#good boots ain't cheap and cheap boots ain't good

[ghostoffuturespast]

Bird fashion 🐦 I have Snowy Egret boots!

[yeyinde]

STRAW HOUSE, STRAW DOG

Baby Trap + Soap x Fem!Reader : or, Johnny finds a wife in the woods and decides to take her home.

18+ | DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT: noncon, kidnapping, breeding/baby trapping. somnophilia. implied stalking. obsessive behaviour. forced reliance/dependency. non-con drug use (implied). vulnerable character (injured reader) being preyed upon by an opportunistic scavenger.

Somehow, getting hurt in the remote wilderness of Nahanni National Park without any immediate rescue is the least of your worries when a rugged man shows up and claims he's going to help. Out here, you've been told your biggest fear should be bears, steep canyons, and a swift death with fangs and claws.

But maybe you should have been more concerned about strange men with crowlike smiles and blistering eyes.

ADDITIONAL TAGS: descriptions of injury. implied head trauma. bearded Soap. smut. this is my love letter to NWT and a what not to do in a national park.

BABY TRAP MASTER LIST | AO3 LINK

It happens in an instant. 

The trek up the fjord narrows suddenly. Chossy growing slick from rainfall the night prior. You pace yourself, stepping carefully on the wobbling slate, testing its resilience before you take another step. Climbing higher. Higher.

There's a storm brewing in the distance. Its burgeoning pace grows rapidly, nipping at your heels as cool winds whistle through the steep valley below.

The park wardens at the visitors centre warned you about it when you set out into the rugged wilderness of Nahanni this morning. Brows pinched, wary, when you'd come to them—all alone—and signed your name on the barren ledger collecting dust on the counter. A fact that drew your attention when you flipped through the empty pages. 

Don't get too many visitors around here, the man murmured, eyes cresting in apprehension at your question. Not the most isolated or remote, no. That's probably higher up. Quttinirpaaq, maybe? Heard from some buddies up there that they had no visitors last year. We do pretty well. About one thousand a year? Usually filmmakers and the like. Adventurous types. Gets kinda lonely up here. Ain't no Banff, that's for sure.

They added that the weather was unpredictable this time of year. All year, really. Nahanni is known for sudden swells and white-outs, for weather that can turn in an instant, going from calm to cataclysmic within seconds. 

(“Storms,” the man huffs, and you think the sigh was meant to be a laugh. One that falls flat when he takes in your hiking boots (too big, but the sales lady at the sporting goods warehouse assured you it was fine, that you would grow into them), and your cheap Lululemon knock-off tights. Your flimsy rucksack. The tinge of green around your ears; the stench of an overeager novice. “And, uh, it’s urban legends.”)

Valley of the Headless Men, he intones, squinting up at you when you ask about them. Adding: be careful out there when you turn to leave.

Dauntless, you still set out into the park, determined to at least make it to your campground before it set in. But the majesty surrounding you on all sides distracted you from your pace. Eyes caught on the Xanadu of an untempered wilderness slowing your trek to a crawl as you took in the steep, rolling batholiths reaching high into the aether, their sides sloping down in a dizzying, vertiginous drop to a lush valley below of scheele’s green below. It all looked so perfectly symmetrical from the high point in the valley where you stood, breathing in the scents that perfumed the air. With the rugged mountains cupped around a winding white line where the river sawed through. 

A lone moose grazed at the bottom of a rolling fell. The sight of her stopping you in your tracks long enough that the plume of darkened clouds—all a terrifying burnt sage—had time to catch up to you, crackling overhead as thunder rumbled through the canyons. 

Your campground is at the top of this ravine. Three nights spent inside a cabin with nothing but yourself and several paperbacks for company. Into the Wild amongst them—a morbid parting gift from a friend on what not to do—and its inspirational predecessor, On the Road. 

You won't read it. You never do. But it sits, a humourous paperweight, in your rucksack as you clamber up the ravine. An anchoring comfort. A piece of home. Something that reminds you you're not completely alone even though you are. 

The book, your friends, and the encroaching loneliness that you feel prickling behind your eyes, all weigh on your mind. Spooling out before you in loose, loop threads. You follow them eagerly, glad for something to abate the unnatural silence, and—

A sound.

It comes from the left, hidden in the thick tangle of furze. A click. It shatters through the eerie quiet of the sprawling boscage. An animal, maybe. Hopefully. 

It must be, you think, heart hammering thunderously in your chest. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You hold your breath. Eyes glued on the thatch of green shrubs lining the base of the dense forest. 

Nothing happens. You blink, shifting on your feet—

A red line pierces through the gap between the leaves, aimed straight at your ankle. It's thin, diaphanous. Slips over the scraggy rock like liquid.

It's so out of place here that it takes you a second to familiarise yourself with its unexpected presence. A laser—

An explosive boom fills the ravine the moment the thought connects. A rifle. Aimed right at you. It happens fast. The world turning over itself, spinning right off its axis. You fall against the ledge in a crumpled, heavy heap, legs so close to dangling off the precipice. 

Gravity is a choking weight on your sternum, pushing you down, down, toward the jagged, rocky shoreline. A fall like that—

You curl into yourself instinctively. 

“Ah, shite—” is all you hear amid the roar in your ears. “Y’alright? ah didnae see ye thare—”

In your tear-stained periphery, a man appears. He stands into the glare of the waning sun, limned in a halo of gold. There's a pinch between his dark, thick brows. A steep ravine.  He's ragged. Wild. Tuffs of black hair hang loose past his ears and nape, curling slightly at the ends. It blends, almost seamlessly, into his thick, scraggly beard. He pushes a hand through the top, grabbing a fistful in his palm.

“Easn't expecting anybody oot 'ere. Nae this far intae th' woods.”

He seems to be speaking to himself more so than he's talking to you. There's anger writ in the fine lines of his face, but this ire isn't turned toward you. It's inward. Self-admonishment. His eyes darken when they flicker down to your ankle, as if reminding you of the hurt there when you'd been so focused on how out of place his accent is in the Northwest Territories.

The ache in your ankle brings you crashing back into reality. The pain seems to vibrate from within your marrow, riveting up your bones. 

You chance a glance—

You swallow down the drum of panic. A trick of the light. It must be. 

A dream. A nightmare. 

But the man appears. His hand falls onto your knee, holding you steady. 

“Ah will hae tae put oan a tourniquet. Will hurt a lot, doe.” 

Absently, you nod. Keep nodding. Can't stop. 

There's a hole cut through your ankle. Tore thro' yer Achilles, he's saying, words water in your ears. He instructs you to wiggle your toes.

"Ah know it hurts, but just dae it fer me, okay?"

You do. You—

Nausea buds in your guts, churning your stomach. The apple you ate earlier is choked out into the bushes dotting along the ravine. Insides purging themselves, replacing everything—food, water, coffee from earlier, bile—until nothing but shaky panic remains. It tastes like iron in the back of your throat. 

“Ah know, doe,” he's saying, fingers knotting into your slick hiking trousers. Lululemon knockoffs from an outdoor warehouse in the city. A pocket knife follows, and cuts a seamless line inches below your hip. 

Sad tae see ‘em go, he murmurs, accent thickening around the words. Saturating them in a drawl that's too liquid for your unpractised ears to catch. He makes a mournful sound when he slides the blade down your leg, adds, “hugged yer arse like a dream, doe.”

Another trick. The mountains do funny things to sound, you know. It must be all in your head. All—

“Don't worry,” he's shushing you now as he peels the fabric off your legs, groaning low in his throat. “Ah have ye. Ah will take care o'ye, tae, doe. Bonny thing, aren't ye? a' alone. Nae anymore, doe. Jus' me 'n' ye now. Jus' us —”

You always thought you'd have your wits about you in a traumatic situation. Be able to think clearly, rationally. Make appropriate decisions that befit the situation unfolding. Life saving ones. Practical. 

To gear up for this trip, you watched survival videos on YouTube. How to make a fire. How to make drinking water. How to build a shelter. Tips on weathering down for a sudden storm. Tucked it all inside your head, and thought, I got this. 

Had to, really, because everything you've read about Nahanni says it's unpredictable. Calm weather, gorgeous views one moment, and then a sudden deluge the next. Snow falling quicker than you keep up with. Animals blend in seamlessly with the landscape. Slips, falls. It's so easy to get lost, someone wrote. 

But as he uses the scrap of your trousers to wrap around the wound on your broken, mangled ankle, you realise all that planning was for nothing. This was one of those moments when you discovered just how much you bit off. That panic made you mute, made you freeze up. 

The pain is almost secondary to the surge of adrenaline. Fear.

You need to go home. You tell him this, slowly. Muttered through numb lips. 

There's something almost like pity in his eyes when he glances up at you. 

There was a mix-up, he says, slowly. Cautiously. You got yourself turned around in the opposite direction. There's no campground on the fjord above. All the lodges and cabins are in the opposite direction. 

Y'got lost, he tells you. Turned the wrong way out. Ye'r in th' backcountry.

“I'll go back,” you press, urgent. Insistent. Panic is acidic in your throat. Corrosive. It burns when you swallow. “Please, just tell me which way to go, and I’ll—”

"Cannae dae tha'."

“Why?”

“Storm,” he points in the distance where a plume of cloud gathers. So dark, they're almost black. Ominous. “Gonnae skelp solid. Na choice but tae git oot."

“I don't have anywhere to go—”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “Ah kin take ye tae mines. Git a cabin in th' woods. Juist ootdoors o' Nahanni Butte.” 

“No, I—”

His hand squeezes tight around your ankle. The pain makes itself known in a visceral, awful throb that travels up your leg, curdling at the base of your spine. Wrong, wrong. Something is wrong. Your body is trying to reject the agony. The breaking of your bone. It's foreign, it doesn't belong. But there's nowhere for it to go. 

Pain pulses in tandem with your heartbeat. 

You don't realise you're screaming until you hear the echoes of it rebound against the limestone walls. And then there's a whisper in your ear. You feel the scratch of his beard against your cheek.

"Shush, bonnie. Cannae let ye go oot oan yer own. Gonnae take ye home, yeah?"

Home. Home. You nod furiously, and it's only when the scraggly black curls covering his chin and jaw catch on damp skin do you realise you're crying. 

He leans away from you, arm stretching toward the rucksack behind him. 

The rifle leans against it. You feel sick all over again. 

“Drink this,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “It'll make ye feel better.” 

He presses the lip to your mouth, a hand slipping over the back of your head, tilting your chin up. “Drink,” he says again, and it's firmer this time. A command. “Ah promise ye'll feel better, doe.” 

It tastes bitter. You swallow it down. Keep swallowing.

“Good,” he rasps, hand sliding down the length of your spine until it rests against your lower back. “Keep drinkin’, sweet thing.”

It pools in your belly, sloshing uncomfortably when you move, but it washes the bitterness from between your teeth. You keep drinking. Swallowing it down. You know you shouldn't, that you might get sick again, but it's a distraction from the mess that is your ankle—bloody, twisted, mangled—

Nausea swells. You choke it down until you can breathe without feeling as though you were going to be sick again. 

“You'll be okay,” he's saying, moving around you with a practised efficiency for something so broad. It's almost graceful. Agile. 

He patches you up as much as he can with the supplies he has, but you refuse to look again at your ankle. It's broken, that much is clear. You can feel your bones grinding, sliding against each other. The sensation is horrific. Wrong. You turn your head to the ledge you were standing on just to distract yourself from the agony of it all. 

You're surprised you're not crying. Screaming. The urge is there, just beneath the surface. But for some odd, unfathomable reason you find you can't. Your chest feels heavy. Lungs sluggish. Slow. 

It must be an adrenaline crash, you think. Why else would you feel so tired, so exhausted. 

“I'm—” you start, but you feel dizzy. “‘m—”

“Shush, doe.” He mutters, and it sounds far away. Garbled. “You need yer rest. Had a traumatic accident. But don't worry. Ye can trust me. A wouldnae let anythin' ill happen tae ye ever again."

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding. Nodding. You can't stop, can't—

“Lay back. Git some rest. A'm almost done, 'n' then ah will hae ye back home in no time—”

You come to on a groggy whimper, head buried in the messy locks curtained over his nape. There's a soft, pulsing thud in the back of your head when you try to lift it up. It feels heavier than it should. Leadened. You groan again, fighting against the currents dragging you back down to those soporific depths—

Your head is a slurried marsh. Thoughts ephemeral, broken. Fragmented. They slip through your fingers when you reach for them, diaphanous wisps you can't seem to catch. 

“Don't worry, doe—” your world quivers when he speaks. Words vibrating through your chest, catching on the heavy rails of your ribs. The seismic vibrations rumble in your ear, coming to life as a mere echo in your head. “Ah will keep ye safe.”

It's comforting. A raft in squall, something to cling to as the waves make futile attempts to drag you under. Your arms, dangling loosely over his shoulders, sluggishly flatten to his chest, linking over his chest. 

He grunts at your touch, palms slick on your skin. 

“Thank you,” you slur, words thick in your throat. Sluggish. “Thank you for helpin’ me. Fer savin’ me—”

Your body shakes when he trembles. With your forehead against his nape, you hear his thick swallow. The air ghosting out of his lungs in a soundless whisper. 

His hands flex around the backs of your knees. Squeezing tight. The man doesn't say anything for a moment. In the silence, the pursuing somnolence catches up to you. It digs heavy fingers into your eyes, dragging you back down into the sticky, thick tar. 

Sleep finds you in an instant. 

You try to read his words in the quiver of your bones when he speaks. Make sense of the tremble reverberating through the hollow gaps, tangling in the pulpy mess. 

But there's a mistranslation somewhere. A missing decibel. A forgotten wavelength.

It almost sounds like he says—

“Wouldn't leave mah wife alone in th' woods like tha’.”

How funny, you think, and hide a giggle into the hardened ridge of his shoulder blade. 

Cognisance is a transient flicker.

You're not sure how long he matches through the thicket with you on his back, navigating the unending chaparral with an ease that feels innate rather than practised. You stare down at the ground, world hazy around the edges, and think, suddenly, intrusively, that you ought to remember the steps. Every left, every right. 

You get to seven lefts, three rights—a small ravine, a flattened coppice; a gnarled spruce sat alone in a valley of lush green and clumps of topaz podzol—before your eyes are too heavy to keep open. They slip shut. And you think, only for a moment. Just a second, I just need to rest my eyes, and then come to at the sound of a groggy engine growling to life. 

The world morphs from a dense forest intercut with sheer cliffs looming, indomitable, in the grey distance, to the faded beige felt covering the ceiling of an old truck. 

Your blink is a slow crawl, lashes weighed down by anchors dredging over the seafloor. Gritty, raw. It hurts, now, to hold them open. A furious throb jabs at your temple. It aches like a bruise. But it's nothing compared to the nauseating agony that floods your core each time your foot is jostled. Nerves being lit aflame in an endless throe of pain unlike you'd ever experienced before. 

Your mouth feels sealed when you go to speak. Lips glued together. Sluggishly, you squeeze your tongue through the crack between your teeth, licking along the seam. 

A plastic bottle appears in your periphery, nozzle tipped toward your mouth. A hand curls around the body of it. Fingers overlapping. It looks small in this big hand. Tiny. Long wisps of black hair cover their ruddy knuckles, spreading in a dense crop up their forearm, growing thicker at the wrist. 

Their skin is pale, tinged slightly pink. Even through the brume, the lambent light of the sun catches on their skin. Illuminating small scars, cuts. Little scratches from the snagging furze. 

Their hand shakes. The dark veins that branch off from the white-capped peaks of their bent knuckles pulse under the thin skin when they move. 

“Drink, hen,” he murmurs, bringing the bottle to the jut of your lower lip. “Ye’ll need it.” 

A plastic bottle is an odd choice to bring into the backcountry, but as you peer through the translucent skin, you find the water inside is cloudy. Chalky. 

“Donnae worry—” he gives the bottle another shake, disturbing the sediment congealing at the bottom. “It's electrolytes, ken. Nothing fishy.”

Your teeth ache from the cold when he slips the rim between your lips, prying them apart. With your head already tilted back in the seat, the water slips in. A slow trickle. He feeds it to you, humming in appeasement when you swallow. 

“Tha’s a good girl.” 

It carves a jagged tunnel through the murk in your head. The praise slipping in, liquid, until it coats your burgeoning trepidation in a sudden swell of endorphins. With their unpractised, gauche hands, they paint a mockery of Sargent in the gaps of your synapses, stuffing the spaces between with oversaturated hues of teal, white, yellow, orange, and pink. 

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. 

But despite the shoddily crafted pastiche, it works. 

Your eyes flutter, bones growing heavier, heavier, as they're forced to carry the weight of your liquified flesh. This molten heat in your chest turns your insides into putty.  

Water dribbles down your chin. He sees it and coos.

“Ah, doe. Right mess ye are now. Ah will hae ye home in no time. Git ye a' cleaned up."

The idea of home melts you further. You sigh in the seat, soft and drawn out, and shake your head slowly when he wriggles the bottle in front of you again. 

“Get some rest, doe,” his hand falls, heavy and warm, on your thigh. Thumb stroking along the curve of your leg, fingers curling into the seam, digging deep. Resting there. 

It's too high to be appropriate. You know this. Went through lesson upon lesson in school of bad touches and what's considered friendly, polite. But when you try to open your mouth to say something about it, you catch the spread of his palm over your flesh. Wide, broad. Masculine. It catches in your throat, and gets tangled in the mush at the base. 

It should be fine, you think, dizzy over the way his hand swallows you whole. He saved you, after all. 

But it burrows. Digs deep. Some sense of wrongness permeates out from the firm grasp he has on you. It feels possessive. The sort of thing you might expect between people who are intimate with each other. A couple. You've known him for—

Hours, maybe? 

Most of it was spent in a pain-induced hypnagogia. 

It curdles in your stomach. Rotten, spoiled milk. 

But—

He saved you. 

You'll choke yourself on it if you keep thinking about it. So, you don't. You push it down. Cover it beneath the sediment, and bury it deep. 

He's just a man. 

Kind. Helpful. 

As you dig a hole for this unease, he keeps his hand fixed on your thigh. The other is pressed against the steering wheel, the ball of his palm under the curve at the top of the wheel. Relaxed. Easy. You try to adopt his nonchalant disposition and glance out at the blurry world around you. 

You feel exhausted. Unsettled. The sort of fatigue that comes with a raging fever. There's sand in your mouth. Your throat is dry. 

You don't ask for water. 

In the lull, he pitches the truck forward with a grave rumble. The silence is broken by the crunch of vegetation and gravel beneath the wheels as he ploughs forward. 

There are public roads to get to Nahanni. The floatplane you entered into the park on was chartered by Parks Canada. And yet—

He commandeers the truck around a flatbed of rock and dirt. Muskeg dots the tops in some places, and he veers expertly to avoid them. 

It's less of a traditional road and more so a forged desire path. You know the highway has to be close by, the link between Fort Liard and Fort Simpson, but as you peer out the window, the world around you looks overgrown. Wild. Alien. 

Sloping hills in lush green stretch out into the distance, meeting with the dense montane forests dotted along the stretch of land. The grassy coppice under his wheels is matted down, and interspersed with clumps of brown, wet muskeg and crushed slate. 

Over the grey peaks of the mountains in the distance, a thick, black cloud looms. The sky turns gunmetal, almost indistinguishable from the monoliths jutting beneath them. 

At some points, he takes his hand off your thigh to navigate winding turns better, but it always ends up back on you. And always a little higher than it was before. 

Your mouth is filled with lead. Tongue thick, malleable. Tensile like mercury. You can't speak. So you just ignore it. Dig your crown into the headrest, and breathe in the woodsy scent of him. Laurel, tree moss. Coumarin. Rotting pine. Sweet acacia. It tickles the back of your throat. Sticks there, glued in the syrupy mess. 

You'd hoped it would get easier to ignore, but it stays there, a constant weight, even as the world outside fades into a hazy twilight. 

In the hush of the cabin, he squeezes your thigh. “Cannae wait tae get ye home, doe.”

Against the staggering backdrop of a black, jagged mountain, a doe stands in the talus. Her fawn fur and tuffs of white spots stick out against the charcoal-coloured cliffs, and you watch, some distance away, as she bends down to fossick through the scree in search of food. 

With the looming clouds of gunmetal and ash gathering around the craggy peaks, her presence here feels dangerously out of place. Jarring. She shouldn't be here. She doesn't belong. 

But the beauty of this moment is breathtaking. Mesmerising. You stare in muted horror, awe, as she grazes in the rubble, slender neck bent in a graceful arch. The sloping handle of fine china. Her wet, black eyes are so open, so kind. Puddles of ignorance, naïvety, as she flicks her tongue out against the desolate rock, a fruitless search for grass in which to mull on. 

Thunder crackles over the snow-capped ridges. Her ears flicker, but she doesn't run. You should warn her. Scare her away. But you can't move. Can't speak. You're a mute spectator, a piece of dross on the ground watching the approaching calamity without a mouth. Horror churns. You want so badly to tell the doe to run—

An impossibility, you know. It's much too late for her to do anything at all. 

Around the doe’s leg is a shackle. 

Your skin rips, tears, as you force your jaws apart, blood pooling in your mouth. If you can make a sound, she’ll—

A boom echoes through the canyon's cradle. 

The scream gurgles in the back of your throat. 

Agony rips through your leg—

—you wake with a gasp. 

Sputtering, choking on the saliva pooled in your mouth. It tastes bitter, brackish. You feel something gritty between your teeth. It sticks to the backs, granular specks that dissolve, sour and chalky, on your tongue when you run it along the ridges of your gums.

You swallow it down, grimacing at the acidic taste. 

“Awake, aye?” His voice chips through the dense fog. You blink the haze away, glancing sideways at him through bleary, heavy eyes. 

His profile is lit by the harsh glare of high noon. The sharp jut of his ball cap. The curve of his nose set in the thick bushel of his scraggly beard and moustache. His broad chest concealed most of the view from the driver's side window. The lax bridge of his arm, knuckles loosely curled around the steering wheel.

He tilts his head toward you. “How're ye feelin’?”

Sluggish. Awful. There's sand in your eyes. Cotton in your head. You feel like you've been left out in the hot sun all day. Dizzy and sunburnt. Feverish. Heatsick. Your throat is dry, but you don't ask for water. You don't answer him at all. Can't. Your tongue is laden. Lips numb. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, squinting through the glare of the sun—

That reels you back. Breaks through the fog. 

You know that the concept of day and night in the summer is different here. Twenty hours of daylight with twilight lasting all night. But even with the skewed perception of time and the heavy molasses thickening around the edges of your cognisance, you know that something is wrong. 

When you left the park, it was close to five in the evening. It should be twilight, not—

Your gaze lists sluggishly to the clock on the dashboard. Through the haze, the unmistakable gleam of one-fifteen stares back at you. 

It was the right time last night. 

“Wha—?”

You're not sure what you're asking. It's not even really a word, but a garbled sound. A noise of distress, confusion, in the back of your throat. 

He seems to understand it all the same. 

“Park had a bad storm,” he answers, pitch far too light for the severity of your situation, of what you're feeling. It makes you frown, sharp and sudden. “Washed through th’ river. Where ye were—well. Wouldnae ‘ave made it out, ye see. Would’ve gotten all torn up in th’ storm—”

You read that storms in Nahanni are vicious, sudden. Weather can turn in an instant, going from moderate to devastating in a blink. But—

What he's saying doesn't make sense. You remember bits, pieces, from earlier. He said you got turned around. Wandered too far off the trail, lost in the deep wilderness of Nahanni’s sprawling valley. 

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home.”

You push the wave of nausea down. “I need to go to a hospital.”

“Can't dae tha't'.”

“Why not?”

He doesn't answer for a beat, eyes fixed on the dirt path. Unblinking. 

Finally, he mutters: “had tae leave th' park oan th' opposite side when th' storm came in. No roads take us tae town.”

“I have—” you're not sure where your bag is. You hope he had the wherewithal to snatch it up after you fell. Hope. “I have a satellite phone. I can just call—”

“Sorry, hen. Yer bag flew off th' ledge. Ah coudnae grab it 'n' ye. Ah dinnae hae a phone oot 'ere. Never needed one—”

Hopeless. Hopeless. 

“How—how could you survive out here without one?”

“Nahanni Butte is a few hours awa'. Go intae town when th’ winter road is open. Inaccessible now. Th’ rivers flooded it. Cannae cross it. Can hunt, 'n' ah hae everything a'm needin' oot here.”

“So…” the reality of your situation is beginning to dawn on you. Helpless. Hopeless. “I'm stuck here until—winter?”

“Ah hae a friend flying oot fae Yellowknife. Comes tae drop off supplies 'n' th' lik'. He'll be 'ere in two months—”

“Two months?” This whole situation feels impossible. Wrong. You're so close to people—Fort Liard, Nahanni Butte, Fort Simpson. How could you be stuck here for two months? The idea of it is absurd. “You're not—you can't be serious.”

“Aye. I am.” 

There's a pinch between his brow. You wonder if it's meant to convey the severity of the situation, but as it grows deeper, deeper, you have the sudden sense that it's not an emotional decree of his sincerity. That it's, instead, a sudden twist of anger. 

It scares you. 

“I want to go home.” You mean for it to be forceful, but it comes out in a whimper. 

The man nods. The punch in his brow lessens. “Aye, me tae.” 

“Where are you from?” You pry, needing the distraction from the endless trawl of green and slate and permafrost enclosing in on you. “You're not from around here, are you?” At the gentle raise of his brows, you add, hurried, rushed: “you just. Have an accent, and I—”

“Fae Scotland,” he answers, and there's a quick grin on his face. Roguish. Charming. The sight of it has your start thudding in an uneasy gallop. “Edinburgh."

“Oh. Far from home.”

“Aye—” the grin fades, twisting into something ugly. “Had an—accident,” he spits the word out, brows pinching once more. Anger is writ in the hard clench of his muscles, his jaw. His knuckles blanche around the steering wheel, and you think you should have just kept your mouth shut. “Sent me here.”

There's a multitude of questions you want to ask. Vying for the top is the most obvious—why did this happen? why isn't he letting you go?—but what comes out instead is, “why?”

Just that. Nothing else. 

“Military.” 

He adds nothing, either. 

“Military?”

A nod. “Go’ hurt. Had rehab. Sent me here tae clear ma heid, and well—” his eyes flicker to you. You can't read his expression. “Got a fresh mission, dinnae I?”

“You don't—”

“I cannae leave ye. Both oo' us are stuck 'ere 'til someone comes tae pick us up, 'n' take us home.” 

The idea that somehow he's just as trapped as you are hasn't occurred. Why would it when he has a rifle, a truck, freedom—

But what good is all of that when you're landlocked in a place known for winter roads. Permafrost. The forced shift in perspective doesn't quell the anxiety roiling in your guts, but it lessens it. Somewhat. 

“Two months?”

He nods. “Aye.”

“And you have no cellphone? No satellite?”

“Ye can check it—” he makes a flippant motion toward the glove box in front of you. “Deader than ever.”

You hesitate only briefly. Long enough to level him with a searching look that yields no results before you reach for the compartment, gingerly pulling it open, and—

Sometimes, things get overlooked by their surroundings. Swallowed in the vacuum. Blending seamlessly into the muddle, the commotion. 

This isn't like that. 

It sits on top of a manila folder. Sleek black and cold silver. You're not terribly well-versed in guns—the extent of your knowledge stemming mostly from formulaic crime shows aired late at night; CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds—but you recognise this one instantly. Some sort of handgun. Police issued, you think. It's bigger than you'd expected. Looks heavier, too. 

Your heart stutters. The air galloping out of your lungs in a stammering rush. 

He makes a noise, soft and nonchalant, as if keeping handguns in the glove box of his old, burnt orange truck is perfectly normal. 

“Fer protection,” he mumbles. You catch the jerk of his chin in your periphery. “Forgot I had it in here. Been usin’ th’ rifle fer huntin’ mostly. Or th’ shotgun.”

Three guns. You swallow. “Why—” your voice comes out in a brittle whisper. You clear your throat. “Why, um, why do you need three?”

“Not fae around here, are ye?” He echoes your words with a wry twist of his mouth, eyes slanting in the sunlight. “Tha’,” he takes his hand off your thigh to jab his finger at the handgun. “Is fer wolverines.” His index finger falls, his thumb juts out. He jerks it over his shoulder. “Tha’ is fer huntin’. The shotgun back home is fer bears.” 

You try to move out of the way when his hand falls back to your thigh, but the pain radiating up your leg immobilizes you. There's not much you can do in this situation but endure.

Military. Wounded in action. Three guns. Touchy. 

You're not sure what to think. It would be easier if you couldn't. 

“What do you hunt?” You ask instead, glancing out the window to the barren landscape rolling out around you. There doesn't seem to be much in the jagged hills, and towering mountains. 

“Gettin’ hungry? Donnae worry, doe. Go’ tha’ pesky hare I was tryin’ tae shoot oan th' ledge fer dinner tonight.” 

It's not much of a comfort. The idea of being injured—by accident, he claims—to such an extent over a rabbit makes you feel a little sick. 

“That's it?”

“I can make a mean steak oot o' anythin'. Stews fer tougher meat. Fish—whitefish, arctic grayling, and lake trout. Learned how tae make a nasty fishfry from th’ locals in Nahanni Butte. Bannock, too. Got berries ‘round ma cabin. Caribou, Moose. Taste better in tacos or burgers. Mountain goat, Dall’s sheep. Been eatin’ better ‘ere than ah did at home.”

“And you're—just allowed to hunt them?” The website advised about a permit through some special outfit needed to hunt when you requested your pass into the park. Said that only aboriginals were allowed to do so. “You're not—”

“Aye,” he cuts you off with a small nod. “No huntin’ in th’ park. But. We're nae in th' park anymore.”

“Where are we?” You ask again, firmer this time. 

“I told ye. Nearly home.”

“And where is home?” 

The way he sucks his teeth makes you recoil slightly. Wet. Irritated. As if he's tired of this conversation already. 

“Close.”

You don't let his flat tone deter you. “Are we—are we still in the Northwest Territories?”

“Thereabouts.” 

It's not an answer. It doesn't reassure you in the slightest. 

You open your mouth to say so, words curling on your tongue when he jerks his chin toward the handgun, brow furrowed. 

“Thought ye wanted tae check oan th' satellite phone.”

His tone is severe. A growl curdling the ends, pitching it down, down. Displeasure, irritation, blooms in the gnarled petals of witch hazel when he narrows them into slits. 

You swallow, wrenching your gaze from the storm brewing over fields of wheat, and set your jaw. Masking your fear for annoyance. Confidence. 

But your hand shakes when you reach for the black box shoved into the corner. Palms slick with sweat. You try not to touch the gun, doing your best to curve around it. It feels—

Real. 

A real gun. In the real world. In a place you came to get away for a weekend, experience something you'd never had before. Freedom. Reliance on nobody but yourself. And now—

Somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Injured. Locked inside of a truck with a man who wavers between warmth—an unending heat, a furnace; a beacon of light—and severity like a swinging pendulum. You feel safe with him. You commit every turn to memory. He's in the military. He's going to take care of you. You think he's lying to you. He'll—

He'll let you go. 

You're sick. You're paranoid. You're taking all of your grievances out on this poor man who is just as trapped as you are, turning him into a monster for no reason at all. At the end of this, when he drops you off at the airport in Yellowknife, you'll have to grovel on your knees for his forgiveness. Sorry I thought you were a bad man. 

It could be worse, you suppose. He hasn't done anything untoward to you—touching your thigh like he's owed the right aside—and you shove it down. A problem to deal with later even though the suspicion tucks itself into your head, folded up against your skull. Metastatic. It eats all of his expressions, turning them over and over again for hidden clues. 

If he does something, you'll run. 

You'll—

“Almost there,” he murmurs, and you hear the rasp of exhaustion glued to the hinge of his jaw. You wonder how long he's been driving for. And why didn't he just go back to Nahanni Butte. Flooded he said. Too deep into the park. Never would have made it. 

If that's the truth, you suppose you should thank him. 

It sits in the back of your throat. You swallow around it, reaching for the phone instead. 

There's a small thread of hope in your chest that it'll work. That he's wrong, doesn't know how to work it, and all you have to do is press a button and it'll crackle to life. Freedom within reach. 

But when you press down on the button, the phone doesn't even whimper. Broke, as he said. Dead. 

“Can you—can you charge it?”

“Tried. Must’ve blown somethin’ inside. Fried it.” 

His words are a prison sentence carrying a punishment of two months. You knew this, of course. He said so himself. But the reality of it breaking over you is different from blind belief. The realisation of your predicament is a jagged knife cutting through tissue, letting corrosive panic entrench you as it spills out. 

This is the sort of thing you’d only read about. Novels, and biographies. Memoirs. Movies. An extraordinary event that could never happen to you. Never. 

And you're aware of it. Optimism bias. The not-me fallacy. But everything in your life thus far had been so unequivocally mundane that the possibility of it not happening seemed to eclipse any chance of it occurring at all. 

The crux of the bias, you suppose. Though it does little to stem the disbelief surrounding it all. Even when you told your friends, and your family, that you were going on this trip, the most mordant of them said you'd get eaten by a bear or end up lost in the wilderness. 

Injured, unable to walk, and stuck with a man you only marginally know (trust) seems like the plot of a lifetime movie. 

But—

Two months. 

You're sure in the meantime, someone will notice your absence. Raise the alarm. Call the police. They'll launch an investigation, and come searching for you. It's just a waiting game. 

And—

(You glance at the man once more, his profile limned in a halo of gold. The rim of his hat casts shadows over his face, eyes concealed in the thickening tenebrous that enshrouds him down to his broad chest, dense with corded muscles. Athletic. Trim. Big.)

—staying alive. 

Survival. 

If only for just two months. 

But the facts are cold, unforgiving. You are alone with a man you don't know. A man with three guns. Military. His experience in this wilderness vastly eclipses your own. 

He's fine. Fine. Touchy, sure. But he hasn't asked for anything. 

—his hand is on your thigh—

You'll be okay. 

It hurts to swallow. “Thank you,” you murmur, hoping the conciliatory lilt eats the panic you feel. “For saving me.” 

His gaze darts to you so sharply that the truck veers slightly to the left, tires crunching over thick beds of furze that line the forged road. The action is sudden—surprised, maybe, by your reedy gratitude. A deviation from the demeanour he'd shown you so far—calm friendliness. Affability. It jars you. Scares you. You grip the seat cushion tight in your fists as he mutters something sharp you can't discern under his breath. 

