#i don know shit about ferns

[lupinus-bicolor]

you want some uhhhh ferns??? some ferns with a lil sweet pea in the middle???? some fucignk f erns?

[jolynej]

may i ask some hc's for a bisexual artist reader dating bruno, giorno and doppio? 🥺 👉👈 (bonus: reader gets to flip off/ smack diabolo for interrupting dates lol) - 🎨

yes! sorry it took so long, honey! this was really fun to write!! hope you enjoy, bby!!

all characters are 20+ in this piece!

CW: implied nsfw, a curse word in Doppio’s part

• Immensely impressed with your artistic and creative capabilities, no matter your preferred medium. Each time that you present him with a finished copy of your work, his cerulean eyes light up, and his amber lips tug up to reveal a proud, dazzling smile. He gets worried that some of his compliments may sound repetitive, so he has developed a habit of commenting on and praising the most random aspects of your work. From anyone else it’d be odd to hear about that ‘handsome shade of green’ or the ‘fascinatingly sexy technique’ you used, but it’s Bruno, and you wouldn’t expect anything less

•If you’ll indulge him, he’s a big fan of sitting back and watching you work. Full warning though — those odd comments of his are in full abundance! The man truly hangs on to everything that you do and is very anticipatory of how your piece will turn out. But he is far from overbearing. He knows how bothersome it can be to have someone hovering over your shoulder, and he makes sure to allow you to have more than enough breathing room and space to work

•On special occasions such as anniversaries or your birthday — or even just on a random Tuesday, the man just loves surprising you, let’s be real — he’ll gift you art supplies. From brushes to paints, to art programs and aprons, Bruno has given you an array of art-related items. The moment you say that you’re eyeing something in particular or are running low on a particular supply, he mentally catalogues that information away for later

•100% into paint and sips! He signed you up for one as a date idea, and he found out that he really enjoyed himself. It’s a fun way for him to loosen up, relax, try something new, and to, of course, spend time with the person he loves most. He’s a bit of a giggly drunk, and he has definitely made you, and some other angry patrons, mess up due to his loud gasps and snorts and wheezes that he makes because he made such a silly little dolphin, wheeee!!

•Bruno offers to model for you — nude, if you don’t mind certain things popping up. He acts all suave and nonchalant when he proposes the idea, but when it comes down to the actual event of him posing on an ivory-colored sheet draped over a chaise lounge with one hand propping up his head and the other sat upon his thigh, he’s trying everything he can to keep himself from getting turned on. But there is something about the distinct way in which your eyes are narrowed in pure concentration, because of him, that gets him going

•He’s a good critic — he’s fair and offers constructive criticism but is never harsh nor rude, plus, he’s quick to remind you that he knows next to nothing about art and what exactly goes into the creation of your pieces, so he tells you to take his suggestions with a grain of salt, it’s just his way of trying to get you to challenge yourself and achieve even great heights! Still, Giorno always finds something in your latest piece that he admires, and his compliments are always very genuine

•Definitely hangs your work up in his office and whenever someone comments on the work or asks who the artist is, he just smirks and says in a knowing, smug tone that he’s intimately familiar with their other work and that he’s grateful for the exclusive access that his position as don has given him. Whether or not the innuendo is lost or not on the other party is solely dependent on their own inference

•Giorno will absolutely surprise you with your own art studio and/or gallery to display your pieces. While the actual work and planning that went into this took months of proper organizing and hours of him touring different venues to search for the perfect place, the don makes it seem so nonchalant and casual when he calls you out of the blue to tell you to meet him at ‘x address’ at 6:00 PM sharp for your birthday present

•If you have any plants in your works, then he may surprise you with a fresh cut flower or fern or even a potted sapling, depending on the specific species of flora that was featured in your piece. Don’t be shocked to find a vase of roses or hydrangeas or forget-me-nots, or any flower for that matter, on your kitchen counter when you come home from work. He leaves a handwritten note in gorgeous cursive that says something sappy along the lines of ‘I hope this bouquet blooms new inspiration, amore’

•Much like Bruno, he’ll be happy to model for you, and he’ll have no qualms about doing so nude, if you ask, but he probably won’t bring it up otherwise. He’s very patient and does a great job staying still for you, and he will also create a few spontaneous vines and blossoms to better accentuate his chiseled features, stringing the delicate petals through his golden hair and dotting a few at his feet

•Since the boss has him traveling all over, he’ll commission a small self-portrait of you to keep with him when he’s away. He’ll ask for a new picture every few months, which he explains is because he wants to keep up with your change in appearance, be it a new hairstyle/color, new glasses, a new piece of jewelry that he adores on you, etc... but honestly, he just wants to have as many pictures of you as he can — you’re just too lovely!

•Doppio brings up making one of those giant canvas pieces where you both cover yourselves in paint and make love on the canvas together. He had overheard Squalo and Tiziano discussing it one day, and he immediately found himself torn between whether you’d look cuter in pink or blue paint — or both. Doppio would love to sit and have his portrait painted; but alas, that wouldn’t go over well at all with the boss, so this, to him, is the next best thing! Plus! It’s a testament to the love that you both share, and no one has to know how it was made!

•During his travels, he’ll visit little gift shops and will mail back postcards that feature the work of local artists or photos of the scenery or native wildlife. He writes you a cute ‘I miss you’ letter and signs it with a tiny doodle, a heart, and in cursive he ends the note with a simple but intimate ‘your Doppio’ You should plan on making a scrapbook one of these days due to the amount of postcards that you’ve received over the years!

•You have a date night where you both paint along with an episode of Bob Ross, and to put it kindly, Doppio’s painting ends up on the fridge and not on your living room wall, but he’s still proud of himself, considering it’s his first time painting. A few days later, Diavolo walks by the refrigerator one day and asks you why ‘that tasteless shit’ is on display, causing you to scowl and smack him clean across his disgusted face

“Ah, tesoro...” Doppio winces, rubbing his cheek, red and hot from the impact of your harsh slap. “Why does my face hurt?”

[daydreamed-snippets]

Part One Part Two

Personnel in crisp cream uniforms walked the brightly lit hallway with a purpose; either conversing with each other, gazing at datapads, or rushing off to who knows where. Supervillain nodded to some in passing; taking the time to pause with others. Sidekick squeezed in closer, stepping on the back of their boots, grazing their shoulder against supervillain’s arm in a pathetic endeavor to just hide. No one warned them about the trepidation that tugged at their soul, nor did anyone prepare them for the general neurosis of it all. The lights overhead strained their eyes, and the cloister of people moved like an insect hive, an incursion on their senses. They could feel a headache forming. Their various cuts and scrapes burned. Their knees hurt too, body still twitching from electrocution.

And they were all staring at them.

Keeping their head lowered, eyes affixed elsewhere, sidekick could still see all of them through their peripheral. Supervillain’s ‘team’ consisted of far more people than the association originally thought. They tensed as each gaze befell them; probably taking in their tattered costume, unkempt hair, and the collar around their neck.

Eyes curious, judging, questioning.

Shame itched at the back of their neck, screaming to be scratched, but they kept their hands in front of them where they could be easily seen. At least the supervillain wasn’t parading them around, so there was that. The leash was lax and discrete enough so long as sidekick didn’t resist.

