightly knit huddle from the morning.

Rosalie’s expression seemed embarrassed during her surveillance of me, and I hoped it was because she trusted that I could handle this and was simply fulfilling a duty asked of her by the remaining members of my family.

Who had been the one to ask the others to keep an eye on me? Esme?

I didn’t mind when Jasper had been nearby. I never saw him directly, but recognized his footfall and even felt grateful for the sudden deluge of peace that comforted me briefly.

Emmett was particularly irritating. Although I knew he felt concern for me, I also knew he found the situation slightly comical. I didn’t appreciate the suspicion that he may be mocking me as he watched me responsibly walk to my next class without any attempts to escape his supervision and hunt down any unsuspecting teenage children. 

Alice didn’t care to conceal herself during her passing period shift, so she waited outside the door to walk alongside me to a lesson we shared together.

I hadn’t crossed paths with the boy yet, so when this morning’s bodyguard configuration began to form on the way to lunch, I said nothing, knowing that it would be far more prudent to have the guarantee that four other vampires would stop me if I made any mistakes when I first saw him again.

The bizarre sensation in my abdomen returned, intensified greatly by the certitude that I’d face the object of my avoidance soon.

Once we had purchased our lunch for appearances, I kept my head down and my lungs empty as we settled into our regular table, buying myself a few more moments of forced oblivion to his presence – as if I could ever be oblivious to his presence again.

I tried to build up my confidence as I studied the patterns in the plywood of the cafeteria table under the laminate. Surely, I would fare much better this time around now that I knew what to expect, wouldn’t I? I hadn’t succumbed the first time, so why should I the second? Besides, as an added measure, I was overly satiated from the hunting trip Esme and I embarked on once the boys had returned. The odds were far better.

I had stayed home a couple of days when Esme and I had finished. My conversation with Carlisle greatly encouraged me, and so my mood began to improve. It wasn’t enough for Emmett to feel satisfied when he easily overtook me in our rematch, suspecting that I wasn’t giving him my full attention, but it was still an improvement.

Today, it had been a week since I’d last seen the boy.

“Edward Masen is walking in,” Alice cautioned. I froze in place, halting the loop my pointer finger was tracing over the grain of the table.

“Nobody look at him!” I hissed with the air from my last breath, nearly inaudible. I halted the sensation of breathing.

“Why would we look at him? You know, you really insult our intelligence sometimes.”

I didn’t look up to see what repelling piece of food I hurled at Emmett’s head. “What intelligence?” I mumbled. I forced myself to continue tracing loops over the wood. 

“Relax, Bella,” Rosalie laughed. “Oh, he’s looking this way.”

My eyes narrowed as I finally glanced up to see Rose turn her face away from the cafeteria back to me indulgently, her angelic face feigning innocence.

Some of my edginess began to ease. I eyed Jasper suspiciously.

His lips pulled into a guilty half-smile.

“I’m really growing tired of everyone acting as if I’m a sideshow today,” I sighed, releasing the last of my oxygen supply.

“You’re always a sideshow,” Emmett corrected, baiting me.

My siblings couldn’t resist laughing before the expression on my face silenced them.

Cautiously, I took a deep breath.

I was fortunate; the air near me hadn’t been tainted with any hint of his scent. I inhaled mostly the wonderful fragrance of my family and the slightly tempting aroma of high school students, though it now seemed far less mouthwatering by comparison to what I came across last week.

“I will commit murder today,” I promised, gritting my teeth. “Now, whether that murder results in your death or the kid’s is entirely up to you.”

My curly haired brother laughed. “Alright! Finally some action again!”

Rosalie’s features were apologetic.

“Em, I’d back off if I were you… she’s serious. I see…” Alice made a show of closing her eyes and placing her slender fingertips on either side of her forehead. “I see… a pyre…”

Even I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.

“Are you kidding me? She’s way too distracted lately. I could take her down easy today.”

“It says a lot that my distraction translates to easiness for you,” I taunted before suddenly feeling as if I was being watched.

“Then I correct myself. I could take you down easy any day.”

Not wanting to waste any more of my precious air supply as a precaution, I simply rolled my eyes.

“Bella definitely has an edge with her frustration lately. I wouldn’t be so confident,” Jasper warned, smiling wickedly.

“You willing to bet on Bella?” My brawnier brother challenged cockily.

“Absolutely.”

“Anybody else?”

Alice opened her mouth to speak, but Emmett rapidly cut her off. “You don’t count, pipsqueak. You cheat.”

He turned to face Rosalie. “What about you, babe?”

She bit her lip remorsefully to keep from giggling. “Bella.”

Emmett scoffed before a large, cocky grin spread on his face. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t need any of you.” He leaned back in his chair, his biceps bulging as he flamboyantly rested his massive arms behind his head. “Candy from a baby. Good luck, Bella!”

But I was no longer paying attention. I had already fallen victim to the first irresistibility I’d face today.

Following the suspicion that I was the object of a gaze belonging to the same eyes that had haunted me the past week, I turned my focus towards the cafeteria.

There he sat with some of the more popular students – though if recognition constituted popularity in high school, then all of the children in this lightly populated student body were popular – trying to appear deceptively over-interested in the sleeve of his beige, expensive-looking sweater. His jaw was tight, highlighting his prominent bone structure.

I guess maybe I could understand to some degree why this irrelevant boy had sent the male-interested student body into a frenzy. By their kind’s standards, he must be considered of above-average attraction. But with his strange shade of reddish-brown hair, wouldn’t that be considered a flaw? Didn’t humans have some kind of teasing prejudice towards gingers? Though it was ridiculous, I had the urge to apply the methodology of attraction based on the golden ratio to his face simply out of curiosity.

“Bella Cullen is staring at you,” the student next to him, Naomi, whispered in shock.

“So?” The boy dismissed.

I was taken aback by how flippantly he disregarded the mention of me. Had something in my leaving offended him? What would make him think my absence concerned him?

Emmett found his response hilarious.

“Damn! I’m glad someone can put you in your place!” He guffawed.

I turned to scowl at him.

“A pyre…” Alice teasingly resumed her poor fortune teller impression, her fingers again on her temple.

A warm smile spread across my face, and as a result of my family’s stupid banter, I found myself finally feeling calmer.

My smile dropped immediately when I heard the boy sharply breathe in.

“Relax,” Rosalie reminded me, her brilliant eyes reassuring.

I nodded, though I felt my face contort in pain and stress.

“You’re looking sick, Bella,” she accused.

“Do you wanna leave?” Emmett offered, his amusement having vanished.

Jasper raised an eyebrow, sensing my building emotion.

“No!” I snapped, exasperated. It took everything in me to keep from slamming my hands on the table. Now was not the time to destroy public property.

“She’ll be fine, really. No, great, actually. I’d say we’re not helping, but I wonder if her frustration with us is what’s strengthening her resolve,” Alice grinned. “Her future keeps getting clearer. If anything, maybe he’ll stay alive just so she can prove a point.” 

Everyone joined my dark-haired sister in her melodic laughter.

I’d had enough of lunch for today.

I rose from the table, carrying my full tray.

“Oh, don’t leave, Bella! Where are you going?” Rose asked.

“I’m going-”

“-to the biology classroom,” Alice finished for me.

“You’re all particularly vexing today, so please don’t follow me. But if you hear a massacre of screaming children, feel free to join.”

“Shall I call Carlisle and Esme? It’d be poor manners to not extend an invitation if we’re slaughtering the townsfolk.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Let’s go out with a bang,” I frowned, speaking quietly enough to where only my family could hear, dumping my tray in the garbage can and exiting the cafeteria.

I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

I was fortunate that Mr. Molina wasn’t in his classroom during his lunch break. I had no desire to attempt civil conversation that would make the both of us uncomfortable. The door was unlocked, though that didn’t matter much.

I sat at my usual seat, neatly placing my books atop the lab table. Closing my eyes, I distracted myself for the remainder of the lunch hour by focusing on the flux of unchanged oxygen expelling from my lungs and the thrum of raindrops against the roof slowly becoming the feather-soft flutter of snowflakes.

Once my peers began to file into the room, I uncomfortably suspended my breathing once again. I listened to the rowdy sound of the footsteps, wondering which would be the boy’s, hoping to distinguish them from the rest as if they’d be any different.

Shortly after the cheerful whistle of the lively biology teacher sounded the room as he entered, I became aware of a sturdy footfall approaching my table.

Though I couldn’t smell him, I knew at once it was the boy as the heat of his body warmed the air around me. Nobody else in this classroom would dare get as close unless they were condemned to sit in the chair beside me as he was. Even the temperature enveloping my skin was enough to warrant venom to pool in my mouth. 

I restrained myself from sighing aloud at the oncoming war that would rage within me, refusing to waste the oxygen I had stored.

Though the responsible and kind action to take would be to introduce myself as to not make myself even more distinguishable from the other humans with unwarranted ignorance and hostility, I continued to face forward with my eyes closed, my forehead puckering.

My eyes snapped open as he noisily settled into his seat, carelessly spilling his books across his side of our lab table.

After a moment, I decided I wouldn’t want to be held accountable for potential whispers about my family, so it’d be better to say something.

Just as I was about to speak, turning my head in his direction, he surprised me by speaking first.

“Hello,” the boy greeted me quietly, his smile charming and polite. His green eyes were soft and wise, full of some meaning I couldn’t decipher. I listened to the beating of his heart, trying to detect if the rhythm would expose any fear. I never needed to blink, but habitually my eyes fluttered rapidly as I processed the shock that this human had the bravery to speak to me first. Habitually, because of the years I’d adjusted to mimicry of human responses and expressions, but the action was still wrong. Much too fast. I wondered if he had picked up on the blurred motion. “You’re back.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply agreed. “Yes.”

I turned away again, forgetting that I had intended to share my name out of courtesy. My brain was much too full of distracting thoughts. Here my temptation was willingly conversing with me. Was he mad? Where was his innate sense of self-preservation? He should be recoiling away from the proximity as I was, though for different reasons. I could easily talk him into walking away with me to his death. For both of our sakes, it’d be preferable to keep our interactions to a minimum. How much acquaintanceship did biology partners really require?

As the teacher wrote out today’s objective on the chalkboard, it seemed it’d require more acquaintanceship than I’d like – or that the boy could afford.

“My name is Edward Masen.” He spoke with a calculated, inviting voice. “You’re Bella Cullen,” he continued when I hadn’t replied.

I nodded stupidly, refusing to look anywhere but ahead of me. It was both wonderfully and terribly warm next to his body heat. I swallowed the venom that did nothing to quench the ever-present thirst.

“I take it you’re not too enthused to have me as a biology partner,” he chuckled gently, his eyes intrusively still focused on the side of my face.

I frowned at this unpleasant assumption that was absolutely spot-on.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” I stated gingerly, trying to speak in a voice he wouldn’t find frightening.

“The expression on your face last week seemed a very personal reaction,” he pressed, an edge to his voice despite his attempt to say this casually.

He had noticed.

I hadn’t thought it’d be possible to feel any more uneasy.

“I was sick,” I defended myself lamely.

“And now you’re feeling better?”

“Not particularly.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his thick eyebrows slightly pull upwards at my response. His eyes continued to study me, full of that puzzling emotion.

Whatever his reaction meant I couldn’t focus on now even with my simultaneously thinking brain. I was out of air, and the fear that accompanied the thought of inhaling to speak again was overwhelming.

My body tensed for the brutality, my muscles frozen as I turned my head even further away to quickly breathe through my mouth so as to avoid his scent.

The potency was just as painful as it had been last week, a wrecking ball of desire desiccating my burning throat as the taste of the tainted air settled onto my tongue.

I was a creature of ice brimming with fire.

I wrestled for coherency, desperately trying to compose myself again as Mr. Molina explained today’s assignment, rescuing me from the agony of conversation.

Today’s lab required working together alongside your table partner.

I hadn’t experienced such a series of bad luck since I had been human.

The boy – or I suppose I should refer to him by his first name now that introductions had occurred – turned to face me again once our teacher finished instruction. He smiled a crooked smile. “Ladies first, partner?”