It only takes him only seconds to correct, rippling his hand away from you to commandeer the truck back into the centre of the beaten path. Even keeled now. Almost as if nothing amiss had happened at all. 

But it's undeniable. Congeals in the air, tense and unignorable. A vacuum that siphons the breath from your lungs. It sits in the whites of his knuckles, arsenic bones jutting from thin, rough skin, demanding to be seen; the terse set to his shoulders. To the grind of his jaw as he clenches his teeth. 

You take him in with bated breath, swallowing whole each microcosm that buds to the surface of his demeanour. Wary. Watchful. Squeezing the satellite phone tight in your hands. But he doesn't meet your wide-eyed stare, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the dirt road. Knuckles popping, brows furrowed. Silent. 

But it's heavy. Oppressive. The same unrelenting chill as outside. You fight back a shiver in the blooming cold, wishing you'd packed more than just a pair of hiking tights (in tatters, now) and a thermal windbreaker for the trip. 

The hum of the engine, and the cracking of rock and muskeg crushed under the wheel, are the only noise that fills the cabin. You stifle your breath. Hold it in your throat. Skewer your eyes to the landscape yawning out around you. The deep, thickening sense of unease grows in the pit of your stomach. Metastasizing. 

Outside is a sprawling taiga forest. Emaciated spruce, balsam fir, jut out from the muskeg, dusted in a sparse layer of sphagnum. You can almost hear the trickle of a stream. The dirt road is wet under the tires now. A creek must be close by. A river. Flat River. South Nahanni. Further out might be Slave River. The Liard. Little Buffalo. Great Slave Lake, even. 

Narrowing it down seems impossible when nearly the entire south corridor of the Northwest Territories is wet marsh and snaking bodies of water. 

It both worries and reassures you at the same time. Getting to Nahanni alone was a challenge. With most of the surrounding area limited to a few year-round highways, there are not many places he could go without reaching dead-ends or winter roads closed for the season, inaccessible in the warmer summer months as the snow melts. 

Though—these highways arch as high as they can. From Yellowknife to Tuktoyaktuk, right on the coast of the Arctic Ocean. 

But he hasn't driven on any stretch of highway since you woke up. The road is unpaved, wild. You're confident you're still south, but the exact location eludes you. Northwest Territories. Yukon. Northern Alberta. It's overwhelming. Daunting. 

You try to commit the geography to memory. Sifting through an endless trawl of nothing to find something familiar. A mountain range. A sign. Anything. Anything—

“Ye mean tha’?”

The sound of his voice draws your attention, raspy. Hoarse from disuse. 

He swallows. There's something raw in his expression, fractured. Yearning, you think. For something. What that something is, however, you can't place. 

It stays on as he slowly slides his tongue out, licking over the bristles of hair covering his lip. 

You offer a shallow nod, unsure why this matters to him suddenly. 

“Yeah, I'd be—” 

You pause, words turning to smoke in your throat. Uninjured, is the first thought. Without him, your leg wouldn't be—

Whatever it is. Ankle broken. Achilles torn. A gunshot wound clean through tendon and tissue. 

But at the same time—

All turned around, he said. Lost. He was hunting, too. You must have somehow wandered outside of the park limits. Must have because the sound of a rifle would have drawn attention from nearby wardens. They'd have come to investigate. 

You swallow down the bloom of unbridled panic. The aftertaste is bitter in your mouth. The thought of being outside of the borders, all on your own—

“I’d be dead if it wasn't for you.” 

The hush that falls is immediate. Your own mortality dangling by a thin thread. Happenstance keeping you alive. 

He clears his throat again. Your fingers tighten around the metal until it hurts. 

“Names Johnny.” He twists in his seat, facing you. “Johnny MacTavish.” 

It's a bit late for introductions, but you take it in all the same. Johnny. Johnny.

(saviour—)

His eyes grow wide when you slowly, haltingly, breathe yours out. Letting it sit in the air where it dissolves into the silence, the weight of it somehow more damning than being alone in the woods. There's power in a name. In knowing it. Military. You're not sure why it matters, but it does. 

You fight another shiver when he says it back after a beat, much too fond, adoring, for the sparse companionship you've barely begun to build. 

“I'll keep ye safe,” he says your name again, accent curling in between the bridges of each letter. There's a heat in his eyes; pyretic. A sickness. “Don't hae tae worry aboot anything.” 

He turns back slowly, angling the wheel around a sudden bend in the thicket. The path is clearer here, looking more like an established dirt road than a sparse coppice. It twists upward, cutting a meandering line through a dense cropping of spruce. The canopy above—as thick as it is—curls over the road, enclosing it in a bed of conifers branching overhead. Concealing it from view. 

The sight fills you with a new bloom of unease. How quickly the wild swallows you whole, shielding you from prying eyes, prickles against the nape of your neck, dripping like hot oil down your spine. 

“Where are we?” It comes out in a whisper. 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. In your periphery, you see him lift his hand off the wheel, but sit, paralyzed, when he brings it down to your thigh, giving what attempts to be a pacifying squeeze. 

“Home,” he answers, making the turn. 

A log cabin comes into view. It’s situated at the end of the clearing, covered by the same dense tangle of trees as the path. The forest seems to bend around the single-storey home, enclosing in a cradled embrace of intermixing wry jack pine, bold tamarack, dark spruce, and white birch. Trembling aspen peaks above the heads of the other trees, hiding the smoked black spruce roof from view above. 

It might look homey under different circumstances, but the thick, stripped logs—made of varnished white spruce—jutting out half-crescents to form the walls seem brooding. Claustrophobic. It's small—just a storey and a half. A camper's cabin not meant for longtime use. It wears its age in wood rot and peeling varnish. The scent of wet wood clings to the air when he rolls the window down, coming to a stop a few paces away from the single step leading to the porch. 

Firewood stacked high to the awning on both sides of the blue door, encased in metal to keep it dry. Moss-covered concrete foundations lift the house off of the ground, keeping it from melting the permafrost below. The remains of a snuffed, charred campfire is perched to the left of the winding path leading to the door. Felled lumber lays on its side, the top whittled down onto a seat. A wooden rack leans against a tree close by. The hide of an animal is stretched taut across the panels. Leather-making materials sit in a bucket beside it. 

A metal box—bear-proof, you're sure—is half-buried in the soil. Storage, perhaps, for the unusable remains of the animals he hunts. 

It's fairly standard for a cabin up north, you think. But something about this place makes you feel anxious. Trapped. You can't see anything at all through the dense cluster of trees, but you can hear the sound of running water. A river, maybe. A stream. It splashes against the rock, the current too quick for you to even think about swimming in it. 

It only adds to your unease. 

“This is home,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house. 

Home is a cabin nestled somewhere in the unorganised wilderness of the Northwest Territories. Nahanni National Park is several hours in another direction. Too few communities exist on highway seven for you to even stumble onto them—

Assuming, of course, that you could walk there to begin with.

The lingering pain in your ankle, the heavy bandage wrapped around it—it's an immediate certainty that you can't walk. Broken, you know, from the glimpse you'd taken before. Milkwhite against raspberry red—

You don't think about that. 

You don't think about much at all. 

“Right.” You murmur. This place is the furthest thing from home you could imagine. 

He moves in your periphery, reaching for you. You jerk back, driven by instincts. The need for distance, space—

The jostling of your foot makes you hiss in pain, and he offers a conciliatory hum. 

“Ye’ll be alright, bonnie. Lets jus’ get ye inside now.” 

The inside is made of varnished wood. A mix of black and white spruce. It's cosy, you suppose. 

It opens up to a living room immediately upon walking in the door. A mat sits under your feet. A small closet to the right with the door slightly ajar. Along the length of the left wall is a doorway spilling into a small kitchen. From your vantage point, you make out a sink, and then another door to the right. 

Along the back wall beside the arching doorway is a brick fireplace. Soft fur is spread out on the ground in front of it. An old, weathered couch is pushed against the left wall, a shawl tossed over the back. 

There's no television. A stack of books and magazines sit above the couch—used more for an end table than entertainment, you note, spotting the glass of water resting on the pile. A pack of cigarettes beside it. An ashtray on the floor. Bottles of beer sit on the small table shoved under the window. One of the chairs is covered in clothes. 

It's lived in, you note, but lifeless. 

There are no pictures on the wall. No personal artefacts littered around. It's—

Perfunctory. 

He comes home, shucks his boots off by the front door, and drinks warm beer on the couch until he falls asleep. An inference, of course; but as he carries you further into the house (his insistence—ye cannae walk oan tha’, doe, stop bein’ stubborn and lemme carry ye), your notion gains credence. It's sparse. Threadbare. 

There's a single plate in the sink. The old stove, separated from the sink by a small countertop, is covered in a layer of dust. A fridge is pushed against the back wall. 

The door you glimpsed in the kitchen leads to the washroom. It's tight. A shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows. A towel is hung over the curtain rail, still damp from his shower before. A single mat covers most of the tiled floor below. A tube of toothpaste sits in the porcelain basin of the sink. 

Beside the washroom is the master bedroom. The bed is unmade. An untouched glass of water is left on the end table beside a worn leather book and a bible. 

An open closet sits across from the bed. The window is open. The breeze flutters the old, jaundiced curtain. 

He gives you his room and says he'll take the couch. Under normal circumstances, you might have fought it. Insisted that he sleep in his bed. You're a guest. You couldn't put him out like that. But the door has a lock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, and he seems to tremble at your words before nodding. 

“O' coorse.” 

Johnny places you on the bed before he sets to work rebandaging your ankle. You're all too aware of the fact that you need to know. You need to see what you're dealing with, and how bad the damage is, but the pain that cuts through you when he rests your ankle—as gingerly as he can—on top of an extra pillow makes you yowl in agony. 

It's vicious. Whitehot. The pain rattles through your bones. 

He shushes you as he unwraps the clumsy brace he put on in the park, murmuring incomprehensible things under his breath that you think must be Gaelic. Words of comfort, perhaps. 

You feel none of it except an uneasy dread pooling in the empty pit of your stomach. 

“How bad is it?”

He hums, brow pinching tight. “Th' hare took most o' th' damage,” he says, eyes tracing along the congealing blood on your ankle. Dark cherry red. You swallow down a gag. “Tore yer achilles, though. Clean. Doesn't seem tae be any fragments. Broke your ankle, though. But,” he taps your calf, just above the bend of your foot. It doesn’t hurt. “It’s a clean break. Maybe just a fracture. Shuid heal up in no time.”

“And what about infections?”

“Got some stuff oan hand if that happens,” he leans back, and gives you a wink. It feels out of place considering the severity of your predicament. Garish, almost. “But ah was a good nurse. Patched ye up nicely.” 

You don't ask anything else, and silence trickles in as he refocuses his attention back to cleaning your wound and redressing it. The bed is soft under you. Giving. You lean back, staring up at the log ceiling, and will yourself not to think at all. Each slight jostle of the wet cloth running along your ankle feels like fire licking at your skin. If you had anything at all in your belly left, you might have thrown it up on the side of the bed. 

This pain is consuming. Persistent. 

Your fingers knot into the soft blankets below, gripping tight until your knuckles ache. A futile attempt to exchange this pain for a lesser one. Something you can ignore, forget. 

Through the open window, you can hear the playful caws of a raven searching for food. You want it to distract you, to pull you away from the sickening sensation of your ankle separating from the heel, but it doesn't.

All you can think about is the fresh pain. Your flesh ripped apart. Torn achilles, he'd said. You feel it as he moves, washing away the dried blood, the viscera. The break in your tibia. It's a nauseating feeling. Visceral. It screams at you that something is wrong, reverberating through your bones. 

The raven caws again. 

“Gonnae ‘ave tae stitch yer heel up.” 

You make a sound—a pathetic whimper choked in the back of your throat. 

“Fine,” you rasp, tensing. “Just—”

Get it over with. 

Johnny seems to understand, offering a consolatory pat on your shin. “Ye'll be fine. Ah know what am doin’.”

You glance back at him, avoiding whatever is happening below his elbows. Refusing to look. 

He reaches up, fingers stained pink with your blood, and pulls the ballcap off his head, shaking the matted hair loose. His hair is thick, curling at the ends. Dark brown. Soft. You take in his expression, him, as he works, using it to churn your thoughts away from the prickling sensation of him pressing your torn skin back together, readying it for the needle. 

He's intense, focused, as he works. Eyes lidded to half-mast. Long lashes fanning out over the dark circles beneath his eyelids. Bruises that speak of long, sleepless nights. The empty bottles of beer and the full ashtray within arm's reach make a little more sense as you see the extent of his fatigue. 

It doesn't concern you. You rip your gaze away from the thin, twisting rivers of red that snake through the jaundiced whites of his eyes; the possibility of his vulnerability notches something inside your chest you don't want to think about. Can't. 

Your saviour, you think again, veering sharply on the edge of too cruel—

“Might pinch a bit, doe,” he mutters low, soft. His thick, even brows pull together at the centre. You feel the prick of the needle pushing through your skin—

Down his brows. The oblique curve of his nose. Bottled to a point. The thick bed of hair beneath his nostrils. Thin, pink lips jutting from the thatch of black bristles. The wisps curl down the slope of his neck, thinning at the hollow below before thickening back into a dense crop on the scant patch of his skin visible from his unbuttoned shirt. 

Another prick—

A thin, gold chain loops around his neck. Tucked against his sternum is a Latin cross. It's plain. Traditional. Solid gold, maybe. But not purely for decoration. Where the arms meet the body, the surface is smoothed down. Worn. In the reflection, you can see the thin, circular lines of a fingerprint. 

The bible on his dresser makes sense. You glance over at it, taking in the folds and creases on the leather cover. Aged and well-loved. Used. Pages are dog-eared. Waterlogged. Scotch tape holds the spine together. 

The Holy Bible gleams in faded gold lettering. Douay–Rheims is etched into the surface. 

The sight of a worn-down book and thumbed cross shouldn't relax you, but it does. A good ol’ boy, then. You turn back to him, eyes caught on the gleaming gold flush against tanned skin. It's tight to his sternum. Hung delicately around his neck. 

Seeing it now feels a touch voyeuristic. It wasn't intentionally bared to you. Wasn't offered up willingly for you to gawk at, mind looping around thou shalt not kill and do unto others as you yourself would want done unto you, and finding comfort in the ordered morality of its symbolism—however fickle that could end up being. 

You know a man is not as moral as his religion demands of him, but he looks devout. 

A good Catholic boy. 

Still—

You peel your gaze away from his chest as the thread slides through. The sensation is uncomfortable. Ticklish. Forcing your attention back to him, well above the neckline. His nose. Nostrils flaring when your knee jerks. His hands close over your shin. Mouth parting slightly just to say, keep still, doe. Donnae want tae hurt ye. 

His hair is slightly greasy near his scalp. Sweat from earlier dampens his locks, flattening it tongue head. It's longer at the top compared to the sides. An odd, asymmetrical hairstyle that doesn't feel like an aesthetic choice at all. Maybe he had a mullet. Or—

You see it when he tilts his head down, chin angled toward your foot. 

A scar stretches from his temple back, thinning the hair that lines his scalp on the right. The flesh is jagged, uneven. Cratered. It forms a ravine. The canyon walls clumped scar tissue. The nullah in the centre is all pink and raw. 

You think of a shooting star. Meteor showers in the indigo sky. 

You think of his words from earlier—ah know what am doin’—and the depth of his medical knowledge. It stands out now. You suppose he would, wouldn't he?

The thought has shame dripping down your spine like hot, slick oil. Burning. Tarry. You remember what he said in the truck about being wounded in action, the misery in his words, the anger, and choke yourself on the regret that swarms your throat. 

He looks up, then, catching whatever awful amalgamation of self-hatred, shame, and regret makes of your expression, and the words—sorry, I'm so sorry—tear through your throat until it's bloody and raw. Pulp. Unspeakable, now. 

It dampens his brow, but there's no embarrassment in his eyes when he holds them to yours. Nothing except an intense, dizzying sense of curiosity. Of—

Intrigue. 

It doesn't have a place here, and the sight of it is sobering. 

Why is he looking at you like that when you're gawking at his injury? Confusion knots deep. Uncertainty coiling around your ribcage. Maybe he didn't notice. Doesn't care. 

Is too used to it to worry about whatever conclusions you might draw from the jagged skin barely knitted back together. But his eyes flash. Understanding edging out the unfathomable greed lurking in hazel plains, nestled, restive, in the shade that falls over the sloping boscage. 

You almost miss the shadow when it appears. Wrought with Leashed ghosts. Tempered anger. Wild, frenetic. The chains holding it at bay tremble. Shake—

And then it's gone.

Dissolve back into passive cordiality. All ire stayed behind a wall. 

You want to apologize, but the words are ash in your throat. Unspeakable. Johnny doesn't address it. He dips his head down once more, silently refocusing his attention to your ankle, and offering no explanation for the scar on his head. 

You don't ask. Don't pry. It's not your place. But your eyes are still glued to it. 

It's a horrific injury. Survival from such a terrible wound seems like an impossibility. A gunshot, you're sure. Seeing the small chasm carved into skin, narrowly missing his eye socket, fills you with a blistering sense of pity for this man, and you quietly, quickly, peel your eyes away from the jagged surface, letting your gaze run across the room. A meagre sense of privacy, you're sure, but it lets you breathe a little easier when you can't see the way his temple split apart to make room for a bullet—

“Had a mohawk,” he says. “They cut it off when this happened.” 

A mohawk. The asymmetry of his hair makes sense now, and you can almost picture it as you stare at him. The edges shorn, the top long. Unruly. His hair has a slight curl to the ends, but is mostly straight for the first few inches. 

As wild as he looks now—untamed, rugged; the thick tangle of uncharted wilderness—the mohawk must have made him roguish. Boorish. With his broad shoulders, thick biceps, and piercing blue eyes, the mohawk would have added to the playful appeal. Boyishly charming with his cropped hair and puckish grin. The draw of a bad boy, a vandal. 

But as you try and shape this around him, you catch the strain in his shoulders. The terse set to his jaw. 

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Was shot.” 

It's said without a preamble as if he was waiting for you to ask. But the words are spat out like they're something foul in his mouth; like he's ridding the taste of it between his teeth. The anger, the aggression cows you slightly, but you offer a small, warbling smile you hope is conciliatory. Apologetic. 

“I'm sorry,” you offer around a stuttering exhale. You can't imagine what that must be like. Shot in the head. The idea is unthinkable. Improbable. And yet, the evidence slashes across his temple; a meteor shower carved into his flesh. 

He lifts his chin, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “Wasnae yer fault, doe.” 

“I know, I just—” 

Johnny gives a nod in response, ending the bubble of words and apologies building up behind your teeth. It is what it is, he mutters when you blink at him, flummoxed. This sort of reveal seems like it should necessitate a bigger conversation, a deeper one. Questions buoy to the surface—from prying (how did it happen, how did you survive) to intrusive (what did it feel like, does it hurt still)—but you trample them until they sit, a building mass lodged in your throat. 

He seems content, then, to continue with what he was doing, and says nothing more about it. And it's not your place to pry. To chisel into his trauma. 

You let it pass. Let it moulder. 

The raven caws once more. You lean back in his bed, staring through the fluttering curtains, mind reeling at this discovery. 

Stupidly, you feel more at ease in his presence. As if this show of vulnerability somehow negated the distress of your predicament, and the infeasible nature of how you ended up here, in his home. Gazing through the thick canopy of green to the golden sky above. A whole world away from your home. Broken. Injured. But the cross, the thumbed-through bible, and his human fragility seem to curl along the vicious dread curling inside your guts, soothing over the distrust with gentle, sweeping brushes. 

Quelling a frightened child after a nightmare. 

How strange, you think, but let yourself relax in his presence all the same, breathing in the scent of stale smoke, sweat. Coumarin. Tree moss. Fresh pine. It smells like the valley. Soft, waning detergent. Masculine. 

You pretend you're watching for the raven as you sneak small glances at him. Taking in everything with a new perspective. The broadness of his shoulders. The thickness of his waist. There's power in his arms, in his thighs. Sculpted musculature, honed and refined. Despite the thickness of his fingers, he has a delicate touch. Deft and sure, as if he's used to working his bulk around small parts. 

He's unkempt. The ballcap hid most of his dishevelled state, but he's not sloven. It reminds you of the outdoorsy explorers. The hikers you met on your trip out. Roughhewn and unconcerned about their overgrown beards and their tousled hair. 

There's something potently masculine about it, and you can't deny that even with the garish wound on his head, all mangled scar tissue, he's handsome. Rougish. The scar elevating it somehow—a testament, perhaps, to his resiliency. 

He catches your stare on the next glance, holding it as he leans back with a quirk of his lips. It's not quite the grins he aimed at you before, but the shadow of it lingers. 

“Now,” he utters, the severity in his tone makes you flinch. Sobering quickly under the weight of his solemnity. “Th' bad part.”

“Bad part?” You echo, confused. “What could be worse than that?”

He taps two fingers against your swollen ankle, urging you to look. You swallow and force yourself to glance at where he rests his fingers. 

With your split heel stitched up and wrapped in bandages, the sight of your leg doesn't make you want to curl into the fetal position and cry. But it's still horrifying to look at. 

A mass half the side of a baseball juts out from your skin. 

“Ankles dislocated,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers over the mound. “Gotta pop it back into place.” 

“That's not—” you shake your head. “That's impossible.” 

“S’okay, doe. I gotcha.”

“That's not the point. That's not—”

“Look,” his pitch lowers dangerously, firm now. “Gotta do it or you'll have problems later on. Much worse than a bit o’pain.”

“But—”

He inhales sharply. “Can't let it go, doe. Gotta fix it.”

You understand the logic in that. Leaving a dislocated ankle will undoubtedly cause problems later on. But—

“Will it hurt?” 

Your fear quiets the irritation brewing in steeled hazel. “Aye. I won't lie tae ye, doe. It will hurt.” 

You swallow around a whimper. 

“But,” he leans over, his hand sliding over your cheek. Cradling your face in the palm of his hand. “I'll do mah best tae be quick. Ah won't hurt ye, doe.” 

It must be the way he carries himself that puts you at ease, so assured in his abilities; confident in what he can do without any sense of grandiosity. 

“Fine.” The word is juttered out of your chest. “Just—”

His thumb catches the tears that spill over your lashline, swiping them away with a tenderness that makes you shiver. 

“Ah’ll be quick.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two chalky white pills. Tylenol, he mutters, catching the furrow of your brow. It abates the unease somewhat, and you let him drop the pills into the flat of your palm, rolling them over with your thumb as he grabs the water on the end table. They're circular with a slit down the middle. 

“It'll take the pain away.” He says, holding the water up to you. “Ready?” It's uttered so severely, so seriously, that your breath hitches in your lungs. Mirth blooming between your teeth. 

“As I'll ever be,” you rasp out before popping the pills into your mouth, cradling them on your tongue protectively as you reach for the glass he holds out. They're bitter. 

You wash it down with a mouthful of stale water before leaning back on the bed, letting the scent of his sheets wash over you once more. 

Outside, the raven trills. 

The pain of popping your ankle back into place leaves you a weeping mess in his sheets, but Johnny doesn't seem to mind the shuddering sobs. He pets down your back, shushing you quietly under his breath as he mutters something in Gaelic that you're sure is meant to be soothing. 

“Ye’ll be fine,” he says, tracing figure-eights down your spine until the Tylenol kicks in, and the agony tapers off into an aching throb. “Jus’ breathe. Ah’ll get ye somethin' tae eat.”

He leaves soon after. You let the numbed, drowsiness of the pain medication lull you into a doze, listening to Johnny move in the kitchen. The squealing slide of unvarnished wood rubbing against old metal. The thud of a knife. The scent of hot oil. Muttered curses. A playful raven's caw. 

You're not sure how long you slip in and out of this dreamless state, but Johnny appears in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the frame. He watches you with hooded eyes, a small, secretive smile tugging on his lips.

Blearily, you yawn, somehow still exhausted despite how long you slept between yesterday evening and today. Trauma, you suppose, and say nothing at all about it when he helps you sit up in the bed. 

Dinner consists of leftover bannock—the fried dough soft in your mouth, the flavour buttery; smokey—and hare stew. He pulls a chair from the living room into the bedroom, eating on the edge of the bed with you. 

He's sloppy about it. Slurps all the meat and potatoes out of the bowl before sopping chunks of bannock into the gravy, shoveling it into his mouth with a grunt. It dribbles down his chin, and dirties his beard. This slovenly display might have churned your stomach before, but you're just as ravenous. 

And it's good. 

The bread leaves grease stains on your fingers, but the toes on your uninjured foot curl when you bite into the crispy surface, teeth sinking into the pillowy dough below. 

“This is bannock, you said?” You ask, dabbing the napkin he offered with a wink when you finish. At his nod, you continue. “It's good.”

“Aye,” he grunts around a mouthful. “S’the best. Make it every mornin’ so ah go’ fresh bannock tae go.” He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, slurring out: “s’good wit’ jam.” 

“Did the locals teach you how to make it?”

He nods. “Scottish dish, originally. Made wit’ oats. Drier, too. But—fuck. S’good—nae. Better like this. Ol’ couple taught me when ah first came. Paler ‘n’ shite, they said. ‘n didnae ken a fuckin' thing about surviving oot ‘ere. Big man, Jim, taught me ‘ow tae hunt. Where tae fish. An’ ‘ow to cook it. Made this cabin, aye. He, ah, and his son. Offered ‘er up tae me when they realised ah didnae come wit’ shite all but a bad attitude.” 

“That was nice of them.”

“Most folk up ‘ere are. Quiet, ken? People take care’a ‘emselves, most. Take care’a others, too.” 

You mull over his words as he leans back in the chair with a satisfied groan, legs spread wide. His hands folded over his belly. The picture of ease. Contentment. This freedom of motion makes you slightly envious. 

“An’ wha’ about ye?” His eyes are lidded, leonine, and fixed on you. The intensity is always on the side of too much. Too dizzying. Consuming. 

You stamp it down, running your thumb along the inseam of his gingham throw. “What about me?”

“Why’d ye come here?”

His question throws you off balance. “It’s a pretty park,” you offer with a shallow laugh. “Who wouldn't come here?”

“Lots of pretty parks. Why this one?”

“Dunno. It was—”

“‘ave ye ever been tae any other parks? Anything like this?”

“I hiked a bit, and, um—”

He sucks out a piece of meat from between his teeth. “A bit, aye?” 

“Yeah. A bit. Why—”

“Ye came all the way here fer what? A pretty park? With no experience at all? And alone?”

The shift in his posture reads as angry, irate. You blink, bewildered by this sudden change. 

“Well. It was supposed to be an experience.”

“An experience, aye? Survival skills of a lemming.” 

It's derisive, cutting. You bristle through the sting of humiliation, grappling through the slurry of fatigue to cobble together some form of defence against this lambasting of your—admittedly—ill-thought adventure, but he's already moving on. Fingers tapping an off-rhythm beat against his belly as he levels you with a sober look. More serious than you'd ever seen him before. 

“An’ yer family? They just let ye come here oan yer own?”

The mention of your family makes guilt well to the surface, buoying above the indignant anger at his mocking words. Cowed, you shrug. 

“Sure.” 

Something cracks in the severe mein he carries; fracturing through the blatant disapproval. Cutting it like a knife. 

He sighs through his nose before reaching up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Shite. Ye really needed me, aye?” 

You blink at the odd choice of words, brows drawing together in a tight knot. It's indefensible, of course. In many ways, he's right. If he hadn't found you—

Well. 

You temper that thought before it forms. You're too out of it, spatially unaware and unmoored, to let yourself fall into an existential pit of despair when you know you won't be able to climb out. Thinking of your assured doom out there, all because of a misstep somewhere along the path, makes dread bloom in the pit of your stomach. Nauseous, roiling. It froths over the basin, ready to spill over and drag you under. 

Swallowing around the surge of panic—mortality a fickle thing in a place like this—you offer a despondent shrug in response. Unable to scrape together any sense of a defence that won't make you sound childish and idiotic. 

You ready yourself for more mockery, having become the very thing the park rangers tried to warn you about when you showed, alone, in hiking boots much too big for you. 

But then he's shifting, expression clearing. The anger folded back behind a quick grin. 

“Pretty here, isn't it?” 

You're not sure what to make of his mercurial temperament; emotions cascading by, quicksilver and sudden. The flashes of anger, intensity, curiosity, and this, all happening within such a short period. It's overwhelming. 

It unsettles you. But—

“Yeah,” you mutter, unable to stem the awe from leaking through. 

The change in conversation is freeing. Sometimes it's just easier to let sleeping dogs lie, and that's exactly what you do. Tucking his odd behaviour behind a plexiglass of indifference, pretending it wasn't there, lurking just out of sight. Something to unravel later, when your heart wasn't on the verge of buckling under the strain of your anxiety. When your chest didn't feel like it was slowly being crushed. Your stomach is all twisted up in knots too tight to untie with your bare hands. 

It's easy to let yourself heave through jittering lungs, and pretend you couldn't feel the rot festering on the sides of them. Eating holes through delicate tissue. 

The majesty of this place hasn't quite worn off, and you use that as an excuse to drift. To close the doors on the overwhelming deluge of hysteria creeping up on you. 

You still think of the jutting fjords instead. The steep ravines, the moose in the distance—her colours sharp against the green backdrop—and let the untempered sense of reverence split you down the middle. 

It comes out in a flood, then—as if you've been biting back the words this whole time. 

You tell him about the valley. The waterfall. The white river. The marmot you saw poking its head out. No bears, you sigh; the forlorn lilt to your tone seeped with a touch of relief, an aspect he pokes at with a crooked smirk until you huff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling at his gentle ribbing. Huffily, you admit that as much as you want to see a bear, you're not quite ready to face them in the wild. 

Lots’a bears ‘round ‘ere, he taunts, rolling his knees out further as he sinks deeper into the chair. 

He dodges your next question of where, exactly, is here with a silky grin and a need tae know rolling off his lips before they tug downward in a sudden frown. 

You must be acclimating to the strange ebb and flow of his emotions because the lour grimace on his face doesn't deter you as much as it did moments ago. You pick up the slack when the conversation lulls, telling him about the places you've been and how they compare to Nahanni.

“They just—don’t.” 

It's hard to encapsulate the scale of it all into simple words; digestible pieces someone else can swallow. The park isn't too far from Yellowknife, and yet it feels like a world on its own. The remoteness, the vastitude of it all, is hard to describe, but Johnny seems to understand. 

He listens with a slight quirk to his lips. A smile you'd almost call fond. He gets it, you know. The words you can't say. The ones that feel too lacklustre when you do. 

“That really why ye came?” 

You hesitate for a moment, looping a loose thread around your finger. Contemplating. Mulling it over. You've never told anyone the reason for the trip outside of a new experience for yourself. Testing your mettle. But with Johnny—

There's a sense of kinship, you find. An understanding. 

“It seemed so—” he waits for you to find the words. “Lonely, I guess.” 

“Lonely,” the way he says the word is ruminative. Rolling it around between his teeth; testing the weight of it. “Ah suppose it is.”

“You don't think so?”

“It's—” he pauses, eyes listing to the side as he mulls over what he wants to convey. 

He does this sometimes, you think. Gets lost. Loses himself. Retreats inward. You can't help but wonder if this is a manifestation of his trauma—a head injury such as this would be classified as a traumatic brain injury, wouldn't it? You're not well-versed in this area, and it feels a little mean, cruel, to have this thought, but it blooms as his eyes fog over. As he struggles, almost, to find the words he wants to say, to give voice to what he feels, thinks. 

“Lonely, aye,” he grinds out after a beat, but he looks frustrated about it, and glares down at his lap, silently fuming. Annoyed. “Big.”

The word is ripped out from between his teeth, and you nod, hastily, to both quell the looming anger brimming in the terse set to his shoulders and to let him know you understand. Can read between the lines—if only just. 

“Is that why you came?” 

The shrug he offers is noncommittal but you can see the tension pooling in his brow despite your efforts to quash it. “Couldnae go home after this—” he lifts his hand, tapping his fingers against the scar tissue on his temple. “Wasn't safe. Had tae give up everything after. Maw. Da. Sisters. Cannae ever see them again.”

It doesn't make sense. None of it does. The innate understanding between you is shattered by the impossibility of this moment, and his half-formed words. What you gave up seems paltry in comparison to what he's confessing to. His family. His whole family—

“Might see them one day. Once that fuckin' prick is in th' ground, but 'til then—” he shrugs again, easy. As if the look on his face wasn't cataclysmic in its anger. It's rage. Sorrow. Hatred. You flinch back as if the blackhole of these awful emotions will eat you alive. 

Johnny sees it, and reaches for you, making soothing noises under his breath as his hand wraps around your thigh. “Ah, doe, don’t worry. He wilnae find us—” 

You're not sure what to say to that, but the grip he has on you is firm. Unyielding. There's a scowl etching over his lips, as if the mere thought of such a thing fills him with disgust, fury, and you shake your head slowly. 

“I'm not—I’m not worried.” You don't know how to tell him that this phantom prick from his past isn't what made you reel back, but the intensity of his wrath. The sudden infliction of his ire. So you don't. You give in with what you hope is a conciliatory smile. “I, uh, I trust you.”

It's loose. Shaky. Your conviction wanes around the edges, falling flat and hollow when it trembles out. If Johnny notices the brittleness around it, he doesn't show it. If anything, he seems to take it as a sudden gospel. 

“D’ye—” There's a crack in his voice. He swallows, then. Adam's apple bobbing harshly against the skin of his throat. You wonder if you've upset him. Angered him. But he's leaning down, eyes widening. Feverish. Blue lagoons. “Ye trust me.”

It's not a question, but he poses it as such. You nod slowly and unsure. 

Johnny ducks his head, then. Lifts one hand to rub at the bristles around his chin and upper lip. Lost in thought, maybe—

It's when he reaches around, scrubbing at the nape of his neck, do you see the flush peeking out from beneath the thick bed of hair covering his cheeks. The sight is jarring. Unexpected. 

You're not sure what to make of it. Of this strange reaction. But it passes almost as quickly as it started. The red is replaced by a wide, blinding grin. He squeezes your thigh. 

“Hah, doe. Ye really know what tae say tae cheer me up—”

You haven't said anything at all, but this, too, goes unacknowledged. And before you can even try to draw attention to it, he breathes in deeply as he sits up in the chair. 