But who were they to resist now? They were powerless. It was done and over. Supervillain won. Teammates had no idea where they were if they were even looking for them at this point.

Cramming their eyes shut, they tried to hold onto those little ribbons of faith that gleamed at them through this emblematic darkness. Usefulness dictated importance, which in the Hero’s Association meant a role working with the team. Here it would be no doubt ensure their survival. Usefulness drawing the line between life and death.

They wanted to live, but being of use to the enemy churned their stomach. Policy made no room for turncoats. An informant maybe, but they had no mercy for traitors.

So be an informant.

What was the layout here? What were the dimensions of this hallway? How many doors did they pass? Count the number of people, sidekick. Gather information, no matter how scant. Be docile to the enemy, but pragmatic to the team.

Sixteen. They already passed sixteen people. Good. The Hero’s Association would see just how useful they were once teammates rescue them out of this sterilized hellhole. They will rescue them.

Sidekick bumped into supervillain again, a warm, solid presence, and supervillain turned, looking down. “I’ll let you hold your leash, puppy, if that would make you feel better. At any rate, you keep stepping on me and I don’t want my boot scuffed." They made a motion of unwinding the wire from their wrist and handing it over. But when sidekick moved to take it, the supervillain drew back. "But remember,” they said, voice holding a dark promise. “If you choose to bolt know that I have hundreds of people under my command in this annex alone.”

Sidekick gulped.

Hundreds? Hundreds? So this wasn’t just an assortment of random villains and a handful of henchmen? This was an organization in of itself. One that could rival the Hero’s Association.

Holy shit.

In dismay, sidekick nodded numbly and the wire was placed in their hands. They murmured a thank you before realizing it, and the supervillain started again, sidekick stumbling to follow.

Let it be knowledge to tuck away at a later time. No matter how small, knowledge always proves to be advantageous.

They walked a few more meters and when supervillain stopped again. This time sidekick followed suit keeping a healthy distance between them, shuffling a bit, and looking dubiously at supervillain. They keyed something in a pad—out of sight—and a door swished open.

Their breath caught and, sidekick raised their chin. Here was their cell. They’d probably rot in here, or spend a majority of their time recovering from torture and wondering when their next session would begin.

Hope against hope, they wished it would be clean at least. Were they ever? The association gave no indication on cell parameters, or any information really save for the unpleasantness of it all. Sidekick wasn't delicate but they were averse to pain in general. They were told it made for a bad hero.

Sidekick hesitated, realizing that they should say something smarting. Brave. What would teammates say if they were in this situation? Something wisecracking and sarcastic. But then again, whenever sidekick opened their mouth the supervillain always had some observant retort. Something comment to off-balance them, and set them on their toes.

They opened their mouth anyway.

A hand on the small of their back maneuvered them through the threshold.

Supervillain stepped in as well, and the door slipped back sealing shut, leaving them in complete darkness. Walking past them, their captor roused a computer interface with a verbal command, and the area rustled to life.

Sidekick’s eyes widened at the sight.

This wasn’t a cell. These weren’t even quarters. This was a well-furnished apartment with a full kitchen, dining room, and living area. A hallway split off to their right, where sidekick assumed the bathroom and bedroom lay. No windows, but large light therapy lamps joined regular ones behind traditional furniture and on end tables. A sudden contrast to the hard lines and surfaces of the garrison hallways, an apparent appeal to a softer aesthetic.

What the?

“It’s late,” supervillain called making their rounds, checking on something sidekick was unaware of in the adjacent room. “You will take a shower, and have something to eat before settling in for the night.” Their words held no room for argument.

What kind of game was this? Sidekick leaned back against the door willing for it to open. Policy stated all enemies would treat captors roughly. That they would have no regard for their corporeal needs. Unless this was all a ruse. To get sidekick to trust them, to get them to join the supervillain’s team.

"Don't worry, your collar won't zap you if it gets wet. Medic isn't that sadistic. Not without permission." They came back into the room, eyes sliding back to sidekick with a hidden glint. “I could always bathe you myself, puppy…”

Ducking their head, sidekick shook it vigorously at supervillain’s knowing chuckle. Directing them down the hall, supervillain steered them towards the bathroom: a single shower, sink, and toilet. Newly cleaned. Immaculately decorated. They turned on the shower, showed sidekick how to adjust the temperate then left after unknotting the wire, unleashing their collar. The door remained propped open, a subtle warning not to close it.

A glance down the hallway to assure themselves that the supervillain had indeed left, sidekick shed their costume, tearing a bigger hole in the sleeve in their haste to behind obscure glass and out of the open. Granted, it wasn't like there was much preventing supervillain from entering again.

Still, they glanced back before quickly stepped into the shower, relishing the hot water on their stiff muscles. Blood and grime pooled on the tile floor, circling the drain. It shouldn't have surprised them how much there was. The team called them in to act as a diversion as much as an escape route. Sidekick was hit, but not hard as the wires spread paper-thin cuts along their arms and legs. It was not really that bad if you compared it to broken bones and missing limbs.

It stung like hell though.

The only soap available was one held in a dark grey bottle. Uncapping it, the scent of muted fern and something like vanilla filled their sinuses. Fresh. Admittedly soothing. Bringing it to a good lather, they quickly scrubbed themselves, breathing in the aroma more and more until it clicked. This was the supervillain’s scent they were covering themselves in. In fact, everything smelled like this. Everything in this part of the garrison smelled like it the moment sidekick stepped into the room.

It was maddening.

It was intoxicating.

Sidekick finished up quickly, shutting off the valve, and stepped out, wrapping a towel hanging on a large ring around themselves. It shouldn’t be intoxicating. It should be revolting, or at least off-putting.

Their costume was missing, they soon realized a little too late. In its place a crisp cream uniform, the same as the ones they’d seen everyone else don. Supervillain did sneak in when they were showering, probably when their back was turned. Color filled their face again, as they caught the reflection of themselves in the mirror. Neck red from maltreatment, and a bit too pale.

Taking no chances for their captor to return, and truly appreciate the view, they pulled on the uniform quickly, combed fingers through their shoulder-length hair, and called it a day. What did it matter how they appeared? They couldn’t go home. The team abandoned them, and the supervillain was being… odd. Nothing mattered and all the rules were bent.

They padded out and took a seat in the dining area where a chair had been pulled out for them.

“This will be soft on your stomach,” supervillain said, placing a plate before them before easing into the other chair. “I don’t want you vomiting on my carpet, puppy.”

“I don’t—” sidekick glanced up, searching the plains of their sharp face. The circles under the supervillain's eyes were more than noticeable, in the temperate light they were etched in stone. Supervillain made a noise for them to continue. “I don’t like being called puppy.”

“Give me your real name, and if I like it better than puppy, I’ll stop.”

Their already clenched jaw ground tighter; a compromise they were unwilling to make. Picking up the spoon, supervillain held it aloft, food tucked neatly on it, and directed it to sidekick’s lips. “I need you to eat puppy, so I can go to bed. I don’t want to your pathetic mewling in the night.”

Sidekick’s teeth ground together.

“Have you ever used your portals to injure anyone?” The change in subject was sudden, and sidekick’s lips slackened. “Have you ever cut someone in half before, or even just a limb?” Sidekick looked away, nervous fingers playing with their sleeve. They couldn’t help but tremble. The answer was a resounding no, but they be damned to articulate it.