“Why don’t you begin?” I offered, utilizing all of my strength to uncomfortably half-smile in return.

He paused for a moment, his eyes suspended on my face. It was the first time he had lost some of his inexplicable coolness. The pace of his heartbeat – a painful reminder of his fragility – sped up. Had I done something to frighten him?

“If you wish,” he recovered, slightly shaking his head, his tousled bronze hair swaying with the movement. While I was mystified as to what his reaction meant, most of my thought was absorbed with relief that I had breathed prior to this action. I had no doubt that it would have sent the craving slamming into me like a wall of cement. I tried to ignore the appealing flush of a subtle, light pink that briefly colored the skin beneath his cheekbones.

He reached for the shabby microscope on the table along with a slide from a small cardboard box.

“Prophase,” he announced after a very brief examination. “Can I look?” I asked.

“You don’t trust me?” He smirked as he pulled his face away from the equipment.

“No,” I replied.

He laughed at my genuine answer, and instinctually, I reached to stop his hand from removing the slide.

It was an idiotic mistake. How many feelings of violence could I experience? This severity was different but no less overpowering. The heat of his skin burned mine electrically as if I had been struck by lightning. The sensation shot through my arm, and I was ablaze like a live wire.

“Sorry,” I blurted, grinding my razor-sharp teeth together. I didn’t want to see his reaction to the strikingly chilling temperature of my granite-like skin, so I buried my face in the microscope, looking through the eyepiece, allowing my long, dark hair to spill across the table as a wall between us.

“Prophase,” I whispered. He had been correct.

The thirst was ferocious and the charge in my body exorbitant. I concentrated very intensely on filling out the lab sheet, writing our answer along the first line.

He silently switched the slide to the next, and I cringed, wondering how my touch had felt to him.

“Anaphase,” I whispered again after a peek through the eyepiece.

“Do you mind if I look?”

Surprised, I glanced up to meet his expectant viridescent gaze.

“You don’t trust me?” I repeated his words from earlier. As if I could be incorrect.

“Definitely not,” he smiled wryly, humor lighting up his irises before leaning in to examine the slide.

I couldn’t help but smile too.

“You shouldn’t,” I joked, though partly I was unable to restrain myself – stupidly, as if I could truly be honest with him – from providing him a fair warning.

He paused, his hand on the tube of the microscope, turning his face towards me. His eyebrows pulled together inquisitively, but his lips curved upwards slightly. “And why is that?”

I glanced away, turning my attention back to the sheet of paper, desperately trying to think of anything other than his blood.

When it became clear I wasn’t willing to provide an answer, he resumed his observation. “Next slide?”

He reached for the following slide, and I dropped it into his hand, avoiding contact with his skin this time. 

We continued the lab with minimal conversation, sliding the microscope between us and double checking the answers. I wrote the majority of the answers down, though he wrote a few at the end. His script was far more elegant than I was expecting from a teenage boy.

We were the first students to complete the lab while the rest of the class seemed to be struggling to properly identify the stages of mitosis. Maybe I should have hesitated longer in my examinations so we wouldn’t be left with so much remaining time for tension and uncomfortable silence to fill. I periodically took excruciating breaths, hoping to build up more resistance.

I noticed a sandy blonde student – I think her name was Sara – at a table diagonal from us overly engrossed in making continual glances back this way. I was shocked to catch her shooting me a dirty look, unaware anyone felt antagonistic towards me.

I wondered if she was interested in Edward. I found myself amused by the thought she could be developing resentment for that reason. If only she knew the kind of interest the boy held for me.

Mr. Molina made his rounds to check on the students’ progress. When he saw our lack of activity, he approached our table.

“Miss Cullen,” he began, looking over our answers through his glasses. “You didn’t want to share your microscope with our new student?”

I withheld a smile, unused to anything remotely related to chastisement in classes I didn’t share with Emmett, though even in those lessons we rarely got in trouble.

“Actually, Mr. Molina. She was very accommodating. We both identified the slides and double checked each other’s answers. Bella was just our primary scribe.”

“Ah,” our teacher nodded, still skeptical.

“I’ve done this lab before,” Edward shrugged. “I was always in advanced placement programs at my other schools.”

I processed this information, unsurprised by the confirmation of his intelligence. The assertiveness of his words also confirmed my suspicions that he was pretentious.

“Wonderful,” the man smiled, his tan face impressed. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s a good thing the two of you are partners. You should have raised your hand to let me know you completed the lab. Let me go grab the golden onion, so I can present it to you-”

“That’s alright. We don’t need the award, prestigious as it may be,” Edward chuckled. “You can let some other students have it. I don’t mind missing out on the bonus points.”

“And you, Miss Cullen?”

“I’m fine,” I smiled reassuringly.

“Very well. Good work,” he left to check on another table. As he turned, I took advantage of the fresh gush of uncorrupted air that flew in my direction.

After a moment, Edward spoke again, slightly leaning towards me. Was this stupid man lacking a sense of danger?

“The kids here have a lot of commentary about your family.”

Of course I knew that to be true, but I was taken aback with his bluntness. “I’m sure they do.”

“So what led you to move here?” He asked too innocently, clearly attempting to uncover secrets.

“I would have thought the students here would have provided you with satisfactory gossip.”

“I’d rather hear the story from you.”

My eyes narrowed slightly, trying to discern the motivation behind his interest. Was it simply curiosity or was there more? “Esme, my oldest sister, prefers life in a small town… Shouldn’t I be the one questioning your reasons for moving here?”

Despite my harsh tone, he smiled his crooked smile. “You’re the first student who’s not expressed much interest in me.”

I shrugged stiffly, returning my attention back to staring blankly at the front of the room.

“Well, other than your incomprehensible opposition to having me as a partner on my first day. I’d say that qualifies as interest.”

“I already told you I was sick.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he conceded, though something in his tone implied he didn’t completely believe me. “...You said oldest sister...I thought the other two weren’t your siblings.”

I froze.

“I consider Rosalie and my cousin Alice to be my sisters as well.”

He nodded, taking in the information.

“So, are you going to ask?” He asked after a moment.

“What?” I snapped, turning to him again.

“You’re not questioning my reasons for moving here?” He grinned.

“No,” I retaliated, growing irritated. I should attempt to be warm and pleasant the way a responsible Cullen would, but I was already too preoccupied with the terrible physical ways he was affecting me that I cared little for the mental ways.

“Oh,” he laughed softly. “Am I annoying you?”

I could tell he was used to being considered charismatic by the way my indifference amused him.

“No,” I lied and he chuckled again, not believing me. I turned to meet his gaze and found myself trapped there. His eyes were warm and captivating. My frustration nearly evaporated. “Though you are very much arrogant.” The grin didn’t leave his face at my words. He seemed appreciative of my honesty. “I’m more annoyed with myself than anything.”

“Why?”

“Okay, now, you’re annoying me.” I turned away to inhale, pausing to let the desire simmer until I could control myself once more.

“Then I’ll leave you alone. I should know better than to have bothered you when you were clearly in a bad mood.”

“A bad mood?”

“Yes, I saw you when you were at lunch before you left. It seemed your family was provoking you. You looked as if you were about to fight the bigger guy.”

“My brother, Emmett.”

“Emmett,” he nodded, trying out the name for recognition. “Something tells me you could take him,” he teased, and I surprisingly found myself smirking.

“I don’t imagine you’ll share what’s causing you to be in a bad mood...but can I ask why you were staring at me?”

“Are you always this direct?” I asked, exasperated.

“Not always. I just find you particularly difficult to read.”

“You must be a very good reader then.” If he considered me a difficult case to decipher but nevertheless made the astute observations that he did, he must be immensely perceptive, a factor that made this situation immeasurably worse.

“Usually.” He smiled his crooked smile again.

After a minuscule measure of time, I responded. “No, you cannot ask.”

“I didn’t think so,” Edward’s smile grew into a beam, revealing near-perfect, white teeth.

“Why do you care?” I demanded, the thirst festering around the edges of my resolve.

At this question, his face dropped into a thoughtful frown. “That’s a very good question.”

Though I unexpectedly found myself engrossed in the meaning of this response and the answer behind the question, I was interrupted as Mr. Molina called for the class’s attention. He over-dramatically presented the golden onion to a pair composed of a ridiculous class clown of a boy and his quieter female partner. The boy enthusiastically received the silly prize as the rest of the class hooted and hollered. Mr. Molina cut the boy off as the kid began to address his peers, notifying him that the award didn’t require an acceptance speech.

But my attention was absorbed in something other than the class shenanigans.

Suddenly, I was fascinated in the boy’s fascination. Of course, we were interesting. That was undeniable. Our kind was designed to draw in the curiosity of his kind. Everything about me – the sweet scent of my skin, the beauty of my features, the velvet sound of my voice – was intricately fashioned to bring him closer. It was enormously unjustified the abilities we were equipped with to trap and kill our prey. There was no abnormality in a human having interest in us. It happened often. When we moved to a new place, we expected the initial inquisitions, though eventually, they died down once our disinterest in fully assimilating into their community became clear. We became then simply a strange story about a strange family. Occasionally, a human would hold particular interest in us, overly intrigued in what we are. The differences between us were abundantly clear, but this particular human wouldn’t dismiss them for the comfort of preserving their carefully constructed world of normalcy like the others around them. It was a rarity for that kind of human to guess what we were correctly.

However, Alice would watch for us, and before they could, we’d vanish.

He might not be the particular human who guessed correctly, but what were the odds that this human, the human whose blood sang to me, would be the particular human who was too curious for their own good?

I was fascinated with this absurdity.

Must it be him who sees too clearly? Suddenly, despite his arrogance, his pretension, his invasiveness, I was curious about this human boy with too many questions.

The odds were towering above us both. Here was a human who unwittingly, perfunctorily threatened everything that made up the tiny niche of peace in this existence. Whatever the differential may be, I lusted more so for the blood in his veins more than I had for any blood. And because I refused to be a monster, this human boy would live. And because he would live, he’d be able to devote thought to his observations about me. Here was a human who was watching too carefully, noticing nothing consequential yet, but seeing enough to warrant caution about his surveillance. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was damned to expose us in some way. Either by taking his life or by being watched too closely.

And it was worse for him. If I made a mistake either way, we could clean up the mess left behind. After a few decades, the guilt would hopefully ease as it did for my siblings. But for him, here was a vampire whose previously impressively stable sense of self control was in incoherent disarray. Here was a vampire who had a desire seemingly tailored precisely for the scent he carried. Here was a vampire who had a sudden intrigue in why it was him, this intruding, annoying man of a boy, to be the one to weaken her. There’d be nothing for him if I made a mistake. No more life to live.

The best case scenario would be that I’d become a distant nightmare.

Why had we been placed on this earth if not to be a perfectly designed pair of predator and prey?

Perhaps it was kismet. Sickening, grotesque kismet.

Well, I would fight fate. I would not allow this boy to bother me any longer. He would not make a monster of me, and I would not be the cause for any suspicions that my family was anything other than what we portray ourselves to be.

He can ask all of his questions, but his scrutiny will eventually fade just as it did for most of the other humans like him.

His attempts to read and examine will be futile and disappointing.

I felt satisfied enough with my conclusions that I almost thought to smile victoriously and say goodbye to him, but the part of my brain still devoted to annoyance kept me still.

When the bell rang, I leaped from my seat and exited the classroom, leaving the boy behind.

Once I was a safe distance away, I thankfully breathed in the wonderful, clean air, even inviting the subtle burn from the students’ less appetizing blood that almost unnoticeably singed my nose and throat.

As I passed by the door of the Spanish class that was my next period, I yanked the arm of my brother Emmett, who had been waiting for me against the wall of lockers, dragging him alongside me, though no one watching would recognize my strength.

“How did it go?” He questioned as he began to freely follow beside me with no resistance.

I took advantage of his wariness.

“We have to clean up,” I whispered harshly in a low volume.

“Seriously!?” I sensed his body tense at the news. “Damn, Rose is gonna be pissed! I mean, I know she won’t be that upset with you, but-”

Before his light-speed prattle could go on any further, I cut him off.