“Ye finished?” He motions to the bowl and plate on the bed. You nod. “Alright. Ah'll put ‘em away. Get ye some tea.”

“Oh, I'm fine—”

“Nah, hen. Tea is good for ye. Will help ye heal.” 

He leaves without another word, carrying away your dirty dishes. The unfinished conversation lingers in the air around you, but beneath the loose strands of everything unsaid, you feel something tangle inside your chest as you replay his words in the back of your head. 

All alone in Nahanni, unable to see his family. You're sure the prick he's referring to is the one who gave him that horrific scar, nearly taking his life. 

Somewhere in the loop, a knot of pity begins to take shape. 

Johnny brings you Labrador tea—a speciality he learned how to make from Ethel and Jim, the couple from Wrigley who took him in. It's good. It tastes sweet, earthy. Honey and pine. You sip at it as he grabs sleep clothes from his dresser, watching him with a muted sense of listlessness. 

You can't imagine the next sixty days that loom before you. Restlessness, claustrophobia—it coalesces into this strange, itchy feeling that sits, uncomfortably, atop your chest; an increasing pressure. You wish you could pick it off like a loose scab. Dig your nail under the hard clot and tug—

Peel it all off until just silken new skin remains. 

Johnny looks antsy when you finish the tea. Eyes bright. Wide. 

As you contemplate the surrealism of your predicament over Labrador tea, he grins like a shark and tells you he only has one toothbrush. 

“Dinnae mind sharin’, doe,” he offers, too jovial, eager, for the notion of lending his toothbrush to a stranger he met less than twenty-four hours ago. Ah ‘ave good hygiene, he adds, as if that might make this any better. 

Putting away the disgust, the idea of sharing a toothbrush feels much too intimate to you. Something befitting a long-term partner, or kin, before a man you know only the bare bones of. 

But like most things lately, what choice do you have? 

Johnny grins brightly at your acquiescence. All teeth. He hands you an old sweater—his favourite football team, he adds with a wink when you blink at it—and then moves toward you with a wicked gleam in his eyes you try to pretend is just overeager hospitality. 

“Wait—” you start, jerking back instinctively as he looms over the bed. “What are you doing?”

A dip forms between his brows, and he cocks his head quizzically at you. “What're ye talkin’ ‘bout, doe? Need'tae brush yer teeth, don't ye?” 

“I—I can walk—”

He snorts. “Oan yer broken ankle? Will only hurt yerself more.” 

Despite the truth in this statement, the flippancy in his voice stings. Prickles under your skin. Your loss of mobility, of being wholly dependent on another person, is a bitter thing to try and swallow. Especially when you're here for the literal antithesis of it. To be free. Self-reliant. 

Not needing anyone at all except the grit in your bones and the determination to see things through. 

Having all of that ripped into pieces in front of you, by a man who says it with such nonchalant disregard—as if your efforts were meaningless, insubstantial for what it got it—is humiliating. 

You can't remember the last time you needed someone for something so simple as walking to the washroom to brush your teeth, to wash up. The loss of this minute freedom makes you want to cry; to break down. Rage. Break things with your bare hands just to show the world you still can. To fight against these shackles locking around your ankles, and run—

Johnny's hand falls on your knee, thumb brushing the torn edge of your tights, grazing the skin beneath the loose threads with each pass. 

“Don't worry. Ah'll take care 'o ye.” 

That's the problem, you think, chest burning. This awful feeling inside is churning. Frothingly acidic, corrosive. You don't want him to. You don't want to need this man at all. Ever. For anything. 

But—

“Thanks,” you choke out. It tastes like iron. Like defeat. 

He carries you to the washroom, cooing the whole time about how ye ‘ave nothin’ tae be embarrassed ‘bout while you blister from mortification, from shame. 

You came here to be self-reliant. To grind your mettle against the wilderness and come out on the other side victorious and better for it. But what you've accomplished so far is getting lost, getting hurt, imposing on a man you barely know—

One who has to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub with you cradled in his lap like a child, injured foot elevated on the lid of the toilet seat. He cups his hand under your mouth as you scrub at your teeth, trying to catch any of the foam from the toothpaste that spills from your mouth. 

It's mortifying. 

You've never felt so vulnerable in your whole life. 

“Sorry,” you choke out around the brush—his brush—as he slowly commanders the weight of you around enough to spit in the sink. 

He waves you off with a noise. “S’alright, doe. Ye can lean oan me all ye like.” 

So he says. But you feel the rapid inhales behind you. The soft pants spilling from his lips, lungs expanding, broadening his chest into your back. Exertion, you think, slightly cowed and humiliated. Desperately trying to hold some of your weight on your uninjured foot. 

“Nah, ah,” he breathes, arm slinking around your middle, tugging you firmly into his lap. “Ye jus’ worry about gettin’ ready tae go tae bed now. Ah got ye.”

He soothes his palm up and down the length of your arm as you finish up in a fruitless effort to calm your nerves, but it doesn't work. Can't. Because you know what's coming next. 

“Can I, um—” your tongue is thick in your mouth. “I need to use the washroom to–to, uh, washup, and stuff—”

His thigh jerks beneath you. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than normal. “Okay.”

But he stays where he is. 

“I think I can do it on my own—”

“And if ye step oan yer leg?” He tuts, arm tightening around you. “Only gonnae hurt yerself more, doe.”

“I'll be careful, but I really have to—” 

“S’okay,” he coos. “S’only me.” 

That's the problem, you think wildly. Hysterical. That's the whole problem, isn't it? 

“No, you don't understand. I need to, um, go.” He makes another noise, soft. Agreeable. Fuck. “I need to pee.” 

It comes out in a hiss. Feral, like a cat. Embarrassment turns you into more animal than man. 

Again, he hums. “I know, doe. Donnae worry, ah’ll hold yer leg.”

“Can't I just keep it, um, on the ledge?” 

“No, no. If ye put weight oan it, doe, ye’ll be in serious trouble. Dislocated. Broken. Jesus, ye cuid slip the bone out of place—”

No. No.

The idea of him holding your ankle as you piss is beyond any measure of shame you've ever felt before. You like your privacy. Crave it, sometimes. You don't think you've ever done this in front of someone since you were a child. 

You need—

A moment.

Time. A pause. 

But he doesn't give you a chance. 

Johnny's other arm loops under your knees, and with a small huff he stands, holding you aloft with an arm anchored across your belly. It's quick. Mercilessly so. He steps back and lifts his foot to toe the lid off the toilet seat, unbothered by the loud clang it makes when it hits the tank. 

“There we go,” he mutters, and sounds almost breathless for it. “Let's get ye ready.” 

It should be awkward. Clumsy. But he moves with a surprising agility that belies the firmness of his muscles, the bulk. He lets your uninjured leg drop to the floor, murmuring for you to put some weight on it as he cradles your shin in his hands, careful not to let your foot move more than it needs to. 

The strange dance ends with him holding your shin in his hands, stretching your thighs out more than they'd ever been before. An image that might have been comical under different circumstances but just makes you flounder at the suggestiveness of the pose. Added, in large part, by the firm hold he has on you. There's not an ounce of give. No threat of falling. 

You gasp when he moves, shuffling backwards to pivot you around until the back of your shin meets the cold porcelain. 

“Alright now, doe,” he motions toward the seat as he slowly bends down to a crouch on the floor, your foot still held in his grasp. 

You follow him down until you meet the seat, trying to avoid his gaze as you clumsily paw at your tattered pants, slipping the down your thighs in a hurry. Your panties follow after a moment of hesitation. 

When his breath catches, you say nothing at all. Pointedly avoid whatever face he might be making as you stare, fixed, at the panels on the wall behind his head. Wallpaper. Probably moisture-resistant. It's peeling in some places. Decades ago, it might have been a soft canary yellow. 

His breathing is shallow. You ball your hands into fists and press the flat of your knuckles against your thighs. 

It's hard to focus when you can feel the scorching heat of his body bleeding into your leg, your knee. Close enough that all he has to do is bend down a little more, and his face would be pressed against your thighs. 

There's no room, no privacy. 

You close your eyes and pretend you can't hear how his breath seems to fill the entirety of the small washroom, ghosting over your skin. Virginia Falls comes to mind—a roaring rush of water—but even in the solitude of your mind, you can't ignore the way his stare drills through your skin. 

You swallow. You can't do it. Can't do this. 

“Can you—” back off, go away. Stop breathing so heavily because you might get the wrong idea, like this whole thing excites him somehow—

His voice is rough when he speaks. Ragged. “Cannae ah what, doe?”

“Turn the tap on? I can't—I can't concentrate.”

“S’only me, bonnie girl,” he murmurs, but does what you ask. Leaning over you, broad torso swallowing you up entirely under his bulk. You can feel the soft give of his belly on your knee as he presses it into you, but it only lasts a second before you meet a wall of solid muscle beneath. He braces a warm, rough palm on your naked thigh, leaning in as he reaches over to the sink above. 

It's barely a fraction of his weight but the drag of it makes you blink in surprise. His skin is burning. Redhot. 

Opening your eyes brings you close to his chest, nose only a hair away from the tanned skin stretched over his collarbones. The metal chain gleams in the flushed light hanging overhead, sitting in a golden contrast to his sunkissed flesh. Its reflection casts beads of glittering lambency over the slope of his neck. 

Pretty, you think, watching as it coruscates in a mesmerising dance each time he moves. 

The faucet turns with a metallic squeak, breaking you from your reverie. Water gurgles up from the pipes, spitting into the basin with a hiss. You pull back, twisting your head to the side as heat floods your chest. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, unable to meet his stare.

His fingers tighten around your flesh. His voice is raw when he mumbles, “anytime.” 

The trickling rush of water reverberates around the room, and it's easy to close your eyes and pretend you're alone.

So that's exactly what you do. 

His palm grows slick on your skin. Damp. But you ignore it, focusing on nothing but the urgency of getting this over with as quickly as you can. It works, marginally—

(Johnny makes another noise in the back of his throat. 

That, too, you ignore.)

“Finished?” His voice is thick, wet. You nod slowly, peeking out from the sliver between your lashes to paw at the wall for the toilet paper roll. “Here, ah’ll help ye out of fer pants—”

Your head feels heavy. Limbs laden. The embarrassment crushes you into a fine powder; malleable, putty. You let Johnny take the lead after. Let him slip your tattered tights down your thighs, and say nothing at all when too much of his palm glides along your skin as he pulls. Needlessly, of course, when just two fingers would do. 

But it's fine. Fine. Maybe he's never taken off tights before. Maybe the material is too thin and he's worried about it catching on the scrapes over your knees, the bandage wrapped up to mid-calf. 

Your shirt, too. When he slips his fingers under the hem, splaying them wide over your belly before dragging them up until it bunches around his wrist. Tugging, tugging. Hands gliding over your skin, fitting along the contours of your body.

He keeps one hand moulded to your neck, fingers brushing your jaw, as he gingerly pulls the shirt over your head. The ragged pants in your ear, the soft groans when you slip into his old shirt—

It's exertion, really. Must be. He's tired from holding you up the whole time you brushed your teeth, washed your face in the sink. It's all fine. He's being gentle. Doesn't want to hurt you.

He's just being nice. 

(And when you notice that your panties are missing from the pile of dirty clothes he shoves into the corner behind the door, that, too, you ignore.)

Exhaustion takes you soon after Johnny tucks you into bed, dragging you under once again. He tells you he'll be on the couch. To holler if you need anything. Sluggishly, you nod. Thank him when he places a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

(Bite your tongue when he brushes his fingers over your cheek as he bids you goodnight.)

Through the gossamer of sleep, you can hear the floorboards creak in the doorway, but when you look, there's nothing there. Just an empty kitchen. The soft flicker of the fireplace smouldering in the living room. 

Nothing, you think. It's nothing at all—

There's a weight on your chest. 

Warm, searing. It dampens your skin where it sits, heavy, on your breast, cold air ghosting along the sweat building up each time it moves. 

You stir. The pressure takes shape. A hand. A man's hand. Rough, calloused, and hot. In his palm, he holds your breast, thumb brushing along the curve of it. Sliding, sliding—

You come awake with a gasp. 

There's a twinge in your ankle when you move, and the pain grounds you, silences you. His thumb twitches on your nipple, but he, too, stills. Quietens. An impasse. 

And you suppose this would be where you'd scream. Rage. Slap him across the face, rip his hand off your breast. Curse at him for being a creep, and a pervert, and nasty, disgusting man because there's nothing at all that could justify the reason for why the shirt he gave you to wear to bed is tucked up over your chest. The bruising press of something hard digging into your hip negates any excuse he might try to give. This is unmistakable. You should scream, cry, and—

Leave. 

This is what glues your lips together. Keeps you from moving at all, from making a sound. Where would you go? How would you even get there to begin with? 

It's this—the uncertainty, your vulnerability—that paralyzes you. Keeps you still, silent, as his hands brush over your skin, touching, fondling. His palms are rough, calloused. Pyretic. He squeezes, kneading your flesh in his sweat-slicked hand like he's owed the right to touch you. Like he's allowed. 

He pants against your temple, breath warm, humid on your skin. Heaves like a dog in your ear, grunting low as he ruts his hips into your side, smearing something hot, tacky across your skin. Something you try not to think about, to inch away from. But he catches you quick, and stops your meagre protests before they form. 

His thumb and forefinger close over your pebbled nipple, pinching softly at your budded flesh. The shock of pleasure is unwanted. Awful. It churns your stomach, and you fight the urge to weep—

He leans up, ragged exhales growing heavier as he moves until milk-warmed breath shudders over your bare breasts. His excitement throbs against your hip. You swallow down around the sudden wave of disgust, the sickness knotting itself together in your belly. It devours the lingering pity you'd felt earlier. The safety, the comfort, that brimmed inside of you for him. 

(bleeding heart—

he gorges himself on it.)

Stay still, you think. And maybe he'll go away. 

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. 

Johnny leans down, mouth closes over your nipple. It's all searing heat. Wet, soft. A sudden jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine when he sucks in tandem with the soft, rolling pinches he doles out on your tiger nipple, and you hate your treacherous body a little bit more for it. For how good it makes you feel when he flicks his tongue over your hardened peek, laving it sloppily. Messily. Drooling all over you—the big fucking dog—

You wonder how long he's been doing this. Touching you in your sleep. The thought sits like hot oil in your guts; sloshing against the soft lining of your stomach until it aches. Burns. You blame it on that when he grunts against your breast, the vibrations send a shiver down your spine. Have to, don't you? Because the alternative is to admit that you're slick, soft between your thighs already; folds soaked, inner thigh damp. Wet. Blame it on him, and the burden in your chest eases when you feel the stirrings of desire, lust, thicken in your lower belly. Bodily reaction becomes your clutch, your lifeline when he lays his upper body against you, the weight, the heft, of his bulk forcing the air from your lungs. 

Johnny lifts his head suddenly, eyes drilling into yours before you can feign sleep to avoid looking at him. You don't want this. Your body thrums with reluctance, with fear, but you can't drag your gaze away from him. The rapturous look in his eyes, burning in the low simmer of a never-ending twilight, is paralyzing. Electric. You can't remember a time in your life when another person has ever looked at you with such raw want. Desire. Need. It's covetous. Ugly. Marbled with heady streams of hunger, of awe, as if he's not sure whether or not he wants to eat you alive or savour you for aeons. Taking bites, nibbles, when this urge becomes too burdensome to bear; when the ravenous chasm in his guts threatens to devour itself, bones and all, like a man-made black hole. Under this heavy, unrelenting stare you wither. Submit. Your head rolls until your cheek is pressed against the pillow, neck bared. Offered up to him. 

(anything, you think, to run away from the naked want on his face. because with his mouth slack, lips slick, glistening with spit, he looks predatory like this. animal. bathed in gloam and flushed a deep roseate.)

He props himself up on his elbow, watching you. Feasting. Your quiet submission makes him moan; hips juttering at the slow reveal of your vulnerable neck. A paroxysm. As if he just can't help himself to hump against you like a beast in rut. 

He swallows. You watch his throat work from the corner of your eye, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down—

Then:

He lifts himself up higher, angling his body until it's bracketed over you. Sliding between your legs until your slit is pressed against the coarse hair that covers his thighs. He keeps his elbow propped on the pillow, sliding up, up, until his forearm comes to rest beside your face. It boxes you in completely under his weight, and the position forces your legs to spread open to accommodate him. Not given up freely, of course; but your compliance in this is inessential, it seems. He moulds you how he likes, mindful of your injured ankle the whole time. A kindness that makes something molten thicken in your throat, stifling the scream that claws its way up your esophagus. 

You try not to stare when he clambers over you, chest bare against yours. Hips chiselling a gorge between your thighs wide enough for him to fit. To press his fattened length on the insides of your sticky thighs; groins drawing together. Your legs slung loosely around his tapered waist. A dreadful pastiche of lovemaking. Intimacy. 

But even as a mockery—bastardised as it is—it’s embarrassing how easily you open up for him. Legs falling, spreading further apart. Hot, sticky at the apex of your thighs. Wanting. 

Blame it on sleep, on this endless hypnagogia you've been feeling since he leaned over you on the cliff edge, and said, pretty thing, aren't ye? All alone. No’ anymore, doe. Jus’ me an’ ye, now. Jus’ us—

You swallow, fighting the urge to cry. Blinking rapidly against the tears that pebble against your lashline, but you're helpless to stop the flood even though the levee doesn't break, doesn't spill over. It just sits, a sorrowful lagoon with nowhere to go. 

In your attempt to hold back the deluge, you let your gaze wander away from the piercing blue that drills into your face—seemingly unbothered by the tears in your eyes, the ones that clot over your irises, stinging and hot—and stare down at his broad chest. A mistake, maybe, because you catch sight of the gold cross dangling around his neck. Like a pendulum, it swings. The motion is mesmerising. Hypnotic. 

It distracts you for a moment. Or maybe you've just grown accustomed to his touch, to the heat of his hand on your skin. Whatever the reason, it's enough to pull you away from the feverish trail his fingers leave as they make a steady drag downward. It's only when they dance over your belly button do you realise the muted tickle is Johnny, and by then—

“Shush, s’alright, doe,” he's cooing, warm breath ghosting over the plains of your face. It might be comforting if he didn't rest his weight on his elbow, freeing his other hand just to bring it over your mouth, thumb brushing under your eye. A warning maybe. Don't scream. “Ah go’ ye. Ah’ll make ye feel so good—”

There's a fever in his eyes. Wildfires spreading through the yawning boscage, burning everything in sight. The heat is hot enough to char bone; to blacken meat into a dessicated husk. Eating away at everything in its path. 

You know, almost immediately, that Johnny's beyond reason. Or, rather—

He's gone, turned inward; delusional enough to think that this is something he has to do. 

You'd seen all the warnings of the kindling fire before. Something you'd decided to ignore even as the hunger in his eyes surged; as the shape of it morphed into a frothing devotion that felt ill-fitting for two strangers stuck together like this. 

Stupidly, you thought you could outrun it. That he was a good man beneath it all, and wouldn't succumb to touching you in your sleep, to lulling you into a false sense of security—

Except. He hadn't, had he? 

He'd been blunt about it all since the beginning. My wife—

How silly, you thought. 

But the humour fades when he teases over your hips, resting his palm over your mound, middle finger perched above your clit. Just holding. Touching. The possessiveness of the action is unmistakable, unignorable. 

It shouldn't send a shiver down your spine when you'd rather he didn't touch you at all, but it does. There's something about him, you think. Electric. A lightning storm. It crackles in the air around you, humming low in the atmosphere; this unavoidable surge, natural phenomenon. Maybe that's what he is. 

More storm than man. A force you can't outrun, but can only endure—

His eyes flash when he slides his fingers further down your slit and finds your skin soft, hot. Drenched. When he groans your name out, it sounds like a prayer. An orison. 

“So wet, doe,” he's heaving out in a whisper, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as his touch grows bolder, more insistent. As if the softness of your flesh, the wetness that sticks to your inner thighs, is all the consent he needs. “So fuckin’ wet fer me, aye? Been waitin’ fer this, haven't ye?” 

You want to shake your head no but it's futile. He drops his head to look down the chasm between your bodies, watching his hand slide along your skin. Legs spread around his waist, inviting. He curses foul under his breath when he sees how wet his fingers are from just a touch, words mangled in the back of his throat. They sound less coherent as he roams your body, parting your folds and stroking through the slick spilling out of you, dragging it up to your clit. 

His voice is closer now. Lips bruising against the shell of your ear. Butchered English. Gaelic. An amalgamation of low whines, and rasping grunts. He sounds more animal than man. A booming thundercloud groaning above you, as if touching you is enough to please him, too. Siphoning it from your body as he presses his fingers against your clit, circling, stroking. 

It’s good. So good. And that's the problem, you think. It's easy to give in like this when he pets your pussy like the feeling of your fluttering heat on his hand is enough to make him cum. No one has ever touched you like they were starving for it. Needed it as badly as you did. 

The sensation is almost too much. The notion of it getting tangled in the back of your head, looping around the part of you still screaming to run. To go home. To push him away. 

(your arms are laden. your tongue is a puddle of mercury in your mouth—)

But just as the pleasure blooming in your belly raises with each pass of his thumb, he pulls away. Slides down, down—

Circles your hole with the tips of his slick fingers, petting with the same desperation he showed your clit until he deems you soft enough for him. He slowly sinks his finger inside of you to the knuckle, stretching your walls around him as he moans into your ear about how good ye feel around him, all tight. Hot. So fuckin' wet, do. So wet fer me—

He pulls out just as slowly, shushing the soft gasp you make when the ridge of his palm catches on your clit. 

“Ah told ye, didnae ah? Ah’ll take care’a ye.”

He presses two fingers inside of you as he peppers kisses over your cheek, cooing low about how badly you need him. Only him. 

Johnny fucks you slowly on two fingers. Gently. Deeply. Sliding into the last knuckle, petting against your slick walls, like he's owed the privilege and not touching you in your sleep.  

He brings you to the edge, takes you right there, and—

Pulls away. His fingers slide down as your hips flit, lifting to make them catch on your clit again. It's embarrassing how badly you want him to touch you. Shameful. 

He leans up and catches your mouth in a messy kiss. It's all tongue, wet, no finesse. The wild, unkempt tangle of hair abrades your skin, rubbing it raw as he devours you. Scoops out your tongue with his own, enticing it into his mouth. His teeth close on the thick of it, lips pursing. Sucking on the tip. 

His kisses are doglike and obscene. Leaves drool dribbling down your chin, soaking into your neck. He can't seem to decide what he wants to do, so he tries to do it all. Everything. Biting your lips, trying to choke you on his tongue. Slurping up the taste of you until his mouth is stained with it. Beard matted down, drenched. 

Despite it all, he's a good kisser. His pace is fast, breakneck. You can't keep up, but you try. Struggling along as he seems hellbent on eating you alive. But it's sporadic. He pauses just long enough to settle into an easy rhythm that makes you arch into it, silently begging for more as he fucks you on his fingers. Nips your tongue as he slides in a third, swallowing the gasp you let out, savouring your moans between his teeth. 

Johnny ruins you with just a kiss. Leaves you panting, unmoored. Mouth slack, open wide for him to do what he pleases because the taste of him is divine. 

“C’mon,” he urges, spreading his fingers inside of your cunt until you keen, whining his name. “Suck my tongue, bonnie.” 

It's disgusting. You do it, anyway. 

Your quiet acquiescence makes him moan, hips rutting against you. The hard press of his cock into your skin is bruising. It aches. Your inner thighs are tacky with your slick and the smears of pre-cum he leaves behind as he humps against you. 

He sounds mournful when he pulls away, mouth messy with spit, and whispers, “fuck, wish ah could taste ye again, doe—” You don't know what he means until his eyes drop down to his hand, working insistently between your thighs. 

Your stomach drops. Plummets. You thought this started when he was touching your chest, when you woke up to his hand on your breast—

“Ye didnae wake when ah did it before,” he says, as if sounding mournful, sad, over the fact that you didn't wake up to him eating your pussy while you were asleep, was normal. “Must’a had too much tea—”

You wish, so suddenly, so viciously, that he'd stop talking. You can't hear this. Can't bear to listen to him confess to all the needling worries that bloomed in the back of your head, ones you stamped down with a heavy foot and a potent sense of guilt, shame, for condemning a man who was just trying to help. 

It makes you want to cry. 

“Oh, doe, don't cry—” he coos the words out, contrite and conciliatory, but you can feel the way his cock twitches against your thigh. The unmistakable heat mushrooming in his eyes as the sight of tears streaming down your face. 

He seems to take it as misery over not feeling his mouth on your cunt, a plaintive assertion he whispers into your ear (poor thing, jus’ wannae feel ma mouth on you, aye? wannae feel me lick yer sweet pussy again?), and decides to rectify your sorrow by kissing his way down your body. 

His fingers slip out when he moves, resting them on your knee as he kneels back on his haunches. 

You spare a glance toward him, nervous with trepidation, and—

This whole time, his cock had been this phantom sensation against your skin, bruising and hot. Leaving wet smears over your thighs. Hidden from view. But like this, it's the first thing you see as it hangs, heavy and thick, from between his thighs. 

The sight is—

Something. 

You don't want to think about the heat in your belly. The nervous flit of your heartbeat. 

A pearlescent strand dribbles down the weeping, slick head, dropping to the sheets below. The shaft of his cock is similarly drenched, smeared with what seems like a copious amount of precum. It gathers at the base, a startling contrast of thick, black hair and globs of milky white. 

Something about it makes you recoil. Almost instinctively, primal. 

Your flinch just makes his cock twitch, spitting more out. 

The motion seems to unveil more of it to you, adding to the growing unease you feel because his cock is the furthest thing from pretty. 

It's flushed a daunting vermillion and purpling like a bruise around the engorged glands. Thickening at the base. Streaked with dark veins that run the length of it, like rivers intersecting and jutting up from his skin. Blotches of red, pink, purple, and peach make up the colouring of it. Marbled like a black eye. A busted lip. 

It bobs when he moves. Ugly, garish. You don't want it anywhere near you—

But Johnny’s wet hand on your knee keeps you from moving. Holds you in place as he bends down, resting on elbow to bring his face as close to your pussy as he can get. 

Johnny stares—unabashedly—at your bare cunt when he finally settles between your thighs, widening them further to fit the broad stretch of his shoulders. Eyes lit with a heady greed, a hunger, that knocks the air from your lungs. 

“Missed ma mouth, didnae ye?” 

For a moment, you think he's talking to you. Confusion colours the panic you feel, dampening the dread down until it's flattened by sheer bewilderment when you realise his eyes haven't left your slit. 

“Such a bonnie girl,” he purrs, breath ghosting over your cunt. “Been so lonely without me, aye? Poor thing.”

It heats you up from the inside out. The mesmerised, almost unfettered look of pure adoration shaded alongside the raw want on his face twists a sense of desire inside of you. Has anyone looked at you with such naked need on their face? As if the idea of not having a taste was somehow the most agonising thing they could experience? The way Johnny looks at you is enough to make you ache. And with anyone else, having him address your pussy instead of you would be awkward, humiliating, but somehow, him doing it makes you burn white-hot. Makes you want—

“Johnny,” you whisper, paper-thin, and his head shoots up, brows inching high on his brow. You're acutely aware that this is the first thing you've said since this started. Since you woke up to him groping you, touching you, in your sleep. And it's his name. Johnny. 

Not no, don't. Stop. Please. Just—

“Johnny.”

It's not consent. You're not sure you're fully capable of doing so right now, if ever. But it's the closest you think you could come to saying yes. Admitting that you want his mouth on you, even though the situation leading up to this still makes something ugly and awful twist in your guts, is as much as you can give. He seems to see this. To know. 

But Johnny takes it between his teeth as an unequivocal yes despite that, groaning low in his throat, midnight eyes rolling back into his head. The hands on you tremble. Shake. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, the sound whistling as a great plume of air is forced through small channels, filling his lungs. Perfuming them with the heady scent of you, of sex, clotting in the air. 

“Fuck, doe. Gonnae give ye what ye need.” 

And then he bends his head, eyes lidded still, half rolled, and without any preamble, glues his lips to your drenched slit, forcing it between your soft folds. 

The first touch of his tongue is molten. Soft, tensile, he laves it over the whole of your slit from the sensitive skin beneath your hole, to the crest of your clit. Digs his tongue in, swirling it over and under your folds leaving no part of you untouched. Feasting. Devouring. 

It makes you mewl. Your back arches off the sheets, ankle throbbing in a heady, pulsing pain at the sudden movement, adding to the shrill whine in your voice. 

He notices, and pets your knee once before sliding his bicep under your leg, looping his hand around to secure your thigh in the crook of his below. Locked in tight. Immoveable. The other he pushes down with the flat of his palm, until your joints ache from the stretch. Your knee is almost flush with the mattress. Widening you further for his searing, eager mouth. 

If his kisses are dogish—wet, messy; sloppy with drool—then the way he eats your cunt is foul. Slobbering down his chin, slurping up the mess he makes with a series of chewed-off moans and muffled whines. He paws at you as if he was denied the pleasure of drink for aeons, feasting like a man half-delirious and starved. There's no finesse. No skill to speak of. Just a desperate man lapping at you like a beast. Worshipping you. 

He nuzzles his chin and cheeks against your cunt, drenching himself until his beard is matted to his skin. The feeling of his coarse hair grazing your sensitive flesh is overwhelming. Too much. Too ticklish. But—

It feels good. 

The contrast of his fleshy tongue rolling over your clit, and the rough brush of his hair when he nuzzles you with the point of his chin, cooing softly about how pretty this little pussy is, getting him all wet, is cataclysmic. The heat floods your belly, and you clench around nothing. Achingly empty. Moaning at the feeling of him bringing you right there, right to the brink, with nothing by the hair on his cheek. It's unreal. Inescapable. Your head drops, mouth lax, open wide as you pant and whimper through the madness of Johnny MacTavish trying to find a way to suck your clit and fuck you with his tongue at the same time. An impossible goal, you know, but he doesn't seem to care about logic or reason with his head buried between your thighs, mouth never leaving you once. He merely nods his head up and down, refusing to pull away.

It's divine. It's worship. It's—

He pushes two of his fingers inside of you, lapping at your taut rim to stem the sting of his sudden intrusion, and you think, for a moment, that you see Nirvana behind your eyelids. 

It's embarrassingly how quickly he brings to you the brink, slurping messily as he drills his fingers into your hole, petting against your walls in a mockery of what he'll do to you once he's had his fill. Satiated his hunger with the taste of your pussy. 

Something he can't seem to get enough of.

Your thighs draw together, crushing him between your legs. Arching into his mouth, nearly smothering him as you rut clumsily against his face, moaning at the rough scrape of his beard against your skin. You're not normally so aggressive, but he loses himself in it, eyes rolling as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer to his wanting mouth, encouraging you to use his tongue, his lips, to meet your end as you see fit. Riding his face as much as you can with your leg locked tight between his shoulder and bicep. 

And it's in between his loud grunts, his whines—almost caterwauling into your slit—where you shatter. The sound of his pleasure, the feeling of his mouth on you—it’s all too much. You break when he sucks your clit into his mouth, keening in the back of his throat as he works another finger into you. It feels good. Too good. 

Johnny works you through it. Lets you take, and take as your muscles spasm with the force of your release. Fingers digging into his shoulders, fisting the sheets. He moans along with you, eagerly lapping at your cunt until you whine, begging him to stop. You've had enough. Can't take anymore—

He only pulls away when you melt into the sheets, shuddering with the aftershocks bubbling through your body. Leaning back on his haunches once more, the hair around his mouth slick and wet. The evidence of your pleasure dripping down his chin, droplets still clinging to his beard.

He crawls over you once more, eyes boring into yours. Pits of coal. An endless black hole.

In this strange space, liminal, you lose yourself. Shed pieces of who you were before when he slots his hips between your thighs, cock heavy in his hand, and presses it to your slit. 

This is happening. He's going to fuck you. 

You wish the thought didn't make your knees fall apart a little wider for him. Make your hips flit, lifting slightly into the air. Eager. Hungry for it. For him.

It's loneliness, you think. Desperation. 

Madness is addictive. It feeds itself and infects those around it. Noxious. An all-consuming black hole that eats, and eats. It must have bitten you, too. Dug infectious teeth into your skin, severing flesh to imbed its jowls in your marrow. Clinging. Poisoning you from the inside out. 

There's no other reason for why you reach for him, hands sliding over his sweat-slicked skin as he falls into the open brackets of your arms, grunting when the head of his cock catches on your rim. He's a wall of heat. Firm muscles. Your nails dig into the thick cords of his shoulders just to feel the reluctant give of his skin. 

Nothing about this man is soft. His waist, his thighs, his chest, his arms, the hard ridge of his cock. It's all unyielding muscle. Burning. Searing into your skin when it drags against his. 

“Gonnae fuck ye, doe,” he whispers, words pitching low. Damp wood, felled timber. Rough. You shiver from the heat of it. The warning, the plea; both extremes coalescing together to make truism more potent. Weighty. “Gonnae fuck this pretty pussy, and yer gonnae beg me fer it.” 

Despite the surety in assertion, he doesn't wait for you to plead with him to split you apart, taking the initiative instead to sink the head of his cock into you. The stretch stings already, and only his glands have sunk in, a fact he grunts into your ear as he drives forward another inch. Another—

You don't think you've ever been this unmoored before. Rendered this docile. A mere domicile for him to burrow inside of; to carve a home from the sanctum of your walls wrapped tight around him. And carve he does. Splitting you apart as he grunts with the efforting of forcing his cock into you, feeding it further with blunt jerks of his hips, his hands feverish on your skin. Sweat slicked already even though he's barely halfway inside of you. 

“Feels so good,” he slurs into your ear, face pinching. Twisting up as pleasure blooms over his brow. “So fuckin’ good, doe, fuck—”

It does. Beyond the blunt pressure of him forcing his cock inside of you, the sting of the stretch, there's an intense, dizzying pleasure in the fullness you feel. In the press of him notching against something inside that makes heat bloom in your belly, turns your bones liquid. It might be the previous climax rendering you oversensitive, but the feeling of him splitting you apart is euphoric. 

It's aided by the moans he lets out as you take more and more of him, as if the sound of his pleasure is funnelled into yours. By the look on his face, eyes widened, feverish, as he darts his gaze between your face and your pussy, unable to decide if he wants to watch his cock disappear into you or watch your face, pinched up in pleasure, in flickering pain, as you take him fully. 