“Have you ever killed anyone with your portals?” The question brought the sidekick’s attention back, and they tried to fix the supervillain with a dead stare.

They should have known by now it was impossible to win a battle of wills when they looked into the supervillain’s eyes. There was a darkness there so deep, it moved. It took shape. Haunting. Plotting. Sidekick could practically see the desire to devour them completely reflected in those stirring pools.

“I’ll take your silence as a no,” they said evenly, after a beat. “Have you been given combat training?”

Yes, the basics, sidekick thought, but nothing which could defend against a supervillain.

“Have they given you any training besides making you housebroken?”

“I’m not—!” The opportunity supervillain had been waiting for came, and they shoved the spoonful into sidekick’s mouth with a look that dared them to spit it out. They chew slowly, stomach in knots but it was good.

“Let me guess, you’re not a dog,” supervillain supplied lazily. “Eat.”

“I have had training. In multiple areas,” they picked up the spoon with a shaky hand, stomach rumbling. “But I’m not going to answer your questions. If captured, policy states that I am not to give out anything besides my affiliation to the Hero’s Association. I am not going to give you any information," they let out a shaky breath, a spoonful of food in their cheeks, "not even under extreme coercion. Teammates would never forgive me, and the Hero's Association has a zero-tolerance policy."

“What kind of ‘heroes’ organization punishes you for breaking under torture?”

Sidekick’s voice squeaked. “That’s not what I said. They’ve… been good to me.”

“In what way?”

“I-I’m not answering that.”

Supervillain relented, and sidekick ate in tense silence.

Once finished, the supervillain led them to the living room. A small cot pulled out from one of the couches. After dressing it, supervillain pulled out a chain from one of the end table drawers and clipped it to a ring recently drilled into the wall. They then handed sidekick a glass of water and tucked a small pill into their hand.

“No, I—”

“It’s melatonin, and it will help you sleep. It won’t put you to sleep.” They poured several into their hand and tossed it into their mouth as they wandered to find water. “You’ll need it," they called. "You’ve been shaking since you got out of the shower. Get some rest.” Their footsteps became more distant as they went down the hallway to the bedroom, bed creaking as they entered it.

The lights clicked off and the sidekick was left in darkness.

They shrugged into bed, pulling the light sheets over themselves while kicking off the comforter. A cold sweat claimed them, and they stared at the ceiling for the better part of three hours, thoughts churning, churning, churning.

So what if they’d never hurt anyone with their powers before, that didn’t mean they weren’t a threat. That didn’t mean that the supervillain could treat them like a patsy. It didn't mean that they were incapable.

They could do it if they wanted to.

They could do it to supervillain if they wanted to.

Why, they were just sleeping in the next room. Sidekick could hear deep breathing and the stutter of a dream-filled sigh. There was no need to use their full power to slip a link in the chain or to silently creep over to the room. They could make a sliver of a portal for half a second, and endure the buzz from their collar.

Sidekick set their plan in motion.

After the mini-portal, they blacked out for a second and woke with a gasp. Part one done. They were free, chain hewn in two. They probably had moments before anyone noticed, so they needed to move quickly.

Have you ever used your portals to injure anyone?

Supervillain's words came back to them, as they wandered the hallway, honing in on the dark bedroom. They stepped through the threshold, a thought sparking of how they were invading. How a bedroom spoke of intimacy, a cozy and solitary space.

A single red light blinked from the ceiling corner. Sidekick's eyes were already well adjusted to the dark that they could see supervillain's outline on the bed, lying on their back, arms spread out defenselessly.

They could picture it now. Sidekick fails the demon supervillain. Sure they might die in the process, but it would serve the association. It would cement them in the annals of heroic feats.

Have you ever killed anyone with your portals?

Moving to the side of the bed, sidekick’s hands hovered, not yet touching. Faltering in their pursuit. Where was that rage their felt earlier? Where was that appetite for vengeance? It was there, they could feel it under the surface, but it was a poor substitute for bloodlust. A poor replacement for the mindset needed to end a life.

Could they do it?

"Why don't you go back to bed like a good little labradoodle? You don't have to stomach for this."

Sidekick almost jumped at the sound. Hands reached up to boldly clamp onto their wrists.

"Let me go!"

"I warned you, puppy."

They lunged for the supervillain's throat, the heat back again. Volatile, it roared to life. Erupting, unpredictable, but sidekick was grateful for its presence now. It wasn't bloodlust, but it possibly could be damaging enough.

Supervillain pulled them on top of them, and sidekick's legs swung around their body, hoping to get a better angle to grip their neck. "You think I'm going to cooperate with you? I will fight you at every turn. You will regret keeping me alive. I will gather enough intel that once I escape, teammates will be able to take you down."

"If they want you back."

The statement made sidekick pause. "What did you just say?"

"If," the repeated, slowly, the next words in a rhythmic manner. "If they want you back."

"What do you mean if?"

Supervillain's eyes drift up to the red light winking steadily at them.

Blood drained from sidekick's face.

"It records video, but no sound. Makes it easier to edit, I'm told. And I have people in my employment that can edit anything. They can and will make this little tussle we've having look like a lover's tryst." They let go of sidekick's wrists and trailed a pitying hand down their cheek. "What would teammates think of you once I send them this video of us in bed together? Would they jump to the conclusion that we've been joined this whole time? That our affair was the reason why you closed the portal? Did you choose to stay with me? Or would they assume that since you have such a weak constitution, that it only took one day for me to seduce you?"

"This was a trap. You knew," sidekick licked their lips, and supervillain's eyes followed the movement. "You set this up from the beginning."

"I set up fail-safes in case you chose this path."

"You tricked me."

"You disobeyed me," they said, voice hardening and a chill crept down sidekick's spine. They sat up, moving sidekick to their lap, and gripped their chin roughly, face inches from theirs. "I was nice before, and you squandered my kindness. Now you will face the punishment."

Wire detached from the ceiling like vines, wrapping themselves around sidekick before they had a chance to scramble off the bed and bolt. Their feet lifted off the ground. Once again they were suspended, drawn tightly to the four corners of the room. Supervillain didn't spare a glance at them as they got out of bed, and left the room, all but ignoring sidekick's screams.

[heresathreebee]

Brackish and Briny Waters (five)

[Ralph Lamont x Female Reader]

Summary: Ralph apologizes and you've got baby brains, but sometimes life does nothing but kick you down. Previous Masterlist Next

Tag(s): 16+ | 1.7k words | more angst, baby fever, alcoholism, ghostly vibes

AN: GODDAMN Part 5 took me a lifetime to finish. As always no beta readers just poorly side eyeing this by myself and hoping it makes sense

THE NEXT MORNING

You barely stir when you hear the door open. You've all but forgotten last night, and yet you flinch when Ralphie tries to cuddle with you. He sighs somewhere near your ear and hugs you from behind anyways, lips brushing the nape of your neck and breath fanning over your back as he simply lies there, quiet as the grave. 

There's no bruise but you can still feel his hand gripping your arm from last night. "You're being a huge dick…" 

"... I know." 

That is not good enough. You roll over to face him and watch his face twist when he notices the tract marks of dry tears on your face. He swallows and almost unconsciously takes your hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of your palm in a way that was meant to comfort him rather than you. 