“No, you dummy. I was joking. Do you smell a classroom of dead children?”

“Oh,” his nostrils flared slightly as he inspected the air. “No, but I thought maybe you really let loose and drained them all.”

I frowned. “I have to say this is one of our more morbid conversations.”

“We’re not going to Spanish class?” “No.” We exited the brick building into the grey, showery parking lot. The surrounding firs were heavily saturated in their shades of dark green against the clouded sky.

“Alright! I like when you break the rules! Where we going?” His right hand made a large fist that eagerly met the palm of his left hand as if we were about to embark on some adventure in which I required backup.

“The car?” I answered the obvious question as the rain poured down, soaking his curly hair, making it appear even blacker, drenching my dark hair into a slick waterfall against my back, and washing away the small amount of snow that had fallen an hour ago.

“The car?” He asked, confused. 

The rain smelled wonderful – like pine needles, spearmint, and eucalyptus. The droplets massaged my skin as they slid across the smooth surface, warm against the similar temperature.

Although I was free from Edward for now, a small part of me was reserved with some caution, so I crossed the parking lot at a slow pace as if we were being watched.

Once inside the vehicle, I placed a new disc into the CD player, unwilling to wrestle with the sometimes fickle bluetooth that often refused to surrender its connection to Rosalie’s cellphone. I was too impatient to continue life at a human speed right now.

I leaned the driver’s seat all the way back, and Emmett mirrored me in the passenger seat.

“So how was it really?” He asked.

“It was...odd,” I hesitated. “Better in some ways than last week but worse in others.”

“How’d he smell?”

“Just as good,” I groaned, placing my hands over my face as venom collected in my mouth at the memory.

“Well, that sucks,” Emmett chuckled, his long fingers tapping along to the rhythm of the song against the door of the car.

“I actually spoke to him today. Well, I guess he spoke to me.” I sighed, removing my hands from covering up my expressions.

“Oh, yeah? Did he explain his weird apathy about you? I got a real kick out of that.” My brother turned to face me, his head laying against the headrest, beaming widely, his snowy teeth blinding.

“That’s the thing – he’s not apathetic about me. I’d do anything for some apathy! I don’t understand his reaction in the cafeteria, but that along with his line of questioning today-”

“Line of questioning?”

“Yes, he’s very annoying!” I huffed.

“Sounds like you.”

“Keep in mind I promised murder today, and so far the boy made it away from me without so much as a scrape. You might not be so lucky.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes, and facing the car roof.

“Anyways, he was far too...overly invested. He noticed my expression last week. I didn’t think he’d assume that the way I left the classroom had anything to do with him, but he’s seemed to have made the connection somehow. Maybe that offended him in some way, but I’m concerned he’s...noticing more than he should. I’m not sure, but I have a bad feeling.”

“Humans have wondered about us before. He’s the new kid, so I mean, it makes sense he has questions.” “We are an odd looking group,” I agreed. “Hey, speak for yourself. I think the rest of us look pretty normal. Now, you...you’re a little funny looking.”

“Every day, I mourn that I have to spend eternity with you,” I snickered with him.

After a moment, I nodded. “I guess you’re right. His curiosity will fade.”

“And will your thirst, do you think?”

To that, neither of us had an answer.

“Hey, nobody died today.”

“Yet,” I reminded him.

“Yet,” Emmett agreed tauntingly. “I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.” “What choice do I have!?” I demanded. “What would you have done?”

He shrugged. “We all mess up. Sometimes a person just smells too good.”

“Your regard for human life today is really amazing,” I glared.

“Sorry I’m not the patron saint of human life,” he chuckled.

“Well, I’m not either,” I shrugged.

We fell into a comfortable silence, something unusual between us lately. This kind of moment was more common between Jasper and myself. With all the time we’d spent together in this eternity we share, we could of course spend long amounts of time quietly beside one another, but in the past few years, Emmett and I had been in another phase of mischief. Often, the quietness was a thing of suspicion, a warning that one of us was conjuring up some plan to mess with the other. But the two of us laid back in the car, entirely motionless, listening to the music and the rain.

An hour or so later when the bell signaling the end of school rang and students began filing out of the old buildings, I raised the seat back into its previous position and exited the car so that Rosalie could take her usual place behind the steering wheel.

Emmett remained in the passenger seat as I leaned against the car, the drizzling rain wetting my long hair again. 

Alice and Jasper arrived at the car first. In addition to the excited after-school chatter, I could hear what was stalling my other sister in the farthest building: Rosalie was in conversation with her psychology teacher, subtly encouraging the educator to branch from the syllabus, suggesting that another day with greater focus on analyzing physiological, cognitive, and behavioral strategies to combat psychophysiological reactions to stress and trauma would be very beneficial for the class and interesting information to learn. As if someone with a doctoral degree in psychology had anything to learn from a high school senior level psychology class.

“I saw a vision of you and Em skip class just to listen to music. Very angsty teenage human of you,” Alice grinned.

“I’m all about upholding our image,” I winked.

“You’re in a much brighter mood,” Jasper remarked.

“Well, just like my angsty teenage peers, I’m very eager to escape the hell that is high school and go home.”

“Hell, indeed,” Jasper half-smiled, intaking one last shallow breathful of the students’ scent as he slid into the back of the car.

“How can this be hell when I’m in the presence of an angel?” Alice sang to Jasper while Emmett and I groaned.

“Oh, shut up,” she chortled as she joined my brothers in the car. She gently – as to not destroy the interior – kicked the back of Emmett’s seat.

“I’d have said purgatory prior to last week,” I sighed wistfully.

As Rosalie wished the teacher a good night and exited her classroom, I listened for the willowy sound of her feet against the rain-soaked pavement.

In waiting for the appearance of her otherworldly face, I watched as the boy exited one of the brick buildings into the rainfall that had become a mist. The droplets falling into his tousled hair made it appear darker than it had looked under the fluorescence of the biology classroom. The moisture didn’t seem to bother him as he strode across the parking lot, not concerned with rushing to reach his car. A small, leather-bound journal was clenched in his right hand.

His vehicle was sleek, black, and much nicer than the other students’ cars. I wondered if his aggravating self assurance came from wealth.

It seemed he sensed the intensity of my stare. Edward looked up inquisitively, glancing around him. He waved to one of the students that called out to him before his green eyes settled on mine. Seeing that it was me who was gazing at him again, his face lit up in a smile. I could hear the softness as he laughed, shaking his head, and ducked into the drivers’ seat of his car. Our hold was lost until he readjusted the rearview mirror, and once again I could see the half moons of his enlivened eyes.

“Are you ready, Bella?” Rosalie asked, already turning the engine on. I had barely paid any notice to her approach.

“Yes,” I turned, sliding into the seat next to Alice.

Despite myself, the fact that something about my stare was of some ambiguous amusing importance to him had a smile pulling at the corners of my lips as well.

i hope u enjoyed <3 and...i know, i know... we all love to roast edward. & we all love the idea of a nerdy little redhead. i KNOW. i'm sorry. but i think what we all forget sometimes is that our sweet, sensitive, easy to make fun of edward is also an annoying, smug, cocky know-it-all. and bella, even in her newfound vampiric confidence, is still a quiet bookworm trying to mind her own business. u can fight me in my ask box. pls be gentle. also, i have adopted mr. molina of the film twilight because we do NOT support pedophiles. green is what? good. having a crush on ur high school student is what? weird & u should be fired immediately & should have NEVER been in a position where u work with children.

[stylishanachronism]

Okay so we’re going to open with the fact that while Obsidian has at least one person on staff who understands armor, literally nobody understands clothing, especially historical clothing, and though they stumbled into something... acceptable in two and a half cases(1), literally everything else they’ve produced on the subject is garbage.

So what’s the most garbage cultural garb in Eora? I’m going to shock you, despite my complaining on the affront that is the Dyrwood, it’s actually the Vailians. They’re supposedly primarily metalsmiths and textile traders, (iirc Obsidian called Venice and the Phoenicians as the major guiding influences), with really strong textual aesthetic sensibilities, and yet they’re all wearing drab closefitting garments with neither wild shaping nor excess fabric, mostly in deeply boring greys. It’s like... bad period piece Renaissance Venetians, but make it 90s haute couture. It is *painfully* bad. Deadfire improves, a little bit, but these are supposedly the most baroque bitches around, I should be seeing vivid colors (especially in reds and blues and purples), rich blacks, and enough spare fabric to drown a medium sized child. Also lace. A famous vineyard’s worth of lace. At least blackwork, come on Obsidian they look cheap.

Based on Pallegina’s armor, I should also be seeing a ‘pigeon breast’ silhouette on literally everyone, or alternatively low, square cut bodices to show off extremely fancy underwear (and don’t worry, we’ll get to the underwear), and I should be seeing split hose, not pants, if I am seeing hose at all. I will accept pants for exactly two cultures and no more. and the Republics do not apply.(2) Deadfire did them a good turn by introducing brocades but where is the velvet. The silk. The weird hats. The dagged, slashed sleeves to show off the fact you’re rich enough to wear an overdress, an underdress, and then your underwear’s fancy as hell too. Everybody on the south-eastern half of the Eastern reach is wearing, at minimum, a chemise, hose, and if you’ve got boobs some sort of stays to keep said boobs put, and pockets, before you even get to their outerwear.and just like today, everybody wants pretty underwear. Embroidered cuffs and collars, clocked hose, lace on everything, if you’re rich, blackwork if you aren’t, extremely beautiful pockets, the works. The Republics, being the rich people with all the fabric, have canonically raised fashion to an art form, so they should be dripping with extra details, and they should not only be the only people with flat patterning, they should be reveling in that fact. They are not doing any of these things.

The second most garbage cultural garb is, of course, the Dyrwood. Again, I should be seeing lots of color, not necessarily saturated but given their climate and stated food products I can make an educated guess about what dye plants are around, so lots of greens and yellows and rusty-orange reds and (maybe) pale blues, and a billion extremely rich shades of brown and almost-black, mostly plainweave for themselves (they’re shipping out their brocades for the most part), but lots of embroidery again. They can keep the bracers, they’re the only canon-given detail I actually liked (and it plays into a different headcanon re: where the fuck did you get the standing army), but they don’t even get split hose, much less pants. Skirts for everybody! Again, these people are producing all the fabric, and it’s cold(ish), so multiple layers are a thing, as is excess cloth, and if you’re going to do that, you’ll dye your underdress a fun color to contrast with your overdress (which very well might be quartered, too), at the very least. There’s probably a lot of plain trimming, and guards, and they’re coming out of Aedyran fashion so there’s not a lot of shaping but stripes and plaids are probably a thing, and certainly no flat patterning. Think bilaut over later kirtles, with side lacing and belting around the waist for various purposes (like making your boobs stay put, depending on if you’ve got stays or not, or holding up said skirt when you’re working in the fields, to get it out of the way.)(3)

Based on the leather armor you pick up, I should also be seeing the beginnings of a more conical style, moving away from clothes you just drop over your head into separate skirts and bodices (for everybody, not just women), which still probably lace up the front or (more commonly) the sides. (There’s an argument to be made that kilts are a thing, coming out of Eir Glanfath, but it’s probably more of a western than an eastern thing, and frankly I’m not sold, get back to me on this.) Also, going back to my dearly cherished ring lace headcanon, pretty much everyone wears extremely beautiful knit lace shawls (but not trim, and not non-knit), because even if you’re selling all the really nice stuff you’ve still got piles and piles of little apprentices practicing their trade, and somebody’s got to wear it.

Unfortunately I just don’t have enough information about Glanfathians to say anything other than what they’re wearing is also probably garbage, and fashion is probably a hugely tribe-specific thing. More nomadic tribes probably don’t wear many wovens, probably saving what cloth they make or trade for for things like belts and blankets and carrying bags, but again, it should all be extremely colorful. You’ll see more shaping and piecework here, because leather does not appear in neat rectangles the way cloth does, and if you’ve already got that curve you might as well use it, lots of fur, mostly for warmth but also as decoration, and we might see Dyrwodian fashion influences with the more eastern tribes, depending on the mystery of what’s going down politically at that border and whether or not those tribes are more or less nomadic.