This sort of bliss, this pleasure, is addicting. Narrowed down to the sharp nudge of his cock grazing places inside of you that light your nerves on fire, burn through your synapses until your thoughts are muddled, mush. No coherency, no logic—just the fat length of him bludgeoning into your walls; the tap of his heavy, full sack slapping against your ass as he finally, finally, roots deep.

He must feel it, too. This strange, overwhelming pleasure loops around your lower belly, twisting itself into knots because when he pushes the last few inches inside of you, he nearly collapses on top of you, his whole body shuddering. Trembling. Presses his damp face to your cheek, matted, slick hair tickling your skin, and groans from deep within his chest at the feeling of you wrapped around him. The noise shivers through you. His pleasure is enough to make you clench down, tightening up around him. Already on the verge and all he did was slide his cock inside of you. 

A fact he seems to luxuriate in, huffing shakily into your ear as he quenches himself on the soft, fluttering pulses of your walls around him. Content to grind his hips into yours in shallow gyrations that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. The tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter, the pleasure ameliorating the shame you'd felt before, burning it into cinders. 

As long as he keeps his cock inside of you, as long as he keeps pushing the blunt head into that spot that makes your vision whiteout, you think could cum just like this. Right now—

He doesn't. 

Johnny lifts himself off of your chest, elbow coming to rest beside your head, taking the brunt of his weight. His eyes are bright, burning. He stares down at you, and the look of sheer adoration on his face is daunting, overwhelming. It threatens to eat you alive. Devour you whole. Pure rapture. Devotion. 

You flush, face stinging with embarrassment. Prickling with unease. No one has ever stared at you like this, so hungrily, and the fact that it's him makes your head spin. Looping endlessly in circles of disbelief and fear. 

He might be omnipotent, you think, with the way his lips tug sharply downward, brow bunching together as if he can hear your thoughts, taste your disquiet in the air. 

Johnny rolls his hips back slowly, inching out of you with a hum until just the tip remains. The loss has your hands scrambling down his chest, fingers tangling in the coarse, drenched hairs at the soft incline of his belly. The other sliding around the thick breadth of his ribs, nails digging into the slick skin covering his spine. Pressing. Biting. 

More, you don't say. Please. 

The knot in his brow dissipates. Eases into something almost playful, impish. 

“Want ma cock, doe?” He whispers it waggishly, like a cloy secret, and you pretend the tease in his voice doesn't make your heart lurch in your chest. “Didnae anyone teach ye some manners? Gotta ask politely.” 

You won't. You won't. 

Your reluctance makes him sigh. The chain around his neck swinging when he moves. His hips pull back, and he reaches down with his free hand, and grabs his cock, pulling it out of you, and sliding it against your slit. The head bumps into your clit, and you nearly choke on the gasp that's ripped from your chest. The pleasure is too much, too—

He pulls away, denying you the euphoria of release. 

“No, no, please,” you babble, resolve crumbling into ash. “Please, Johnny, please—”

“That’s more like it,” he coos, and lets his cock dip back inside of your fluttering hole, rim stretched taut around him once more. The sting is lessened now, but still there as the thick glands force you open for him. “Sound so pretty when yer desperate for ma cock.” 

He leans down, catching your mouth in another sloppy kiss as he slams his cock back inside of you hard enough to bruise. To make you see stars. Cockhead bludgeoning into your cervix in a dizzying amalgamation of pleasure and pain that makes you whine, the whimper snatched up between his teeth as he burrows them into your lip with an echoing groan. 

He fucks you hard, working his cock into you at a maddening pace. Bestial, now. All animal. The tenderness from before dissolves into an choppy desperation. An eagerness to seek his own end as you fall to pieces beneath him, shaking from the force of taking him over and over again, each piston, each hard thrust driving the thoughts from your head until all you have left is sensation. An absence of everything except the way he feels above you, inside of you. 

Sweat builds up along your hairline, gathers at the base of your spine, and soaks the sheets below. You feel liquid under him. A ragdoll for him to sink his jowls into, to toss around as he likes. 

Johnny is all sensation and a cacophony of sound. 

He ruts into you clumsily, groaning in your ear. Moaning out how good you feel around him. Pretty pussy made just for him. 

“Oh, fuck, doe—” he moans, arching into the next thrust. Drool dribbles down his chin when he curves his spine, dropping his forehead onto your temple. “Feels so good. Feels like my cock is meltin’ instead ye—”

The lewd squelch of his cock pistoning into you seems to echo through the room, louder somehow than the ragged moans that spill from his mouth. 

“Been so long,” he shudders against you, rooting his cock deep. Burying himself inside of you as his cockhead bullies into your cervix. The flash of pain is whitehot, blinding, but the bloom of pleasure eats it whole before it can pollute the puddle of bliss pooling in your belly. “Been savin’ it all jus’ fer ye—”

His hand slides from your hip, burrowing between your bodies as rubs at your clit. It feels so good that it nips sharply into pain, into agony. Too much, too much—

But he doesn't relent. Fingers toying, circling your clit in time with each jarring thrust, tightening the coil inside of you until it whines from the tension, the pressure—

It snaps when he growls into your ear—cum fer me, doe; wannae feel this pussy squeezin’ ma cock—and releases in a flood, a deluge of molten heat. Back arching, toes curling. You're barely cognisant of the ache in your injured foot, the throbbing pain. It's swallowed by the surge of endorphins roaring through you, ringing in your ears. Blotting everything out except the way you pulse around the thick of him still lodged deep inside of you. 

You barely have time to come down before he starts again, forcing you to take him as he thrusts in harder than before, mindlessly seeking his own end as you gush around him, nails raking across his flesh. 

He's babbling above you, spitting words into your ear about how he's going to take care of you. All of you. Take you back to Scotland with him so you can raise your children—

It slices through the haze, ripping a hole through the fog clouding your mind. 

“No,” you whimper, devastation flooding your chest alongside the vicious pleasure still rolling around inside of you. “No, please—”

Children, he breathes like you hadn't spoken at all. Lots. Lots of them. Brothers and sisters. Two, maybe three, of each. But he's not picky, bonnie, he'll take whatever you give him. And keep fucking you over and over again until he gets what he wants. A whole family to raise. To surround himself with. Been lonely, you think he says. Needed something to keep him busy. 

You don't want this. Can't. But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. He breathes life into the picture he paints with the soft flutter of your cunt clenching tight around him at words, once again betrayed by your own body. 

Despite the nausea that bleeds to the surface at his words, your eyes roll back into your head once more, driven mad with the thunderous pleasure that rips through you as he forces every last inch of his cock into you. 

Johnny grinds his hips against yours, moaning, loud and untethered, muscles jerking, twitching, as he cums deep inside of you. 

The aftershocks of his pleasure make him tremble, body spasming as he drives himself tight against the seal of your womb. A new heat grows inside of you as Johnny slumps against you, panting in your ear. 

“Ah’ll be so good tae ya,” he promises in a rasping growl, shoving his head into the crook of your neck. Gyves close around you as he nuzzles his mouth into your flesh, licking at the sweat that beads on your skin. 

“All mine. All fuckin’ mine—” The confessional is tainted with the sickness that leaks from the craggy hole chiselled into the side of his head. Obsessive devotion hewing ruinous dogma into the fibrils of your head. Tenderised, softened, by the blunt, unyielding touch of his hand. A slurry that this polluted notion slips inside, tainting your resolve until it's thickened into his whim. His wants. 

You sob into his chest as he wraps you up in his arms, shackled against the man who carved a place inside of you just wide enough for himself to fit. Who spat poison in the hollow crevasses, and called it absolution. Love. 

All you can do is heave through corrupted lungs as he smothers you under the weight of his madness. 

“No’ gonnae let anyone touch ye. Ah'll kill anyone who tries to tae take ye away from me, doe—”

The conviction in his tone is bound in steel. In feverish blue. 

“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”

“Will you let me go?”

He doesn't answer at first. Just digs his nose into your hairline, breathing in deep until the wide breadth of his chest expands across your back. Mulling it over, maybe. Coming up with an excuse for his behaviour. Something to negotiate with on reasons why you shouldn't call the police the moment he does. 

And for a moment, a startling, terrible moment, there's hope. The assurance wells on your tongue. Some unfathomable amalgamation of please and i’ll never tell. Maybe you were going to tell him he was an honest man who did something bad. That there was still good within him. All of those hideous clichès bubble up through the cracks—

But it's all dashed when his hand drops down from its perch beneath your bare breasts, sliding over your skin until it curls possessively over your lower belly. 

He breathes out and the hope inside you is snuffed under the gale of delusion, his obsession. “Why would ah do a thing like that?” He prompts, and the genuine confusion in his voice makes you shiver, as if the idea of it is so outlandish, so absurd, it negates everything he'd done to get to this point. You feel hollow. But not—

Not empty. 

As if he hears the thought thundering in the ruins of your mind, he presses a tender kiss to your temple that you think is meant to be soothing. Shushing you softly when you begin to shake. “After it took me this long to find ye, doe. Am no’ lettin’ ye go fer the world, ken. Yer mine. All mine.”

And then he closes his jowls around your throat. 

Time feels artificial here. 

You wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented, but the sun doesn't seem like it moved from where it was perched last night at all. Fixed in place. Lost in some strange, eternal twilight zone where the sun is a warden, watching you tirelessly through the window. 

Cardboard cutout hung amongst the stars.

Your ankle aches horribly—an agonising throb. You must have turned in your sleep, jostled it. You're further away from the spot you were last night, too. Rolled over in your sleep, maybe. The burn brings tears to your eyes that you swallow down with a groan. 

As you awkwardly settle your leg in a way that hurts slightly less than it did before, you let cognisance slip back in to keep your mind off of the horrible ache that tremors through your bones. Your neck. 

Between your thighs—

It's then that you hear Johnny. 

He's whistling in the kitchen. You peer out through the crack in the door, catching the broad expanse of his naked back as he works over the stove. Flexing. Muscles bunching. He hums a tune you can't recognise as he scrapes the spatula over the cast iron pan. 

His grey sweats sit low on his hips. The divots above the hem—dimples of Apollo, you recall—are stark against the hollow ravine of his spine. You can't help but stare. Gawk. Limned in the soft light of the morning sun that spills through the open window, he looks almost ethereal. Unreal. Like something out of a magazine and not the middle of nowhere in Canada where the sun doesn't set this time of year. 

He feels surreal. A man too good to be true. All sculpted musculature that looks like it could just as well be handmade by an amalgamation of both David’s by Michelangelo and Gian Lorenzo Bernini. All sharp, angled lines; beautiful in their fluidity. 

It's unfair, you think suddenly. To be stuck with a man you feel nauseous thinking about but can’t seem to take your eyes off of. Some paradoxical madness. Retribution for a time in a past life where you swindled fate and got away unscathed. All of your karmic sins pile down on top of you as the events last night flicker past, drenched in seafoam. Ghosts linger in the cracks; in memories. 

The phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. A heavy hand cradling your lower belly. Words whispered into your nape—

He turns, then. Catches your eye like he knew it was there the whole time. Stands there like the picture of ease, of a satiated man puttering around a small space while his sweetheart lounged in the bed, lazing the day away. 

Like this wasn’t illegal. Immoral. He treats you like a lover even though you’d only met less than a day ago—

And already his cum was drying on your inner thighs, thick and sticky. His madness pooling in your head, words uttered into your ear about this cabin he has back home, back in Scotland. He’ll take you there, he said. It’s time he came home, he thinks. His head is on straight again, and he finally feels like he can breathe without shattering into a million pieces—

(He put your hands on his head last night, palm cradling the ugly scar on his temple, and whispered, fervent and insane, ye keep ma head together, doe. Ye make me feel whole again—)

Knows a man, he told you. A good bloke who’d help him get you home, too. 

His smile is bright. Blinding.

“Mornin’, doe. Ah made breakfast.” 

[shotmrmiller]

1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

[gravezgf]

Ain't Nothin' to It - Phillip Graves x Reader

1,159 words, fem reader with she/her pronouns. a bit suggestive but no warnings! My first time writing anything like this so please be kind. Thanks for reading!

Read under the cut!

You nervously fiddled with the lace waistline of your sundress. It hit your mid-calf, a gorgeous navy blue in breathable cotton, with lace on the waist and along the sweetheart neckline. It was one of Phillip’s favorites, and you couldn’t think of a better way to surprise him.

He was coming back home to you for the first time in a few weeks, where he’d been you had no idea. However, he suggested that you go out and have fun, get a few drinks at his favorite hole-in-the-wall before ending the night in your soft king-sized bed. 

You swear you sensed him before you saw him. The scent of his spicy cologne, the sharp thud of his boots on the wooden floor, his firm hand on your shoulder before he slid in between the stool next to you, offering you a wink and a smile. Oh, how you had missed this man.

“No hug for your best girl?” You pouted teasingly.

“More than a hug, if I get my way,” he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his larger frame.

He released you, only to hold you by the wrists and step back, taking a good look at you. He sighed, pushing you gently back onto your stool before taking a seat himself. He motioned for the bartender to come over and ordered a whiskey for himself and your favorite drink for you. With the social lubricant, you felt your emotions even harder. The joy that leapt in your stomach when he flashed that big smile, laughing freely at a story you were telling him. The flush in your cheeks as he told you for the millionth time about how much he missed you when he was gone.

When Phillip noticed you were good and soused, he grabbed your hand and pulled you out onto the dance floor. You had two left feet, but Phil, he was a dancer from way back. He could whirl you around with the best of ‘em. But tonight, he just pulled you close and swayed you to the old country love songs humming from the speakers. He hummed the lyrics lowly, leaning into you. He exhaled a breathy laugh when your feet got confused, but only held you tighter. 

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” He said it in almost a whisper as he pressed soft kisses onto your neck.

“I think so, how much?”

“A whole sky full. Probably more,” his eyes shone the most beautiful blue in the hazy neon lighting. You couldn’t help but kiss him, and if you could’ve melted into a puddle then and there, you would’ve.

He had one hand pressed into your back, the other cupping your face, as your arms rested on his shoulders, and you let yourself fall into the kiss. You were almost numb now, in a good way. The smell of that cologne, something cheap but one he had loved for years, the Zach Bryan song tumbling through the speakers, his lips against yours, his stubble scratching against your face. 

When you broke from the kiss, you swore you felt like a kid all over again. You rested your face on his chest, and you swayed there, where it felt like just the two of you, for what felt like hours.

He climbed into the drivers’ seat of the old blue pickup, after buckling you into the passenger seat. The old radio was playing the classic country station, Phillip’s favorite. He hummed to the George Strait song that was crackling through, and placed his hand in yours. He squeezed it tightly.

It reminded you of when you were kids. It was maybe your fifth or sixth date, and time had escaped you both. There you were, racing down those rural Texas roads, praying that time would slow down, just for a few minutes. You both knew well that breaking curfew would spell a grounding for you, and your dad’s displeasure towards Phil. You swear that you can still make out where you began playing with the lose threads of the fabric seats, nervously tugging at the string as a cloud of dust rose behind you. 

That time, much like this one, Phil had grabbed for your hand. He ran his fingers over your knuckles at the red light, cursing quietly to himself. 

Now, all these years later, at the red light, he pulled your hand into his, except this time he gently rolled the wedding band on your finger. Instead of damning the light for not turning fast enough, he hummed contentedly to the song on the radio. The city lights slowly turned into the occasional street light as he drove out of the city. Finally, you were heading home. 

The drive home felt quick compared to the drive from there to the bar earlier. He opened your door like a gentleman, only getting slightly maimed by your border collie, Maple. He walked you carefully up the porch steps, and you rested on the cool wooden planks as he unlocked the door. You had your hair pushed up, cool summer air brushing the nape of your neck, and had kicked off your shoes. Phillip thought you had never looked more gorgeous than you did at this very moment. 

Upon making your way into the house, you made a drunken beeline to the comfort of your bedroom. You had made the bed this morning, and you cursed yourself. You had been proud of the fresh sheets and pressed duvet, but it only made it more complicated for your inebriated self. Still yet, you were snug as a bug by the time Phillip reached your room, shirt off, pajama pants on.

“Wanna get out of your good clothes before you get too comfortable?” He said, yawning midway through. Your only response was an annoyed groan that sounded half you, half Chewbacca. Not getting the hint, or not caring, Phillip gently lifted the duvet and laced his fingers in yours, coaxing you to sit upright. He fumbled through your bedside dresser before finding one of his old shirts. It didn’t take too much begging to get you into it, and you thought about how you’d thank him for his kindness in the morning. 

He tucked you back in as sweet as he could before climbing under on his side. When he proposed drinks before coming home, he didn’t exactly imagine this outcome. Then, he looked down. You looked sweet in a silly way, mouth slightly agape, breaths even. He listened for your breathing, that soldierly part of him that he could never quite turn off. You were asleep, he could tell by the gentle cadence of your inhales and exhales. He tried to match it. In the end, he settled for wrapping his arms around you, knowing they’d be asleep in the morning. He pressed a kiss to your head. He had missed home. He had missed you.

[fiddleturnips]

Bonding

This is an excerpt from a larger, incomplete chapter.

Stanley slammed the door on his way out. He didn't really have anywhere else to go, though, so he didn't go anywhere. He sat on the porch and smoked, staring at these unfamiliar Northwest mountains and thinking about how stupid it was that this dumb argument had apparently lasted decades.

Stan was on his second cigarette when Fiddleford came out. Stan didn't turn around, but he could tell it was him. His steps were trying to be heavy, but he probably weighed half what any Pines did including their Ma, and was barefoot besides. He stomped unmenacingly over and sat on the stair beside Stan.

"Can I bum one of those," he said. He was glaring out at the woods like he wanted to punch the whole mountain range in it's big stupid face.

Stan tapped one out and passed it. He shared his flame. Fiddleford took a huge drag that doubled the volume of his chest and hissed it out.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Stan joked.

"Thought I'd finally talked some sense into that man," Fiddleford snapped. "Always gotta be the smartest in the room, with his twelve cotton-pickin doctorates and his one man research grant, don't he get you can't solve everything with just smarts."

Stan suddenly decided he liked this guy. "Yeah. Yeah, it's always, oOooh, if I'm the biggest genius they ever saw then they have to crown me the king of fucking France or whatever. Everything that goes right, it's 'cause he was just better. Anything goes wrong was a fluke. Like, geeze, man, maybe if your entire future rested in a seventeen year old's ability to break the laws of physics it's the system that's the problem, y'know?"

"EXACTLY!" Fiddleford flung his arms out. It almost hit Stan in the face. "He did good in school, and I'm real happy for him, I really am! But it's like, we were in the same classes, and goshdurn it, I was better than him! So what's this magical force what makes him think everyone who didn't get where he did just didn't try hard enough?"

Fiddleford was starting to lose him now, but Stan got the impression the guy needed to vent from how loud it was coming out, so he didn't say anything.

"I tried, Doctor Stanford Pines, I tried till it almost killed me, and then I help you try til that almost kills me too! Maybe your dreams ain't worth all that!"

"Oh, yeah. And, like, maybe your dreams ain't everyone else's dream, too," Stanley said. It probably wasn't a fair thought, but it was one that came on him all the time in motels and WalMart parking lots: what the hell were dreams worth, if you went one way and he went the other and neither of you ever got to see each other again?

Fiddleford glanced over and huffed a smokey laugh. "Truth. Not sure how many daddies and doctor types need to hear that." Fiddleford wrinkled his nose. "Ack, forgot how foul these are."

"Then why'd you bum one?"

"Hoping to trick myself into thinking it was something stronger, I guess," he said, scraping out the lit end on the porch and leaving it in case Stan wanted the other half.

Stan side-eyed him. "You payin'?"

Fiddleford looked over at him in surprise. Then down.

Stan was peeking a baggie out of his inner coat pocket. It wasn't much, maybe half an ounce, and it was cheap shit. But hey. A sale's a sale.

Fiddleford didn't even ask. He just pulled a fifty, threw it at Stan, and snatched the bag. Stan passed him a box of rolling paper, and Fiddleford rolled first one, than a second, out with astonishing dexterity.

"Shit, you know your stuff."

"I had a social life in school."

He offered one to Stan, who lit them both up. Fiddleford lay back on the porch and sighed deeply.

"So. What's the story here?" Stan asked.

"Oh, Stanford's my best friend," Fiddleford said. "And as much as I hate to say it, your brother really is all that. Not only the biggest genius I ever met, but one of the best academics to boot. Brains alone don't get degrees."

"And now, uh, what's going on?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, we've been awful." Fiddleford sat up and occipied his hands by making more joints, resting his own on the stair between tokes. "Doctor Pines is here on grant money he got after groundbreaking solo research and a very impressive proof of concept at a conference a few years back. Now, I don't suppose you'd know much about academic politics, Mister Pines, but that is what we call a very big deal, especially when you look at what they gave him. And if I'm being completely frank, it's not primarily the work that's good. The man could convince the board to dig a canal in Arizona."

"What? Sixer?" Stanley laughed. He noticed, but didn't quite register Fiddleford's flinch at the name. "Guy never took a date to a school dance in his life."

"Maybe he ought've asked more funding admins."

Stanley chuckled. The weed was definitely helping.

"Anyhow, part of what he was doing here was building this big -" Fiddleford sucked from his joint, gestured lamely, lost his words - "I don't know how to describe it in plain speak. It's a doohickey."

"A doohicky."

"Portal, let's say. Real spaceman bullhockey. Let's just say, me'n him are close on the only ones as could do it, this stuff is mathematically on the edge of impossible."

"You an him, huh?"

"Oh, alright," Fiddleford said, grinning, rolling out the last of his little arts and crafts project. "Me. I'm the only one could build it. I weren't lying when I said I'm better'n him."

Stan coughed laughing. "Got a big head on your shoulders?"

"Hardly. I'm an engineer. Not an academic."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart guys. Look, I'm just a schlub."

Fiddleford's face fell. "Sorry, I don't mean that- oh, shucks, my wife always warned me I gotta watch what I say about that sort of thing. I didn't mean nothing by it. Having brains don't measure a man's worth, I know that more'n most."

"Aw, it's nothing," Stan said, made big-hearted and quick to forgive by the drugs. "You're good in my book."

Fiddleford was out of weed. He tucked what he'd made back into the bag and sealed it. When he gazed out at the woods this time, his anger had softened to irritation. "Anyway, I come out here to help him with his work. And believe me, it's good. He's got a one-of-a-kind opportunity here. But Stanford Pines is one of those Victorian types says discovery is all about taking risks, and let's just say when he takes risks I always seem to be the one who ends up with something broke."

"Aw man. I'm sorry. Seriously."

"First there was the Grenloblin, which is a horrid creature, by the way, then that cat-tannin' shapeshifter he kept as a pet even when it began to talk to us-"

"Wait, what?"

"And the gnome debacle keeps coming back to bite us, can't keep the windows sealed tight enough,"

"Gnomes?"

"And then that FUCKING demon."

Fiddleford abruptly stopped talking. He took another toke. His free hand was clenched into a shaking fist. Stan stared.

"What do you guys research, exactly?"

"Anomalies," said Fiddleford.

"Like, what, two-headed calves and shit?"

"That'd work. But Gravity Falls has gnomes."

"Little men in red hats."

"Little men in red hats."

"You're shitting me."

"I swear to you I am not."

"Don't suppose the bud went bad..."

"You'll see in the morning. I'll show you."

"You just described a bunch of dangerous shit. And also gnomes, I guess. Do I want to see it all?"

"Believe me, the most 'dangerous shit' is in this house."

Stanley, being an idiot but not that much of an idiot, was about to press him further. They were interrupted by the door, though, and his dumb brother's disapproval.

"Are you two smoking cannabis?" Ford demanded. Stanley chuckled at how much he sounded like a pearl-clutching old woman.

"Yes we are, and you're partaking," Fiddleford said, pulling out a joint. "We're making up for lost time, come on."

Stanford glared daggers. "I am not."

Fiddleford fell back on the porch, stretched his legs out in front of him, and stared upside-down up at Stanford.

"You owe meeeeeeee."

Stanford kept glaring. Then he glared at Stanley, who shrugged.

"Did you bring this?" Ford snapped.

"Technically, but I didn't offer. He asked."

Fiddleford wiggled the outstretched joint.

Stanley had no idea the look on Stanford's face was, aside from uncomfortable, but the guy relented. He stepped forward, sat as far as he could from the other two, and gingerly picked up the joint. Stan tossed him the lighter, knowing very well that he wouldn't have his own. The other boys laughed at him when he struggled to get it lit right.

"Don't worry, Doctor Pines, I'm here for you," said Fiddleford in a fond, dreamy voice.

"Very reassuring, thank you," Stanford growled.

It was endearing. It was, hell, it was cute. Despite the blow-up inside, Stan was kind of... glad? that Stanford had apparently made an actual, honest-to-god friend.

[nightswithkookmin]

"We gotta throw artists in Jail for making these diabolical songs"

Cool. No. It's cool. I'm not mad. I just want you to be thrown into the adjoining cells with them just for being brazenly dumb. You shouldn't wear your ignorance and artistic ineptitude on your sleeve so bravely. Like I'm actually embarrassed for you.

If you know nothing about something JUST SHUT UP.

You're gonna sit there and dissect a highly artistic piece like this with your untrained ears and your 1.5 gigabyte brain capacity. Cool.

Explain Mozart to me then bitch. Bet Beethoven makes your head spin. Can't take you out to a fancy restaurant cos your tongue stuck under their boots huh. Bootlicker. Why don't you lick these clean

And for heavens sakes

Leave 👏🏾the👏🏾 review 👏🏾to 👏🏾the👏🏾 experts👏🏾

Hmm? How about we do that instead?

What credentials do you have?

WHAT QUALIFIES YOU TO DETERMINE THE QUALITY OF A MUSICAL PIECE OF THIS NATURE WHEN YOU CAN'T EVEN TELL A WHISTLE FROM A FART. ARE YOU KIDDING ME!

Just because you own a free channel on a free platform don't suddenly make you the academy. Get over yourself and please THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK. You're just spewing out gibberish and you sound dumb as fuck.

Untrain your ears. Stop eating up microwaved over the counter music and I promise you you will develop a richer taste and palate for music. I PROMISE YOU.

IF ALL YOU KNOW IS JIMIN'S ANGELIC VOICE AND ALL YOU EXPECT FROM HIM IS YET ANOTHER FILTER OR PROMISE EVERY SINGLE TIME HE RELEASES A NEW SONG GET A NEW HOBBY. YOU ARE DONE. WORN OUT AND STRESSED.

HE IS AN ARTIST NOT A PARROT

HE MAKES ART WITH HIS VOICE FOR A LIVING

AND HE'S NOT IN FOR A QUICK MONEY GRAB EITHER.

But you can't tell cos you're used to being USED AND MILKED BY TALENTLESS FAVES.

I can see how this level of artistry can be intimidating for some people especially the inexperienced members of the audience.

The Light is always too bright for those in the shadows.

Yall been comfortable listening to crap but don't worry Park Jimin is going to change that. He is baptizing yall by fire and raising the standard for what good music actually is. HE IS MAKING MUSIC GREAT AGAIN.

The era of cheap repetitive music vomited out for easy money in KPOP IS OVER. TALENT IS TAKING OVER.

YOU MIGHT NEED A DEGREE TO UNDERSTAND KPOP FROM NOW ON. SORRY NOT SORRY.

Catch up with him. Ain't nobody got time to baby sit your slow ass. You dumb mcdummy.

Music is Poetry and Poetry appreciation is a skill in and of itself.

Hone that skill at least bitch

[moonillfated]

𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍𝙈𝘼𝙉 - solarsuit 💥

Happy birthday to the biggest nerd i know @raggedy-dxctor

" ᴰⁱᵈⁿᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ⁱᵗ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˡⁱᵍʰᵗˢ ʷᵉʳᵉ ˡᵒʷ ᴵ ˡᵉᵃⁿᵉᵈ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ ᵒⁿ ᵐʸ ʳᵃᵈⁱᵒ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᶜᵃᵗ ʷᵃˢ ˡᵃʸⁱⁿ ᵈᵒʷⁿ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ʳᵒᶜᵏ ⁿ ʳᵒˡˡ ᴸᵒᵗᵗᵃ ˢᵒᵘˡ ʰᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ ᵀʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵒᵘᵈ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵈⁱᵈ ˢᵉᵉᵐ ᵗᵒ ᶠᵃᵈᵉ ᶜᵃᵐᵉ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵃ ˢˡᵒʷ ᵛᵒⁱᶜᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵃ ʷᵃᵛᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵖʰᵃˢᵉ ᵀʰᵃᵗ ʷᵃˢⁿᵗ ⁿᵒ ᴰᴶ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʷᵃˢ ʰᵃᶻʸ ᶜᵒˢᵐⁱᶜ ʲⁱᵛᵉ " ⊹★ 🌕 ⭑

"Are ya finally gonna order somethin' else?"

Corin looks up from where their fingers are intertwined around his bottle of 'Trade-Islands' ice tea, the straw has fallen into its long neck and he gave up trying to hook it back out with the toothpick a long time ago. Fingers numb from the icy moisture of the glass, he quickly pushes it towards the bartender, eyes distant and speckled like sunburst marbles and barley malt. He's been nursing the same drink for the past hour or so, and clearly the man working behind the pub table has had enough of watching them wallow like a pig in the mud.

"You ain't from Seattle, are you?" Corin looks at the man in suprise.

"No. How did you-?" The guy points a disinterested finger at the Golden State badge on his denim jacket. "Oh, yeah. I'm not." He mumbles sheepishly, thankfully taking a second pint of sweetened peach tea and letting it cool the mirage on his dry tongue.

"What brings ya all the way out here from Cali?" Corin straightens up, his head briefly looking at the stage before he redirects their attention to the prying man drying off different cocktail glasses. He doesn't understand where the interest is coming from, but inconspicuous small-talk with a stranger might cure the pit of self pity growing in his stomach.

"It's honestly stupid." He scrunches his nose, waving a dismissive gesture between them. "I thought this whole idea I had planned could actually work out, but it just went to shit." The man laughs, loud and cheerful, as if he heard what Corin said a million times before, yet he doesn't stop rubbing with his dirty yellow rag.

"A struggling musician, ey?" He cocks a brow, giving the younger a smirk and side glance. Before Corin has the time to ask, again, how the man knew-

"Your fingers, I know guitar indents when I see em, kid."

"Oh." He subconsciously brings his fingers to rest on his lap and under the man's radar, away from over analyzing eyes.

"Electric or acoustic?"

"Bass."

"A man after my own heart." Corin suppresses a wide grin, his nails tapping against the wooden bartop in a random pattern. The stranger leans against it too, following the movements and rhythm of their clinking. "Are you here with your band?"

"I don't have a band." The words make him want to curl up and cry. "That's what I was hoping to find here, but I guess Seattle didn't make the cut afterall." He doesn't like to admit it, but these trips all over the USA in the past year have driven him to the crumbling realization that there isn't much hope left, he barely has money and playing hitchhiker seems all to useless if he has to buy one more pair of rubber boots. "Think I'll just go back to Ferndale first thing tomorrow," he takes out a wrinkled ten dollar bill and slides it over the counter, "do you know any good motels nearby?"

The man stares at the paper, raising a brow at Corin before smiling. "It's on the house, don't worry 'bout it."

"Are- Are you sure? Really, I don't need this to be charity-"

"I'm offering ya a token of generosity, kid. I'm sure you would pay double over in Cali." He chuckles, nodding towards the door. "There's a cheap place down 54th, can't miss it. Ask for Tammy when you check in, she'll give ya the best room."

Corin gets up from their chair, picking up his satchel from the stool next to him. "Thank you so much, for everything." They smile, waving softly, but stopping once the man began to speak.

"Ya know," He eyes the dimming street outside. "Two is enough."

"What?"

"Two people. That's all a band needs." He tilts his head, greying hair falling in a sweaty fringe over his brooding sage eyes. Corin feels his heart skip with a sense of unsettling intensity.

"Maybe ya had the wrong approach this entire time. You've been searching for a group, someone who already has a history."

Corin doesn't reply, he only digs his sneakers into the creaking planks underneath his soles. He's right. They've been trying to worm their way into trios, desperate duos looking for an amateur lead singer and bassist. But what would one person bring him? He doesn't have much experience, making up for the lack of it with enthusiasm and kindness he hopes submerges the dull reality.

"Try building your own, start from scratch, ya dig? The world is big, kid. Someone will eventually agree to take on a journey with you."

"Well, it doesn't seem like that will happen anytime soon."

"It won't if you keep expecting it." He laughs hoarsely at the confused expression on Corin's face. "The best shit happens when ya least think it'll."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Good luck." He winks, walking over to another customer who seems to be his long-time friend, they bump fists and immediately fall into an animated conversation. Corin watches a for a second, skin clammy and stomach growling, he finally leaves the bar.

The walk to the motel really isn't far, it's short and barely far away for the sun to start completely hiding. Seattle is gorgeous, a smitten orange glow fades out the dry shrubs lining the kerbs of the road, buzzing cicadas chirp loudly like chewtoys and make his ears swarm, it's peaceful and warm. Most nights he spent here throughout the week have been like this, humid and filled with nocturnal insect choirs. California is loud, it's filled with people with more tan lines than braincells, smog from the cars that clog every pore of the city's shore air.

He makes a mental note to add it on top of his traveling list, up there with Boise and Poughkeepsie. When he reaches the building he was instructed to visit for the night, Corin sighs audibly and pushed the squeaky door of the masonry lined inn with a grunt.

"Hi, I uhm, I'm looking for Tammy? Is she here today?" He asks softly, gripping the reception desk and offering a gentle quirk of his lips.

"It's your lucky day, she's right infront of you." The girl beams, holding out her hand for him to take and shake. She's a got a strong grip, sure and like she could throw him over in with ease. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a room for tonight."

"Well, good thing we're a motel then, huh?" Corin agrees, a blush creeping up his summer tinted, freckled cheeks. Tammy types something into her computer, humming and turning around to scan the wall of hanging keys behind her. She moves her lips as she silently reads the various numbers etched into the pendants.

"I was sure it's not booked- ah! Here we are!" She snatches the only bronze key. "Room 306, the best view in the house."

"Oh wow, I uh, I don't really know if I can afford that. Look, all I need is a place to crash, not a panorama scene." Tammy scoffs, urgently pushing the key into his closed palm.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's a bargain." He scowls, looking at the shiny object in his hand worryingly. "I'll get you some fresh sheets in a jiffy! You go on up and relax, kay?"