"I'm sorry." He opens his mouth again but he flounders for words. After a deep breath he continues. "We can't call Reagan. Because he won't do anything for us…" 

You wait impatiently for him to explain. 

"Sweetheart, if we called Reagan last night, he would have fucking laughed at us. It is step one down that slippery slope to the couple who cried wolf." He put a hand on your shoulder and looked you in the eye, "do you really think he would have done something?" 

You think about it. If Ralph hadn't stopped you from calling him, what would you have said to Reagan? 

I smelled exhaust fumes. Not an emergency, he would say. 

I think he found us. What do you want me to do about it, too late now, he would ask.  

We're in danger. I'll send a squad upstate, they should be there in 4 hours, he would joke. 

"It was real," you insist. "I smelled fumes." 

"I know. I believe you." 

You squint at him threateningly and he doesn't give an inch. He doesn't seem like he's mocking you. 

Ralph could be an asshole, but Reagan was infinitely worse. At least one of them gave a shit about your safety. The realization Ralph was right scared you more than anything. You were alone in this… 

Well, alone together. 

You sigh and bury your face in his neck. Your hair is tangled as shit and probably tickling his face, but your husband simply wraps you up in a tight embrace and holds you against him. It's all the apology you need. 

END OF THE FIRST MONTH

Adjusting to your new life hit you like a sack of bricks early on a Monday morning. You woke up from a dream where you still lived in your tiny little apartment two minutes walk from everything. In a reality which felt more like a fever dream, Ralph was late for work, donning a tie and tweed jacket and kissing you goodbye for the day. 

You never realized how much space there was in the new master bedroom. In the apartment, a queen sized bed nearly touched the walls and barely left room to creep around two night stands and a dresser, but in the new house you had room to lay on the floor and stretch, maybe put another piece of furniture in here like a bookshelf or something. 

And the whole damn house was like that. You had an entire second floor to claim as your own! There is almost too much space… too much space for just the two of you. 

God there's that thought again drifting into your mind unbidden, unfurling like a fern at the first droplet of sunshine. How many people does it take to turn a house into a home? Three should be plenty, your mind offers. 

You busy yourself with measurements, regrouting the loose tiles in the kitchen floor, and scrubbing the blackened hell out of that downstairs bathroom. It seems to come to life beneath your hands and you can feel yourself getting excited to show guests the improvement. 

The thoughts of turning your little twosome family into three persist over and over until you can't stand it any longer. Maybe it's finally time… 

Ralph's late getting home by 5 minutes instead of 5 hours but he still looks tired. No mud tracks on his pants or hard set eyes. He's halfway up the stairs before you realize he's probably going to bed early. 

"Hey!" 

Ralph stops like it pains him. His head sags and his hold on the railing is tight like he'll fall if he lets go. The way he's wobbling he might. He is barely able to meet your eyes as he glances over his shoulder and when he does he simply grunts. 

"I made dinner," you squeeze your hands together behind your back, "angel hair pasta and that sauce you love." 

Ralph's eyes flicker in thought. "Be down in a second." 

You wait nervously to see if he does come down. What if this is a bad idea? What if he doesn't take you seriously? Oh god what if he hates it, what if he calls you an idiot for even considering it? 

Ralph does come back downstairs, hair wild from running his fingers through it. He seems to gain a small amount of energy while eating, not wanting to talk himself but asking how your day has been going. 

You're definitely rambling right now. Ralph listens and listens, chuckling along but at some point he grows concerned and envelopes your hand with a worried expression on his face. "Jesus, I've never heard so many words come out of your mouth at once, it's like you're writing a dissertation over there. Are you OK, baby?" 

You snap your mouth shut. God, you hadn't even come close to talk about kids for all your rambling. And then there was that weird smell… 

Your blood runs cold as you recognize it. You lean a little closer to Ralph and he almost instinctively flinches away. If there's one thing you are sure of, one thing you could swear on god– Ralph Lamont has never flinched away from a kiss before. So he has something to hide. And that something has a sharp scent and explains his slow reactions and tired eyes better than anything else could. 

"Have you… have you been drinking?" 

It's the way he can't meet your eyes when you ask him. You know. It's beyond out of character, so much so that it's confusing and a little frightening for you. 

A little drink here and there is, to you, to be expected especially considering the wealth of your new company. So why hide it? Is there something else he's not telling you?

You suddenly feel sick and too hot, ripping your hand away from his and getting up to leave the table. 

He knows you get in your head sometimes and practically yells your name to stop you. "I'm… I don't know why I…" 

Ralph sighs and buries his face into his hands, ashamed. All this suspense is twisting knots in your stomach. You sit back down gingerly, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. 

"Ralph," you warn, "you had better start explaining yourself right now before I lose it." 

Ralph stares a hole into the table and worries his lip. The truth is he doesn't know what to say because he doesn't know why he did it. The students are easy, you are easy. Even in the toughest of times, at his lowest, he didn't drink so… what the fuck was coming over him?, he asked himself. 

Something clicked. It rolled like fire in his belly given dry wood, smoking curling to the top of his throat and out of his ears. "They hate me." 

"Who? Who hates you?" 

"Everyone." 

You looked him in the eye for the first time tonight and saw something dark looking in there. It makes you uneasy. "What makes you think they hate you, baby?" 

Ralph's grip on his fork tightens until his knuckles are white before he gingerly sets the dishware down and deflates. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a sardonic grin. 

"You wouldn't understand… and how could you? You never leave the house." He looks at you and there's a growing instability rising in his movements. "You… you don't see it. It started out as little nothings that I could ignore because it didn't matter that they didn't like me: I was new.  

"Then it became lots of these little nothings. Staring and whispering and hushed silences. Tip toeing language and poking and prodding and testing me and my limits and it just… it just… it never got better…" 

Rumors. It dawned on you that his frustration seemed intimately familiar to you as you had had to change schools once or twice due to a few terrible rumors that snowballed and got way out of hand. And you can imagine the sort of rumors that accompany a man with little interest in making friends who has a wife nobody knows anything about. 

If you wanted to stay here long, you would need to change a few minds. You set aside your fear for a moment and make him look at you. You can see the unshed tears in his eyes and feel pity for him. 

"I want to do that dinner party," you announce. "With all that's gone on, you probably didn't have the grand introduction you deserve. Let me show them how much you mean to me." 

Ralph's shaking his head but he already knows you'll win this fight. For him it feels like begging for something he doesn't even want. He agrees because he already promised you could when you were ready and you needed to find new friends asap. 

His sleep that night is fitful and the room's shadows seem to reach out like claws seeking his immortal soul. When the haze of whiskey finally dies down in his system he sleeps dreamless and wakes to feel somehow more hollow with despair than before. 

Ralph Lamont has the distinct feeling things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before anything gets better…

@werwulfy @fundamentally-lazy @escape-your-grape @mimiscappinisideblog @go-commander-kim

[d20owlbear]

Could you tell us more about Aziraphale Swan and his Very Peculiar Neighbor if that’s ok? Thank you

Yeah of course!

So! This one started out as a joke (every damn time I s2g) and has gotten more... well it’s gotten more as time has gone on.