Ixmitl gets an honorable mention for having the most color and also horses, and so the pants are acceptable, but I’d like to see more color and more embellishment. And also more information. Rauatai gets an honorable mention for having actually reasonable rectangular construction on everything (clearly an accident but I’ll take it) and again, some color. Aedyr gets an honorable mention for having some logic put into it’s creation, even if that logic isn’t extended out to its colonies like it should be, and even if what we see in game makes it clear Obsidian doesn’t actually understand how things like chitons work.

Engwith gets all the honorable mentions for somehow being the most internally consistent culture as far as art and fashion go, despite 90% of that art and fashion being extremely hard to see frescoes, and the rest of it being Thaos. Yeah it’s basically a straight copy off Sumer but you know what? That just means it works.

At some point in the distant future I may update this with illustrations of canon v. what we reasonably should be seeing, but right now is not that time.

1: Whoever Obsidian picked up for Tyranny clearly stayed on (Tyranny’s clothing was uniformly pretty great, even if it had the same bra problem), and they’re the only person with half a clue, which is why the Huana look as good as they do. Pillars gets half a point for Aedyr, Iximtl, and hilariously enough Engwith, for having reasonable starting points, and Deadfire should get another half point for Rautai, but that picture of Maia exists and it is such an affront they lost it again.

2: Ixmitl and the various groups of the White that Wends can have pants, the first because they’re canonically horse people, and that’s what pants are for. The White doesn’t actually get pants, per se, they’re fairly clearly inspired variously by the Inuit and the Vikings, so they have separate undergarments we would call pants in order to help keep warm, but it counts for this. Nobody else gets pants.

3: Just for the record, this is also where Raedceras should be, fashion-wise, but we have huge amounts of nothing when it comes to non-priest everyday wear so I can’t really talk about. My logic still stands, plus they’re even less likely to know about flat patterning, but, y’know.

[autisticblueteam]

Your Friend, Connie (TexCT)

[AO3] [Ko-Fi in Bio]

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4849

Summary: Connie’s running out of options when a mission gone wrong gives her an opportunity she never expected to have: the chance to talk to Texas, one-on-one. But complicated problems rarely have such simple solutions.

Notes: Final fic for @rvbfemslash February! An immediate heads-up: this fic is not as overtly shippy as I first intended and whilst it’s certainly intended to imply TexCT, it’s not explicit and it focuses more on the potential in their relationship. So it’s toeing the line of counting for this month, but it was written with the ship in mind.

This was ridiculous.

Connie huffed, twisting her wrists in their bindings a little more, trying to get the right angle. There was a little give now, but not enough to get her hands free without breaking a couple of bones and dislocating a couple of joints. She’d rather not do that. Easy fix with some knitting polymer back at the ship or not, it wasn’t pleasant.

She couldn’t believe this had even happened. She was better than this, she didn’t get captured by untrained goons and thrown into the back room of some shady warehouse that smelt like centuries outdated petrol and god knows what else—noxious and distracting, painfully so. Yet here she was, in exactly that situation, with her wrists tied behind her back and her armour nowhere to be seen.

This wasn’t going to help her tenuous standing at the Project. Getting captured two times in as many missions was going to catch much too much attention from command.

If only it hadn’t come so soon after her last intel drop. Sending intelligence over the Project’s own communication networks, even routed through a variety of proxies and other safety measures, was getting too risky. So, rather than take that chance, she’d arranged for her contact to ‘capture’ her on her last mission. It was simple enough; she tripped an alarm that she’d never have fallen for in an actual infiltration and let Sleeves, their muscle, grab her. Cutting off her own comms was easy and the drop went smoothly; by the time someone had made their way to retrieve her, her contact had retreated and she pretended that she’d escaped part way on her own.

Simple. They got what they needed from her, she kept herself out of the suspicions of the Project.

Whether or not that would last now, she couldn’t be sure. Things were getting… precarious.

Time was running out and she couldn’t see the countdown.

Shaking the thought away, Connie focused back on the bindings wrapped around her wrist and the situation she was in now, not the one she faced when—if—she got out of here. The warehouse was far out of the way; it had come up on the Project’s radar only after reports of them using—maybe even attempting to sell—experimental equipment had reached the UNSC.

Going by the strange way her armour had locked up, allowing them to grab her without her even throwing a single punch, those reports were true. Experimental or not, it did its job and completely shut down her armour’s systems, she hadn’t even been able to trigger her emergency beacon to call for immediate help.

Hours had passed since and she knew that, by now, they had to know she was in enemy hands. Or, more importantly, that her equipment was.

Agents were disposable, if worst came to worst. But their armour, their modifications? Never.

So she knew someone would come, eventually. For her gear, if not for her.

The two guards that stood over her changed out fairly regularly, as someone got bored or they were needed for another duty. Watching them gave away no organisation or pattern of any kind, so that was a bust. Even with her bindings almost loose enough to remove, to do so without access to a weapon or her armour, with armed guards so close by? It would be suicide.

And so it became a waiting game.

More guards came and went. No one seemed to know what they were going to do with her, not-so-subtle whispers passing between the assortment of grunts about their options—should they have killed her already? Dumped her somewhere? Tried to actually interrogate her and find out what she was here for? Something else entirely? No one knew. Capturing a UNSC-sponsored prisoner was clearly not part of their plans for the day.

At first, she didn’t notice when those whispers shifted target. She’d almost tuned them out entirely before a sudden yelp came from one of their earpieces, the high-pitched sound of someone being struck down mid-word.

The guards shared a look.

“I’ll… go check what’s going on,” one said, taking a few, reluctant steps away. His current partner, who looked somehow even less enthused about the concept of investigating than he did, just nodded.

“You do that,” he said, before turning to Connie with his rifle raised. Connie tensed her shoulders. “And don’t you try any funny business. I can still shoot quicker than you can move.”

That was almost certainly true.

Unfortunately for him, they wouldn’t have chance to find out. Moments after the words left his mouth there was a loud CRASH behind him as his buddy was slammed against the wall with inhuman force.

He jumped out of his damn skin, turned his attention away from Connie—

—who tore herself free from her bindings, planted a hand on the floor and swept his legs from under him.

A yelp, a clatter, a shimmer, the snap of bone—

He dropped to the floor dead.

Connie landed back on the floor, her heart pounding at the rush of adrenaline after hours of sitting still. Looking up at her rescuer, she exhaled; it could only be one person. “Texas.” The clean-up crew.

The shimmer in front of her solidified, smooth black armour reappearing in swathes of reality and an outstretched hand. Eyeing it for a moment, Connie took it and let herself be pulled to her feet.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were showing off with that entrance,” she said, rubbing her wrists. They’d definitely bruise. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of blankness in Tex’s posture, before something clicked into place and she chuckled. Delayed social reaction. That checked.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. You okay?” Tex stood almost an entire foot over her. She’d be imposing, if Connie didn’t know as much about her as she did. Oddly, it made her more… human, knowing that she wasn’t. “No injuries that are gonna stop you moving?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m fine. They didn’t subdue me physically, it was tech that got me.” Speaking of… “Did you get my armour?”

“Not yet.”

Connie raised a brow. “I’m surprised. Shouldn’t you have been grabbing the important stuff first?”

Tex’s tilted head held the same sarcastic confusion. “Yeah, well, my orders are to prioritise your armour and the tech, but hey, I found you first, what am I supposed to do? Backtrack on myself? Nah.” Then, a shrug. “Besides, I know you’re our best intelligence agent. That seems pretty important to me.”

Stance relaxing a little and her face softening, Connie sighed.

“But hey,” Tex continued, “you don’t wanna be saved I can just leave you here, go grab the armour and swing back to you if I have time, no skin off my back.”

“Alright, point taken,” Connie said, before pausing. “…and thanks. I don’t mean to sound… ungrateful.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ve been stuck here for hours, I’d be grouchy too. You know where your armour is?” Tex said, taking a pistol off her thigh and offering it to Connie. She took it. “Fully loaded. Haven’t touched it.”

“Didn’t need to, I’m guessing.” A knife would have been preferable, but a pistol was better than nothing. “I have a rough idea. I imagine it’ll be wherever they’re keeping their other tech. They have some kind of armour locking technology, more advanced than things like the paint. It locked my entire body up with some kind of energy field.”

“Huh. That’s the kind of shit you’re out here for isn’t it?” Tex nudged the dead guard with her foot and glanced over at the other one—not dead, just unconscious and collapsed in a pile of broken crates. No threats in the room.

“Essentially. So, all going well, we’ll be able to complete the mission anyway.” Connie took a deep breath in. Being without her armour on a mission she was meant to run with armour was a new kind of vulnerability she didn’t appreciate at all. “Okay, let’s get this over with before I think too hard about the fact I’m only wearing a kevlar bodysuit.”

“Don’t worry,” Tex said, cracking her knuckles, “I won’t let anyone hit you.”

There was a kind of surety to the statement that only Tex could give off; it wasn’t just a promise, it was a statement of fact. With her track record in the field and training backing that up, Connie felt a little of the tension in her shoulders release.

“Alright, I’m holding you to that.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The warehouse wasn’t kitted out with alarms, but the mess in the open rooms they passed and the sound of distant voices betrayed the panic that had quickly spread once the invisible, wrecking ball of a woman had torn her way through. The halls had been vacated, besides a couple of people grabbing the injured, but alive, members of their group and dragging them away.

There was no point in fighting them if they weren’t an active threat, so they let them go. Going by the buzz of turbines above them, the second assault had provoked an evacuation.

“Think I scared most of ‘em off?” Tex said, nodding towards the ceiling.

“Most of them. I doubt they’ll want to leave behind all their tech and they certainly weren’t moving out before you turned up,” a silent infiltration with no casualties never did have the same shock factor as a true assault, “some of them will have to be near wherever they’re storing it, packing it up.”

“Okay, so where we heading? Where would you keep all your top secret, fancy tech?”

A laptop secured against the underside of her bed. A signal scrambling system built into her personal Data Pad. Her medical information used as a layer of defence over the top of a whole drive’s worth of stolen intel. Innocuous places people would never think to look, hidden in plain sight if anyone even bothered to search in the first place.

“One of the standard warehouse rooms, but the furthest one away from where they were keeping me tied up.”

Tex nodded. “Got it. Stick behind me.”

Connie was right. A few halls away they heard voices; orders to hurry up and attitude in return, interrupted by the scraping sound of crates being dragged and the sputter of an old engine. A quick peek inside and they could see them packing crates up into a very outdated van. There was a growing pile of opened and unopened crates beside it, whilst a couple of the group wrangled others into the back.

Stacked on top of one such crate was Connie’s armour.

“You think you can sneak around to your armour whilst I clean up the rest of them?” Tex said. A moment later she was nothing more than a shimmer, distorting the blank wall behind her.

“I should be able to, yeah,” Connie said, double checking the pistol. “See you at the other end.”

The shimmer shifted slightly—an arm being lifted, perhaps—and then it was gone, disappearing into the rows of shelves between them and the vehicle bay at the back.

Connie waited until she heard the first person take a punch and then she was on the move, too.

Moving quickly but quietly, finger rested close to the trigger and on high alert, she slipped down the aisle closest to the entrance. Thuds and bangs and grunts travelled through the shelving—crunching from unarmoured fists against metal and heavily armoured fists against bone, scampering feet and a crate smashing against the floor.

Connie shuddered. Thank god she’d never had reason to be on the wrong end of her strength.

She was at the end of the aisle when one unforeseen side effect of Tex’s distraction made itself known: a couple of the group had ducked behind the crates. Her path was no longer clear, but their view of her certainly was; movement in their periphery drew their attention the moment she got close enough to register they were there.

Emboldened by her lack of armour, they stood to try their luck. That was their first mistake.

They didn’t have guns, so when they ran at her Connie didn’t feel anywhere near as vulnerable as being in open hallways where someone with a weapon that could tear through her suit with ease was a threat. She didn’t even level her own pistol. Soon, they were in range, fists clumsily raised and—

Connie ducked, swept beneath them and half-knocked their legs from under them. By the time they’d steadied themselves she’d already grabbed one of their arms, twisted it up behind their back and slammed her foot into their spine, knocking them down again. As the second of them turned to face her, she bolted towards the end of the aisle. Gave herself room to move and react.