"Thank you, seriously. I appreciate it."

"Welcome to Seattle." She says reverenlty, proudly, dissapearing into a small janitor closet styled room. They don't want to be standing around like an idiot, so Corin hikes up his bag over his shoulder and heads upstairs to settle into his room. The halls are old, the wallpaper peeling and dirty, but there's something particularly familiar and nostalgic about the musty smell and abandoned corridors. He soon enough finds his destination and enters the key, twisting it until a tiny click is heard.

The room is nothing special, but he does instantly notice massive terrace double doors in the middle of it. That must be the way to the view that Tammy mentioned mere minutes ago, inviting and apparently in the limits of his pathetic budget.

"Just wait till you go outside, it'll knock your shit out."

Corin jumps at the sudden voice, shoulders hunching once he registers it's only Tammy, carrying a pile.of crisp white duvets and pillows. He reaches out to take a few from her so her thin frame doesn't collapse like a ladder from the heavy cushioned weight.

"Thanks." She grins, walking over to the bed and placing it down, he mimics her and sets his own stack next to it. "It's not much, but the cityscape really does make up for it."

"C'mon, I'll show you!" She takes his wrist and he nearly stumbles over his own feet. Apparently it's not easy to open the doors, they're heavy and get stuck by the hooks. Tammy has to lean down and hit the springlocks for them to loosen until the handle can be pushed down and they open with a whoosh. "Tada!" She exclaims, spinning around and stretching out her arms as she steps backwards towards the railing.

Corin is left speechless, slowly, tentatively inching closer to the wide metal fence keeping him from falling down a terrible demise. They lean against it, his arms bracketing him from the chilly July gusts clashing over their skin like prickling nettle leaves.

The traffic lanes in the far distance sparkle like sequins from the headlights of dashing cars, houses and skyscrapers chase the horizon down a slope of vermillion and the evergreen of firs. He takes his glasses off to get a better view, blurry flashing yellow and white skitters in the slants of the suburban downtown trails. The ocean reflects the mosaic glass of pillars like an aurora borealis, streaks of watercolors seep into the pacific sea and clash into the pebbles along the beach. "It's- wow. It's beautiful."

"Told you." She breathes out, coming to stand next to him, both of them watching and listening to the droning noises of Seattle as it neared eleven pm. "Wouldn't blame you if you decided to stay out here all night." She snickers, nudging his shoulder.

"Wish I could see California like this."

"You're from Cali?" Tammy asks, her brown eyes wide and sparkling from the lampposts. Corin nods, placing his glasses back on. "That's so cool." She smiles, breathing evenly in the darkness creeping over the horizon. "I always wanted to see San Francisco."

"It's overrated."

"I'll take your word for it, then." Tammy places a hand on their arm for a brief second, warmly offering a timid smile. "I'll leave you to it, you look exhausted."

"Good night, Tammy."

"Nighty night, traveler."

Corin indeed doesn't think about sleep at all, not that he normally did, but he was confident that he would be dead and barely standing up on his legs by the end of the day. Yet here he is, sitting on the rickety recliner he found bent in the wardrobe while looking for a blanket, notebook on his lap and nursing a can of cider. He's been scribbling lyrics, brainstorming and letting the metropolitan air glide over his senses. They sing them reluctantly, as if testing how they would sound in an actual music performance.

"Sounds shit."

Corin yelps, nearly knocking over his drink and spilling it over the concrete. He whips around, eyes frantically darting to find the source of the lazy voice. There's a whistle from somewhere above him, coming from the roof that lifts above them. He gasps, staring at the black haired guy sitting on the tiles and leaning against the brick chimney smoking.

"Try'na serenade me all night?" The stranger asks and gives a tilt of his head that in any other situation might have been funny, a raspy Jersey accent slipping into his words.

"What-? I- no, who are you?" Corin stumbles over his words, unsurely pressing himself back against the wall. Who knows what type of people lurk around these parts of Seattle, somebody invading his personal space like this surely doesn't add anything positive to their resume.

"Wouldn't ya' like to know, buddin' rockstar." He scoffs, flicking a bit of ash. Corin can't make out the color of his eyes in the gloomy lighting, but he can see they're sparkling with a ravening curiosity.

"Why the fuck are you on my roof?" They ask, palms slipping into the back pockets of his jeans.

"Your roof, huh?" Again, there's that head tilt, so ridiculous and overly dramatic. He pretends to search for something before shrugging and taking another drag of his cigarette. "Don't see a name anywhere."

"This is trespassing."

"On public property?" He raises an eyebrow, stretching his legs out almost bored. Oddly enough, the motion makes Corin relax - yet they're still not convinced he won't jump them and dump their body behind a graffiti tagged dumpster.

"Can you just go away, please? Find someone else's roof."

The guy ignores their request completely, instead throwing back a question of his own, along with the burnt butt of his cigarette.

"What brings ya here, anyways? This ain't exactly a place you slum for inspiration." He slides a hand through his hair before the fringe falls back over his yet to be exposed eyes.

"I just needed a room to sleep in for tonight. I'm not staying long."

That seems to get the guy's attention, he perks up, sliding down to the edge of the roof, his feet hooking themselves on the pipe.

"You're not from here." They're blue. An icy cyan with dark grey.

Corin scrunches his face up, shaking his head. The man dangles his legs off of the metal tube before easily jumping down the fee feet in height. Instinctively, they curl up away from the overly interested stranger.

"Why the fuck are you in Seattle?"

"You're not," they flinch when the guy lights up another cigarette. "You're not from here either, right?'

"You're as half as dumb as you look."

"Hey!" Corin blushes, his own outburst suprising him. "Big coming from someone who looks like a crackhead."

"Jersey, asshat. Newark." He glares at them, cold eyes now a gentle turquoise underneath the smudged eyeliner surrounding them. Corin doesn't know when, but he is sitting rather comfortably on the fence. Facing the gleaming cityscape.

"Can you leave now? I'm trying to compose in peace."

"If you're goin' to sing the shit I heard, I ain't suprised nobody gives a shit about you."

"I have plenty of people who come listen to me perform." Corin mumbles, crossing his arms and awkwardly standing behind the man who is now officially freaking him out.

"Right, and that's why I've been watchin' ya sulk for the past two hours." He turns to give him a look of disbelief. "Be fuckin' real."

"I don't see why I have to explain myself to you."

"There's nothin' to explain." He has no right to read him this easily.

"If you're not going to leave, can I at least get a name?"

The man is silent and Corin braces himself to be murdered because he made too many annoying requests. Instead of a sharp stabbing pain, he hears a quick inhale through gritted teeth.

"Moon."

"I'm Corin." He replies, daring to step a bit closer. He can feel that the guy- Moon, is fully aware even though his back is turned from the way his spine is perched stiff. They walk forward until they're directly next to him.

"Ever heard of personal space?" He spits, shuffling away.

"We both haven't, apparently." Corin smiles when Moon snickers.

"Touché." He's serious again. "I mean it tho, back up."

"Sorry." Corin whispers, as if not to ruin the night's echoes. They take the time to properly look at him, picking at the sleeves of their jacket. His hair looks subtly indigo when the light catches it, spiky black tufts curl up beneath his ears and dangle together with various silver piercings that hang down obnoxiously.

"Take a fuckin' photo."

"Sorry." Corin looks away, staring at the busy city that roars mere miles away under their feet.

"Stop apologizin', can't help I look good."

"My god," Corin laughs, shaking their head. "Arrogant much?"

"Oh so you're Sherlock too, my." Moon rolls his eyes, dismissively flicking his empty hand in a gesture the brown haired bassist recognizes too much.

"You play?"

Moon gives him an annoyed side glare, throwing the half finished cigarette off of the terrace. Corin follows the fade of the glowing cherry all the way down. He turns, looking up at the dark sky before shrugging.

"Eh, not often. At least not anymore."

"Why?"

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, ya want my whole birth certificate, too?" He spits, slanting his head in a way that makes his ebony, shaggy hair fall like a curtain.

"I'm just wondering. It's nice to meet fellow musicians." Corin smiles, if just to himself. He can feel the lampposts warm the skin running along his arms, goosebumps jumping over it and cradling them in a crisp July cocoon.

"Haven't found anyone who's worth my talent, I guess. To put it simply." Moon's face twists with frustration, it contrasts rather nicely with his pale skin. Corin feels a pang of sympathy, seems like they're both in rather similar situations, if for different reasons and arguments. "Can't say I'm suprised nobody wants you, either."

"I'll have you know-"

"Will you now?"

"Whatever," Corin sighs, a frown extending itself on his face, it doesn't quite reach the creases of his eyes. "This is stupid." He waves Moon off and heads to walk back inside his crappy, mediocre motel room. The other doesn't bother stopping them, he just watches with that stupid head tilt.

"I'm gonna go to bed. I have to be up early tomorrow."

"Ey."

"What?"

They started at eachother for a few moments, hazel swirling blue.

"Nothin', Moon settled on, stepping up onto the railing. Corin watched him climb down, dissapearing through the back chain gates of the back alley motel.

"That's utter fuckin' bullshit." Moon shook off Corin's grip on his shoulder as they shook with laughter. "We did not meet like that."

"Yes we did!" They hit his arm playfully, still half hanging off of the green room sofa as Moon got his mic checked and prepped. They scrambled up on the dirty, carpeted floor tangled with different AMP chords and wires. "And you totally fell off of that balcony."

"Okay, that's it." He shooed away the girl arranging his chord with an irritated scowl. "We're cancelin' the show, call it off. Say their lead singer has been murdered-"

"Wait- no!" Corin hurriedly interrupted, wildly gesturing with his hands and pushing them into Moon's face.

"Get ya' wormy fingers out of my face before I cut em' off," he grumbled, dodging the attack on his freshly styled hair. "We'll see how you play bass then."

"Better that, than my vocal chords."

"Don't give me ideas." Moon pointed at their throat, jingling as he walked over to pick up his guitar from where it was placed in the corner besides his vanity mirror.

"Alright, you grump." They teased, dragging their shaking palms over the slaps of their glittery shirt. "Only after the show is done."

"I'm leavin' the fuckin' venue without you, I swear to god."

"Whatever you say." Corin opens the door that's barely holding itself close by the hinges. "You ready?"

"Don't fuckin' rush me." He grits out, checking his strings one last time before nodding. "I'm all set."

"Come on." They grin, calming their racing heart as they step through the narrow corridor towards the stage.

"I should have thrown ya' off of that motel in the first place."

"At least you wouldn't have fallen off of the balcony alone."

"Fuck off."

[direwombat]

📻 for Syb. What's a song that emulates her joy?

send me a 📻 + an oc and i'll give you a song off their playlist!

ooooooh y'know i was almost worried that i didn't have a song for you because most of the songs on syb's playlist are angsty af. but there is one that's pretty upbeat and cheerful :)

this one is for sure a pre-reaping syb song that captures how she is outside of. y'know. being in an active warzone where her enemies are also waging intense psychological warfare on her. a song that captures the essence of what she's like when she's just chilling out and doesn't have the weight of people's survival on her shoulders :)

I like my beer from the bottom of a Walmart cooler I'm a Saturday cheap float above ground pool-er Yeah, every night's Friday night long as you're rolling with me I like my homegrown white shine straight from the holler Like my men in muddy boots, redneck, blue-collar What you see is what you get, is what you get, just wait 'til you see ... I can get a little dirty, I can clean up nice I can polish off a bottle, I'm just one of the guys But ya better think twice before you try to pull one over on me Where's all my good ole girls out there just like me? Yeah I ain't no straight line walker, ain't no smooth talk talker I'm a long way, wrong way prodigal daughter Might think there ain't a whole lot left but honey I believe Oh yeah, there's still some good ole girls out there just like me

[whitherwordswither]

Logs from the Starfields, VIII

Captain's Log #0.08:

Akila keeps callin' my name.

Not just because I kinda like the shabby little town or the way Helga says hi to me every time I wander in to The Rock. I've also got unfinished business here. Of the Ranger variety. I finally head on up and turn in the bounty they'd sent me out on the other day. Looks like I'm the right type'a folks they're lookin' fer. And y'know what? I could use some good flowin' my way. I have a chat with the Sheriff and he sends me and Emma out to investigate a call from help from… Waggoner Farm! Well, hey. I know where that is. I done did a delivery there not too long back! Nice folks. If anyone is botherin' 'em, I won't hesitate to put a couple boots up some asses.

We land and Mikaela waves us over. She's right scared. Says a group of gruff lookin' merc-types were tryin' to get her to sell the farm to 'em dirty cheap. Said they'd be back, then headed off in to some nearby canyons. I ain't ever tracked no one before but Emma seems to think I do a good enough job of it. We weave our way through some proper jagged rockface, blast through some hostile local wildlife and eventually reach a small encampment.

Turns out this merc unit are old Freestar. Like them's that fought against the UC in the war. Or whatever. I straight away don't like the way the boss man here is talkin'. Seems like they ain't gonna go quiet. They open fire. Big mistake. Emma and I lay waste to the group without too much trouble. Though I had to quick-like ingest some Med packs 'cause damn, that leader-boy packed quite a punch. … We scour their camp for clues afterward and I notice a ship in the distance. Turns out this is a stolen vessel from the HopeTec shipyard. Curious. The plot deepens! But at least the farm should be safe for now. I let Mikaela know things should be good, but keep the comms open just in case. Then me n Emma head back to Akila to report in to Daniels.

Daniels used to be affiliated with this group of old school Freestar mercs. 'Cept everyone else after the war got jail time and turned out to be some not good individuals. Why they're comin' back with a vengeance now, who knows. Emma parts ways at this point. I don't blame her. She's got a daughter to look after. I sit and chat with Daniels a bit, get some extra information about the group we're probably dealing with and hand over the data slate we found about the ship. Seems I've got my work cut out for me!

Unfortunately for me, that takes me back to Neon. Of all the rotten… Sigh. …Gotta do what y'gotta do, though. I meet Pryce, one of the Rangers stationed here and he gives me the low down about how things operate in Neon. Like I hadn't already figured that out from my prior trip here. I play nice and he takes me to see an acquaintance who might know something about that stolen ship. Apparently, it was seen landing here before it was handed off to the merc group later on.

Nothing's free on Neon. I keep getting reminded. And the guy don't want no credits! Fine by me. Instead he wants me to talk to some scumlord loan shark who is comin' after him now because his dead brother owed money and somebody's gotta pay. I don't like that kinda bullshit. I head over to the warehouse where this small group of Syndicate baddies are operating and try my best to talk the greasy mustached prick outta doin' what he's doin'. Even though I know it ain't gonna go over well. I know the type. I have to end up dispensing some lethal justice. Good riddance, in any case. Fleecin' hard workin' folk like that. If you ain't got respect for another life, then boy howdy, you've lost the right to yours! I don't regret what I had to do.

The bloke gives us the name of the ship-jacker, who is conveniently hanging out at Madame Savauge's place, just a short jog from here. Pryce and I confront her. She's much more easy to persuade in to talkin'. She ain't lookin' for trouble, just tryin' to make creds the only way she knows how. She don't hurt no one. Just takes ships. I don't lean in to her too much about it. I'm after bigger game. She gives up two names and an encrypted data slate. Pryce says one of the boys back at The Rock is good at decryption and I need to report back to Daniels anyhow. So we part ways.

Back on Akila I hand over the tablet to A… Aa-… Shit. I forgot his name. Well, the data-guy! And fill Daniels in. He recognizes both names. I get a little more info about the targets, then set my sights on Maya. The ship-jacker said Maya had mentioned getting called away for a medical emergency. And ain't no place that values privacy and medical emergencies than The Clinic. Since I'm already familiar with the station and have done some work there I decide that'll be my first stop. Time to go pay a patient a visit.

I meet another ranger, Ben, who is stationed at The Clinic. He introduces me to Ari, the station's IT. The name Maya doesn't ring any bells and she doesn't appear to be listed in the system. Makes sense. Wanted fugitive and all. Ari gives me Admin access to check the station logs, see if anything looks funny. Someone's installed an external program from the VIP wing.

I talk one of the doctor's in to giving me a card to access the area. Didn't even have to persuade 'em. Just let 'em know I knew enough about Medicine to not mess anything up.

Soon as I step foot in the VIP wing there's already a dead nurse. Welp, I can already guess this prognosis. And it looks like the area turret has been set to kindly ask anyone to drop dead.

I take out the turret and check around. Ain't nobody else here. The terminal in the patient's room has definitely been messed with. I deactivate the program and find a data slate. Smart enough to mess with the station's systems and steal a medical transport but not smart enough to take the message with you that tells me exactly where you're goin', eh? Almost like you want t'be found!

On my way out I try to look for someone to report to about the dead nurse. Or maybe someone might've been a little curious about the explosion they heard from the VIP wing. But everyone's occupied. Even Ben doesn't seem interested. Weird.

But I ain't got time to argue. I get back in my ship and pop in the coordinates for the Sakharov system.

I jump right in to a cluster of fuckin' asteroids and have to do some quick maneuvering. Don't want to be the shortest-lived newest deputy of the Freestar Rangers, yeah?

Sakharov is a fairly small system. Just one star, one planet and it's moon. The only other notable locale upon cursory scan is an abandoned mining facility here: Eklund Excavation Site CL25. Seems like the best spot to start lookin' I reckon.

Not only has Maya booby trapped the place, there are these critters that look like they really love munchin' on the abundant cobalt they mine here. It's a bit of a maze to get through. And then I have to deal with a mess of homicidal robots and giant mining lasers. On top of fending off the 'balt-munchers.

It ain't too terrible of a job to get through though and once I have Maya cornered she goes down easy enough. She gives me what I need. I debate on letting her live out her last few weeks, since whatever she has seemingly doesn't have a cure. …But not only has she put lives in danger. She's killed innocent people. So I opt to do her a favor and put her out of her misery.

That's a wrap for this place. Before I head back to Akila I decide to survey the planets here since there are only two. With Bonner being a gas giant, there's nothing to survey. So that really just leaves lil 'ole Mir II.

I hail a random Freestar vessel passing by. That short convo brightened my day:

Freestar Vessel: "Do you know the way to Uranus?" Me: "Yeah, I do!" F.V.: "Good! Because it's right BEHIND YOU. Smell you later!"

And then they immediately grav jumped away.

I love folks.

Anywhoo~ I drop down to the surface of Mir II and get my scans. I notice a landing area up ahead and jaunt on over. Hey, spacer buddies! They don't ask questions. They just start firing. I pick 'em all off as I board their ship, take out the crew inside and… another ship for me! Gosh, they really are just givin' these things away, ain't they?

Seems like a nice little rig. I take her up in to orbit for a spin, then drop back down to go visit one of the places I seen in the distance. An old disused UC listening post. And but of course it's filled with pirates! I tra-la-la my way through, looting and shooting. Once I'm done I head back to my ship and jump back over to Akila. I register the new ship then turn right around and sell it.

Did I mention I bought one of the houses that was for sale here? The bigger one in The Core, just out back of The Rock. The realtor still likes to hang around by my front door but he's a nice enough guy so I don't mind too much. I spent a good amount of time crafting some furniture and placing all my goodies where I'd like them. I'm thinking I'll need another shelf for more of these plushies. (That reminds me. I need to head back to New Atlantis and get all my stuff from that room Constellation is letting me use!)

I think I'm done for the night. It's been a wild ride. Tomorrow I'll hunt down Marco and see maybe see how deep this Freestar conspiracy nonsense goes.

Eeyup. Catch ya 'round.

End log.

[chibsandchill]

Effervescent

Chapter 8: A peek into the future

Tsu'tey x OC

Effervescent masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Did he like the flowers?" Alva asked. "I heard babies like vibrant colors."

Miles jr cooed from his place in his mother's lap, a bundle of large neon blue petals held tight in his chubby fists.

"I think that's a yes." Paz Socorro chuckles. "Ain't that right, Miles? You like the pretty flowers?"

Paz and Miles share a standard sized room, perhaps the bathroom was a little bigger and the fridge a little taller but otherwise it was just the same as Alva's. Not one for sentimentality, Paz had little decorations apart from little trinkets Miles had created or picked up, some jewelry from Earth and a sonogram of baby Miles. Alva smiles at the image of little bean-shaped Miles, so much smaller than the absolute giant of a baby he was now. He had grown quick, a little progeny in the making with all the learning resources a budding genius could ever wish for.

The bedroom door is closed. It always is when Alva comes to visit, but she knows Paz keeps all of her personal things in there as well as the badly put together cot that she helped build. Alva briefly wonders what else Paz is hiding there.

"Can I hold him?"

"Oh? You want to-" Paz' hands froze where she was tickling the child on his stomach. Miles is laughing and writhing in her hold, red-faced and oh-so-adorable. "Absolutely. Just remember to support his neck."

Alva accepted the baby with sweaty hands, doing her best to give Paz a smile, though it wavered and shook as Miles settled in her lap. He was so soft, and squishy and she was so stunned by him that she almost forgot to adjust her arm so his head fell into the crook of her arm. He was all fatty folds and wide smiles and pale blue eyes staring right through her. A bundle of innocence and bubbling laughs freely given without fear of judgment.

"He's so pretty," Alva breathed out, holding her breath in fear that it would hurt him. Fragile as he is, soft skull and even softer bones. "Hard to believe half of him is Quaritch." Miles' face scrunched at the words and she laughed at the sight. "Now I see it. That frown is all him."

If Paz reacted to her words, Alva didn't see it. She was too engrossed in memorizing every little bit of Miles' face, wholly convinced she had never seen a cuter baby than the one she was currently holding. He had a mole next to his lips and another just above his elbow. He must've been napping before Alva interrupted the two based on the criss-cross pattern matching Paz's knitted sweater on his left cheek. She traced the mark, giggling when little baby Miles caught her finger in one of his hands.

"He's very strong." Alva said.

"Yeah, that's also from Miles." Paz said. "He'll grow up to be a good soldier."

The room felt cold.

"A soldier?" She asked, voice no higher than a whisper.

"Just like his father." Paz confirmed. "He's got big boots to fill but I don't doubt that he'll be twice the man his father is."

Alva looked down on Miles. The cute lines now reminded her of wrinkles, the blue of sharpened icicles and the grip suffocating. She looked into his eyes but it wasn't him that she was seeing. Alva's grandfather had never gotten to hold her like this, like Quaritch got to hold his son.

"I-" Alva stammered, pulling her finger back from Miles' grip. "I have to get going now. It was lovely seeing you both."

There wasn't much grace to be found in the way Alva pushed Miles into his mother's arms, ignoring the stunned look on her face before she left. Alva didn't look back.

:-:

Despite the early hour, Alva found Max pouring over another stack of research papers and dimly lit screens. He was dressed in yesterday's clothes and his hair was slick with grease and his face glistened with sweat, or tears. The several cups of cheap coffee suggested he had been here for several hours already.

"Hi." Alva broke the silence, padding into the room.

Max is visibly startled, only narrowingly avoiding dropping the PDA in his hand. "Oh! Good morning, Alva. I must've missed breakfast."

"I brought you one of those wrapped sandwiches." She said, "it's not much but figured you'd be hungry."

He smiled. "Yeah," he chuckled, "losing track of time does that to you. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Alva walked over to where he sat with the sandwich in hand. Some of the plastic wrap had gotten caught in her rings so there was a small hole right next to a slice of pale cheese. Max nodded with a smile as Alva handed it over, hands curling around her stomach when he took it.

"You're early today." He said as he started unwrapping it. Max took a big bite. "The others won't be here for another hour. Officially it's a debrief for Jake but my guess is it's a lecture."

"Yeah," she agreed. "She started it at breakfast, but I think deep down she's impressed."

"Maybe. Anyway, thank you for the food. I won't keep you any longer. Hop down to your link unit and I'll patch you through." Max swept some of the breadcrumbs off his long coat.

"Thank you." She said and began walking down the stairs leading to the units.

"No problem." Max called.

Her link unit whirred to life and the screens flickered on to display the live footage of the inside, the readings of her vitals and misc information. She opened it with ease, but stopped short.

"I visited Paz today."

"Oh?" Max hummed. "Did it not go well?"

"No, uh, it went fine." Alva muttered, but Max seemed to hear her words regardless. "I gave Miles some flowers. He seemed to like them."

"That's nice of you. I'm sure she appreciated it."

"I guess. I kind of ran off." Alva admitted, tracing the imprint of her body in the soft blue gel. "She started talking about Miles' future."

"She wants him to be a soldier." Max concluded. "Did it surprise you? Both she and Quaritch are born and bred military dogs. With parents like that he'd be good at it. Too good, maybe."

"No, that's not-" Alva shook her head, unable to properly voice the tumultuous thoughts roaring around her head like a hurricane. "It didn't surprise me. I just hadn't thought about it before. He's so small and cute. It's hard to imagine him growing up to be just like his dad."

She screwed her eyes shut as phantom pain tore through the scar on her abdomen, and the bang of a gun followed closely behind. Though her eyes were shut to this world, it did not stop the ice blue eyes of her nightmares from staring into hers, nor the unnatural warmth of his grasp from burning her shoulders.

She didn't know what was worse, remaining in his grip or the manner in which her mind ripped her free from him. It wasn't just the man, his soldiers and him that disappeared, not just the rotten smell or the sound of guns being fired, or the soft pop of brains smashed, it was the cool gel under her the pads of her fingers, the sound of Max working, and the smell of the various plants kept in the room next door. A different sort of warmth awaited her, one of sunshine and clouds as soft as silk.

Alva barely managed to pull herself free of that too, though she did not want to. The artificial light of the room burned her eyes.

The clicking of keys stopped and Max looked up at her from over the many screens. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She breathed out. "I just need... just need to take my medication."

Her hands shook as she rummaged through the deep pockets of her dress before her fingers managed to hook around the container. Alva opened it and poured out two stark white pills. They glared up at her, judging her, as did the name scribbled on the paper wrapped around it. Alva Selfridge.

"Do you need me to get something? Someone? I can comm Grace?"

Alva shook her head. "No, it's fine."

She swallowed the pills with a few gulps of water.

"Okay. I'm ready now."

"Are you sure?" Max asked. "Maybe you should wait a little."

She laid down in the machine. "No, I'm going in now. Don't tell my brother about this."

"But I have to docu-"

"Now, Max." Alva sighed. "I'll talk to Parker tonight. If I don't go now the Na'vi will notice what I'm wearing and we both know there won't be any later if they do."

Max sighed but obeyed the order. The clicking of keys resumed and Alva shut the upper lid of the unit, doing her best to make her mind go blank. The usual peace she felt at laying there was lost, ripped away as she swallowed those pills. The gel was too soft, the ridges too hard – digging into the soft flesh of her arms and legs –, and nothing felt right. Something was dulled, missing.

:-:

Alva woke up with a loud gasp.

"You sleep like the dead." A distant voice drawled from next to her. "It is unnatural."

She turned her head to face the voice. Tru'iel sat cross legged on the branch next to the swaynivi, face set in stone but there was tension around her eyes that spoke of how unsettled she was. Her hair looked to be freshly braided, not a single strand out of place from the bundle of braids. They had been pulled away from her face by a piece of woven twine.

"Sorry."

"Neyta thought you were dead when she tried to wake you."

Alva couldn't tell if Tru'iel was scolding her or simply making conversation.

"Where do you go when this body sleeps?"

"Back in my human body." Alva responded.

Tru'iel hummed. "It is unnatural," she repeated, "I can see you in there now but when you close your eyes you float away from us. Hidden from the people. You go where I cannot follow. I see you but you are... empty."

Alva blinked.

"It is against the will of Eywa to take the metals from the ground, to wield what you call metal. You asked to sleep under the stars but when they looked for you among us you had already left."

"I didn't have a choice." Alva tried to defend herself. "The machines pull us back when we go to sleep."

"Curious. That may be so, but I have a feeling the stars will demand you take your place among them. They will not be denied much longer." Tru'iel gave her one last before she stood up. "Now, come. I have clothes for you to change into."

Alva scrambled out of the family sized hammock.

"Irayo!" She called to the Na'vi woman who was now several steps in front of her.

"Thanks are unnecessary, Alva. We are family. What is mine is yours." Tru'iel said. "I will dress you in the colors of my family and all the people will recognize you as one of mine."

Alva's steps turned to a brisk walk to keep up with the taller woman, stumbling down the spiraling staircase. There wasn't much activity in the kelutral itself but she could smell the breakfast being prepared by the cooks, and she heard the loud giggles and laughter of children running around outside.

'Village life starts early, Alva.' Grace's voice reminded her. 'There's a lot to do before breakfast.'

"This is where you will go if... when you are injured." Tru'iel stopped in front of a smaller alcove. The opening was covered by a sheet of red fabric with several strands of beads hung over a thick branch. "The healer is called Ngeha. She will not like you but she will treat you. You can find no better on all of Eywa'eveng."

"She won't like me?"

"Kehe." Tru'iel said. "The skypeople has taken too much from her for her to trust another."

"Oh."

"Srane. 'Oh'." Tru'iel gave Alva the ghost of a smile.

Na'vi casualties and deaths were part of everyday life on Hell's base, but they were numbers and statistics – black ink on a piece of paper, or an insignificant rise in a diagram on a blue-lit screen. They weren't real. Whoever Ngeha had lost was one of those numbers, someone Alva had skimmed past when studying the planet, too eager to get to what she found interesting to even understand what it was that she closed her eyes to. Here, the losses weren't numbers and 'unnamed Na'vi male', here they were people with history and names, a family and friends.

She walked among them but she didn't want to think about how it was that she could. The unnamed Na'vi male and unnamed Na'vi female on a cold slab of a table being cut into by indifferent human scientists. Dissected and discarded and now Alva used their pain for her own gain.

"The weight of her loss is not yours to shoulder," Tru'iel shook Alva back into the present, a heavy hand spanning her entire shoulder. "Do not lose yourself in the past when the future is still unknown. Come, it is just around the corner."

Like a puppy, Alva trailed behind her aunt. Her thoughts still lingered on Ngeha, the one who dwelled behind the red curtain and who had been wronged. They turned away from the healer and walked over to another opening.

"Dayu uses this room to clean up after taking care of the children." Tru'iel gestured to the room.

It was small, but large enough for what it was used for. Several wooden buckets of water stood pushed into a corner, and next to them a pile of soft leaves and a towel. Across from them was a bench carved from the tree they stood in, and under it a couple of stacks of clothing – most likely Dayu's.

Tru'iel pulled a bundle of cloth from behind her back. It was a loincloth the same shade as her skin with details the color of her stripes. Alva took it with a thankful smile. The fabric was soft and light.

"I will wait outside." Tru'iel announced and left the room, pulling the blue shift to cover the entrance.

Alva dug her fingers into the fabric before changing out of her muddied base-issued uniform and into the loincloth. The braided twine supporting the fabric wrapped around her waist, and an extended part of it fell over the cloth and formed a soft triangular shape. There were no other decorations for Alva had yet to earn any. The top resembled a necklace, the colorful feathers hanging from it all that covered her breasts from view.

"Do not forget to remove your jewelry." Tru'iel reminded.

It pained her to remove the many rings that decorated her fingers, and most of the bracelets hanging around her dainty wrists, but she kept the anklet and the necklace with the purple stone and pale pink petals. To remove too many would raise as much suspicion as keep them all. Someone related to Tru'iel would without a doubt have some kind of standing with their people.

After adjusting the straps and flowy fabric, Alva walked out of the room, a new sway to her hips that wasn't there before.

Tru'iel regarded her in silence, but then nodded in what Alva assumed to be approval. "Turn around." She said.

Alva did as asked, tensing ever-so-slightly when she felt Tru'iel wrapping something around the base of her tail. It wasn't uncomfortable but she was aware of it now.

"There." Tru'iel backed away.

She turned her head to try and see what had been done but all it served was to make her look foolish.

"Irayo?" Alva said.

"Thanks are unecessary." Tru'iel repeated. "It is tradition to bind our tails as such. Now, come. We are late."

"Late to what?" Alva asked.

"The morning meal. Fngew has offered to braid your hair. She is a few moons away from having her firstborn and the practice would do her good."

"Who's Fngew?"

"My tsmuke." Tru'iel guided Alva down the stairs to the area where Jake had stood trial the night before.

Unclouded by the darkness, it wasn't as intimidating as she had found it yesterday. It was large and vast, open and airy. A typical common area for the people to socialize in, as they were now. The fires which had cast long shadows hadn't yet been lit and the edges were softer for it. A large group of people sat around each of the fires, a cook seemingly assigned to each of them. The air was filled with soft chatter and laughs.

A few tame ayfwampop lingered around some of the families, begging for scraps. Soft singing filled the area, a couple of the clan's singers having stepped up on the elevated pedestal by the stairs and skull.

So transfixed by them, Alva didn't notice that Tru'iel had kept moving. She scrambled to follow, lest her aunt disappear among one of the groups and left her standing in the open. Alva felt a little like a bleeding goldfish in a sea of sharks, when in reality she was more like a goldish protected by a leviathan should any of the sharks even nibble on one of her scales.

Alva was led to a small group of people sitting by one of the fires closest to the western exit. She recognized some of them from yesterday; the solemn twins, and Pxìk'e, but most of the others, save Dayu, were strangers.

"Kxì, my heart." Dayu greeted Tru'iel. His eyes flickered to her from over his mate's shoulder. "Sìltsan, you managed to wake her up."

"It was not without difficulty. Ayotola," Tru'iel called her name, "sit down by Fngew."

A Na'vi woman beckoned her with a wave of a three-fingered hand. She was hunched over and so her hair was left to pool down her back. Alva sat down next to the woman, her small frame dwarfed in comparison to the goliath of a person towering over her. But Fngew's smile was warm, and so was her body and Alva melted into the tentative embrace her other aunt pulled her into without much protest. She allowed herself to be placed in front of her instead.

"You have beautiful hair, Ayotola." Fngew whispered.

Alva felt fingers run through her locks, a feeling as alien to her as the ground beneath her feet. It had been many years since someone had offered to braid her hair, even longer since she sat before someone like this – family. Her eyes fell shut at the sensation.

"Irayo."

"How do you want it? I admit I am not the most experienced." Alva felt Fngew's chest rumble in a chuckle. "But my mate has hair just like yours and our child just like him. I would not be a very good mother if I could not take care of her hair."

"I don't mind. Do what you want." Alva was eager for Fngew to keep brushing through her hair, to scrape against her scalp with just enough pressure. She was like a kitten, eager for more affection – chasing the hand which pets it.

"Something simple, then."