It’s a Twilight AU/fusion thing based off a discord post from @kai-art! Where Aziraphale is entirely unrelated to Bella Swan but has the same last name, moves up in a similarish timeline to Forks, and used to live in Phoenix, AZ. None of this is explained, of course.

There, by chance, he happens to meet one Anthony Crowley, who is a nearby mortician and drives off all the bio waste to Seattle (the nearest disposal... please know I’ve done so much research for this, holy shit, I’m pretty damn sure at this point I’ve done more research for this fanfic than Meyer ever did for Twilight and THEY DON”T HAVE FANGS??? OH MY GOD why?! anyway if anyone wants to see my math on exactly how much blood Twilight vampires need to consume, lmk! cause it’s an unholy amount my fucking god Meyer did you even do any math at all? Christ). 

The secondary goal of this fic is to fit as many romance anime tropes in there as possible, particularly shoujo tropes. So far we’ve got the toast in the mouth and being saved by a handsome stranger/pulled into his arms, and we’ve got around 3-4 kabedons planned, tripping during a particularly erotic slow sword fight, and a confession during a festival (this one autumn leaves rather than sakura, but still! the vibe is there but make it PNW).

I’m currently writing ch 3 and wanted to get a good padding of chapters before I started to release anything, but here’s an excerpt!

Aziraphale was moving. Out to the Pacific Northwest of America. Washington state, Forks to be specific. It was small and wooded and there was a lovely little home off on an acre of unfenced woodland, butting up against the back of some place called Fern Acres. He'd gone and picked somewhere wholly isolated, or at least as isolated as he could bear, and put-putted all the way from Arizona in his old, beat up pick-up truck his father had left him. The body of it had been a pretty buttercup yellow at some point he remembered fondly, but had sun-bleached to white in patches and spots like he'd spilled paint all over it. There was a certain sort of charm though, Aziraphale said to himself in order to avoid going to a place like an autobody shop, to have a car with more character than oneself. 

Moving interstate was always interesting, wasn't it? It made one a bit of a mystery, coming new into a small, wooded town. Maybe someone would even gossip about him. The very thought of it perked Aziraphale up during his arduous drive all the way up through California (stopping briefly in the famed Wine Country for the night in a lovely little B&B that doubled as a winery, picking up a rundlet of wines. He'd had his heart set on a butt simply to say he'd purchased a literal buttload, though he couldn't justify the expense, nor spare the room amongst things that wouldn't break the bottles).

Aziraphale drove and listened to the music on his staticky little cassette player in the car, a mix tape his father had made so long ago when he'd found out all the kids were doing it to give to their dates. He'd already been married to Aziraphale's mother, but it had been cute, and ever since, his father had used the massive tape deck to build the same playlist every few years to present on their anniversary and wore them into the ground playing them over and over in this old rust-bucket car… Aziraphale sighed and pulled over for a bit when his eyes grew too watery to see the road well enough to drive. Thinking of his parents always seemed to do that, though he hoped the young couple that had purchased his childhood home only half a month ago had that child they were aiming for and it grew up even half as loved as Aziraphale had been.

But! He dashed his sleeve over his face and turned the tape over, even though it wasn't at the end just yet, and set it to play in the middle of the first song on the other side. The passionate refrain of Queen lilted in the car and Aziraphale smiled, though it felt like more of a grimace, and started up the truck again to resume his drive. Queen wasn't his favorite band, but they were certainly up there. Freddie simply had a way with his voice, and how queer so many of the songs were made Aziraphale's heart glad. That and it reminded him of his parents laughing in the kitchen and dancing with spatula or ladle in hand as Aziraphale watched from the kitchen table where he did his homework to the strains of ooh you make me live now honey!

This was slightly all over the place, but if anyone’s interested in any of my research holes for this, my various griefs or Opinions™ about Twilight lore in relation to other vampire lores or want to know more about Crowley (who is clearly a vampire) or Aziraphale (who’s far more interesting than he thinks he is) please let me know! This is one of my more interesting wips I think, if only cause of my wide and varies Opinions™ about all the stuff I’ve had to look at.

See more wip names here if you’re interested and ask me about them!!

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Last Christmas

Word Count: 1100

Warnings: some language but none really

A/N: And so our story comes to an end, for now. Our handsome Irish anti-hero and head-strong Lady Lawyer will return in the spring for an all new Misfits!AU sequel inspired by conversations with @robertsheehanownsmyass 🤨

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @badsext @elliethesuperfruitlover @nightmonsters @bisexualnathanyoung @magic-multicolored-miracle @immortalled

Chapter Five: Last Christmas

When Violet turned 35, she changed her entire life. Everything she set out to do as a Public Defender was always overshadowed by just how many shitty people needed legal aid. The one or two kind, desperate clients a year just never stacked up to or made the other 100 worth it.

So Violet packed up all of her things, bid everyone a fuck you and cried in her dark apartment for a week. No prospects or experience with anything but law, it frightened her how easily she dropped everything to just do.. nothing. She ignored her sisters, “Why don't you go back to New Orleans? Or back to school!” And the calls from Tony “Come back to the firm!” Then one day.

There was a knock on the door that startled Violet from her misery. She didn't care how she appeared to the courier who handed her a rather monstrous package. She signed and tore into it revealing a thick release form and three proofs of graphic novels. Then her heart leapt into her throat.

Lanky with a devil’s smirk on his face and a cocky stance in jeans and black jacket with the collar turned up. The indentation of a dimple Violet had found herself touching as he died or slept. They somehow found a way to capture the unusual green that could have easily ruined her. And even though it was just a drawing, she could hear Nathan’s smart mouth.

Beside Nathan on the cover was a shorter, almost creepy but not unattractive guy. He donned a black sweatshirt, hood pulled up and Kevlar body pads. In the background an array of others in orange jumpsuits. Simon, she knew from her own masochistic research, and infamous remaining ASBO 3.

“Captain Invincible and The Super Hoodie: The Misfits Tales,” Violet snorted. “Huh.”

Still she sat down and flipped through it. Each section more absurd yet somehow believable than the next. Nathan impaled on a metal fence. Simon stuffing a female probation worker in a freezer. Alisha using touch to elicit the most perverse filth from men’s mouths. Curtis and his ability to rewind time reliving the night they all got busted a hundred times. And Kelly, having sex with a guy that was a gorilla. It all converged into the final book, “Vegas Baby.”

Violet held her breath as she moved towards the end. The parts where she didn't expect to exist. That she even came across Nathan’s mind all these years later was curious to her, as was the version he came up with. All she could do was laugh and cry simultaneously.

There she was, more of a sexy librarian in a porn than a lawyer. Her skirt (she normally wore pants during trial) a bit too short, and her boobs far too large. Her cleavage out of control through a low cut dress shirt. She had her hair twisted up (which was true) and glasses (really?!). Nathan in that fitted suit looking more like an Irish mobster than the nervous man-child who chewed his fingers until they bled. A panel with Violet leaning, tits out, towards him as she questioned him before an explosion of rabbits.