When he came at her again, she ducked, threw a punch into his gut and dodged around him. With a knife this would have been over in seconds. Instead, he came for her again, the first guy grabbed her ankle—

And then he was thrown into the shelves and their arm snapped between the ground and Tex’s foot.

That was their second mistake.

Connie exhaled. Okay.

Tex kicked the first guy in the head and knocked him out. “Told you I wouldn’t let them hit you.”

“You sure did. The others—?”

“Dealt with, get your armour on. I’ll tear open some boxes.”

As soon as the final piece of her armour clipped into place and her HUD lit up, the last of the hairs on her neck settled. Even her knives were still there and she gladly attached them back to their respective hard-points, resting her fingers against the hilt reflexively. There were no more threats, but being in the field was always easier with multiple inches of armour plating between your vital organs and everything around you.

“What did the thing they use on you look like?” Tex called, the sound slightly muffled by the walls of the van.

Connie hopped up into the back with her. Most of the crates had been pulled open by force, their contents now easily seen and examined. Most of them seemed to be weaponry, much of it completely familiar, but one or two contained more… interesting things.

“I didn’t really see, but if I had to take a guess…” Her HUD was scanning and highlighting things that gave off unique energy signatures. Slowly panning past the guns and ammo, she settled on a box of square units that were highlighted as being electromagnetic. “Those things.” Tex reached out, but Connie grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t. I don’t know how they activated them and I wouldn’t know how to deactivate it either. Find a smaller box and I’ll take off my gloves, minimise the risk of it touching armour.”

Tex tilted her head, but she stepped away.

Connie exhaled. How one would have reacted to Tex’s body, she didn’t know. And she didn’t want to take the risk. Tex had to know eventually, but… not like that.

Taking off her gloves, she picked up a couple of the units. When Tex returned with a suitable box she set them down carefully, padding between them with packing from the original crate to keep them from touching.

“There. Alright, call for extraction.”

“Already on it.”

Turning back, Connie could have sworn she saw Tex… staring, at her? Staring may have been too strong a word, but looking at her, for sure. Maybe that wasn’t notable, but…

In the back of the Pelican, Connie spoke up. “Hey, Texas?”

Tex’s head snapped up, shattering the eerie stillness that had lingered since she sat down. She didn’t share transports often. “Uhh… yeah?”

“I know you’re busy, with briefings and training and all, but… when you have a free hour or two, do you think we could meet up and talk?” It was reckless. Riskier than anything she’d done before now. But she was more aware than ever of that invisible timer, counting down until she’d have to make a choice.

So she was making one.

Tex stalled. That split-second delay she’d noticed before lingered longer this time—ingrained protocol warring with social rules warring with personal desires warring with whatever else was on her mind.

But, eventually, it passed.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll… set some time aside. I think I have an hour between training and briefing in a couple days? About 1300,” Tex said, shifting a little in her seat. Nerves?

“I can make time. Do you know where the observatory deck is?” Quiet, mostly private. Especially during the day.

“Yeah, I know where it is. Guess uhh… guess I’ll see you then.”

Connie offered a smile. “See you then.”

Tex may have tried to smile back, but it was hard to tell behind that helmet she’d never seen her remove. Regardless, the silence felt a little more companionable after that.

A human connection, first and foremost, that was what Connie wanted to offer. Break the isolation that Tex had been experiencing since she came into existence. Maybe, just maybe, if she was able to get past that… maybe she could tell her. Maybe she could do something without having to leave.

It wasn’t a sure thing.

Still, Tex deserved to have a friendly face to turn to. Her unusual circumstances had dictated her isolation and no one had made the effort to change that, not even Connie herself. Tex was owed that much, surely.

Upon their return, everything went as Connie had expected. Without even so much as a ten minute diversion to check her physical condition, Connie was dragged into a dressing-down disguised as a debriefing. She stood there and took it, zoning out and saying ‘yessir’ and ‘it won’t happen again sir’ in all the right places to placate his anger at her incompetence. It didn’t matter, anyway; that board hadn’t changed since the AI started going out, she wasn’t being demoted to Beta Squad now. Even if she was, it would hardly change anything.

It ended, she left, she passed out in bed with only a wave at South.

Tex was nowhere to be seen for the next two days, but that was expected too. It was a miracle she’d even found one hour of free time to promise. So Connie went about her business as normal, continued her work, kept up appearances.

But when that hour came, Tex wasn’t there.

The observatory deck was dark and empty, so silent that the hum of the engines was no longer just background noise. Connie waited there for three hours, just in case—it didn’t make a difference, Tex didn’t come.

Maybe she should have expected that, as well.

After that mission, everything at the Project seemed to move faster than ever and Tex was somehow more absent than she’d ever been before. No one saw her for days, then a few weeks. Never caught so much as a glimpse. AI production showed no signs of stopping and Connie found herself backed further and further into a corner. Every new piece of intel she stole upped her chances of getting caught and the pressure from Jarrett to leave was piling by the day. Tex had been one of her only other avenues of action and that had clearly closed.

Connie was racing that invisible countdown and she couldn’t keep up.

Eventually, she knew something would have to give. Opportunities to drop her intel discretely had faded. Her next chance involved ignoring direct orders, abandoning a mission and risking exposure. Or, perhaps worse, having to leave before she was really ready to make that decision.

So the night before, she found herself back on the observatory deck, amidst the eerie silence of space that made her lungs feel compressed and her mind run in circles about the what ifs of the void in front of her. Unpredictable and infinite. Absolutely terrifying.

And then a voice broke the silence. “Room for another?”

“I’m certainly not going to stop you.”

Texas emerged from the darkness, her pale face and light hair a stark contrast to it and her black clothes. It was the first time Connie had seen her face outside of the files that recorded every detail of her existence, from the exact shade of her hair to the beauty marks that, if pressed right, would open her power cell compartment.

She knew more about Tex than Tex may ever know about herself and it felt as wrong as it was.

The AI who knew nothing of what she was sat beside her, leaned back upon her palms and stretched her legs out in front of her. Stared out at the abyss in front of them, all of the distant stars that only Maine seemed to know the names of, and said nothing more.

Connie glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, watched her. The slightly too even rise and fall of her shoulders, the unnatural stillness of her position—all the little things. Maybe if she’d been around them more, she would have adapted her patterns to match, began to act more human. Then again, what did it matter? She thought she was human, she acted human in all of the most obvious ways.

Shattering that illusion required more trust than Tex had been given time to place in her. She couldn’t do it now.

Quiet ruled the room for almost ten minutes before Tex spoke again.

“Sorry I stood you up. Shit got kinda busy after we got back, I didn’t have the time.”

“It’s fine. You’re a busy woman.”

Another pause. Connie picked at the scar across her palm and took a deep breath in.

“You ever have to make an impossible choice, Tex? One that could either fix or ruin everything all at once?”

Tex hesitated, but this time it felt more… real, not like a software delay. “Not really. Things have always been… pretty straightforward, for me, I guess. I do my job, do it well… don’t have to make the hard decisions, just gotta follow orders when I get ‘em.”

“Hopefully it stays that way,” Connie sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Another beat. “You on the mission tomorrow?”

“Technically, that’s classified, but… nah, not tomorrow. Got me hanging back on the ship, ready to go if things get dire, but,” she shrugged, “pretty sure you guys can handle this one.”

Connie rested her head against her knee, turned to face her. “Even me? The one who’s been captured twice?”

“Hey, from what I heard, the first time you got out on your own. Second time, you only got caught because they had some weird tech. I think you’ll be fine,” Tex said. Nudging Connie with her elbow, she offered the first and last smile Connie would ever see her give.

“…thanks.”

“Next time I get a break, I’ll try and let you know. See if we can find time to really have that talk you wanted to have. Seems like something heavy, if that dramatic question was anything to go by. Like, seriously; that was a hell of a welcome.”

Connie muffled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Sorry. I suppose I have a lot on my mind right now. Hence the staring out into space thing.”

“Literally,” there was a note of amusement in her voice, in her eyes. Connie smiled and nodded.

“Literally.”

“I’d ask what choice you gotta make, but that might be a bit personal for a first meet-up.”

“Ask me next time you see me,” Connie said, “I’ll have made the choice by then, it won’t matter so much.”

“Can I hold you to that?”

“Yeah. You can.”

“Well alright then, I gotta get going so…” Tex hopped up to her feet, stretched her arms above her head. Even out of armour, she was built like a brick wall. “Guess I’ll have to ask you next time. See you around, CT. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tex. I’ll see you around. Hopefully we have more time next time.”

Tex gave her a mock salute and vanished back into the darkness of the connecting hall, gone as quickly as she’d come. Connie was alone again and as midnight hit, her countdown was no longer invisible. The mission clock projected itself on the glass in front of her.

Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-six seconds, fifty-five seconds, fifty-four…

One way or another, she was going to have to make her choice.

Pushing herself from the ground, she marched through the halls until she reached the locker room. Empty, this late at night, with camera blind-spots that were easily exploited. Finding one, she set her helmet up on a bench and sat against the lockers behind it.

Taking a deep breath, she set it to record.

“Agent Texas. Allison. If you’re reading this, then that means I escaped. Or, well, at the very least, I’m probably not around anymore…”

It took a few takes. The words flowed by with ease, but her voice was unsteady and her tone was off and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t even hear herself. Recording this was admitting something, something she didn’t want to face. Not yet, not until that countdown was over and things would change irreversibly.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to tell anyone whilst she was here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try even when she was gone. Texas was still her best bet, the one at the centre of all of this.

Things could have gone differently, in another world. Where she’d spoken up sooner, where she’d made the effort to reach out and give her that human connection before it was too late for it to make a damn difference. Where maybe they’d have had the chance to know each other, before Connie had to shatter Tex’s concept of her own existence.

Where the sentiment behind, “…your friend, Connie,” could truly have been realised.

But this wasn’t that world.

Choices had already been made.

Within a couple of months, branded a traitor and a liar and risk to UNSC security for the second time in her life, Connie was dead.

Bled out, alone in an escape pod. As alone in death as she’d been in her final months in the Project and in all of her efforts to make a difference.

And, eventually, Texas would open her locker. Find a set of dog-tags that didn’t belong to her. See that name.

Watch the video.

“I want to leave behind all the data I've been collecting about Project Freelancer. I never could shake the feeling that something was wrong with the program. The secrets, the lies, the manipulation; smoke, all of it, obscuring a big damn fire.”

Everything clicked into place. Everything Connie had said, the strange way she’d looked at her, the way she had tried to reach out… the reason she’d left, the reason she’d provoked her, the reason the Director gave no order to preserve life.

“I did some digging, and now I know what the Director's been hiding. What he did.”

The reason something had felt off for months now.

“He broke the law, Allison. The one law they don't just slap you on the wrist for. I'm taking the originals with me as an insurance policy. I leave this copy for you not because you are the best soldier in the squad…”

Constant training and meetings. Carolina’s increasingly bitter attitude towards her. The AI. How she never had even a spare moment to interact with the team. The fact that Connie had to have been the only person she’d ever shown her face to.

“…but because I know that I can trust you the most.”

Before she killed her.

“After reading these files you will understand why.”

There was a long list of things that Texas would regret in the years to come. At the top was what happened in that bunker. What she’d done.

In another world, things would have gone differently. Connie’s attempt to reach out wouldn’t have failed. They’d have had the chance to talk, to know each other beyond the surface level banter and offerings of friendship that had at least proven the concept—that they would be a good team, that they could be good friends or even something more.

Maybe, even if she’d still been forced to leave, Tex would have realised something was up and found the message sooner. Soon enough to matter.

In another world, things wouldn’t have been perfect, but they would have been better. The things that could have been lingered in the back of Tex’s mind.

But this wasn’t that world. In this world, they’d both been just a little too late.

Tex rested her hand over the image and made a promise.

If nothing else, she’d finish what she started.

“Good luck. Your friend, Connie.”