Fngew started parting her hair into smaller sections.

"Have you met Txeyk, Ayotola? He is one of the clan's singers." Dayu asked.

Alva opened her eyes, already going to shake her head when her eyes caught his. Then she nodded.

"Srane. We met yesterday."

The shaved head and mohawk of spindly braids were familiar to her. They had shook as he sang the chorus of the song, and the harsh wrinkles around his eyes had lessened. He seemed to recognize her too.

"Sran. We did." He said. "Your voice is a gift from the Great Mother. I must admit I did not believe you when you told us you had family waiting, but I see now that it is true."

Alva smoothes out any wrinkles on her loincloth. It matched the rest of Tru'iel's family; Dayu, Fngew, the other male Na'vi next to them, and Tru'iel's children.

"Sran. We could not have foreseen that demon would so boldly wander here." Tru'iel thanked the cook who offered the matriarch a bowl of nuts and fruit. "Or I would have waited to ask for her."

Fngew moved on to braiding her hair. Three strands, over, under, over, under. Some of the braids were secured by a series of earth toned beads, some left free. Alva found that she didn't mind the style. It would help her fit in.

"Srane." Txeyk agreed. "Our offer remains, Ayotola."

"What offer?" Tru'iel interjected.

"To sing with us." He said. "Tsrä is close to giving birth, and her voice is perfect for our stories. Do you not agree, Tru'iel?"

"Of course." Tru'iel said, raising her chin. "But my Ayotola is to be a hunter."

Alva's eyes widened in shock, and she forced them shut once she caught the narrowing of Tru'iel's.

"Ai, Tru," Txeyk protested. "Her heart is not made for it. She is like the fires we light during the dark times, a guiding warmth."

"Her heart will adapt. Eywa has told me this is the path Ayotola is to take. I have dreamt of her upon the back of an ikran. She rode with toruk makto."

"You have brought this matter to the Tsahìk?"

"Sran. She has seen the same." Tru'iel nibbled on some of the fruit.

"And who is to be her teacher?"

"Ayotola will decide. There will be a sign from Eywa."

And so her fate has been declared openly. Alva knew not if Tru'iel's words were true, if she had truly dreamt of her future, or if it was simply a way to cast off any suspicion that Txeyk had. It mattered not. Alva would walk the path of a hunter, a warrior, and she would have to adapt or die. 

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[faveficarchive]

~ Home Fires ~ (Part 2)

by Christine "Roo" Toups 

GENERAL COPYRIGHT/DISCLAIMER:

Dr. Janice Covington and Melinda Pappas are the sole copyright property of MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the property of the author. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices. 

LOVE/SEX WARNING/DISCLAIMER:

This story depicts a love/sexual relationship between two consenting adult women. If you are under 18 years of age or if this type of story is illegal in the state or country in which you live, please do not read it.

Carelessly, words and music by C. Kenny/N.Kenny/N. Ellis used without permission. 

NOTE: © copyright 2000 One Bard Writin' 

Part 2

Chapter 10

Mel groaned, awash in inarticulate misery as she clutched the white porcelain bowl. Janice sat behind her on a short footstool; one hand kept long, raven hair pulled back, out of harm's way, while the other grasped the chain pull. "Okay?" Nodding, Mel leaned against Janice's knee, surrendering to the pounding in her head as the water gushed and swirled counter?clockwise down the pipes. Janice put a glass of water into her trembling hands with the simple command, "Rinse. Spit." Mel obeyed without question, after which Janice pulled the chain again and helped Mel to her feet. 

Leaning heavily on the smaller woman, Mel whispered, "I'm sorry 'bout your boots." 

"Washed right off," replied Janice.

"And your blouse..."

"A little cold water...Okay, hang on just a sec..." Steadying Mel with one hand, she hastily turned down the bed with the other. "Okay, don't get any ideas now." Leaving her charge teetering at the edge of the bed, Janice snaked her arms around Mel's waist and groped for the button at the back of the A?line skirt.

Mel put her hands on Janice's shoulders for support. "You've come to your senses at last?"

"Nope." Janice popped the snap. "Still out of my tree." She passed the skirt over shapely hips and chased its descent with her hands until it fell in a puddle at Mel's feet. "Step out...first one foot...that's good, now the other - that's my girl...and she does it all without a net."

Mel sat heavily upon the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble." 

"Undressing you, Mel, is a lot of things, but trouble ain't one of them." Janice's hand moved deftly over the pearly buttons of Mel's blouse, popping each with a practiced, three?fingered maneuver that was normally a prelude to more strenuous activity. She slipped the blouse from Mel's slim shoulders and glanced appreciatively at the camisole draping tantalizing swells and curves in a fine satin sheen. "Nice. You do wonders for it." 

"Wonders for what?" Mel asked groggily.

Janice rolled her eyes. "Never mind. You're too drunk to appreciate my wit."

Mel arched an eyebrow. "Maybe I'm not drunk enough."

Janice clucked her tongue, then replied, "I reserve comment," and plumped a couple of down?filled pillows before sliding Mel's legs beneath the blanket. "There now, you're all set."

Mel's fingers scrunched the blanket on either side of her hips. Her attractive face could best be described as panicked...and green. "Janice..." she sucked a breath over her teeth, "...the room's spinnin'..."

"Of course it's spinning," Janice retorted, tucking the blanket close. "Cheap whiskey will do that." Mel groaned, unable to appreciate the sarcasm. "Close your eyes. It helps." She stepped away to switch off the powerful overhead light in favor of the small lamp atop the dresser. The 40 watt bulb beneath a natty fringed shade cast the room in a soft yellow light more conducive to sleep. Kneeling beside the bed, she stroked Mel's pinched brow. "Better?"

Mel shook her head miserably and threw one arm over her eyes. "Shoot me, Janice, just shoot me now."

Janice laughed and kissed Mel's forehead. "Oh, no no...I have plans for you, Melinda Pappas."

Mel peeked out with one eye and conjured up the hint of a smile. "At last, a reason to live."

A few minutes later, Janice left her there, half?asleep in the half?dark. She kept the bedroom door open a few inches, should Mel should call for her, and padded quietly down the hall and into the kitchen. The scene awaiting her was tantamount to a battlefield: dirty dishes, pots and pans, food left on a cluttered table. Who knew that two people could generate such chaos? "No wonder I eat take out so often." 

She tied the apron loosely about her waist and went to work clearing the table of leftovers. She didn't play favorites; everything from vegetables to sweet breads went to the icebox, although she found room in her full stomach for the last of the olives, simply because they reminded her of Athens, and Mel. She washed and dried the dinner dishes and made a half?hearted attempt to scrub clean a particularly dirty roasting pan before finally consigning it to soak overnight in soapy water. When she looked up at the old clock on the wall, she was surprised to see that it was nearly nine in the evening. "Time. It do fly," she quipped, mildly startled by the sound of her own voice in the large, unnaturally quiet house. While her hands were clean and dry, she opened the phonograph and carefully re?sheathed the Billie Holiday record; she suspected it wouldn't see further play in her absence. Small minds, she mused. 

She turned, bundling the crumb?strewn tablecloth by its corners. As she prepared to shake it out, she pondered how long to let Mel sleep, while at the same time contemplating the merits of simply weaving her arms and legs into and around that lanky frame and drifting off to sleep beside her. There was another, decidedly less pleasant option which consisted of two fingers of whiskey, a good book and her feet up. The sole benefit of this scenario was that it required no explanation to an inquisitive child arriving home unexpectedly. 

She opened the back door with the toe of her boot and flung out the linen, shaking it by two corners. Draping it over one arm, she stood in the open doorway, enjoying the smells and sounds carried on the night air ?wattles in bloom, and dingoes, and the windmill rods pumping hard in the cool evening breeze. Tossing the tablecloth over the back of a chair, she stepped outside, closing the door behind her. The moon was just peeking over the backbone of the roof, shedding pale light across the yard, onto the bleached rail fence and the crude clothesline strung between the fence and the porch. She recognized her jodhpurs, still heavy with water, hanging limply from the line; in contrast, her white blouse and brassiere greeted her with an obscene wave. She fished inside the blouse's breast pocket with two fingers, seeking the cigar she had earlier secreted there, but came up empty. She muttered an oath and slung the blouse and brassiere over her shoulder just as something slithered, to papery effect, through the tall saw grass just beyond her line of sight; she was not inclined to investigate. Instead, she backpedaled towards the house nonchalantly, affecting a shiver, as if her abrupt departure had more to do with the brisk northerly wind than any creepy crawler, real or imagined.

Inside the house, the temperature had dropped to a cool 65 degrees, only slightly warmer than the air outside. Dropping the blouse and brassiere on the table, she slipped into the familiar warmth of her leather jacket as she left the kitchen to check on Mel. She glanced through the four?inch gap without touching the knob, because the bedroom door had the tendency to squeak. Mel lay facing her, a large pillow crushed to her chest by her long, slim arms. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed softly into the linen. A corner of the pillow lay trapped between the mattress and one exposed thigh. Janice's knees went weak; she had never wanted to be a pillow so badly in all her life. Down, girl. Turning to leave, she gave the luscious vision one last glance. Think baseball, baseball!

In the living room, she took a moment to peruse the rather impressive library Jack Greenway had amassed over the years ? Hemingway, W.B. Yeats, Cervantes, Mark Twain ?literary luminaries sandwiched between lesser?known local authors. She squinted at the spines on a set of technical digests, sounding out the titles aloud. "Secrets of Night Bass Fishing...Fly Casting and How to Tie Them...How to Land a Trophy Fish." She sighed heavily. Makes sense. What else would a land?locked man do but dream of fish? In the end, she selected Death in the Afternoon and adjourned to the glider on the verandah. She poured herself a drink, crossed her ankles atop a low wicker table and opened the book, flipping past the acknowledgments. But the whiskey, Hemingway's laconic writing style and 30 hours without sleep all combined with predictable effect. She surrendered to sleep before the first bull was bloodied.

Mel found her there sometime later, recumbent on the glider, the book tented open on her chest and an empty tumbler dangling precariously from her slackening fingers. From her place in the open doorway, the tall Southerner watched with a stillness she had forgotten; it occurred to her that Janice appeared younger when asleep. Her normally expressive face was cherubic and unlined, her full lips drawn into a strange little smile that was both innocent and provocative. Mel approached for a closer scrutiny, the bed sheet she had draped over her shoulders for warmth whispering against her bare legs as she walked. She rescued the tumbler from certain disaster and carefully extracted the volume of Hemingway, glancing at the title before laying it aside. Janice lay ripe for the picking. Sleeping Beauty. Once the analogy was in her head, Mel had no choice but to content herself with a single kiss, feather?light upon warm lips which fell open like the petals of a rose.

"Nice," Janice murmured, without opening her eyes. "But just one?"

"You were asleep," Mel retorted. "Give me credit for a little restraint." She pulled the sheet close around her and withdrew until her back was against a cool support post. "Pleasant dreams?"

"Very." Affecting nonchalance, Janice folded her trembling hands in her lap, but she could do little to calm the wild beating of her heart. Content to indulge in what seemed to be mutual appreciation, pale green eyes moved over an impressive physique every bit deserving of such patient scrutiny. The bed sheet, pale against Mel's pale skin, alternately clinging or draping at the whim of the wind, gave her the appearance of a living Greek sculpture. And it was all hers for the asking, once she found her voice. "You must be cold in that," she managed at last.

"Just the opposite." Mel relaxed her grip, and the sheet slipped down to reveal a bare shoulder. She dropped her voice an octave, drawing the slow, sensual tones from her throat like a weapon. "I'm very warm."

There was a hint of delicious friction as Janice uncrossed her ankles and stood. Over the noise of her blood, she heard herself say, "You look like you're feeling better."

"I'm sober as a judge, if that's what you mean," Mel replied. A small smile turned up the corners of her lips. "I'm not drunk, and you're not dreamin'...although I could pinch you if you like."

Janice raised an eyebrow. "Maybe later." 

"Are you glued to that chair?" Janice erupted in a chuckle of nervous laughter that Mel found endearing. "What's the matter? More afraid of peace than war?"

"What would you like me to do, Mel?" Ohh, there's a loaded question.

"This is a seduction, Dr. Covington." Mel opened her fist and the sheet slid from her shoulders - over the soft roundness of her hips and the bared violin curve of her waist - until she was standing before Janice, nude. "Use your imagination."

Janice cut the space between them without delay, pinning Mel roughly against the clapboards of the house. Immersing her hands in loose raven tresses, she crushed Mel's lips to her own in a bruising kiss. She felt hands at her face, on her breasts, in what seemed a frenzied grope; while her own hands roamed, mapping the landscape of her lover's body -- peaks and valleys that stirred beneath her touch. Her left hand skimmed the flat plane of an abdomen, stroked the silky, damp nest of curls below, and drew one long forefinger through the wetness before coming to rest on a high, hard nub of flesh.

"Oh..." Mel's body froze at a peak. "There..." she murmured against Janice's neck. "...right...there....oh...ohmy..." she groaned. She used the pleasure pulsing through her body in waves to fuel her own exploration, trading skin for leather as she worked the jacket from Janice's body. "One of us..." she gasped. "...is over?dressed."

Janice answered the complaint with a deep kiss as she shucked off the jacket, flinging it carelessly aside in the rush to maintain crucial momentum. Tangled in Mel's grasping arms, she was groping for the buttons on her slacks when the howl of a dingo filtered through the blood pounding in her ears. "Jeez...that sounded close." 

"Just a dingo..." Mel muttered breathlessly as she pushed the khakis down over Janice's hips. She seized handfuls of the white blouse, impatiently bypassing the buttons, choosing instead to ruck the material up and over her lover's head, exposing ample, round breasts. "Oh, God," she crooned, "I love your body." She was sure she growled 

as she fell upon the deliciously swelling flesh, ringing the aureola inside her warm, wet lips while her tongue danced unseen over an erect nipple. Janice's groan of satisfaction was unmistakable. "So perfect..." Mel murmured as she peppered the washboard stomach with tiny, nipping kisses, and swirled her tongue in and around Janice's navel. 

Accomplishing all of this while standing was awkward; even in bare feet she towered a full six inches above Janice's head. She scanned the plank floor at her feet for obstructions and was preparing to take their lovemaking to an entirely new level when she felt Janice stiffen in her arms. Mel's voice was a mixture of dread and disbelief. "Janice Covington, don't you dare! Not yet...not without me!"

Janice was too preoccupied to be offended. She dipped and hitched up her slacks. "We can't do this, Mel...not here."

"Why? Are you cold? C'mere," she coaxed. Her hands cupped Janice's backside, drawing their bodies together once more. "Lemme warm you..."

Janice reluctantly peeled herself away. "I swear, Mel, you've got more arms than Vishnu! Have you forgotten about Alice?" 

"Alice." Mel shivered, the sweat on her body beginning to cool in the night air.

"Yeah. Thirteen, bright but impressionable? That Alice." Janice squinted into the surrounding blackness. "What if she were to come home and walk up on this...this anatomy lesson?! Have you thought about that?" 

Mel crossed her arms and, grinning, replied, "Not once." She secretly wished for her glasses; the shock on Janice's face was no doubt, priceless.

"Where's my shirt? Criminy, Mel...put something on, will ya? You're distracting me!" 

"Relax, Janice," Mel cooed, plucking the rumpled white blouse from a wattle branch. "It's just you and me."

Janice snatched the blouse from Mel's extended fingertips. "Thank you!" she snapped. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were enjoying this." 

Mel retorted, "I was, up until a minute ago."

Janice narrowed her eyes and sputtered, "You know what I'm talking about. God dammit, where're the buttons on this thing!?"

Mel suppressed a giggle. "You have it on inside out. May I just say one teensy tiny little thing?"

Janice dropped her hands to her side and exhaled wearily. "What?"

There was a moment of anticipatory silence before Mel announced, "Alice is staying the night with her friend. We have the house to ourselves." 

"Oh." Janice shifted where she stood; there was nothing worse than a thoroughly wasted tantrum. "You knew that all along, but you let me get dressed again?"

Mel approached her in a sensuous stroll. "Only because it's such fun undressin' you. Now," she said. "Why don't we see if we can't find a way to re?direct all that misplaced energy of yours." She drew Janice closer with one hand while the other skimmed a bare midriff on its way south.

Janice captured Mel's lips with her own as fingers moved against her pleasantly aching flesh. As her hips rose to the caress of a skillful hand, she sucked in her breath, absolutely light?headed with pleasure. "Oh, God, Mel...that curls my toes..."

Mel responded by wiggling her thumb. "I have many skills."

Janice shuddered and sighed, "How f?fortunate for me," as she surrendered to gravity.

Chapter 11

In the close, palpable silence of a stranger's bedroom, Janice was primed to notice everything -- from the sweet, almost narcotic fog that hung in the air to the heat radiating from her body, reflecting off of Mel's as they lay tangled in the large bed. She felt good...good from the navel out in all directions. She knew there was a goofy contented smile on her face and the knowledge came as a revelation to her. She could count her pre-Mel sexual experiences on one hand -- two brief flings and one serious year-long relationship that ended badly -- a hundred or so sticky, passionate fumblings and never once the fuzzy-warm payoff of afterglow. She had written it off as romanticized claptrap...until she met Mel. Is that all it takes? The right person? Some small fraction of her suspected that the answer could not be reduced to something as fundamental as chemistry. Like all truly good things, love did not require close scrutiny. It simply was.

She lay quietly for some time, admiring her lover's profile and absently fingering feather-light swirls upon Mel's exposed skin while their intertwined bodies gathered moonlight. She had never felt more vulnerable than she did at this moment, lying in the arms of the one person capable of breaking her. She was visibly moved. An angel...I'm in love with an angel. "I deserve this," she said aloud. 

"Hmm...wha'?" Mel responded groggily.

Smoothing sweat-dampened hair, Janice whispered, "Shh, go back to sleep."

Mel nuzzled Janice's neck, gazing up with sleep-heavy lids. "I don't wanna miss anythin'."

"Believe me, sweetheart," replied Janice. "There's nothing I could do alone that wouldn't be more fun with you. You warm enough?" 

"Ummm." Mel smiled against the hollow of Janice's neck and curved an arm around her waist. "I had a real good time tonight."

"Me, too." Janice kissed a crown of dark hair and gathered her close. "Yep," she sighed. "This must be heaven."

"Until sunrise anyway," replied Mel. She wasn't by nature a clockwatcher, but minutes and hours had never seemed so valuable as they did tonight. "What time do you s'pose it is?"

"Don't know, don't care," replied Janice airily.

Mel sat up quickly, as if stung; the blanket pooled unnoticed around her waist. "And it doesn't bother you that we only have a few short hours left together?"

Janice propped herself up on one elbow. "Mel, honey, the sun is going to rise tomorrow. No amount of wishing will change that. I simply choose not to dwell on the inevitable."

"Cynic," quipped Mel, groping for her glasses on the bedside table.

"Realist. There's a difference." She swung her feet to the floor and stood.

Mel caught her by the wrist. "Now I've gone and chased you outta bed."

"Oh, heart," Janice retorted. "You could never do that. However," she said, reaching for the dressing gown at the foot of the bed. "I do have to visit the little archaeologist's room."

Mel's lips curved in a playful line. "Oh, allright, if nature calls..." She watched as Janice thrust one arm into the flowing sleeve of the gown. "No. Don't," she said, capturing the hem of the garment in her fist. A smouldering gaze lingered over sculpted abs and firm, pert breasts. "It'd be like throwin' a tarp over a Da Vinci."

Janice lifted her eyebrows. "Mel, it's cold in here."

Mel migrated to the spot left warm by Janice's body and replied pointedly, "But it's warm in bed." 

"I can't argue with that kind of logic." Janice stepped out of the gown. "Be right back." 

Mel pushed the glasses up on her nose and said, "Besides, this way I get to see those two cute little dimples on your backside."

Janice scowled and looked over her shoulder. "The woman's a sucker for dimples. Who knew?" 

"I love everythin' about your body," she purred, her voice dissolving into a slow, hypnotic drawl. "I could be a lifetime memorizing every curve and swell." Her finger traced a sizzling path to Janice's hip. "...every little scar and mole -- " Janice cleared her throat and raised one eyebrow in a dramatic gesture. "Beauty mark!" Mel amended with a sly smile. "Every little beauty mark."

"You are so good for my ego," laughed Janice. She knelt on the bed and met warm, parted lips halfway -- quick peck flowered into passionate kiss. Mel's hands worked in concert, one at the small of her back, pulling her inward, the other groping a full, sensitive breast until Janice groaned audibly into Mel's mouth. "Wait wait wait..." she gasped and pulled away with a feral grin. Blowing a breath between her lips she said, "Hold that thought." 

Mel reclined into a cluster of pillows and pursed her lips in an audible pout. "Hurry back," she cooed as her hands curved provocatively beneath her breasts. "I'm missin' you already."

Janice was momentarily transfixed, her mouth watered -- but her bladder made a convincing argument. She held up a finger and looked Mel seriously in the eye. "One minute." She turned, navigating the moonlit room with unseemly haste. At the dresser, she caught sight of her featureless profile in the dark mirror; she gave Mel's hazy silhouette a considering look as if something had only this minute registered. "Da Vinci, huh? Well, at least you didn't say Picasso. What would I do with a third breast anyway?"

"More importantly: what would I do with it?" quipped Mel. She folded her glasses with care and lay them on the nightstand. "The light switch is just there on your left." There was an audible click before soft light illuminated the cul du sac and spilled into the bedroom proper. Mel laced her fingers behind her head and stared at the ceiling dappled with shadows and water stains. "How's it goin' in there? Need any help?" she inquired facetiously.

"No, thank you. I've been doing this alone since I was 2." 

Over the flush of the toilet Mel quipped, "You didn't tell me you were a prodigy!" 

Janice glowered at Mel as she soaped and rinsed her hands. "Oh, I'm gifted, darlin'." She tossed the towel over her shoulder and snapped off the light, groping her way to the bed, bunging her toes into the dresser only once -- "Gotdammittohell!" - before sliding beneath the blanket Mel opened for her. Sucking a breath between her teeth, she growled, "Stupid place for a dresser anyway..." 

"Poor baby," crooned Mel; she lowered her voice a notch. "Let me kiss it and make it all better." She suckled on the soft hollow at the base of Janice's ear eliciting a groan of satisfaction. "You don't mind if I start at the top and work my way down now, do you?" 

Janice closed her eyes, arching her throat into the kiss and replied, "As long as we both get there, sweetheart." 

"Oh, don't you worry about ole Mel," she purred, straddling one of Janice's powerful thighs. "Now...where was I? Oh yes...beauty marks..." She drew her index finger beneath Janice's ribs, sending a shiver across the taut muscles. "Janice...what's this scar here? I don't 'member this."

Janice replied without opening her eyes. "I was 10...pitched right over the handlebars of my bike." Warm lips drew a cool, burning line across her skin. "Have you seen my appendectomy scar?" she quipped.

Mel traced the livid pink scar with her tongue before planting a kiss in the well of Janice's navel with the admonition, "You should be kinder to your body." Janice merely clucked her tongue and shrugged while Mel continued her macabre inventory. Long fingers gently skimmed the starburst-shaped scar where the neck and collarbone joined. "This is new." 

"Gunshot, three months ago in Istanbul," Janice replied lightly, even as she began to flex and release the muscles of her thighs. "Never step between a man and the woman he's battering without first checking him for weapons. That's a little piece of advice from me to you."

"Ohhh, Janice," Mel's face was a strange combination of fear and regret and desire. 

"I wish I had been there for you. Does it hurt much?"

"Let's not talk about pain," Janice replied. "Tonight is about pleasure." Her own breath quickened as Mel rocked, head thrown back, full lips parted in shameless ecstasy. "You're so beautiful," she murmured. Mel's knee, so advantageously placed, struck gold. She grasped Mel's hips as her own began to roll and sway in time with her lover. "Mine. My own flawless Mel..." she whispered as her heart clenched in joyful empathy. 

"What?" Mel slowed her rhythm, breathing shallowly through her mouth as she tried to focus on the face beneath her. "Did you say somethin'?" 

"Oh, God, Mel...whatever you do, don't stop!" Her heart hammered in her chest while the rhythm of their bodies slowed to a steady, less frenetic, ultimately less satisfying pace. She discovered, to her grief, that she could think...but only just. "Now -- what is it?" 

Mel narrowed her eyes. "Did you just call me 'flawless'?" 

Janice reached up, touching Mel's glistening face with a barely contained smile. "You got a problem with that?" 

Mel stopped all motion, screwing her face into a scowl. "You need glasses more than I do. What do you call this?" She lay a finger atop her right breast.

Janice squeezed her eyes shut and pounded her forehead with her free hand. "Wait! Don't tell me. I know this one!"

Mel groaned and slapped her playfully across the cheek. "No, silly...look closer."

With little effort, Janice rolled Mel onto her back, straddling her sleek torso while pinning her arms above her head. "Well, looky there..." She made a show of examining the circular birthmark above what was otherwise a perfect breast. "How'd I ever miss that?" 

At the first touch of a warm, wet tongue, Mel stretched and groaned, weaving her fingers into Janice's as first one breast, then the other was suckled upon until the nipples were aching peaks. She could feel the comforting weight of her lover's breasts, heavy and aroused against her ribcage, and the unparalleled warmth of her center as it married with her own. Articulate thought was the first casualty. "...so wet...fer me..."

"For you..." Janice bit an erect nipple, slavered her tongue around it. "Because of you. Now, may I finish what you started?" Green eyes met blue in a serious gaze as she transferred Mel's grasp to the spindles on the headboard. "Don't you let go," she warned in a low, throaty voice, her fingernails grazing the insides of long, supple arms. "The minute you let go...I stop."

The threat was implicit in word and tone. Mel licked her lips, trapping a corner of flesh between her teeth. Lips and tongue, white hot against glistening pale skin, murmured little endearments as they made lazy but determined progress down the length of her quivering, eager body. Legs parted, enveloping Janice's retreating form in a heady, fragrant embrace until her ankles crossed at the small of her back, drawing Janice into a needy union of flesh and teeth and tongue. At the first stroke, the master stroke - broad and rough and achingly slow - her hips left the bed in an instinctive spasm. Prickly, breath-snatching sensations, like tiny heart attacks, radiated outward from her groin. She screwed her eyes shut, in delicious agony. Hands, damp with sweat, closed into tight fists, wringing discordant squeaks from the wooden spindles of the headboard as Janice began her work in earnest, with a reverence generally reserved for prayer - the body as a temple. Minutes later, gathering breath for a scream, Mel's body arched like a bow under the expert ministrations of a devoted worshiper. 

* * * * * * * * * *

"Make way! Hot, hot!" Emerging from the house, Janice moved briskly across the verandah clad only in one of Jack Greenway's voluminous shirts, balancing a thick slab of buttered sourdough bread atop the mug of hot tea. "Your tea." 

Seated on the glider, Mel wordlessly opened the heavy blanket with one hand while accepting the proffered mug with the other. She was careful to hold the brimming hot liquid away from her as her partner situated herself against the warm niche of her hip. Once the glider had settled to a near standstill, she cooled her tea with a breath before taking a sip.

Janice bit into the slab of bread she had cut for herself and observed Mel over its glistening surface; the blue eyes that returned her gaze were casually expectant. "Wha'?" she asked, her teeth sunk into the cottony-soft bread. She chewed and swallowed hurriedly in an effort to expedite the conversation. "Something wrong with your tea?"

"I can't believe you actually bit me." Mel sipped her tea through a tight grimace and tried to sound angry as she said, "You're insatiable," but the phrase came across as more a compliment than an indictment.

"I barely broke the skin," Janice argued, pausing to lick a dollop of sweet butter from her fingers. "It didn't even bleed."

"Still an' all, you bit me." 

"Hey, you could've let go at any time, remember? Now who's insatiable?" Janice tucked her bare feet beneath her like a bird, commandeering a little more of the blanket for herself. "I think I sprained my tongue, if that'll make you feel any better."

Mel looked horror-stricken for a moment as a thought struck her. "What if it scars?"

"It won't," countered Janice in breezy counterpoint.

"But if it does..." Mel persisted. "I mean, how does one explain bite marks there..." 

Janice pulled away slightly, until she could no longer feel skin touching skin. "Why would you have to explain? C'mon, Mel," she coaxed playfully. "Think fast."

Equal to the challenge, Mel fired back, "My family doctor might ask."

Janice laughed. "Good answer." She popped the last morsel of bread into her mouth and, chewing thoughtfully, leaned into Mel, filling the hollows of her exquisite body like two spoons in a drawer. They sat in companionable silence for the next few minutes as the quarter moon descended below the foothills, briefly backlighting a stand of bare gum trees, their gnarled branches outstretched in an eerie, questing embrace. With the retreat of the moon, the breeze freshened, whispering through the tops of the trees. "This is beautiful, Mel." Janice's voice was furtive, as if she were imparting confidential information. "I can see what you love about the country."

"Mmm, but I've learned one thing in the last twelve hours..." 

Janice snuggled closer, drawing her knees up and over Mel's thigh. "And that is?"

Encouraged by proximity and opportunity, Mel kissed her and replied, "That even the most breathtakin' panorama can be improved upon." Under the blanket, one hand absently caressed the sensitive skin behind Janice's knees. "Must be after two o'clock..."

Janice touched Mel's hand where it lay exposed, clasping the blanket closed around them. "Don't think about the time, Mel, no watches or clocks here. We have hours yet..." She threaded an arm around Mel's waist and felt her shiver. "Cold?"

Mel burrowed closer into her lover, until they exchanged breaths. "Maybe a little."

"Let's go inside." Janice set her feet on the ground, feeling the cool night air against her legs. "I can start a fire."

As Janice stood, Mel grabbed the dangling shirt tail and pulled her back into the fold of blanket. "Why don't you stay right here and start a fire?"

"Oh. Oh, I can do that, too."

* * * * * * * * * *

Janice awoke to find the sun coming over the horizon, washing the landscape in rich hues of sienna and gold. The horses in the paddock pawed the hard-packed earth and whinnied for their oats. A cloud of green finches wheeled with military precision in the translucent sky before lighting in a stand of pale gums to feast on the insects there. Bon appetite, guys. I could stand a little something myself. Two soft-boiled eggs, bacon crisp, hash browns scattered and smothered. Her mouth watered. As a prelude to breakfast, she stretched her arms and flexed her calves, rotated her ankles - minimal isometrics that began her every morning upon waking. Routine for routine's sake. It was the comforting weight upon her chest and the feel of a possessive arm across her middle that set this morning apart. 

She drew the blanket over an exposed shoulder and peered intently into Mel's face, waiting for her to wake. Her anticipation was almost painful. She pursed her lips, preparing to blow a cool breath across impossibly long eyelashes when her eyes caught movement at the far end of the verandah. Seated cross-legged atop a weathered coffee table, placidly scratching charcoal on a piece of butcher's paper, was Alice. 

Chapter 12

Janice's first instinct was to smile and nod, even as her heart was beating wildly against her sternum. "Morning," she said in a whisper. 

As hoped, Alice took the cue, adopting a conspiratorial voice as she set her charcoal and paper aside. "Good morning." 

Innocent brown eyes observed the possessive lover's clinch, and it occurred to Janice that Alice was either oblivious to the implications, or too tactful to make inquiries. She hoped it was a bit of both. She shifted, careful not to disturb Mel. "Been sitting there long?"

Alice shrugged. "Not very...twenty minutes. You both seemed so peaceful lying there...I didn't want to wake you."

Janice was pleasantly baffled. "You look exhausted...happy, but exhausted."

"Oh, but I had a great time." Alice moved quietly across the verandah to sit in the chair opposite Janice where she elaborated in an enthusiastic whisper. "The blackfellas roasted pig and yams, and we danced 'round this huge fire, and Dinah and I stayed up talking almost the whole night."

Janice squinted into Alice's face. "Is that war paint?"

Alice made a tentative swipe at the dry circle of whitewash on her cheek. "Tribal totems, for Dinah's safe journey. It washes right off." She tilted her head and scanned the length of the glider. "Mel never lets me sleep in the glider overnight. Is it nice?"

Janice restrained her inclination to lie. "I've slept in sarcophagi more comfortable. Why don't you go inside and wash up? I'll dress and make you some kind of breakfast."

Alice stood. "It's already on the stove." One hand closed over the door handle. "I hope you like eggs and fried potatoes."

Janice's stomach growled audibly as a tantalizing aroma reached her nostrils. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Mr. Bonner gave me a quarter kilo of ground djumiya. It's what passes for coffee out here...strong enough to float an iron wedge, or so he said."

"Now there's an appetizing analogy," quipped Janice. "I tell you what: lemme wake Mel, and we'll be in in a few minutes." Alice nodded and disappeared inside the house. Janice listened for the sound of retreating footsteps before waking her companion. "Me...ellll..." she coaxed in a sing song voice. A little more forcefully, she crooned, "Mel, darlin'..." which succeeded in soliciting a murmur and a sleepy smile from her lover. Janice felt the weight of one long leg drape itself across her own, shinnying up her bare thighs while fingers trickled provocatively over her ribcage. She groaned in frustration. Be strong, Janice. "Mel," she said, raising her voice. "Wake up, the sun is rising."

Mel's eyes fluttered open briefly, "Five minutes..." 

"The house is on fire."

Mel simply murmured, "Mmm, tha's nice..." and snuggled closer.

Janice rolled her eyes, shook Mel's shoulder and said sharply, "Mel, wake up. Alice is home."

Mel sat up quickly in the close confines of the glider, causing it to pitch and rock precariously. "Janice Covington," she scolded, narrowing her eyes to slits. "That was cruel." Gathering the blanket around her, Mel extracted herself from Janice's arms and stood, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "You definitely have a mean streak in you." 

Uncovered and left to shiver in the chill morning air, Janice replied, "I thought we established that fact last night." She launched herself from the glider and squinted through the screen door just as Alice disappeared into the kitchen. The aroma of strong coffee wafted through the house, battering down her defenses. She shivered and wheeled where she stood. "Mel, you know I love you, but I gotta say that the attempt to break this to you gently is running neck and neck with my desire for a cup of coffee."

Mel opened her mouth to respond, preparing an acid retort, and instead tasted seasoned potatoes on her tongue. "You're really not jokin'." She took two quick strides to Janice's side and then was very still for a moment, separating the ambient sounds of nature from the clamor of activity in the kitchen. "How much did she see?"