Here was the story. It explained this fantasy of Violet, sexy porno lawyer, that's how Nathan saw her. He admitted she was rather plain and stuffy when they first met. Though by the end of their visit, her cheek and determination and inability to put up with his shit became a turn-on. How she played him on the stand and found a way to instill reasonable doubt by throwing Marnie under the bus in his defense was something no one had ever done before. Weirdly encouraged his arrogance, showed cool indifference to his charm, yet never gave up on him no matter how exasperated he made her. All of this made her “the sexiest bird I’d ever seen. I had t’be with her.”

Violet continued to the bits after the trial. The club, Nathan handing some meathead his tongue that had literally fallen out of his mouth. It wasn't even in Nathan’s head how drunk they were that night, their illustrated bodies simulating sex on the dancefloor or when she called him Irish Eyes in the back of a black cab. His insistence that the way she dodged his kisses, actually ducked like his lips were a dodgeball, made it “difficult for him to walk.” Violet rolled her eyes. A deep crimson still crept across her cheeks.

Then that night. That messy surprising night when her knife fit so perfectly in Nathan’s flesh and right into his heart. Sometimes Violet didn't know what haunted her more: the amount of blood he shed or the utter disdain in his eyes as the door slammed behind him.

As Violet ventured to that page, a perfect drawing of them on her hallway floor. Nathan’s head in her lap as she stroked his hair while he died. The air in her throat choked her as she read the panels.

“I forget hardly anyone knows I'm going to live forever. It hurts t’die with a butcher knife in your chest. Not as much as a sewer pipe or metal fence, mind ye. I don't always like the idea myself. But I did like the idea of our handsome hero being comforted by his own Lois Lane.

Kelly and Simon used t’drag me up a flight of stairs and toss me on my dirty mattress at the community center. Waited about like I was late for a concert. Kelly took the piss, didn't she?

Vi held me as I ruined her floor. No one’s held me while I've ruined anything. Wait till she finds out I'm such a selfish prick that I destroyed time just to get back a mate who didn't even like me to start.”

Violet didn't even have time to cry the tears that stung her eyes. Or think about what those words really said between the lines. Her cellphone rang making her scream a bit.

“FERN?!”

“Lettie you ok?”

“Just a bit shaken. I have to go through a release form to agree to my likeness being in both graphic novels and apparently the chance to option a film based on them.”

“Uh..”

“Nevermind, what's up?”

“Claire got a job in London at Burberry. Could you sell your apartment? Move with us and be Marigold’s nanny? You could look into getting back into law over there somehow. Eventually right?”

Violet laughed. From a lawyer to a nanny. “Why the fuck not? I know an Irishman over that way.”

[orionares]

Semper Fidelis, Part 20

A/N: Last one! Thank you for reading!

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Hollywood- Burbank Airport, Los Angeles

“I think we need to have a talk with Nell about the difference between a ‘surprise’ and…..this.”

Kensi slowly nods in agreement at Deeks’ comment at the unexpected sight in front of them in one of Burbank’s private hangars.

Minutes ago, the private jet had pulled into the hangar to reveal a small makeshift wedding chapel in the center. Candles line a red aisle runner to a wooden flowered wedding arch with two white floor vases containing lilies. Roberta and Julia talk excitedly over a small round table draped in a cream and lilac colored tablecloth. Sam, donning a black suit, stands behind the arch, reviewing a small folded sheet of paper while the rest of the team set up a row of chairs in front of the arch. Callen is the first to look up to Kensi and Deeks.

“Welcome back!” Callen calls out. “What do you think?”

“Wha- what is this?” Kensi stammers. She feels a gentle nudge from Deeks to continue down the airstairs. “This is more than a surprise.”

“It’s a wedding, sweetheart!” Julia exclaims. “Your amazing friends here came up with the idea to make up the wedding today and in an airplane hangar, no less. What do you think?”

“This makes no sense,” Kensi quickly turns to Deeks and narrows her eyes at him. “Did you do this? Did you get them to do this?”

Deeks glances between the chairs and back to his fiancée. “Nope…no, no, no, this isn’t me.”

“Because it’s private,” Callen explains, placing the last chair near the aisle. He gestures to the hangar and adds, “And it’s time. We’re going to keep doing our jobs and living our lives but you guys gave up your wedding weeks ago and…it’s time. Everything’s taken care of.”

“Deeks,” Kensi calls out breathlessly and pulls him around the airstairs and out of earshot of the team. Deeks maintains a calmness that eases the panic rising in her chest as he asks quietly, “What do you think? I know it’s not what we planned- actually, everything in the last…forever hasn’t gone to plan-“

Kensi ‘s mind jumps back to their conversation in the parking lot before she had been sent off to Afghanistan. “It seems to be our thing, if you think about it.”

“That is true, Fern, that is true. It’s insane but I’m all in,” Deeks states, “ And I’m ready if you are.”

Kensi takes both of his hands in hers and enlaces her fingers between his. She smiles at the butterflies she can feel dancing in her stomach. “All in….let’s get married.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Sweetheart, are you ready?”

Fifteen minutes later, Kensi runs her hands down a white flutter v-dress once more before turning to face her mother. Julia leans around the divider and motions to the group waiting at the other end of the hangar. “You look absolutely perfect. Are you ready?”

“I’m scared.” The words tumble out of Kensi before she realizes- between leaving the hospital, deciding the impromptu wedding and then searching for Hetty, the fear of being married, truly married, had suddenly become dormant. She bites down on her lip and repeats, “I’m scared.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s actually real,” she inhales sharply, “I think with our jobs, planning the wedding and coming back from this case, it’s never sank in.  Now, I’m going to walk down the aisle in minutes and I’m panicking, Mom.”

Julia chuckles and pulls her daughter into a warm hug. She rubs her back, replying, “You save the world daily and face things most people wouldn’t even fathom. You have found a wonderful man who loves you for you and will love and protect you for life. You have nothing to be afraid of. Your fears are normal for every bride about to walk down the aisle. You’ve got this.”

Kensi nods slowly and steps out from the changing divider. With her mother behind her, she approaches the end of the aisle where an ecstatic Nell holds out a small white and purple flower bouquet. Roberta and Julia take an arm and begin to walk Kensi down the aisle towards Sam, Callen and Deeks.

Deeks, fidgeting in a navy blue suit, looks up from his hands and smiles delightedly at Kensi’s arrival. “Hi, Fern.”

“You clean up nice, Max,” Kensi replies as she takes a kiss on the cheek from Callen.

Sam clasps his hands together at the pair and states, “Let’s do this- however, before I begin, I’ve got something to say to the both of you before we begin. Kens, my sister- I’ve watched you grown from a young junior agent to a badass, powerful agent that’s a force to be reckon with. You have dealt with loss and come back from a deliberating injury and somehow manage to put up with a chatter box without an off switch with grace. And to you Deeks. I’ve watched you grow from a young detective who’s carefree attitude made me want to strangle you to a capable, phenomenal agent that I’ve only wanted to slightly strangle during one of your long, enduring rants.

Your strength, bravery and love makes me one hundred percent sure that Kensi will always be loved and taken care of. Marines always say “Semper Fi,” which means always faithful. I don’t think there’s anything else that best describes you both. Between you both being injured severely and this job, you two haven’t wavered in your love. And that is everything.”

Deeks’ blues eyes glisten with tears as Kensi wipes away a tear from her cheek. Amongst the happy chuckles and soft sniffs, both hear a low cough from behind Deeks. Callen, standing with arms crossed, coughs and blinks furiously while looking to the ceiling.