[theragamuffininitiative]

Yay, I got tagged! <3

tagged by @party-with-books who is amazing, goes without saying. ^_^ Thank you!

Rules: Tag blogs you want to get to know better!

Nickname: I have a lot irl but ‘round here there’s just Rags, Bones, Ragasister (reserved), Ragamuf (reserved), Kaylee (reserved). I love nicknames though and never mind having more. XD

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius. (I always have to look it up, because I don’t pay any attention to the Zodiac, but this time I was almost sure I remembered XD)

Height: I think it says 5′4″ on my driver’s license. Just... Short.

Last thing you Googled: Whether or not I can find a working xkit for Tumblr mobile. I don’t have a sure answer yet, so if anyone who reads this knows, send me a hint! :)

Favorite music artist: You want a list? ;) Needtobreathe is tops, always. Andrew Peterson, Sanctus Real, Thousand Foot Krutch, Marc Martel, Downhere, Imagine Dragons, Take That, Rich Mullins, Ramin Karimloo, Jimmy Needham, Chris Rice, Skillet, Paul Colman, the list goes one folks. XD

Song stuck in your head: Weirdly, none at the moment. Which is funny, because I know there was one there when I woke up this morning. Lately it’s been tracks from Annie and The Lion King. ;)

Last movie you watched: Treasure Planet, because my roomie had never seen it before. o.o She loved it, naturally, as one does.

What are you wearing right now: Purposefully mismatching socks (one shades of blue, the other shades of pink/purple), thriftstore jeans, long-sleeved navy t-shirt, black and white patterned knit hoodie with cap sleeves. (what, it took a cold turn here and I like it)

Why did you choose your URL: I really wanted something to kind of marry the top content: faith and fandom. The Ragamuffin Band was how Rich Mullins and his mates referred to themselves as they made music together, after being inspired by the book The Ragamuffin Gospel. That’s why when I reblog Rich Mullins stuff I often tag with “the original ragamuffin.” And the Initiative part comes from The Avengers, because I am Marvel/Avenges trash. XD

Do you have any other blogs: Indeed, I do! @kayjfields is my writing blog under my pen name, and it sorely needs me to post content on it. I also have @boxnumberfive for the fan merch musical-themed boxes I’ve started making and may end up selling to fans if I can at some point.

What did your last relationship teach you: Well, I’ve never dated anyone sooooo? My relationships with people in general have taught me: value others before yourself but don’t forget you have value, be kind, it requires effort, listen, and you can wildly disagree with someone and still have a good relationship with them.

Religious or Spiritual: Kind of a weird way to phrase that, but ok. I’m a Christian who firmly believes in the inerrancy of Scripture (it is all truth and has no contradictions) and that as a believer I have the Holy Spirit dwelling in me, which sums up my religion and my spirituality.

Favorite Color: Purrrrrpllle

Average hours of sleep: 6-8 generally. Sometimes more like...5 depending on schedule and circumstances.

Lucky Number: I don’t think much of lucky numbers. Album tracks numbered 3, 7, and sometimes 9 are often my favorite songs though. :D

Favorite Character: Ha. Gonna try to list some obscure ones I haven’t mentioned before: Shardas the Gold, Padra the Otter, Taggerung/Deyna, Nicholas Benedict, Isi/Ani, Edric, Jennifer Strange. (all of which are from amazing books and you should read them)

How many blankets do you sleep with: I usually only sleep with my green comforter. But I have an extremely soft purple throw for the winter or cool nights that I like to burrow under too. ^_^ I like the room to be just chilly enough to need two blankets, but alas I do not live in an area where that is the case.

Dream job: Working behind the scenes for a theater company, especially somewhere on Broadway. Or writing for a television series. If we’re talking dream jobs, basically: creating a television series of my own. :D

Okay! Tag time: Imma tag bloggers I don’t interact with much (at all) but who are active followers: @maripopstrench, @ilosttrackofthings, @naviigatenorth, @missthearose, @aph-bara-turkey, @john-silver33, @hobbitsetal but only if you guys want to, of course. :)

If I didn’t tag you and you would like to (this especially goes out to my new followers), feel free! Tag me back so I get to see your post and learn more about you! :D

[markcampbells]

I gotta say, I’ve been seeing entitlement in fandom spaces more and more lately. It’s always been there, but for some reason I’ve been seeing it way more than usual the past couple weeks.

I tried joining a Hamilton memes group on Facebook that looked like fun, though like most Facebook groups of this nature it’s a lot of screenshots of posts from Tumblr. About three days after I joined, someone asked whether or not it was considered appropriate to watch a bootleg. Anyone who objected to the practice or who said hey, Lin is really against bootlegs, got shouted down. Accessibility concerns were brought up, but the arguments coming up more frequently were just... really something. “If you’ve bought the book/CDs/merch, you’ve done your part!” “I really wanted to see the OBC!” “The revolution was also illegal!” (Yes, that was an actual thing someone said.) Someone brought up a professional Broadway actress (whose name I don’t remember) saying that actors know when a person in the audience is filming and that it throws off the entire performance. “Revolution was also illegal” girl, and a couple others, rebutted by saying they’re actresses; you can’t see anything beyond the first five rows so how would they know someone was filming. When I and a couple others pointed out that Lin was regularly calling out specific audience members for texting, she got rude and said “that’s how light works,” that of course you can notice texting, but who’d notice recording? Needless to say I ended up leaving the group; that was not the first unnecessarily pissy thread I saw in the literally three or four days I was part of it. (There was also a lot of “Lin grew up being unable to afford theatre so he should support bootlegs!” / “The show makes enough money that a bootleg isn’t going to hurt them!” I really do feel accessibility is a problem--I have disabled friends who’ve had issues with NYC theatres when we’ve gone to see shows--but bootlegs aren’t exactly the answer.)

The Night Vale discussion group I’m part of is... ehhh. It’s not so much about the actual show as it is about people sharing stupid memes they think are Night Vale-esque, and since that’s not what I’m looking for I’ve debated leaving, but I’ve stayed so far, although I don’t really love some of the way it’s run. (Just today I said I thought it was a little ridiculous to ask for a spoiler warning to be added to a post about a three-year-old episode; even though I understand the backlog is huge and not everyone is caught up, at this point it’s a Late Arrival Spoiler and this week I’ve been seeing people asking posts about the four-year-old Strexcorp arc be tagged as spoilers. More people agreed with me than the mod, but the mod’s opinion rules.) The one thing I run into in this group is people who are against Joseph and Jeffrey’s policy that no one sell their own Night Vale merch. When I see someone who’s clearly not aware of the policy and is asking for something made for personal use to be sold, or who’s bought a piece of merchandise not from the store, I bring up the policy, because Joseph and Jeffrey have gotten really upset by people selling nonofficial merchandise, and it’s literally part of the FAQ. Last time it happened, it was someone posting about a Night Vale tie, and the person bitched at me saying it was okay they bought it because there’s no official Night Vale tie. (And then Night Vale ties and scarves got introduced to the store a few months later.) Today, someone asked that a pattern for a Night Vale kniting project someone did be posted on Ravelry for money. Fortunately, the OP said it’s just a heavily modified version of an existing pattern, so she seemed to either understand the merch policy or just didn’t want to share the pattern. When I brought up the merch policy for the person who asked the pattern be sold, I get: “That's cool. So they're going to provide knitting patterns to buy? I'd certainly be glad to pay them directly just as soon as they are available.” ... and this person is suddenly no longer part of the group, so either she flounced out or got removed by a mod.

I just can’t believe the air of entitlement I keep seeing, with the same justifications, every single time. It’s okay to steal if it’s something you really want, right, or if you’ve done some invisible tally of things to prove you’re a Real Fan before you steal or do something the creators of the show have specifically asked you not to do.

[williamlwolf89]

How to Write a Pitch That’ll Wow Editors & Clients (+ Examples)

Let me guess.

You’ve sent out a gazillion email pitches, but you keep getting rejection slips. Or, worse, no responses at all.

Why does everyone except you seem to know how to write a pitch that lands high-paying jobs or guest posts on prestigious blogs? Is there some secret they’re not sharing?

Meanwhile, you can’t even crack the content mills and low-quality job boards, your confidence is zapped, and your freelancing career is sputtering to a halt.

It’s not like you’re trying to pitch the New York Times. But when the only writing gig you’ve landed this month is an ad for a boot scootin’ club, you know you need help.

Thank goodness you found your way here.

Knowing How to Write a Pitch is a Surefire Way to Grow Your Freelance Writing Business

Let’s be honest. No one likes cold pitching. It can be icky and time consuming.

But it can also be very rewarding. And whether you’re a freelancer starting from scratch, or a seasoned, full-time writer looking for more freelance jobs, there’s no better way of getting your foot in the door.

You see, most high-paying clients and popular blogs don’t need to go looking for writers (and they certainly don’t advertise on job boards). They can take their pick from the copywriters, journalists, bloggers, and freelance writers who approach them directly with a well-crafted pitch.

In fact, if you don’t know how to craft a good pitch, you could be stuck in the content mills forever.

That’s why we want to give you all the do’s and don’ts on writing pitches that’ll impress, along with easy to follow tips, and plenty of pitch examples you can steal and adapt for your own use.

In this guide, you’ll learn:

The 8 Biggest Mistakes You Can Make if You Don’t Know How to Write a Pitch

The 8 Essential Ingredients of a Freelance Writer’s Email Pitch

How to Write a Pitch for an Article or Blog Post (With Example Pitches)

How to Write a Pitch for a New Client as a Freelance Writer (With Examples)

Ready to jump in?

The 8 Biggest Mistakes You Can Make if You Don’t Know How to Write a Pitch

If you haven’t had much luck pitching, my guess is you’ve probably made one of these 8 common mistakes. And if this is your first time, avoid these at all costs.

1. Lead with Your Full Bio

Sad to say, editors and clients aren’t interested in you. They only want to know what you can do for them, and that you can deliver what you promise.

Include a couple of sentences summing up who you are – like an elevator pitch or a tailored version of your bio — but don’t give them your life history.

2. Be Vague

Don’t make them work too hard. Tell them why you’re writing, give them a clear summary of your story idea or proposal, and show them you’re the right person for the freelance writing job by linking to relevant clips. Don’t waffle on about anything else.

3. Write Long-Winded Emails

The people you’re emailing are busy professionals. You need to respect their time by keeping your pitch succinct and relevant. If you bore them with unnecessary details, you’ll never get past first base.

4. Copy and Paste the Same Pitch to Different People

This is a real no-no.

Editors and clients have different needs, audiences, styles and niches, all of which you need to address. There is no such thing as a one-size-fits-all pitch template. Please feel free to use any of the examples in this post as a framework, or for inspiration, but make sure you tailor the details to suit.

5. Show Your Lack of Experience or Confidence

If you don’t have any relevant clips or experience in a certain niche, don’t pitch them. Start with what you know. Your pitch needs to ooze credibility and confidence (even if you have to fake it to start).

Don’t say, “I think I could be a good fit for your publication.”

Try something like, “I have hands-on experience at parenting and have previously written about nutrition for toddlers.”

6. Ignore Submission Guidelines

Most publications have clear directions for submitting a story idea. Always make sure you follow these directions; otherwise, your pitch will be rejected.

Search for guidelines on their website or try Googling “submission guidelines: [name of publication]”.

7. Attach Anything to Your Email

This adds a layer of annoyance for the editor or client. They don’t want to open attachments and have to read more. They want you to get to the point as quickly as possible.

Plus, attachments are a red flag to IT security systems and your email could end up in spam.

8. Provide a Finished Draft

While some publications may ask for a finished draft, most prefer to hear about your story idea first (which is why it’s so important to check their guidelines). If they like the idea, the editor is likely to make some changes to your original outline. Presenting them with a finished piece before they’ve asked for it won’t do you any favors.

Now you know the mistakes to avoid. Let’s talk about the ingredients you should include in your pitch.

The 8 Essential Ingredients of a Freelance Writer’s Email Pitch

1. Research, Research, and Research

This is vital. Get familiar with the publication’s style and tone of voice. Know who their readers are, what topics they’ve covered in the past and what their most recent focus is. Identify the gaps you can fill.