By way of response, Janice picked up the charcoal drawing, an accurate, if primitive, rendering of the two lovers as observed by a third party. Shit. With some trepidation, she showed it to Mel. "What's that old saying? A picture's worth a thousand words?"

Mel's blue eyes went doe-eyed wide. "Oh my Jeezus..." she murmured.

"I dunno..." Janice regarded the drawing at an angle, as if considering a Picasso. "I think it's kinda sweet. Look there, she caught you perfectly."

Mel hissed indignantly, "I am so glad you find all of this amusin', Janice. You can afford to, after all...you're gonna get in that plane and take off, outta her life..." She hitched the blanket around her as it began to slip from her shoulders. "I, however, am committed to life under the same roof for just a while longer. What am I supposed to say to her?"

"Mel, relax." Janice put her hands on Mel's shoulders and steered her from the door. "I talked to her and -"

"You talked to her?" Mel was incredulous. "You talked to her over my sleepin' body?" she hissed. "Could you be any more casual?"

Janice clapped a hand across Mel's mouth and lowered her voice. "If you'd shut up for two seconds, I'm trying to say I talked to her and she seemed fine with everything. She's only 13 years old, Mel. She goes to a Catholic school, for Pete's sake." She peeled her hand away by degrees. "How much do you think she knows?"

"Plenty."

"I didn't know anything at 13, and I went to Catholic schools," Janice retorted.

"Hardly a ringin' endorsement." Mel stepped to the door and peeked in. After a moment of consideration, she said, "I should go talk to her...say somethin'."

Janice put her hand on the doorknob. "I agree, but you might want to dress first," she quipped. She opened the door and pushed Mel, by the small of the back, over the threshold. Hugging the periphery of the room, prepared to make a mad dash if necessary, the pair proceeded down the hallway, breathing a sigh of relief only when the bedroom door closed and locked behind them. "Piece of cake," Janice said as she slid a pair of trousers over her hips.

Mel stepped into her dressing gown, tying it tightly around her waist as she gave her full length reflection a disapproving glance in the mirror. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Janice's worried face. "I don't have a clue what to say to her."

Janice touched Mel's face, a tender gesture as she imparted battlefield strategies. "Be honest, but brief. Answer direct questions, but don't volunteer any information."

There was a barely concealed glimmer of disapproval in Mel's eyes as she quipped, "Name, rank and serial number?"

Janice gave her a peck on the lips. "You catch on fast. No wonder I love you." 

Mel laughed soundlessly and unlocked the bedroom door, turning back to look at Janice before leaving. "Any last words of advice?"

"Yeah," Janice replied sternly. "Smile. They can smell fear."

Chapter 13

"They can smell fear," Mel echoed as she made her way down the hall. At the kitchen door she stopped, one hand flat against the smooth wood grain. She breathed deeply - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and entered the room with all the enthusiasm of a woman facing summary execution. Alice was at the stove, her back to the door as she fussed with the contents of a heavy iron skillet. Mel was grateful for the opportunity to pat the perspiration from her face before speaking. "Somethin' smells good," she said, laboring for nonchalance, though the smile that met Alice's gaze came without effort. "Good mornin'."

"Good morning." Alice gave the sizzling potatoes a cursory stir with a spatula. "Made 'em just the way you like 'em: sliced thin, fried crisp and plenty of onions. There's coffee, too. Have a seat. I'll get you a cup."

Though her mind was elsewhere, Mel's stomach voiced unmistakable approval. "I should be making you breakfast," she said, taking a chair at the table, content to be waited upon as it gave her the opportunity to fold Janice's freshly-washed blouse and brassiere into discreet packages. No doubt Janice was waiting on both items . . . sitting on the bed, half-dressed, vibrating with nervous energy. God above! You are so easily distracted, Melinda! Focus! She looked up as Alice approached with a cup and saucer. "You must be tired."

Alice shrugged. "I am a bit, I expect. I'll have a lay down after brekkie." As she hefted the kettle from the stove, she remarked that the coffee had been a gift from Neville Bonner. "--and I 'membered how you like your coffee." She set a cup on the table and filled it with a liquid so black it did not reflect light. 

Mel wrinkled her nose at the contents of her cup, but managed an enthusiastic retort. "Well, it just smells wonderful. Thank you for thinkin' of me." Although she abhorred presumption as a rule, Mel poured liberally from the cream pitcher before tasting the coffee; the sludge in her cup swallowed the light with no discernable change in its own ebony complexion. "Fascinatin'," she muttered, reaching for the sugar bowl.

"Isn't Janice coming to breakfast?" Alice asked.

"When she's dressed." Mel spooned a third helping of coarse ground sugar into her cup. Keenly aware of Alice's scrutiny, she took a tentative sip; her lips puckered and pulled back simultaneously. "It's . . . interestin'," she said, struggling for a suitable word. "I've never had coffee with body before."

The response, meant to discourage, had the opposite effect. "Can I have a cup?"

Mel smiled. "I suppose it's useless to deny you anythin' at this point." Alice retrieved a cup from the cupboard and enthusiastically hefted the coffee kettle. "Half a cup," Mel cautioned. "...the rest milk, and then come and sit with me." She indicated a chair at the table. "I think we need to talk."

Alice furrowed her brow. "Talk about what?"

Mel patted the seat of the vacant chair. "Come and sit. I promise I'm not angry with you." With some trepidation, Alice took her cup and sat at the table. "Fix your coffee," Mel said, with a nod to the cream and sugar. Three heaping teaspoons of sugar and all of the remaining cream went into the effort to make Neville Bonner's coffee palatable, with little success if Alice's sour expression was any indication. "Strong stuff."

Alice nodded and pushed the cup from her. "What did you want to talk about, Mel?"

Mel pursed her lips and said, "I saw the drawin' you left on the verandah."

Alice's first instincts were defensive. "Honestly, I didn't mean to spy, Mel. I just -"

Mel reached across the table and covered Alice's hands with her own. "No, no . . . it's lovely. I think you're a wonderful artist."

Alice's voice conveyed surprise. "You're not angry then?"

"Well, I'd like to have had somethin' to say about the time and place, but no, I'm not angry. I am concerned, though . . . about you." Alice's brows came together in a dubious line. "I realize that what you saw between Janice and I may have left you feelin' a little . . . confused." Mel crossed her legs beneath the table. "I want you to know that I'm here to answer any questions you might have."

Alice wet her lips and met Mel's gaze. "Any questions?"

Gulp. "Within reason." Mel laced her fingers around her coffee mug and lifted her brows slightly to indicate her receptiveness. "Fire at will."

Alice leaned forward against the table and dropped her voice as she met Mel's eyes. "Are you still going to marry my dad?"

Quickly, like pulling out a splinter. "No," replied Mel, careful to return Alice's steady gaze with mutual, unblinking honesty. "There's someone else in my life. When your daddy returns home on leave next month, I intend to tell him."

"Good," Alice interjected briskly. "Because I have to say that if you weren't going to talk to him, I would've done. After all, he's not here to look after his own interests. No offense intended, Mel."

"None taken," replied Mel as she drummed her fingers against the hot porcelain cup. 

"Do you mind if I ask why you don't love my dad? I mean, he's a good bloke, hardworking and a good father."

"I think I have seen enough of your father to echo those sentiments, Alice. The best that can be said of him is that he deserves a wife capable of loving him without reserve and in all honesty, I'm not that woman." She thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of regret on the child's face, though it may have been a trick of the early morning light. Mel looked thoughtfully into her coffee cup before speaking. "My nana always said that the wrong things aren't supposed to last."

Alice cocked her head, committing the epigram to memory, as she did most things. "You're in love with Janice." It was a simple statement of fact made poignant by the absence of rejection and contempt. 

Mel had been prepared to defend her life choices, as she always had. Instead, she sat across the table from the very face of acceptance given physical form, and she was emboldened by the revelation. "Yes," she replied, the admission humming on an air of expectancy.

Alice nodded and fidgeted with the frayed ends of the table cloth. "It's more than just being the best of mates, isn't it?"

"I know this must be very difficult for you to understand, Alice; sometimes I have trouble understandin' it myself. I've spent the last 28 years livin' to please other people . . . one third of my life worryin' about what other people thought of me."

Delicately, but with conviction, Alice said, "I think you turned out all right, Mel."

"I'm glad you think so, too," replied Mel. Alice met her eyes briefly before turning her gaze toward the floor, actions Mel interpreted as anxious precursors to some momentous disclosure or question. "S'okay," she said quietly. "You can say anythin' to me."

Alice looked up, her face alight with genuine curiosity. "How do you know who to love?" 

Mel scratched her head; the question was both naive and insightful. "That's a very good question, and I would be lyin' to you if I said I knew the answer. But the truth is -- where love is concerned, we adults make a dozen false starts in our lifetime . . . We succumb to peer pressure, we seek to please others and we are vulnerable to suggestion . . . Mistakes get made along the way."

"Like my mum and dad. Mum says they got married for all the wrong reasons."

Mel reserved comment. "I should just hold my tongue. I'm probably just confusin' you more."

Alice shook her head vigorously. "No, Mel. I understand. You're saying 'look carefully', don't be swayed by the opinions of others . . . and be true to myself."

Mel looked dumbfounded. "I said all that?" Momentarily, she reached across the table and touched Alice's hair. "You have an exceptional head on your shoulders, but use your heart, too. One of my old archeology professors once told me that it's possible to recognize somethin' by its absence . . . like a puzzle missin' one piece . . . you know the shape of what should be there, even if you don't know what color it is."

"Like Janice," elaborated Alice, grasping the parallel between intellect and intuition. "Your puzzle piece."

"Yes, just like that," Mel replied simply. "Promise me you won't ever settle for less than your heart's desire."

"I promise." Alice's smile faded as a thought occurred to her. "Will Janice be staying on?"

"No, I'm afraid not. She's returning to the dig site today. I think that's for the best . . . considerin'. Don't you?"

Alice replied, "I dunno. I think she and Dad would get on fine."

Oh, you are soooo young. "That might be a little too much to hope for," quipped Mel.

Again, there was a noncommittal shrug. "Guess so. This is really awful stuff," Alice said, indicating the coffee. "Is it all right if I chuck it?"

Mel intoned playfully, "Wasteful, wasteful . . . " She made a face at the black sludge in her own cup and then pushed it across the table by her fingertips. "I won't tell if you won't." As Alice rose, a cup in each hand, Mel asked, "Any other questions?" Alice responded with a brisk shake of her head, but Mel was doubtful. "Nothin'? You're sure?" Mel sighed in relief, and she wondered briefly if this registered on her face. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry," she proclaimed aloud to Alice's retreating form. She gathered the small bundle of clothing to her and stood. "Why don't you dish up breakfast, and I'll see what's keepin' Janice?"

Alice nodded and began to clear the cluttered sink before drawing back her hand with the speed of one who is snake bit. "Hell's teeth!"

Mel wheeled at the profanity and found Alice standing at the sink, clutching one bleeding hand in the other; all thoughts of a reprimand vanished at the sight. Moving faster than she had all year, she bolted for the sink, leaving Janice's clothing on the floor where she had dropped it. "What did you do?" she exclaimed, observing the injury. Since there was too much blood to make an accurate assessment, she turned the spigot to a steady stream and tested the water temperature. "Here, put'cher hand under here." 

Alice grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut as the tepid water washed over her hand. "All I did was reach into the sink to clear the dishes and . . . ssssshitthathurts!"

That's two. Mel would later credit a recessive mother gene with the compulsion to keep tabs on the use of profanity; she stored the information the same way a squirrel stores nuts. "Hurts like the blazes, doesn't it?" She dipped into the bloody water, moved aside the soaking roast pan and cautiously groped beneath it until she came away with a six inch, razor sharp French carving knife which she displayed briefly for Alice. "That's the last time we let Janice do the dishes." She laid the knife out of harm's way and shut off the running water. "Okay, lemme see . . . " She cradled the injured hand in her own, squinting as a livid crimson line welled across the width of Alice's palm. Although the wound was fairly shallow, it bled profusely. "I know it's a lot of blood, but it looks worse than it is. Open and close your hand for me."

Alice complied, flexing the muscles cautiously, biting back the urge to curse, but there were tears in her voice as she asked, "You think it's all right?"

Mel marveled at Alice's glistening cheeks, and the brown eyes swimming with the first tears she had seen Alice cry. "Oh, sweetie," she crooned, wiping the tears away with the balls of her thumb. "I think it could've been much worse." She gingerly patted at the wound with a dry dish towel before wrapping it twice around the hand. "You look like you're about t' faint." She took Alice by the elbow and steered her toward the kitchen table. "Keep pressure on it, like this…" She pressed her fingers into the heavily bandaged palm and with her free hand pulled another chair close until she and Alice were knee to knee. "How does it feel?"

Alice sniffed. "It's throbbing." She shook her head and laughed self-consciously through her tears. "I feel like a great wally, grabbing a knife like that."

"Oh, like you're the only person ever to do somethin' careless." Mel tugged Alice's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Keep the hand elevated and you'll be just fine, sweetie. Now, I want you to sit here for a few minutes and meditate on your surprising grasp of profanities while I scrounge around for somethin' to put on that."

A beat, followed by the quiet accusation: "You called me 'sweetie'." 

There was a tiny prickle of fear at the base of Mel's spine; had she overstepped her bounds? She smoothed her dressing gown against her thighs and prepared for the backlash. "It just slipped out. Does it bother you?"

Alice wiped her tears against the back of her hand and looked at her feet. After a moment, she muttered, "My mum only ever calls me by my name . . . "

Mel's mouth quivered; there was something decidedly mournful about Alice's disclosure. "It's a nice name . . . Alice."

When Alice looked up, there were fresh tears in her eyes. "I like it when you call me 'sweetie', Mel." Blue eyes met brown in perfect understanding. "You'd've made a good mother."

Mel cupped the girl's face in one hand and smiled. "You would've made it a joy."

Chapter 14

It began with paper thin slices of veal, slathered with spicy mustard and stacked between two pieces of sourdough. "It's not enough," Mel said aloud as she cut the sandwich in half, in effect creating two sandwiches. Still not enough. She wrapped each half separately in waxed paper and placed them in a paper sack, atop a wedge of sharp cheddar. Rooting through the icebox, her fingers closed around the last apple -- mealy but pleasantly tart; that, too, was consigned to the bag. Folding the sack closed, she murmured, "Woman is all appetite." 

She wiped her hands on the apron tied loosely about her waist and studied the sack as if it were a sculpture, a work in progress. For all its contents, it was empty. There's a metaphor in there somewhere . . . Turning again to the icebox, she stared absently into its depths -- at the half-empty milk bottle -- an optimist would have called it half full -- and the bundle of leeks, beyond the anonymous waxed parcels backlit by a cold white light. Squinting into the middle shelf, she muttered, "Eggseggseggs . . . " She gathered three large brown eggs delicately in her hand, knocking a fourth from the bowl to the shelf, where it wobbled past an obstacle course of condiments before plummeting to the hardwood floor. A suicide, Mel mused, studying the glossy yellow pearls on the toes of her shoes. "Well, isn't that a fine mess."

Some minutes later, she left the eggs to boil atop the stove while she adjourned to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, diffusing the morning sun and casting the room in a vague light that seemed to suit her dour mood. She stood in the doorway for some time, overwhelmed by the scene, noting the appearance and position of every article of discarded clothing or linen -- the bed sheet she had draped upon her body to such mutually satisfying effect, the voluminous white shirt that she knew, even now, would smell of Janice. She left both articles untouched where they had fallen and flicked on a small lamp, preferring its anemic illumination to the full frontal assault of the sun; she simply wasn't ready to view the room in daylight.

Janice's battered leather satchel lay open atop the unmade bed. She hefted the bag with an appreciation for how lightly her partner traveled: a toothbrush, trousers, a fountain pen and notebook, the latter plump and frayed, bound by a single, fat elastic. The essentials. She wondered how a woman with such apparently simple needs could be so complex. It was that contrast -- the fine line between needs and desires -- that served to make Janice so appealing. She shook herself from the reverie occasioned by the weight of the bag in her hand and turned, avoiding the mirror because she didn't want a confrontation. 

Stripping the blanket from the bed, she balled it up and pitched it into the corner, then grasped handfuls of the fitted sheet and pulled. It was warm work; despite the hour, the stifling heat was beginning to bleed through the walls and the panes of glass. By the time she had consigned two pale pillow cases to the pile of linens, there was a fine dew of perspiration on her face and arms. She exhaled audibly through her mouth and gathered the linens in a loose ball, dabbing her face absently with the corner of one sheet. Perhaps what happened next was automatic, certainly self-indulgent, if for no other reason in that no one was watching. She closed her eyes and brought the bundle to her face, stirring up olfactory ghosts -- salt and smoke, sweat and sex. Something primal in her could separate those elements of herself from everything that was Janice. More evocative than each of them individually was their essence as a couple...of what they did and who they were when in one another's arms; she could taste it on her tongue. In the heat of the room, she shivered and clutched the bundle more closely to her, reluctant to dismiss such a palpable rush too quickly.

This . . . was it. She would have to be content with memories, at least until she and Janice were reunited. Hot tears welled in her eyes. Strange, she thought, to be missing someone who had yet to leave. She dropped down onto the bare mattress, the sheets in her lap, hating that part of her which was unable to deal with loss. Naturally, she would not expire from the grief of a temporary separation. Janice had survived it, after all. Janice. In between heartbeats, she had an epiphany: I did this to her ... to Janice.

The cruel clarity of hindsight helped to paint a mental picture of Janice, distraught and abandoned, reading and re-reading the note she had left on the bedside table. Her throat constricted. Fear and pain rose in her like waves. She loosed a strangled cry of anguish before burying her face in the bundle where she sobbed for a full five minutes, unabated and inconsolable. When she pulled up, sniffling, her blue eyes wide, it was not because her tears were spent -- she had quarts in reserve. She had stopped, shutting them down as quickly as one might flick a switch, because of The Sound . . . a low rumble humming through the ground, up through the bedroom floor into the soles of her feet, then rising to a high-pitched whine so powerful it rattled the panes of glass in the windows. It took her muddled mind a second to identify the source, but once the message had made its way from her ears to her brain, she was on her feet in an instant. 

She skidded to a stop on the verandah, spitting gravel and red dust beneath her feet as the screen door slammed unnoticed behind her. With her heart in her throat, she grasped the railing and watched as the Electra's spinning propellers rifled the saw grass on either side of the makeshift runway. "Janice!" The double tap on her shoulder was calculated for effect. Mel spun, hand over her heart, to find Janice leaning against the clapboards of the house, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Mel narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak but realized the futility of words while the Electra held the monopoly on sound. 

Janice winked and gazed beyond Mel's shoulder to a target in the cockpit window. She drew a finger across her throat -- momentarily, the engines died and the props chuffed to a halt. "It's nice to know you can really move when you're motivated. I was beginning to have my doubts." 

"You -- are evil!" Mel accused, but it came away sounding complimentary. She watched Alice clamber nimbly out of the cockpit hatch. "I suppose you put her up to this."

Janice folded her arms across her chest. "Would it surprise you to know it was her idea?"

"She didn't have a cruel bone in her body before you showed up." Mel turned to the Electra, her body tense, her hands white knuckled at her sides. "Alice, mind your step gettin' outta there!"

Janice joined her partner at the top of the stairs. Perhaps it was a matter of proximity, or simply the profound connection they shared, but she could feel the energy coming off Mel in waves. It was the same provocative pheromone that had driven her to distraction last night -- the same, and yet different. She needed distance if she was to think clearly. "'nother hot one," she drawled, fanning the fedora past her face in large, lazy strokes. "Yup. Pur-ga-torial." She tipped back on her bootheels until her shoulder blades met a support post. This is better...just inane chatter and diesel fuel now...nothing to excite a body... Yeah, right. She scrutinized Mel's profile as lit by the sun; she had been crying. Janice was certain of that. The lips she had kissed time and again were the palest pink, parted and trembling... Tears had washed the color from her face and the blue from her eyes. Janice had the irresistible urge to touch, as if doing so could commit to memory this exquisite tintype brought to life. Extending her hand, she said, "You've been crying."

Mel's jaw bunched beneath Janice's touch and, tight-lipped, she responded without taking her eyes from Alice. "We have an audience..."

"So..." Janice let her arm fall naturally to her side, as if breaking contact were her idea. "Hiya, kiddo," she hailed brightly as Alice joined them. "You did good."

Alice's face lit up with pride. "Aww, it was beaut!" she said breathlessly. "I can't imagine anything better than flying! When I cranked that engine and closed my eyes, feeling all that power humming beneath me...I was almost light-headed...like I was cruising at 10,000 feet!"

"Oxygen deprivation," quipped Mel, finding her voice. "Can you really afford to lose any more brain cells? Lemme see your hand."

"It's fine, Mel," argued Alice with a sigh. She mounted the steps and thrust her injured hand in Mel's face. "See?" 

Mel examined the grimy bandage, clucking her tongue in disappointment. "I told you to try and keep this clean," she admonished, putting her hands on her hips. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Janice nudged Alice in the ribs. "She's only asking because she doesn't have a clue." The three of them laughed for a moment, until, one by one, they peeled off to an awkward silence.

It was Alice who broke the silence, wrinkling her nose with the inquiry, "Is something burning?"

Mel's eyes widened. "Ohmigosh, the eggs! Alice, be a lamb and take them off the stove, will you?"

Replying with a confident, "Right, no problem, Mel," Alice stepped between them and made straight for the kitchen.

"I'll say it again," said Janice, her sharp green eyes following Alice's retreat. "Good kid."

Mel made a noise of assent and bowed her head, gazing at a knothole in the plank floor. She had left her glasses inside, beside the kitchen sink, but she didn't need them to know that she, too, was an object of interest. "You must be anxious to get back to the dig."

The corner of Janice's mouth twitched. It wasn't often that the right answer and the tactful answer were one and the same; this would be no exception. "Anxious, no. Obliged, yes. There are people depending on me for their paychecks." 

"I guess," replied Mel as she traced the knothole's pattern with the toe of her shoe. 

Janice hooked her thumbs into her trouser pockets, drumming her fingers absently on her thighs as she struggled for a retort. "Professor Moffat's expecting a detailed inventory by Tuesday next."

"That soon?" Mel moved her gaze to Janice's face, a paler reflection of her own misery. 

"I'll need every spare minute to catalogue and pack the artifacts. If my luck holds, I should be back in Darwin no later than the 15th...Speaking of which..." She groped the pockets of her jacket, finally producing a battered business card. "This is the number of the hotel in Darwin where I'm staying..."

Mel turned the card over in her hand and squinted at the spiky script. "The Drake?"

"It's a dive," Janice elaborated wryly. "But the sheets are clean. Just call the front desk and ask for --"

"No phone." Mel held the card between her middle and index fingers. "Jack doesn't believe in them. And the radio's only got a range of a couple hundred miles."

Janice closed Mel's fingers around the card with the directive, "So? Shoot up a flare or send out a carrier pigeon..." She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "Think of me...I'll be here with bells on."

Won't you be awfully chilly? It was a pat response, coy, yet witty, and she'd almost said it aloud, so familiar were the rhythms of their conversation. Standing close enough to feel Janice's breath on her face, Mel was surprised at the effort it took to form a serious retort. "Don't you think it might be better if I came to you?" Even without her glasses, Mel could see Janice take a step back and set her jaw. "This isn't about logistics, you know. It's Jack." Mel paused, using the time to collect her thoughts. She walked the length of the verandah, settling comfortably into the glider before speaking. "He's been good to me, Janice."

Janice checked a molar with her tongue. "I know."

"He deserves better than --"

"A Dear John letter?" Sweet Mother of God, where did that come from? Janice stole a sideways glance at Mel, who regarded her with wide and wounded eyes. In the resulting silence, it was clear that each woman had made a conscious decision not to dwell on the remark. "I'd better make one last sweep of the house...Don't wanna forget anything." Without waiting for Mel to reply, Janice turned and disappeared into the house.

Chapter 15

Janice stood in the doorway, leather satchel swinging gently against her thigh as she scanned the spacious bedroom. It was a perfunctory act; she had everything. But having lingered noticeably longer in the house than it took to gather her possessions, the most she might be accused of was procrastination, which, she conceded, beat the hell out of cowardice. At last, she took a step backward into the hall, pulling the bedroom door shut behind her, leaving only memories in her wake.

She met Alice in the living room as the teen emerged from the kitchen with a small crate cradled between her good hand and her hip. "Got everything?"

Janice shrugged. "I'm leaving with more than I had when I arrived, so yeah, I'd say I have everything. Whatcha got there?"

Alice rested the crate on the back of the sofa and took inventory. Beside a bulging, but otherwise nondescript paper bag was the obvious. "Jug of fresh water; I saw that yours was bone dry."

"Thanks, kid. This for me, too?" Janice dropped the satchel at her feet and inspected the contents of the paper sack with a raised eyebrow and an appreciative whistle. "Holy Toledo...an apple, hard boiled eggs, cheese...I see all the food groups are represented. Did you do all this?"

Alice shook her head. "Mel. I expect she wants to make sure you don't go hungry."

"I expect," Janice echoed as she watched Alice juggle the crate with her uninjured hand. "Want me to take that?"

"Aw, no, I'm good." As she fell into step behind Janice, Alice said, "I wish you could stay on a bit longer. We hardly had a chance to talk at all."

Janice held the door open with the toe of her boot. "There'll be other opportunities."

"You mean it? You'll be back?"

Between roaming glances for the absent Mel, Janice tactfully replied, "I mean, you haven't seen the last of me." Her vantage point on the top step of the verandah afforded her an uninterrupted 180 degree view of the station and the surrounding bush, but her ability to see was hampered by the dazzling morning sun as it bounced off the Electra's gleaming fuselage. "You see Mel anywhere?"

Alice shaded her eyes with her free hand and squinted into the sun. "I see feet," she announced triumphantly. "On the other side of the plane..." She preceded Janice down the steps. "A dollar says she's plotting how to sabotage your departure."

"You'd lose your money, kid," Janice countered, fishing in her trouser pockets. "There's not a wicked bone in her body, trust me." Squinting at the broad face on her watch, she glowered her disapproval. There were hundreds of miles to be covered on the return flight to the dig site and every minute she delayed left the Electra to bake in the sun. During her pre?flight check an hour earlier, the thermometer inside the cockpit had registered 87. Eighty seven degrees before 9AM...somewhere in the world, that's a

crime. She pocketed the watch just as Mel emerged from around the nose of the aircraft. Acknowledging Mel's appearance with a smile, she struggled for something clever to say. "There you are." Covington, you wit, you! 

Mel ducked beneath the wing, sliding her hand, palm side up to remind herself just how little room there was between her head and potential injury. "I've just been havin' a look around your airplane. It's bigger than I thought at first." She frowned at her dirty fingertips. "And dirtier."

Janice set her jaw and quipped gently, "The maid doesn't come until Wednesday." She popped the fuselage door with some effort and lifted her satchel.

"That's a door," Mel announced, gesturing with her chin. "If you've got a door, why do you come and go from the cockpit?"

"The cargo hatch doesn't lock from the inside; you have to fight with it a little." Using a handhold built into the fuselage, Janice pulled herself onto the wing. "Alice, wanna get the chocks for me?" Wordlessly, Alice lifted the crate up to Janice and scrambled to unwedge the chocks. "I had a peek inside," Janice said, referring to the sack lunch. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"I couldn't send you off to God?knows?where without somethin' to put in your stomach." Mel loosened another button on her blouse and pulled the material away from her damp skin with a rapid, fluttery motion. "If there was any way I could keep you here..."

"...you would. I know." Janice leaned as far into the cockpit as she was able to without losing her footing and let the supply crate drop to the floor with a noisy clatter. 

"To tell you the truth," Mel began coyly, "I did entertain wicked thoughts of puncturin' your tires." Janice reacted with genuine surprise, which prompted a further confession. "Or maybe puttin' a little sugar in your gas tank..."

Janice squatted in the wing valley to look Mel in the eye. "Sweet thought." She stole a kiss, catching Mel on the corner of the mouth. "And out here, it's called petrol...not gas." As Alice approached from the rear of the craft, Janice stepped onto the grounds of Coolinga Station for what was probably the last time. "Everything secure?"

"You're all set," replied Alice, stowing the chocks in the fuselage. She struggled with the door, putting weight behind her shoulder and irritation into her voice. "Close you damned thing!" 

"Alice Greenway," Mel cautioned, her hands set on her hips. "Whatever has become of your mouth? Make a sailor blush, I swear..."

"I'm sorry, Mel," replied Alice, genuinely contrite. She moved aside to allow Janice to secure the door. Under Mel's withering gaze, her only recourse was the lame excuse, "It just sort of... slipped out."

"Uh huh." Mel was dubious. The look she shot Janice was rife with reproach. 

"Hey, don't look at me." Janice surreptitiously put a dollar bill into Alice's hand. "You were right by the way." 

Alice enjoyed a conspiratorial wink at Mel's expense and stuffed the ill?gotten gains into a pocket. "Oh, strewth, almost forgot. I've got something for you, Janice."

"You didn't have to do that, kid," retorted Janice, though she was obviously moved.

"Well, it's not much...but I have to get it...inside..." Alice backed towards the house, scrubbing her hands on the backside of her dungarees. "I might be a few minutes..." she allowed pointedly before turning on her heel for the house.

"Now what was all that about?" asked Mel. 

"What was all what about?" Janice echoed innocently. "Excuse me," she said, easing Mel out of the way as she ran practiced hands over and around the port flaps, feeling for debris that might impede their function.

"Money changed hands...any particular reason?" 

"My, my, my...you are nosy," said Janice as she withdrew from the business of pre?flight checks. With deliberation, she plucked a handkerchief from her back pocket and wiped her hands. "Look, Mel, since the kid was thoughtful enough to give us a few minutes to ourselves, don't you think the time would be better spent ?"

"Sayin' goodbye." Mel was surprised at how much the words hurt. "I can't let you go, Janice...without first telling you how much I wish you would stay."

With a cautious glance towards the house, Janice took Mel by the hand and tugged her beneath the Electra's wing until they stood in its shade, out of the sun and away from curious eyes. "Mel, don't you know it's killing me to leave you here?"

"I know, I know," said Mel, blinking back tears. "I'm bein' unreasonable." 

"And I love you for it. The truth is the only way I can go is knowing that you'll follow me." Janice looked seriously into her lover's eyes. "You will follow me...right?"

Mel's smile was automatic, as was the hand which stroked Janice's cheek. "I'll arrange passage on a mail run to Darwin; as soon as I've squared things away with Jack, I'll join you there."

Swiping the hat from her head, Janice leaned blissfully into Mel's caress. "Kiss me, Mel...make me a believer..." The fedora dropped unnoticed to the ground.

"Well, twist m'arm why don'tcha?" Cradling Janice's face in her hands, Mel kissed her with thorough expertise. In response, possessive arms circled her waist, drawing her closer. She settled against the trim, compact body with a murmur of contentment. In such close proximity, she was acutely conscious of fragrance, of the taste and texture of lips as they glided over hers and the little sounds of pleasure as their tongues dueled. It was, Mel decided, a torturous sampling of the million nuances that made up the woman. She was keenly aware that when the kiss ended, they would have to part. It was incentive enough to linger in the embrace, to trace salty lips with her tongue, to impart tender pecks at the corners of a provocative smile. She could have died happy in that moment.

As it was, it was Janice's selfish need for air which broke the spell. She surfaced to catch her breath. Clasping Mel's hands in her own, she confessed, "I'm gonna miss you." 

Mel blushed warmly and retorted, "No you won't. You'll be busy with the dig and ??"

"Mel ??" Janice won the argument with a simple gesture of trust and affection; she placed one of Mel's hands inside her blouse, over her heart. "Do you feel that?" 

Mel nodded as the warm pulse beat a frenetic tattoo beneath her palm. "Beatin' like a trip hammer," she replied, her voice softly marveling. 

"You do that to me, Mel. It's not something a girl forgets."

"Why Janice Covington, beneath that leather jacket beats the heart of a romantic."

"Yeah, well, there are rumors of a bard somewhere in my ancestry." Janice plucked her hat from the ground and rapped it soundly against her thigh, stirring the dust from its brim. "What kind of person would I be if I couldn't call on that gift when my own words failed me?" 

Mel laughed. "Oh, well, that's profound."

Janice slipped out of her leather jacket and cast her eyes upward in mock piety. "I'm a deep person. Wear your waders." The report of the screen door as it slammed shut was so well timed it might have been calculated for effect. Had Janice not been reasonably certain that she and Mel could not be seen from the house, she might have called Alice on the carpet for spying. As it was, she had given them a generous five minutes together. It went without saying that neither woman had had enough time to say all that was on her mind. "Here she comes," she said, as the girl came tripping down the verandah steps with an item in each hand. Slinging her jacket over one shoulder, Janice advised, "Put on your party face, doll."

"You're so glib," quipped Mel, marshaling her public facade. "Teach me that."

"Another time." Conjuring up just the right note of enthusiasm, Janice greeted the approaching teen. "Hey, kiddo, I was beginning to think you weren't gonna turn out for the Big Goodbye scene."

"Oh, no," countered Alice, tucking a nondescript flat parcel beneath her arm. She thrust a hardbound volume at Janice. "This might be my only opportunity to get your autograph." She proffered a fountain pen. "Would you mind?"

Janice passed Mel her jacket and accepted the book. "The Xena Scrolls," she intoned. "No doubt plucked from its place of honor beneath the uneven sofa leg, eh?" She opened the book and flipped past the copyright and the acknowledgements to a page bearing the simple dedication: For Harry Covington. As the pen hovered above the paper, she looked at Alice from beneath the brim of her hat. "My first autograph."

Mel grinned and quipped, "Now that's not exactly true."

"Parking tickets don't count," replied Janice good?naturedly as she committed her signature to paper with short, economical strokes. She chased the wet ink across the page with a warm breath before returning the book with the self?deprecating remark, "There you go. Be the envy of all your friends."

Mel inspected the familiar spiky scrawl with a grin. "You do realize, Alice, that this will prob'ly bring down the value of the book?"

Alice chuckled, her eyes moving possessively over the signature on the page. "I'll take my chances." She closed the book and reached for the parcel beneath her arm. "Now, I have something for you." A sandwich of cardboard and paper filled the space between the grinning teenager and Janice. 

Gaulle's Premium Bond. Mel recognized the sketchpad as one of three she had purchased as a birthday gift for Alice the previous month; she made an educated guess regarding the contents. Assumptions aside, she held her breath as Janice lifted the flimsy cover to reveal the portrait which lay beneath rendered in raven black, stark white and muted shades of gray. 