“You alright there, G?” Sam calls out.

“Mmmhmm. I’m good. Keep going.”

Sam shoots a look to Callen that screams I’m going to give you so much shit for this later look before stating, “As we bombarded you both with this, you don’t have vows prepared-“

“I actually have something to say,” Kensi interrupts. She brushes away a bang and continues, “ Deeks, we have gone through life and death and everything in between. Your patience, your love and your understanding is something that I never thought I’d get. You are everything to me and I can’t wait to start this next steps of our lives. I love you.”

Deeks’ eyes sparkle at Kensi’s vows. “Guess, it’s my turn,” he chuckles. “Kensi Marie, I honestly didn’t seem myself finding someone with your love, grace and patience. I don’t ever want to lose you and I love you. So damn much.”

Sam nods in approval. “Do you Kensi Marie Blye take Martin Andrew Deeks to be your husband?”

Everything slows for Kensi- her mind drifts back to ten years earlier, stepping into the MMA gym and eyeing the shaggy blonde haired man in a grey shirt and red shorts. She remembers playing husband and wife, rescuing him from Sidarov to him holding her in Afghanistan. They’ve gone through hell and back, taking the first steps of being all in to him holding her crying and frustrated in the hospital. Her heart skips at the argument before leaving for Mexico to the hours upon hours hoping and praying that his heart wouldn’t stop like it had before. So much heartbreak and love to get to this moment.

Kensi grins widely. “I’m all in. I do.”

“And do you, Martin Andrew Deeks, take Kensi Marie Blye to be your wife?”

Deeks, being Deeks, looks upwards and begins muttering as if calculating numbers in his head. He quickly nods as if happy with his calculation and replies, “I mean…I guess…”

“Deeks!”

His face softens and he replies, “I do. I’m all in too, Fern.”

“Then by the power invested in me and the state of California do pronounce you husband and wife. You may now-“ Sam stops short when Deeks pulls Kensi into a strong, passionate kiss. Kensi takes in the cheers, the warmth and love amongst her now husband, family and team. Nearly a month ago, she had been holding her husband’s hand, praying for another chance and hating the argument they had before leaving for Mexico.

And now, even with a mentor still in the wind, Kensi takes in the beauty and the new life in front of her and finally feels peace.

 “The meaning of Semper Fidelis: Latin for always faithful,” Semper Fidelis has been the Marine Corps motto since 1883. It embodies the promise to always remain faithful, no matter what.”- United States Marines

[juniper-is-in-the-house]

hi kween! Will you do a Rami x reader celebrating Halloween and him trying to embrace your festive nature? Like making pumpkin bread, hanging orange lights, carving pumpkins begging him to dress as Elliott, I would love you forever xo

UGH, GREAT REQUEST! I'm sorry it took so long but, here it is, I hope you enjoy ;)

Rami was sound asleep on your bed. He looked so cute with his black curls in a state of disarray, the heavy orange blanket you knitted for him pulled up to his chin, the small lines that the sheets had left on his cheek. You hadn't seen him this relaxed in months.

Which is why you jumped out of the bed wearing an f-society mask and screamed: "HAPPY HALLOWEEN, KIDDO!"

Rami jolted awake and screamed, then calmed down when he realized it was just you. 

"Jesus fucking Christ Y/n, you scared the shit out of me!" he said, still trying to catch his breath, "you know if I die from a heart attack they can sue me for breach of contract, right?"

You chuckled and took off the mask, "C'mon! Where's your Halloween spirit?"

"Right here, in this bed," he said, getting under the covers.

"No way am I letting you spend all day cooped up in here," you said, grabbing him by the ankles and pulling him off the bed, "c'moooon, it's Halloween! Let's have fun!" 

"Alright, alright!" Rami said, raising his hands up in surrender, "I'll get up!" 

"Great, 'cause no way do I have the strength to drag you all the way to the kitchen. You've put on some weight since Mr Robot rapped," you said with a chuckle.

Rami got off the bed and stood in front of you. He was about two inches taller, so he towered. He slowly bridged the gap between you and lowered his head so your foreheads touched, "what's in the kitchen?" 

You giggled and grabbed his arm, "come see!" 

You led Rami to the kitchen which was attached to your living room so he could see all the decorations you'd put up. There were orange leaves on the ceiling, cobwebs, ghosts, and a wicked witch with a pointy black hat, green skin and bright green eyes. Rami looked around with wide eyes.

"This looks awesome! You did all of this yourself?" 

"Yeah, I was kinda restless last night so I figured I'd put up some decorations," you said. You then took his hand and unconsciously glanced down at the floor, "I thought it'd be good for us to have a fun Halloween after how stressful it's been… the final season of Mr Robot and you going away to film Bond and my promotion and everything..."

Rami cut you off by kissing you gently on the lips. You stood on your tip toes and leaned in, making the kiss more passionate, making up for all those lonely nights you wished you'd be doing just this. 

He pulled back to stare deep into your eyes and smile, "it's perfect," he said, "so what else do you wanna do?"

"Make pumpkin bread with me?"

Rami smiled, "of course."

The baking started out like everything else you did, perfectly normal. You put on a spooky playlist and danced around while mixing the ingredients. But then… Rami spilled some flour on your arm. You locked eyes.

A declaration of war.

You both began to fling ingredients at each other until you were good enough to bake. Of course you laughed, cleaned it all up and still had enough batter left to stick in the oven. 

"Alright, while we wait for that to bake, help me hang some lights outside? I got these really cute orange ones from Michaels..."

"Ah, that explains the 100 dollar bill on my credit card," Rami said jokingly.

"What? It was all necessary!" 

You held the base of the ladder while Rami hung the lights on the roof. After the lights were up, you ran in to get more ghosts and cobwebs to drape over the ferns so it looked extra spooky. 

The second you went back into the house you heard a ding! And were greeted by the smell of perfectly baked pumpkin bread. You let Rami take it out and decided it was the perfect thing to eat while watching 'The Thing'

 "So, I was thinking..." you said, popping a piece of pumpkin bread into Rami's mouth, "maybe… you could dress as Elliot this year?" 

Rami laughed, "is that what this whole day has been about? You buttering me up so I'll dress up as Elliot?"

"I'd make a great Darlene!"

Rami's eyes widened in shock, "they're siblings… you know that, right?" 

"Yeah, you're right, maybe it would be kind of weird..."

"Super weird," Rami paused for a second, then got an idea, "you could be Angela!" 

"Ohh, I love that! I have a blond wig!" 

Rami laughed, "of course you do."

The sun set. Darkness flooded the fields. And so, you donned your disguises.

Rami put on his black sneakers, black pants, black hoodie and vacant expression. You decided to go for E-corp Angela: a black tube skirt, white shirt and black blazer with matching black pumps. Rami decided to put on the f-society mask as well so he could scare trick or treaters. Dozens of kids came by, you made sure to give them a good scare and full-sized candy bars. Some of them recognized Rami from 'Bohemian Rhapsody' and gave him high-fives or asked for pictures. Pretty soon your house was the most visited in the neighborhood, whether it was because of Rami or because of the full sized candy bars, you didn't know. 

Eventually, you ran out of candy and closed the door. Some kids threw eggs at your door and Rami malented having to clean up tomorrow. You shut up his complaints with a kiss.