Likewise, with clients, do your homework. Crawl through their website. Check out their Tweets and Facebook page. Set up a Google Alert to get the very latest news or announcements. Then wow them with a pitch that speaks directly to the problem they have and how you can solve it with your writing skills.

2. Know Who You’re Pitching to

Don’t address your email to “Dear Sir”. It’s lazy and generic. Editors and marketing executives all have names and email addresses, which are not that hard to find.

The easiest way is to pick up the phone and ask who you should send your pitch to. You could also use a tool like Hunter.io or go to LinkedIn and do some digging. It shows you’ve done your homework and you care enough to get the details right. And when you address a real human being, you stand more of a chance of your pitch getting read.

The exception to this rule is when the publication’s guidelines tell you to email your pitch to a generic address, or via a submission form. In which case, do what you’re told.

3. Write a Zinging Subject Line

Your subject line needs to grab their attention and compel them to open your email. Test a few techniques like these:

Keep it brief. Data research suggests 7-9 words is optimum.

Use their name in the subject line to catch their eye. For example: “Mary, I have a great pitch for you.”

Use a headline that shows you’ve done your research and you know what their readers want. Example: “Story Idea: How to Train Older Dogs“

Speak to their pain points. “Jeff, need help keeping your blog up to date?”

If you have been referred by a mutual friend or associate, use their name. “John Brown suggested I drop you a line.”

Whatever you do, keep it professional. Your aim is to get your email opened, not have it redirected to spam.

4. Include a Hook

The aim of the hook is to demonstrate you understand their audience or business needs and you have something fresh to say. You want to get them nodding in agreement, eager to know more. Ideally, your hook should appear as close to the start of your email pitch as possible.

Here are some ideas:

Spark their interest with a question: “Is social media marketing a priority for your business right now?”

Stroke their ego: “Your recent post on knitting for beginners was fascinating. I have a great story idea that will expand on the topic of how to read knitting patterns and increase your blog’s authority in this niche.”

Let them know you can solve a current problem for their business or audience: “Did you know 90% of millennials worry they’ll never be able to get a foot on the property ladder? My story idea shows your millennial audience how attainable home ownership really is.”

 5. Get to the Point and Be Relevant

Now they’re hooked. You have to reel them in. Here’s how:

Get to the point: What’s your suggested headline or proposal? Go straight to this after your opening and keep your email as brief as possible. It’s okay if you need to take a few paragraphs to explain your pitch. But don’t waffle.

Be Relevant: Make sure everything in your pitch is relevant. Don’t veer off course. Don’t tell a food blog about your philosophy degree. But, if you’re a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, that’s something you should include.

6. State the Benefits of Your Pitch

This is one of the most important ingredients. How is your pitch going to help the editor’s audience or the client’s business? How is it relevant or timely? What gives it an edge?

For instance, if you’re pitching a client you might say something like, “What would it mean to you if I could help boost traffic to your website and open the door to more sales?”

Doesn’t that sound more enticing than, “I’m an SEO writer and can help you rank higher on Google with some improvements to your website content.”

Or, if you’re pitching a parenting blog, spell out how your story idea is going to benefit their readers? Like this:

“COVID-19 has presented parents with a new set of challenges. This timely post will explore how collaborative parenting leads the way in a pandemic and gives them techniques they may never have tried before.”

Be clear and direct about the irresistible benefits of your pitch.

7. Tell Them Why You’re the Best Person for the Job

They’re sold on your idea. Now you need to sell them on you. This is where you get to boast a little, but make sure everything is relevant to the topic you’re pitching. Here’s what you might include:

Your experience in (or passion for) the niche.

Your experience as a freelance writer in the niche.

Any qualifications that add to your credibility on the topic.

Links to a few of your best writing samples and published pieces to illustrate your ability.

For example:

“I have been a freelance writer for 2 years and a passionate advocate for animal rights for 10 years. I’ve previously been published in [names of relevant blogs or publications] and my clips include [add links to 2 or 3 relevant clips].”

What if you don’t have any published clips? Don’t worry. Link to your own posts in Medium or LinkedIn. Even unpublished samples in Google Docs will do fine.

If an editor or client loves your idea and you can demonstrate your ability to write and your relevancy to their niche, that’s all that matters.

8. Make it Really Easy for Them to Follow Up

It’s amazing how often freelancers forget to include their basic contact details. Sure, the editor or client has your email address, but sometimes people prefer to pick up the phone, so give yourself every advantage.

Include your phone number and location so they know what time zone you’re in. Better still, create a professional email signature, with all your contact details and relevant links included.

If you happen to be in their hometown, this can also be an advantage as many clients prefer to use local freelancers. So, in this instance, tell them you’re available for a face-to-face meeting any time.

Now that you know the mistakes found in bad pitches and the essential ingredients to include in good pitches, let’s go over how to write a pitch to editors (for blog posts) and clients or hiring managers (for freelance writing jobs).

Up first, how to write a pitch for blog posts:

How to Write a Pitch for an Article or Blog Post (With Example Pitches)

Firstly, follow all the do’s and don’ts we’ve outlined above. They apply to all freelance bloggers, article writers, even authors of personal essays, op-eds, creative writing assignments, and opinion pieces.

But there are two more key components you must include when you’re pitching a story idea to a blog editor.

1. Be original

This is crucial. Editors are looking for relevancy and originality, and we’ve already talked about the importance of relevancy.

So, what do we mean by originality?

It’s never been published anywhere else. It must be offered exclusively to the publication you’re pitching (until they reject it and you can move on to the next editor with the same idea).

The story idea fills a gap or presents a fresh, new perspective their audience will want to read.

That’s why research is so important. You may think your idea is sparklingly new, but you need to be sure of it before you pitch. Go back and look at the posts or articles they’ve published on the topic. What new angle can you use that will add value to their readers?

For example, say you’re pitching a health and fitness blog which has published a few posts about push-ups. You need to make your story idea original by pitching an angle they haven’t covered before. Something like this would work:

“Your readers already know that push-ups are the perfect exercise for multiple muscle groups. But what if there’s a new approach to the humble pushup that could transform their body in 30 days.”

2. Pitch a great story, not a topic

If we take the previous example, the topic would be “push-ups” but the story is how a new approach to push-ups can transform your body in 30 days. See the difference?

Another potential topic is “the growing popularity of motorhome vacations.” But if you tried pitching that as a story idea, you’d be rejected. Where’s the angle? What makes it different?

What about this:

Example of a Story Idea Pitch

Motorhome vacations are becoming increasingly popular, and increasingly expensive. But there’s a new movement of motorhome vacationers who have found a way to travel the country for $1 a day, or even for free. This article explores the little-known benefits of RV relocation – the return or transfer of hire vehicles. It includes an interview with the fleet executive of XYZ Van Hire, and the Murray family who traveled in an RV from Palm Springs to Toronto without paying a dime in rental fees.

Do you see how this gives the story idea substance and a new angle? It also tells the editor the plan of action for tackling it which shows them you’ve thought it through and who you want to interview. These are the trademarks of a professional freelance writer editors love to work with.

Now let’s pull it all together and show you a full example of a pitch email to an editor using all the tips and tricks we’ve covered:

Full Example for a Blog Post Pitch

Hi [name of editor],

I am an avid reader of your blog and loved your recent post on puppy training. But this got me thinking about the challenges of teaching older dogs, which is often overlooked. I have a story idea that will add a new dimension to your series on dog training techniques and help readers who are concerned about the apparently strange new behaviors of their aging dog.

How to Train Older Dogs When They Go Off the Rails

As they age, dogs start to physically deteriorate. Their eyesight and hearing get worse, their memory suffers, and – like humans – they get tired and cranky. And sometimes, they display new and unexpected bad behaviors. This post explores the reasons why your older dog may be changing, how to recognize the signs and how to re-train your dog when he goes off the rails.

I intend to interview Dr John R Smith, renowned veterinary surgeon for his insights into physical changes; and Peter Smith, a dog behaviorist and trainer for his surprising take on how you can teach an old dog new tricks.

The main takeout for your readers will be the comfort in knowing their ageing dog isn’t beyond help, they’re not bad owners, and there are some easy techniques to correct Fido’s newly acquired bad habits.

About me: I’m a freelance writer with 3 years’ experience, and passionate dog lover. Some of my recent and relevant clips are [Name of clip], [Name of clip], and [Name of clip]. My website and further details are here.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope to hear back from you soon. Please feel free to email or call — my phone number is […] and I am based in […]

Take this example, tweak it, and make it your own.

How to Write a Pitch for a New Client as a Freelance Writer (With Examples)

Once again, follow all the do’s and don’ts we’ve outlined above. With a couple of exceptions, they apply to client pitches as well.

When you’re first starting out, there are two kinds of pitch emails you should consider: the proposal, or the general introduction.

The Proposal Pitch

This is where you cold pitch a client with a specific proposal in mind. Think about all the writing services you offer and how these might benefit the client you’re targeting: case studies, landing pages, blog posts, email campaigns, and so on. Now match these to a prospective client based on the research you’ve done.

For example: Maybe the client’s blog hasn’t been updated in months, or their “About Us” page on their website could do with an overhaul.

Or you think a business who sells complex software might benefit from some case studies to better explain their product and boost sales.

The proposal pitch should identify the problem, without being over critical, outline the solution, and highlight the benefits. Keep it short, polite, and professional.

Like this:

Full Example for a Proposal Pitch

Hi [name of client],

I’m a freelance writer and a great admirer of your business. I noticed you recently expanded your product line into the consumer market. Congratulations.

I know this because I was interested in purchasing your [product name] myself, but got a bit lost in the technical information on your website. It occurred to me a couple of case studies might be the perfect solution to help demystify the complexities of the product and boost sales to less techno-savvy buyers.

I have experience in writing case studies in your industry and some of my recent and relevant clips are [Name of clip], [Name of clip], and [Name of clip]. My website and further details are here.

If this idea is of interest, I would be delighted to discuss it with you to scope out a brief and likely fee. I look forward to hearing from you — my phone number is […] and I am based in […]

The General Introduction Pitch

You may not have a specific project in mind for the client you’re pitching, but you want to get yourself on their radar.

In this email you’re going to give them a general feel for your services and find out if they ever use freelancers.

They may not need you today, but if they like your approach, they may consider you in future. So, as ever, treat them like a fellow human being and tailor your message to pique their interest.

Full Example for a General Introduction Pitch

Hi [name of client],

Congratulations on your recent expansion into the consumer market. This must be an exciting time for you, and I’ve been watching your new marketing campaigns with interest.

I’m a freelance writer with experience in your industry and I wondered if you ever have the need to outsource any of your content marketing or copywriting activities – especially as you are targeting new consumer market segments.

I specialize in blog posts, web content and email campaigns and some of my recent and relevant clips are [Name of clip], [Name of clip], and [Name of clip]. My website and further details are here, and I am also an occasional guest on an industry podcast that may be of interest to you.

Incidentally, the last clip resulted in a Page #1 ranking on Google and a significant traffic boost to my client’s website.

I’d love the opportunity to do the same for [name of business], so please feel free to reach out if you think I can help, either now or sometime in the future. My phone number is […] and I am based in […].  

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A Final Word on Pitching

I hope we’ve inspired you to rethink your approach to pitching and spurred you into giving it another try.

Tomorrow, start fresh.

Pick your mark. A local business, or a blog that’s right in your pocket. Do your research and pitch them with an idea that’s relevant and original — something their audience or business is going to love.

This time, you’ve got the ammunition you need to avoid the mistakes, include the right ingredients, and pitch with all the confidence and credibility you can muster.

But always remember, pitching is a numbers game.

The more you do it, the better you will become at crafting those winning pitch letters and emails and landing the high-paying writing gigs and blog posts you deserve. I promise.

The post How to Write a Pitch That’ll Wow Editors & Clients (+ Examples) appeared first on Smart Blogger.

from SEO and SM Tips https://smartblogger.com/how-to-write-a-pitch/

[dcnativegal]

Maybe I am an artist

Zora Neale Hurston once said, “I love myself when I am laughing, and again when I’m looking mean and impressive.”   I could safely say, “I love myself when I am playing with yarn, and again when I’ve finished a project and taken a picture of it to post on Facebook.”