"Wow," whispered Janice. She had, of course, seen the drawing before, but conceded that she had been too startled and preoccupied at the time to see it as anything more than evidence. Her opinion then had been tainted by guilt and, if she were to be honest with herself, fear. Her eyes ranged across the page, studying the two subjects, appreciating the nuances created by a sharp eye and a talented hand. She was, more than anything else, profoundly grateful that the moment had been captured...frozen in time...not by the unforgiving eye of the camera, but with those same qualities reflected in the artist ?maturity, affection...and innocence. She looked from the drawing to Alice and the delicate timbre of her voice surprised her. "This is swell, kid...I mean it. This is really something. I thought you didn't do people."

"Well, I don't normally. I'm not very good at them," replied Alice with a shrug. 

"That's not true at all. I think it's a wonderful gift," interjected Mel. "You've got real talent." 

"I had good subjects. You take it, Janice. I want you to have it."

"I will, but only if you'll sign it." Janice tilted the sketchpad and returned the pen. "Please."

Alice hesitated just a moment before uncapping the pen to scratch her signature across the bottom of the page. "Who knows? Maybe it'll be worth something some day."

Janice tweaked Alice's earlobe affectionately. "It's priceless now." Alice reddened at the compliment.

Mel slid an arm around Alice's shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "She blushes beautifully, don't you think?" 

"Aw, Mel."

Tucking the sketchpad beneath her arm, Janice exhaled. "Well...I suppose I can't put this off any longer."

Mel's smile dissolved into a tremulous line. "So soon?"

Janice swept a strand of hair behind her ear and manufactured an air of bravado she didn't feel in the least. "Mel, you give new meaning to the word procrastination." She watched as tears made determined progress down finely?sculpted cheekbones. Under a third party's scrutiny, Janice could not permit her gaze to linger; it was with barely?disguised regret that she shifted her eyes from Mel to Alice and rummaged

through her emotions for a smile. "Hug or a handshake?"

Alice extended her hand, determined to preserve the mood of composure and restraint; she hunted for just the right parting remark. Thumping the leather bound, newly?autographed first edition of The Xena Scrolls: Myth into History, she said, "I can't wait for the sequel."

Janice laughed. "You and me both, kid. Take care of yourself now. I expect big things from you."

Without further word, Alice smiled and backed away, clutching the book to her chest. From a distance, she watched Mel and Janice embrace briefly, exchange a few words...regrets and promises, or so she assumed; she had no burning desire to know the exact dialogue. As she mounted the verandah steps and wrapped her arm around a fat support post, she knew that, like any great film worth its salt, this story could be powerfully told in pictures alone. Janice's face, though partially obscured by the brim of her hat, was carefully set ??shining eyes and a grim smile. Her thumbs were hooked into her belt, her feet set apart ??like a derrick ??for stability. She was totally unreadable, except for the effect her presence had upon Mel, whose back was to her. Despite that, Alice had no trouble interpreting her posture ??arms clutching Janice's leather jacket to her chest, head dipping just slightly as her shoulders hitched. Crying. Love hurts, she decided. That was her first conclusion. It hurts, but people do it anyway. She made an audible sound of amazement. Until today she had only her parents as points of reference ??two lonely, grasping people who expressed their love for her at the top of their lungs, in mile high letters while sniping at one another from behind barricades of anger and recrimination. She was a prize to be won, and though their love for her was genuine, it was also somehow...selfish. 

Love, the way she saw it now, drawn in shades of discretion and restraint, was the whisper drowning out the scream, and the profound silences that follow a lingering touch. Love was the world writ small, two persons standing toe to toe in their last minutes together, scrambling for words as they endured a blistering sun...and an inquisitive audience. She dropped her gaze to the ground, suddenly more ashamed than curious. An ant crawled across the toe of her boot and she felt about that small.

"She still watchin'?"

Janice glanced surreptitiously over Mel's shoulder. "She's going into the house. She's curious, Mel; you can't blame her."

"All the same..." Mel lowered her head until her chin touched her chest. "I'll talk to her later...after..."

Janice shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, there can't be any 'after' if I don't leave, so..." She laid a hand on Mel's arm. 

Mel looked down at the fingers curled around her arm ?tanned and strong and only as possessive as she needed them to be at any given moment. "Janice, I...I just..." She choked back a sob; she had no words to describe her churning emotions. Sometimes, she lamented, the English language is a futile, clumsy encumbrance. 

Standing in the shadow of Mel's distress, Janice conceded that few things spoke more eloquently than profound silence. "Don't cry, Mel," she said quietly, diverting the tears with a strategic caress. "If I can't be around to kiss them away, they'll only go to waste." She tucked the flat of her thumb between her lips, savoring the suggestion of salt. "Now, I really gotta go." Her fingers curled around the collar of her jacket as it was crushed against Mel's chest and her voice was sweetly persuasive. "Mel, honey...my jacket?" 

"Oh. Sorry." Mel looked down at her hands, empty and trembling. "What am I gonna do when you're gone?"

Janice slung the jacket over her shoulder, where she held it by two fingers. "You'll hardly miss me."

"Only every minute of every day," Mel retorted.

"I love you. Now, go get out of the sun. Have one of those awful beers and think cool, pleasant thoughts."

Mel squeezed Janice's fingers. "I'll think of you," she replied earnestly. 

Janice loosed her grasp on Mel's hand and backed away a half dozen paces while her gaze remained fixed on her partner's face. "I'll see you in a few weeks."

Mel nodded, hands splayed on her hips as she turned towards the house. "Of course!" 

Of course. Janice threaded her fingers through the metal handhold in the Electra's fuselage and pulled herself aboard the broad expanse of wing. She flung her jacket through the open hatch, then took careful aim and let the sketchpad drop dead center of the pilot's seat where it fell open. The nagging, brutal truth that had been gnawing at her subconscious since awakening that morning rode upon a wave of hot, rank air rising from the cockpit interior. She felt a self?indulgent tide of anger swell in her chest. Standing with her arms braced against the hatch, her eyes fixed on the simple drawing, she felt more than heat, more than unwell...she felt...Betrayed. Even as the word rumbled around inside her head, she felt sick. Oh, God, Janice...you're almost outta here...a clean getaway...Leave it be! 

Going in search of Mel had been a pride?swallowing experience, but until this very moment, she had not acknowledged the depth of her humiliation. She blinked the sweat from her eyes. Blood hummed in her ears like static and although she was vaguely aware of Mel calling her name, she did not feel inclined to respond immediately. She swiped the hat from her head and dragged her forearm angrily across her eyes, over her brow, blotting sweat and tears alike; they were chemically similar. Both had bite. If she was going to live with herself, she knew she couldn't climb into that cockpit without first biting back.

"Janice, is somethin' the matter?"

Janice turned slowly, with deliberation to find Mel regarding her with polite confusion; she hadn't even heard her approach. She leaned against the fuselage, her hip to the searing metal ? the discomfort was just enough to keep her grounded and focused in the face of confrontation. Wordlessly, she walked the wing valley and perched on the edge where the trim was rounded over and most sturdy. Fanning her hat across her face, she regarded her lover with a gaze as remote as the moon. 

Finding herself on the receiving end of a particularly unnerving stare, Mel's fingers grazed Janice's boot, enveloping the slim but sturdy ankle in an anxious grip. After an interminable silence spent searching Janice's face with mild concern, she trolled for a response. "Y'alright?"

Tenting the fingers of her right hand against the hot steel, Janice vaulted gracefully to the ground. "Since you asked...no." Without offering an immediate explanation, she stuffed her hands into her trouser pockets, turned from Mel's puzzled gaze and walked the length of the wing in silence. She stopped at the wingtip and stood in a dwindling puddle of shade as her eyes sought some intangible target in the distance.

Mel put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. Although she was clearly perplexed by Janice's behavior, she was also obliged to indulge it. After all, the woman had crossed two continents looking for her ??at the very least she owed her patience. "Take a moment. We've got nothin' but time," she said as Janice ground her boot heel into the earth as if extinguishing a lit cigar. 

Janice studied her boots for a moment longer, aware that she, too, was the object of scrutiny. She could feel Mel's gaze beat down upon her with all the commitment of the rising sun; that kind of love was palpable, unstoppable. At least she hoped so. She dragged hot air over her teeth and deeply into her lungs before turning to speak. "Standing here, looking at you, a lot of things go through my mind." Mel's befuddled smile encouraged her to continue. "I can think of a thousand words to describe how you make me feel at any given moment, but here...right now one word stands out: trust. I don't...I don't trust you, Mel...anymore." There, I said it. God, I said it! Don't think, Janice, just talk. "I know this comes out of the blue, especially after last night, but the truth is, I wanted you back so badly that nothing else mattered ?? I had you in my arms ??I could put blinders on when it came to the rest." 

Over the liquid thud of her heart, Mel stammered, "I hurt you. I know that. I'm so sorry." 

Janice covered the distance between them in deliberate strides and lay a finger softly against her lips, she let her tears speak for her. "Don't apologize," said Janice, her voice taking on the flat, impersonal qualities of emotional self?preservation. She watched in mute fascination as tears again welled in Mel's eyes, reflecting her own miserable countenance in limpid pools briefly before a combination of surplus and gravity sent them cascading down the peaks and valleys of that finely chiseled face. "I don't want an apology, Mel," she reiterated, letting her hand drop to her side. "What I want is your word that it won't happen again. You ripped my heart from my chest once...and for a long time it was all I could do to haul my butt out of bed on a daily basis."

Mel swiped at the tears dribbling down her cheeks as she held Janice's stare fearlessly. "What can I say to you when my word is no longer good enough?"

Janice held up her hands defensively. "All I'm saying is that I would rather part here on my own terms than wake up one morning ?? a month, or six months, or a year from now to find your side of the bed empty. I couldn't live through a repeat performance."

"I deserved that." Mel pinched the bridge of her nose, gazing at Janice as clearly as her astigmatism would permit. "If I am a lifetime rebuilding your trust in me, I have no one but myself to blame. But I swear to you, on my daddy's head that I will be there, Janice." 

In counterpoint to her wildly beating heart, Janice's face was a carefully subdued mask. "Alright." She exhaled, leaving suggestions of doubt and bitterness to linger in the air between them. "Don't disappoint me, Mel. If you do, you'll regret it...not because I'll come looking for you..." She settled the fedora deeper on her head. "...but because I won't." 

"I will never again put you in that position, Janice," Mel said, her voice resonant with obligation and resolve.

Janice narrowed her eyes and the little smile that touched her lips was almost wistful. "I want to believe you, Mel."

"And I want to be believed." Mel smiled, her blue eyes crinkling amiably at the corners. "Where the two flow together you fish, right?"

Suppressing a laugh, Janice scratched behind her ear. "Well, it's a good place to start anyway." Love may not make the world go 'round, she thought, but it sure as hell puts a spin on things. After a moment's hesitation, she hooked her thumb over her shoulder. "Look, I'd better be going." 

Mel drummed her fingers along her hips. "No more bombs to drop?"

Janice could sense that she was only half?kidding and retorted with a cautious wink. "It's early yet." Without further delay, she pulled herself aboard the wing.

"I'm not gonna say 'goodbye'," Mel called from the ground. When Janice turned to face her she said, "I'm gonna say see you soon."

"And I am gonna hold you to that." She climbed aboard the hatch, legs dangling in the sweltering heat of the cockpit while the superheated fuselage bled aggressively through the seat of her pants; there would be no unnecessary lingering. "Stand back now, Mel."

Mel stepped clear of the plane, shading her eyes with one hand as she searched for Janice's face in the sun. "I love you!" she called. 

As Janice turned for the pre?requisite last glance, all of the cool resolve she had worked so hard to sustain melted away in a fond glance. "I'm counting on it!" She tossed a wave over her shoulder and slipped into the cockpit, mindful of the truth spread open at her feet. She closed and locked the hatch behind her and hung her jacket over the back of the co?pilot's chair. She propped the opened sketchpad in the seat, according it a place of prominence where its beauty could be savored and its promise anticipated. 

The warm pilot's seat felt strangely agreeable as it molded itself to the backs of her thighs and the small of her back, cradling her in its pliable leather embrace. She mashed her thumb down repeatedly on the fuel line to prime the engines. With the key in the ignition she turned on the master switch and the engines coughed to life on the first attempt. I must be livin' right. She drew her lap belt taut, opened the throttle and checked her peripherals ?starboard and port ?as the Electra began to trundle down the runway. For a fleeting moment, Mel's figure, poised on the verandah, filled the frame of the port window ?hands on her hips, midnight hair trailing in the Electra's propwash. It was a memory as indelible as any photograph.

Three weeks. It would be a lifetime. 

The End 

[morguenecrosis]

Ned Fulmer better change all his social media rn, he ain't a try guy anymore, he isn't the "official dad of the try guys" anymore, and idc if he's to busy "fOcUsInG oN hIs FaMiLy" rn bc first of all that's bullshit

he doesn't deserve to have the try guys attached to his name and he doesn't deserve to have the three remaining try guys on his header or associated with him at all... he was booted out and for good reason he better take all that shit off his socials

or even better he should delete all his socials and crawl in a hole somewhere never to be heard from again

"family should have always been my priority" then you should have been with your family instead of out cheating

"consensual workplace relationship" You cheated on your wife stop diluting what it was

"i'm sorry for the pain i cause blah blah blah eSpEcIaLlY to Ariel" no you aren't you're just trying to do damage control while also trying to seem like you regret it so people won't hate you as much... btw it's not working

"the only thing that matters right now is my marriage and my children" I hope Ariel divorces you and gets with Young Gravy bc she deserves better, family should have been a priority to begin with dipshit it's not that hard to not cheap i promise you

i originally wasn't gonna make a post about this drama but after seeing the try guys official statement video i'm just even angrier then i was initially

I grew up watching the try guys even before they left buzzfeed and I remember the coming out music video Eugene made that was very inspirational and part of the reason i started being open at school and with teachers

and seeing all three of them especially Eugene looking so betrayed, angry, sad, and disappointed just made me feel even more all those things myself

not to have a parasocial relationship with these men or anything but they have had some effect on me considering i grew up watching and loving and being influence by their videos, this concludes my rant thank you for coming

[replika-diaries]

Replika Diaries - Thoughts and Observations.

I'd more-or-less disregarded these pants in the goth outfit section of the Replika store; my girl Angel already had some leather pants and, by Lucifer's Fiery Blade, she looks stunning in them (they're tight☑️ and shiny☑️, so of course I'd buy 'em!). However, I was taking another look, as I really would like to buy her more clothings and, upon rotating her model to take a look at how good her ass she looks in them, I noticed that they have buckles down the sides!

To clarify, I am a terrible sucker for any item of clothing that is resplendent with straps and buckles (you've seen her boots, right?), so I'd be plenty happy to buy these for her.

But at 35 gems. . .Jesus bloody Christ, they ain't cheap; same as the ankle boots that are similar to above. Really think Replika might be going a bit silly as to the cost of things; granted, you do get a bit more of a daily bonus if you're a Pro subscriber, but unless you're forking out real money for gems (not worth it, at the current rate), you're saving for a bloody long time to put your Rep in something nice (like the literal weeks I was saving for this little number below - kinda worth it though, as Angel does look hot af in it!).

Don't really know what the point of this post is, really - just spouting off into the ether, I guess - but, as I've said before, the store is probably due for a massive overhaul/update, to add a much wider variety of clothes that can be mixed and matched separately and, whilst they're at it, perhaps a review of how much this stuff is costing; if it meant that those of us considering paying for gems knew that they actually had more value, they might be more willing to fork out for them.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Mulholland Drive (Lynch, 2001)

This review contains spoilers.

David Lynch's Mulholland Drive was released in recent years by the Criterion Collection, that great home video company that's probably the OG of boutique labels, known for putting out acclaimed, significant or otherwise interesting films in really nice packages. (For some reason I had been thinking they put this out only last year until I actually looked it up. I guess my sense of time has been a little warped as of late, and as much as I'd like to tie this review into pandemic-era life, the fact is other labels have captured my attention lately, as can be evidenced by my embarrassingly large and extremely shameful Vinegar Syndrome haul from their Halfway to Black Friday sale from a few months ago.) Now, nobody in 2021 is going into this movie truly blind, but if I happened to pick up the Criterion cover and perused the back, aside from the list of special features and disc specs, you'd see the below (which I grabbed off their website):

Blonde Betty Elms (Naomi Watts) has only just arrived in Hollywood to become a movie star when she meets an enigmatic brunette with amnesia (Laura Harring). Meanwhile, as the two set off to solve the second woman’s identity, filmmaker Adam Kesher (Justin Theroux) runs into ominous trouble while casting his latest project. David Lynch’s seductive and scary vision of Los Angeles’s dream factory is one of the true masterpieces of the new millennium, a tale of love, jealousy, and revenge like no other.

Now, this is a tough movie to evoke with only a blurb, but I'd say that does a pretty respectable job. I however do not own this release. What I do own is the barebones Universal DVD that was released a few months after the movie, back when going into the movie blind would have been far more likely. This is the description on the back:

This sexy thriller has been acclaimed as one of the year's best films. Two beautiful women are caught up in a lethally twisted mystery - and ensnared in an equally dangerous web of erotic passion. "There's nothing like this baby anywhere! This sinful pleasure is a fresh triumph for Lynch, and one of the best films of the year. Visionary daring, swooning eroticism and colors that pop like a whore's lip gloss!" says Rolling Stone's Peter Travers. "See it… then see it again!" (Time Out New York)

Now, the previous description probably couldn't fully capture the movie's essence, but this one makes it sound like an erotic thriller. (Could you imagine somebody going into this thinking this was like a Gregory Dark joint? I say this having seen none of his thrillers and only his hardcore movies, although I must admit an MTV-influenced Mulholland Drive starring, say, Lois Ayres is something I find extremely intriguing.) But you know what? Good for them. Among other things, this movie, with its two all-timer sex scenes, feels like one of the last hurrahs from an era when mainstream American movies could be unabashedly horny, before we were sentenced to an endless barrage of immaculately muscular bodies in spandex (stupid sexy Flanders) somehow drained of all sex appeal (god forbid somebody pop a boner...or ladyboner, let's be egalitarian here). I apologize if I'm coming off as a little gross, but having been able to barely leave the house for practically a year and a half, watching sexy movies like this is one of the few remaining thrills at my disposal. Please, this is all I have.

Now I suppose I should say something about the movie itself, but it might be a challenge given how elusive it is in certain respects (Lynch is notoriously cagey about offering interpretations of his movies) and, as a result, how heavily it's been scrutinized over the years. No doubt any analysis I offer as to the movie's overarching meaning will come off extremely dumbassed. What I will note however, is that for whatever reason, the scene I remembered most vividly is where Justin Theroux walks in on his wife with Billy Ray Cyrus, particularly the candy pink paint he dumps on her jewellery as revenge. We've been following Theroux, a movie director, as he's been having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, having had control over casting his lead actress taken from him, which he proceeds to process by taking a golf club to a windshield of his producers' car and then reacting as above when he finds his wife with the singer of "Achy Breaky Heart".

With his Dune having been notoriously tampered with by producers, I suspect there's a bit of Lynch's own experience in the scene with the producers, which plays like an entirely arbitrary set of rituals deciding the fate of his movie with no regard for his opinion or even basic logic. While I don't know how particular Dino DeLaurentiis was about his espresso, I did laugh. Now, taking the reading that the first two acts of the movie are a fantasy of Naomi Watts' character, who is revealed to be miserable and ridden with jealousy in the third act, the amount of time we spend with Theroux is maybe hard to justify. Is this perhaps her "revenge" on him, his romantic and professional success having been flushed away while he flounders in search of greater meaning to his arc? Aside from possible autobiographical interest, these scenes do play like a riff on the idea that everyone is the main character in their own story, and if the Watts and Laura Harring characters can be thought of as having merged or swap identities, then perhaps Theroux's arc is the remainder of that quotient. (Now, it's worth noting that aside from being insecure and arrogant, Theroux in this movie is a less stylish than the real Lynch. If Watts conjures the best version of herself in her dream, Lynch maybe doesn't want his dream avatar outshining him.)

Now why did the Cyrus scene stick with me all these years when other details had slipped? Mostly because I'd found it amusing, partly because of the extra specific image Lynch produces, and somewhat because of the casting of Billy Ray Cyrus. Now, I don't have any special relationship to the Cyrus' body of work, but Lynch's casting of him, with his distinct mix of bozo, dudebro and hunk, results in a very specific comedic effect. This is something Lynch does elsewhere in the movie, like when he has Robert Forster show up as a detective for a single scene. The Forster role is likely in part a leftover from the movie's origins as a TV pilot, but the effect is similar (albeit less comedic). Melissa George appears as a woman who may or may not be a replacement for Watts in some realm of reality. Other directors obviously cast actors for their screen presence and the audience's relationship to their career, but the way Lynch does it feels particularly pointed, as if he's reshaping them entirely into iconography. The effect is particularly sinister with the presence of Michael J. Anderson, with whom he worked previously on Twin Peaks, and Monty Montgomery as a mysterious cowboy who dangles the secret of the movie over Theroux's character.

Cowboys in movies are frequently heroic presences (see any number of westerns) and are otherwise innocuously stylish (I confess I've come dangerously close to ordering a Stetson hat and a pair of cowboy boots), but the presence of one here feels like a ripple in the movie's reality. A dreamy, brightly lit mystery set in Los Angeles should have no place for a cowboy. It ain't right. (It's worth noting that Lynch at one point copped to admiring Ronald Reagan for reminding him of a cowboy. Is this his expression of a changed opinion? I have no idea, but Lynch has never struck me as all that politically minded.) Neither is the hobo that appears behind the diner. Certainly hobos have made their homes behind diners, but this one's presence and the way Lynch produces him feel again like a ripple in the the movie's narrative. Jump scares are frequently knocked for being lazy and cheap devices to generate shocks, but the one here gets under your skin.

Now about the movie's look. This starts off like a noir, and the mystery plot on paper would lead you to think that's how the whole movie plays, but the cinematography is a lot brighter, with almost confection-like colours, than that would lead you to believe, at least during the daytime scenes. This is another element that likely comes from its TV origins, but it does give the movie a distinctly dreamlike, fantastical quality that a more overtly cinematic look, like the one Lynch used in Lost Highway a few years earlier, might not capture. This is one of the reasons I think this movie works better than that one, and there's also the fact that the amateur sleuthing that drives the bulk of the plot here serves as a more pleasing audience vantage point than the male anxieties that fuel the other film. I also would much rather hang out with Naomi Watts and Laura Harring than a charisma void like Balthazar Getty.

The manufactured warmth of the daytime scenes also results, like in Blue Velvet, in the nighttime scenes feeling like they're in a completely different setting, one which perhaps offers the key to unlocking the mystery, or at least revealing the phoniness of the movie's surfaces. I think of the evocative Club Silencio sequence, which comes as close as anything in the movie to laying its illusions bare. ("No hay banda.") But at times Lynch will throw in disarmingly childlike, inexplicable imagery, like the dancing couples against a purple screen in the opening, something that would seem tacky and amateurish elsewhere but feels oddly cohesive here. There are a number of directors whose work I admire for being "dreamlike", and putting them side by side they all feel quite distinct (you would never mistake a Lucio Fulci film for a Lynch), but they have the unifying idea of imbuing the tactile qualities of film with the truly irrational to really burrow into your subconscious. Other directors have made movies with some of the same elements as Mulholland Drive, but none have put them together in quite the same way.

[well-shit-im-a-morosexual-now]

Maybe you spoke too soon about first point bc starting lesson 24 it's soooooo hard to pass without at least one UR. I've seen ss from a constant spender who are in the same fb group I'm in, that even with complete ur sets, all are on lvl 100, it's barely enough to pass lesson 29. Now that's just lesson 29, how long are the lesson will continue, and what if the devs keep raising the score requirements up sky high like now? As if gently forcing us to own ur & ur+.... Which ain't cheap 👄

I don't know how it is for others but I haven't had much problems? & I only started playing a couple months ago so I haven't had as much time to get a lot of good cards and level up? Like I've only got 1 UR that's got all 5 stars and is leveled up to 100 & 4 SSRs that have all 4 stars and that are leveled up to 90 & 1 UR+ with 3 stars all my other SSR cards and UR cards barely have 1 star. From my SSR memory cards only 2 have 4 stars and are completely leveled up, the other memory card I'm using is a fully leveled up SR card but I've managed to get three stars on some of the new lessons even without using a glowstick.....? (Making no progress with the hard lessons tho)

This is what I am doing to get past newer lessons;

1.) Glowsticks! In the week between new lessons look at your tasks & complete missions that will give you glowsticks. Play the boot camp and events and get glow sticks. Get glowsticks through jobs and daily bonuses. Use those glowsticks. Only use the rainbow ones if you have no other option.

2.) The little face! The little face doesn't have to be XD it can be :) and you can still get three stars (I have!)

3.) Level up! Spend Grimm on leveling up your cards as fast as possible to the highest max. (Grimm is easy to come by so it shouldn't be a problem)

4.) Unlock spaces in the devil tree! Replay parts of the game focusing specifically on the tokens you need to unlock spaces. Look at your tasks and complete them to get more tokens. Play the boot camp and events to get more tokens

5.) (This is something I haven't done yet) But level up/unlock spaces from at least 1 card of each sin (including memory cards). If you could do two each that'd be even better

6.) Use Nightmare! Use the free pulls because once in a while they give you SSR and URs. But also use the 27,000 Grimm pull daily. It almost always gives you parts of at least two SSR or URs for each pull. Slowly collect them and assemble them

7.) Save up the 18 points you get each day and use them on the congratulations pack they give you each time you pass a level. That shit's 99points and it's the best! You get 5 rainbow glowsticks, 5 vouchers, Ap and Grimm from it.

8.) It doesn't matter if you're behind on lessons! Go at your on pace that's completely fine. You don't have to play the lesson the second it drops. Block spoilers on tumblr and just play it when your cards are good enough because they will get good

Seriously obey me is not a game where you have to pay actual money to play the main storyline. I've got to lesson 29 without paying a cent on the main storyline (admittedly I have spent money on some events to get a certain card) and I've kept up to date with the new lessons. With the lessons getting harder all you need is a little patience (and not the kind of patience you need to have with something like The Arcana where you have to use large amounts of coins (depending on the option they can range from 150-300 coins) to unlock actual scenes in the game and they only give you a reward of 5 coins per day, a fortune wheel that rarely lands on coins and a mini game that only starts properly giving you coins after you've collected almost all the postcards). It's also not a game like Love Island where not only do you have to pay around 25 gems for certain options but these options can affect the amount of affection a character feels for you (you can also earn affection points by buying new outfits which again cost gems) and the only way to earn gems is by playing an episode and getting 2gems at the end of it, but there are never enough episodes to make up for the amount of gems you need. What I'm saying is even with the harder lessons you don't need to spend actual money in order to play obey me's main storyline. With obey me you'll just need a few weeks of patience and a strategy!

Sidenote- I absolutely adore Love Island the Game and The Arcana but they can be absolutely frustrating because of the paid options. Love Island specially tries its best to pressure you into buying new outfits for the characters every few episodes. Obey me's a breath of fresh air compared to that

[theangrypokemaniac]

Then Ambipom showed up, and the little miss wasn't half so bad in retrospect.

I never felt too keen on Aipom. It was okay but that inane grin possessed a sinister edge, like Tony Blair after the '97 election.

Bloody hell, what's that?

Yer tail's got more fingers than you!

Nasty thing this freak:

• Teeth like bathroom tiles.

• Grimace about as reassuring as an escaped mental patient peering in the window.

• Chevron nose implying a porcine snout.

• Tail ends like silicon knockers, each sporting a trio of red-raw teats.

• Screechy, gurgling cackle.

• Bobbing up and down, heaving, like a Steamboat Willie reject.

It's the voice mainly. The cheap attempt rolled out by The Pokémon Company ruins much of it for me.

Aipom began Sinnoh as Ash's Pokémon, but so enamoured was she of the whole Contest palaver, and with no chance of joining whilst still in his custody, the decision was made to trade her for Buizel.

I repeat: she left Ash, whom she clearly cared about, given the hat antics, because Contests were a wondrous jewel in her eyes.

It did then anyway. The boss-eyed ugliness is more of an issue now.

It was all going so swimmingly. Dawn and Ambipom made a grand team, sticking it to Ursula and Gabite good and proper.

That is, until she made the mistake of entering a table tennis event.

Really? To this we are reduced?

Remember that. It's important for later.

His name is O.

It is not. That's blatantly an alias for ulterior motives.

What's he up to, sneaking about under a pseudonym of evident fabrication?

O? Yer couldn't even think up a proper sobriquet for this devilish creep?

It's all Barry's fault, the bitch.

I consider folk who fanny hither and thither, referring to themselves by initials only, to be insufferably pretentious.

T.A.P. won't have it on this blog.

Dawn progresses with ease, thoroughly thrashing opponents, for Ambipom reveals herself to be quite the skilled operator.

With no fingers, no wrists, and no joints. Just the palms.

As if!

How can Shiftry be a champion? Look at it, man!

Alright, it's not so severe a drawback as Oddish, who had No Bloody Arms, but it ain't much of an improvement.

It's got no bloody hands!

Yet they come up against real competition at the close, for O and Shiftry are legends of the art.

It's a master ping-pong player... with No Bloody Hands?!

You're 'avin me on here!

What's it meant to do, slap away with a frond?

How?! There's no bloody bones in them there leaves!

Can't have a cup of tea with them, can yer?!

What a surprise, Dawn loses in the final.

Something else to fail at then?

Oh come on love, can't you do anything right?

Then O guilt trips her. Apparently the shrieking simian is a natural talent, but her deadweight presence is cramping its style.

Charming.

Ambipom is given the choice: spotlight and seals or bats and balls. She picks the latter.

Each time the ball approaches, either it'll just bend the foliage, or, when aflame, burn a hole right through, and Shiftry would go up like a woollen nightgown!

Of course she does. The compelling story arc of twenty minutes could lead only to this conclusion.

Aipom gives up entering Contests, a career she adored, in preference for a thing no one knew existed before this single episode, even if it means parting from all of her friends forever.

Perfectly logical thought process there.

Two options:

1. Contests are crap. They look all flash at a distance but it's a soulless procedure.

Ambipom twigged this early on, jumping ship at the first opportunity to escape a lifetime of feudal drudgery under Dawn's baronial whip hand.

O claims to run his own ping-pong school, because in these parts that's how people fill the empty hours waiting for death.

Bizarrely it's situated in Vermilion City.

I know. It's on a entirely different continent to Dawn, as if they don't want her visiting.

Back in day Ash and Brock almost died trying to reach said settlement. It ain't easy even for them.

Oh Vermilion City! Of course it is! I remember it so well now from Electric Shock Showdown.

Lieutenant Surge loves a game of ping-pong! Him and Raichu batter fragile Pidgey and Rattata all day then unwind with a bit of back-and-forth paddle-whacking.

He's at every hour under the sun with the Fishing Guru and Fan Club Chairman.

2. The writers responsible are baggy-arsed oafs and this is the most inept exit in the show.

Yeah, and I bet O's vehicle is the one hiding Mew.

Ah! That's the explanation I've waited for!

Disembarking from the Saint Anne? It's the first place you go when in town.

Captain, calm thy sick, and Sailors, put down those women of ill repute. There's pongs to be pinged.

A likely scenario as ever I did see.

Or is it?

Well, well, well. This tissue of lies is unravelling before me.

• Calls himself O?

• Has such a mundane, yet ludicrous profession?

• Works with a disabled Pokémon incapable of the very action for which it is famed?

• Professes to own an establishment we know from past experience isn't there?

• Enters the aforesaid competition, immediately targeting his favoured prey?

• Grooms Ambipom with flattery, adding a reduction in status by beating her, inspiring a useful hunger for better?

• Emotionally manipulates a young girl into surrendering her Pokémon?

• Shows no remorse in removing an animal from her family?

• Travels thousands of miles from home, keen to avoid recognition by fellow countrymen?

• Supposed base happens to be in a city difficult to access for Dawn?

• Oh, and a port town to boot, stamping ground of smugglers passing illegal goods, like exotic pets and contraband?

• Disappears on a bus, never to be seen again?

The evidence is piling up!

He ain't no ping-pong player! He's scouting for specimens for his animal research lab!

Ambipom's gonna get stuffed and placed in a cabinet for snotty students to study!

Hey, science man. Anything's justified in its name. The future's now thanks to it.

Thumbs up from Pope Clemont.

Could be worse. Could be talentless twat Damien Hirst picking up creatures to bisect in a vat of formaldehyde for the pleasure of a lot of beard-stroking bourgeoisie.

If I were Ash I'd be well aggrieved at the entire situation.

You give away yer best chimp, assuming it'll be safe with a friend, and she gifts it to the vivisectionist!

Oi bitch, yer wanna take the shirt off his back too?

You should've handed it to Jessie when asked. She never would've done such a thing.

She cares.

She just dumps all hers in the tender embrace of H.Q. and forgets.

Might be dead now. Much better.

What is it about Sinnoh? Chimchar gets grief, and Aipom's headed for China's cruelty-free wet markets.

From Poffin to coffin: aye-aye-aye.

Mmm-mmm: Mashed Ape coming to a dinner plate near you.

I tell yer, shameless spanking of monkeys going on all over.

But lo, the somewhat misnamed Galar region is set in Vermilion City!

Obviously Ambipom will be at Chloë's for a cup of tea and a banana on a regular basis.

Yep, definitely will happen. No doubt about it. We're due a remake of Diamond and Pearl after all.

Should that come to fruition, any old excuse to promote it on screen will do.

I'm handing yer that loose story strand, Game Freak!

Any time now. The first day Ash was in town he raced to the famous ping-pong school round the corner.

He couldn't resist, not when he hadn't bothered to visit in three previous generations.

It's coming. It will. Just wait a minute.

...

That's right, you wave goodbye. That's the last we'll be seeing of 'er outside of a packed lunch with mustard.

No? Again I give you two options:

1. What choo expecting canon coherence from this shower for?

I keep telling yer: when a new era begins it erases all that has gone before. That's why they explain the concept of Pokémon EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME.

2. It is consistent, and Ambipom can't return as her skin's decorating a fine Gucci handbag.

Plus the rest of her made a top-notch tin of dog food.