Moving to the Oregon Outback, and Valerie’s adorable loft house, has loosed whatever constraints I’d had in DC on yarn binging. Or am I stocking up for my new career as a fiber artist?   Perhaps my yarn buying behavior is yet another one of my compulsions. The Cambridge English Dictionary defines compulsion as a very strong feeling of wanting to do something repeatedly that is difficult to control. So why control it? I see an ad for yarn, I get an email from Webs.com, I get a notification that someone has posted “a yarn for sale” picture in Yarn Hoarders Anonymous on Facebook. If its bulky yarn, or very reasonably priced… I’ve hit up paypal before I know it. Or I do know it and I do it anyway.

But is it a bad thing? Why must I pathologize my yarn buying? I love my yarn. It gives me great joy to order it, anticipate it coming, then open the package (that Paisley’s patient and kind postmistress has hauled to her counter). I deeply enjoy planning what I’ll make with it. Occasionally I’ll open it and go, bleh, not what I had hoped for, but that stuff will find a place and a purpose, too. Yarnbombing with many strands of yarn at once will reduce my supply…

I dream of projects. When I want to stop obsessing about a client, or about my most recent blood sugar, or whatever really stupid thing I said that day (Open mouth, Insert foot), then I plan a project as I drift off to sleep. Something in purple, the color I have the most of. What kind of baby blanket will I make for the Holy Brother’s daughter’s love child? What kind of stitch will best cover the irrigation half wheel that Valerie salvaged? I plan to make a half sun full of oranges, yellows, and white, with a little purple and green thrown in. It will be 3 feet in diameter, and hung from the fence. It will be my second outdoor decoration, after the July 4th crocheted flag I tacked to a folding rectangular trellis and hung on the side of the house.

Why should we all use our creative power?  Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate, so indifferent to fighting and the accumulation of objects and money.                                        Brenda Ueland

 Perhaps I am subconsciously planning for my next career, although I learning and growing in my current one. This ‘behavioral therapist’ business is hard work. Lake County is the redheaded stepchild of Klamath County, which is supposed to share resources with its sister county to the east. It’s also the mostly ignored second cousin of Deschutes County which is just to the north and full of resources, people, stores… it’s where most north Lake County residents go for banking, pharmacy and grocery shopping. Anyway, the impoverishment of Lake County is only one of the reasons this old social worker finds the work challenging. I think most therapists struggle with at least some cases. The multiple early traumas that my clients had to cope with, on top of the challenges of modern life and the dearth of jobs and housing, combine to lay waste the most resilient psyche. Not to mention the recidivism of “substance use disorder”, the newest official term for what was once called addiction.  I do get a surge of joy when one of the clients graduates from their 12 weeks of sobriety and I can report to the probation officer that they are CLEAN.  They were clean before I knew them, however; I take no credit.

Treat people as if they were what they ought to be, and you help them to become what they are capable of being.    

Goethe

 I have no business plan for my next career as a fiber artist. I had an Etsy store once, and spent a lot of money on photography equipment (a huge white sheet and nice lights with umbrellas attached) to take pictures of my accomplishments. Didn’t really work. Maybe I didn’t promote it? I thought my prices were reasonable. I sold more by just mentioning something on facebook than I ever did on Etsy.  

I don’t really care, although I suppose I should, whether I make money from my creations. It would be nice to recoup some of the expense of the yarn, which is really pricey, even when I buy from other yarn hoarders. (Maybe I should have sheep in the side yard, sheer them, prepare their wool, spin it, dye it… yeah? No.)  I enjoy seeing my work wrapped around a friend’s shoulders in winter. I missed seeing the smile of delight when Valerie’s niece opened up the box and saw two, washable, gorgeous if I do say so myself, baby blankets at her twin baby debut. That delight is my payment. I did get a nice thank you note.

What I really love is making the stuff. I love selecting the yarns, picking the hook or needle size, and going at it. I don’t follow patterns, although I do learn stitches from youtube. I make shit up. I know how to fit a hat, and even fit a sweater, without a pattern, although mostly I make scarves and afghans. People don’t wear nice handmade sweaters anymore. They are too hot indoors, and too much of a pain to take on and off. Hats and scarves make more sense, and in winter, a beautiful lap blanket totally helps when the fire is beginning to go out. I think so anyway. My family members, and Valerie’s, get knit stuff for Christmas and so far, no one has taken me aside and said, Jane, “We have enough hats to last the rest of our lives… maybe a gift card??”  I think they are too polite to tell me; I just hope they’ve passed the hat along to another cold noggin.

When I ask myself, what do I have to do each day? One answer is I must crochet or knit. My hands itch to be making something, to follow a rhythm with a piece of wood and soft fur of sheep, rabbit, llama. Or the product of silk worm and bamboo. I’ve discovered to my delight a substance called Upscale Acrylic.  I sit having a conversation with anyone, and if I am not also crocheting, a part of my brain is aching. I have two projects I’m knitting[jl1]  at work which I labor to finish during staff meetings, which are an odd affair, taking place over a large screen where most of the staff is sitting around a table 2 hours’ drive away and three of us in Christmas Valley are straining to hear. It is an exercise in frustration, but perhaps it is  practice for when I’m hard of hearing and I miss most of the content and a whole lot of nonverbal verbal cues. I’ll be knitting then, too.

I have projects that are perfect for church, or for a movie, since I can knit in the round without looking.  I get a lot done, especially during the sermon, or the previews, when I’m just not really engaged. If you are preaching, just know that you knocked it out of the park if I stopped knitting.

In a college seminar, we sat in a circle and talked and listened. I knit and talked and listened. One day, everyone turned to me and I asked why everyone was looking at me? One of the students said, because you put your knitting down. I always put it down when I had something to say. Ah.

My biggest projects are in the house, in large piles or baskets or boxes, and they require a lot of lap, and a cooperative cat. I’m working on a rug that will be something like 6 by 4 feet. I also have a number of lap blankets that are in process. I have two small purses half finished: purses the size of smart phones sold really well at the Paisley Bazaar last November. Sometimes I stare at my yarn and I get a flash of inspiration and I just up and start something entirely new. So what if I have 12 projects in various stages of completion. I finish my projects. Then I put them in a plastic trunk for gift/bazaar/me for later. And keep going. Yarn is joy.

It is also taking over the guest bedroom and the living room. You can’t see the surface of my desk for the piles of yarn. It’s rather like kudzu in the Southern states, hanging over everything and creeping around. Rather like a fungus. Rather like the clutter in a teenage boy’s room, there is a debris tide.  I neaten and organize, and more yarn comes into the mix.

I think this is where the compulsion comes in. I do not need more yarn. I have a ‘stash beyond life expectancy.’ But new yarn, new colors and textures, they call to me.

Like wine calls to the alcoholic. Like meth calls to the meth user. Like chocolate calls to me. Like Blue Bunny chocolate covered ice cream bars call to me all the way from the Summer Lake gas station store. The one that says ‘Ice! You need Ice!’ on its big sign.  The owner is the cranky pumper of gas who hales me when he sees me: So! What treason have you committed lately, you pinko?  (Pinkos of the world, unite.)

I can’t afford the yarn, any more yarn ever, until I am out of debt. I asked Valerie if she minded the slow creep of yarn, and she said she will mind it come winter when she’s living in the house most of the time. With her peripatetic work schedule, she gets to stay a bunch of different places, none of which are as cluttered as our Paisley home. Cluttered with yarn.

Okay so I should stop buying yarn.

I was always a spendthrift, but my then-husband’s monthly explosion in response to the credit card bill was a bit of a deterrent. When we divorced, I blew through some serious money that came out of my retirement, and oh, I bought a house. Which I then had to sell toot suite when I took a severance package to get out of a very well paying but crazy-making workplace. (In 4 years, I lived through 3 bosses and 3 reorganizations. By the buyout, I was working so far away from my skill set that I would sit in my office and cry.)

Living in small spaces or other people’s spaces after the divorce kept a slight lid on my yarn obsession. And now in the lovely loft house, when I’ve down sized my furniture to the amount I could move cross country, I have lots of room.  Oops. Yarn explosion. The generous tax refund this spring did not help.

What’s this about being an artist?  Delusions of grandeur, probably.

Once upon a time, I took an environmental sculpture class at Oberlin. By my junior year, as a religion major and women’s studies minor I was writing a bazillion papers every semester. I wished to escape another paper and branched out to take folk dancing, print making and drawing, and even horseback riding, which, for this city kid, was really fun.  A friend of mine, Monica, talked me into this class on Environmental Sculpture.

Our assignment was to plan a sculpture, and take care of all of the steps necessary to get permission to make it and install it. Finally, you build it. I wandered around the Oberlin neighborhood we lived in and found several shells of houses that had burned down. One shell had all four corners intact, and everything else was a stinky mass of melted plastic and trash. I had my site. I don’t recall getting permission from anyone to build a sculpture there.  So it was a squatter site. I do remember finding an old wooden fireplace mantel, a bunch of wooden chair legs, some pallets. Pretty soon, I had the outline of a little hut. About 8 feet by 8 feet. I looked up Shinto Shrines, and back then there was no google. A shrine could be a home to a spirit who lived in that place. A living thing was needed, and a philodendron did the job. My classmates helped me raise the roof, which was a wooden shed structure just perfect for the top. I had my sculpture and I loved it very much. I still have the photos taken by another Obie, Bernice. Looking at them, I recall what a magical process this was.

To this day, I collect found objects and plan to make more sculptures. I might just be able to do that in Paisley. I have the space, and live in a town with a complete lack of judgment for saving odd things that look like junk. (Have you seen our side yard???) (Have you seen our neighbor to the immediate south???)

Why can’t I be an artist?

Why can’t art flow out of me and be manifested in some form, and then be shown to the public?

What is art? I have a broad definition. Anything made from my hands that is not food, is art. It does not have to be a job, but instead, a way of being in the world. A way of seeing something that does not exist yet and bringing it into this reality, rather like the sculptor who sees a large block of stone and envisions a human figure hidden inside. Chip away the stone and the human emerges. ­­I see a physical space, or a blank fence wall, and I envision something there. Mobiles made of found objects, including cow bones, are taking up residence in my imagination. The afore-mentioned setting sun, made of half of an irrigation wheel and a whole lot of yarn. There are a lot of weathered pieces of wood, including twisting branches, that I’d love to build into something…

Creativity is seeing something that doesn’t exist already. You need to find out how you can bring it into being and that way be a playmate with God.                                    Michele Shea

 As I settle into life in Lake County, I anticipated I’d have more free time to do things like volunteer, and make art. I’m beginning to make some art, as my fourth of July American flag takes its place on the side of the house. It has many other colors besides red white and blue, which I’d hoped would make a point about multi-cultural diversity, but they are too subtle. You have to go right up to the thing to see the greens, golds and purples. That’s okay. It was a first effort. It is a reassuringly familiar American Flag for the conservative county I live in. It was Valerie’s idea. She said, you know what the cowboys would love? A crocheted American flag. And so it is.

The sun will be multi-colored.

The outside of the house will begin to look like the inside: colorful and full of art.

I am an artist.

I recently stayed in a house that had a small wooden sign in it that said: I can be anything, but I can’t do everything.

I will be an artist. And a therapist. I will be a volunteer in small ways, like when I go to Lakeview or Bend, I can tell my neighbors that I’m there, so I can pick up a prescription or a rotisserie chicken, or hair dye. I will try to treat my pancreas better, and maybe ride my tricycle around town.

I will try to buy less yarn. Hmf. I call bullshit. Yoda said, there is no try, there is only do. So, I guess that means, I will stop buying yarn. Until… the kudzu has been trimmed and the native plants can breathe. Um, or maybe until we can walk through the living room without tripping over a bag or basket of yarn. That’s a fair goal. The more specific the goal, the easier to reach, right?

All the arts we practice are apprenticeship.  The big art is our life.   M.C.Richards

    [jl1]