A kiss turned into a full blown make out session. Making out turned into him grabbing you by the ass and carrying you to your bedroom. You screamed multiple times, but in a good way. 

"This has been great," Rami said, kissing your forehead, "thanks."

"I love you," you said, scooching closer.

"I love you, too."

You watched the stars twinkling outside your window as Rami wrapped his arms around you. You'd never felt fuller. 

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom, I'll be right back," he said. 

You kept on looking out at the sky. You thought back to how fun the day had been and how lucky you were to have Rami in your life. 

Suddenly you felt something cold tap you on the shoulder. 

You turned around to see a man with tentacles and teeth for a face. "Boo"

You jumped up and screamed. Rami laughed and took off the mask. 

"And that's for this morning!" he said with a laugh. 

---

Alright, first request, FULFILLED! Send me more!

[theunnamedlizardrogue]

Books! - Chap 1

Backstory: So, I got really attached to a D&D character I made about a year ago, and the first day of January, the DM abandoned ship for disclosed reasons. To account for this. I decided to take up writing, to itch all that missing character development

Chapter 1: Corn starch A bouncer stands at his post, the cordial party held by the noble underway. The white brick accentuates the wealth here and the aristocrats walking about would make the colour brown stick out like a saw thumb. The door leading into the party is ornate and gigantic, approximately the size of 2 men and more gold than a bank. Money couldn’t be burnt in more useless ways than literally burning it. The lizard wanders up, looking his best to act casual; as much as one could be when a bipedal reptilian is in the middle of a group of humans and elves. He slyly slinks towards the bouncer and quietly whispers “Corn starch” The guard looks in confusion. The lizard realises this isn’t the contact, but an actual bouncer. He takes a step back to think to himself. Godsdamn it, Snakes fed him false info. Time to improvise. He distorts his voice and puts on a fake accent he’s never heard “My mistake. Friend tell me Corn starch secret access code to ball. I invited and thought ‘No, that not make sense.’ But he insist and I thought human custom.” The guard looks even more confused. While the guard’s processing the situation, the lizard notices the line behind him, the crowd are getting annoyed at the wait. This could work to his advantage. “I am Ackl-Snarr. Lizardfolk… ambassador? That is what human with brown hair say. Noble host give good negotiation and worldwide peace in exchange for warm rock and women” The poor sod finally speaks. “An ambassador? What ambassador wears a scarf and a hood?” “Scarf?! I have you know this efficient battle garb for enemies! Blood absorbed to not get on precious scales and sneaky like fox as enemy think normal clothing inappropriate for war. You offend me with human custom.” “Right… Sir. I’m sorry, but I require a letter of invitation”. “YOU DARE REFUSE ACKL-SNARR?”. Whilst the lizard might be drawing more and more attention to himself, it’s certainly for the right reasons. “No, I ne-“ “YOU WANT TELL NOBLE YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR DESTROYAL OF HUMANS BY SCALY HANDS? I SPIT ON YOUR HATCHLINGS WHEN THEY PILE OF ASH” With a resigned sigh, the door is opened to the lizard. Looks like most people aren’t willing to be responsible for severance of diplomatic relations, even more so when the upper class are waiting, though Lizardfolk aren’t even a nation in this country.

The place is filled with more guests than he expected, and much more wine. The decorum is… elegant. To be expected, of course. The lizard takes a second to stare at the marble staircase, the marble statues, the marble tables, marble… There’s a lot of marble. Whilst his eyes wander, he looks at the other guests at this party. Shit. Masks. So many masks. This is a masquerade. Yes. Masquerade. Masks. Everyone… has masks. Yep. Alright. Perfect. Okay, let’s calm down. The lizard considers exiting the mansion and running, but he just talked his way through the bouncer earlier so it’d look embarrassing if “Ackle-Snarr” decided that he’d be intimidated by simple masks. However, minor phobias aside, does the lizard really need a mask? The noble in question, Alexander Covingtree, is supposedly getting ready for an event in three hours. There’s plenty of time to go up to his room and talk to him abo- “Have you heard? Alexander is going to start greeting the guest members!” two nobles chirped behind him. One of them, a woman wearing a crow mask responds “Oh how wonderful. He truly is a spectacular host!” The lizard is quietly muttering every known swearword to man, elf and dwarf. This is a test, he guesses. Either that or a practical joke. Knowing Snakes, it was probably both. The last few jobs had been rather simple, so Snakes might have just been trying to sharpen the lizard’s resolve. It’s a little touching that his father had that much faith in him, but it’s a bloody pain trying to do this.

The lizard realises he needs to focus on the task at hand, a mask. It needs to be long enough to account for his muzzle. Though it’d be effective enough just to grab a half-mask, the whole ‘being a lizard’ thing would be noticeable.

A man nearby is drinking a rather lot of wine, his mask is perfect. Designed after a fox, but the snout itself is long enough for it to be used by The lizard. The lizard hopes the mask doesn’t stink of alcohol. … And from the noises the man’s making, let’s make sure it doesn’t stink of anything else as well. The lizard runs to the masked noble, feigning care for the poor soul who thought it best to drink six glasses of rosé. He lifts off the mask and pulls him away, to a Fern plant in one of the corridors. It lasts for a little too long. The guy passes out after he’s done releasing his stomach and the lizard tries to place him delicately on a chair. Mission completed, he dons the masks and shudders a little. He pulls up his hood, hiding the scaly back of his head. Leaving the corridor, a companion of the drunkard notices the mask and calls out to the lizard, “Hey! You there! That was my friend’s mask.” The lizard responds promptly. “Ah, I have forgotten my own this evening, and I thought it a personal challenge to acquire a mask at the party. After all, who doesn’t disagree to a little excitement every once in a while?” The man laughs, “Indeed, sometimes a little bit of debauchery can spice up our lives. Just give it back to him when you’re done, alright? You have no idea how much he paid for it, custom made, they say!” The lizard nods. “That sounds for a rousing tale! But I give my deepest apologies, I’m in a tinsy bit of a rush”. He’d have to satisfy his curiosity another time. He goes back to scanning the room, seeing if Covingtree has arrived yet.

Aha! The lizard spots Alexander walking down. Covingtree has straight brown hair, is clean shaven and looks rather young, approximately seven years older than the seventeen-year-old lizard. Best guess would be the Alex has inherited the money that he used for this mansion. It’s obvious that the place wasn’t designed in mind of someone in their forties, so what would be the reason that Alexander has his own mansion at such a young age? Parents are either extremely rich, or the Covingtree must have had a few deaths in their lineage. Someone bumps into the lizard and he’s brought back to reality yet again, he’s got to stop doing that. Alexander’s one for theatrics. He’s holding his mask as he’s walking down the stairs, just so he can put it on with a flourish. He takes a bow when he reaches the bottom, and the crowd let out a cheer in his health. The lizard is admittedly impressed.

Now how does one approach this? Alex wanders around, shaking hands. The lizard needs to get Alex alone by himself. An idea sparks, but it’s as risky as swallowing a dirty knife. Normally this would work with a Lord’s wife, not the Lord himself. He struts towards Alexander. The lizard seems confident, probably the mask, he guesses. Something about anonymity? He read it in a book once… Well, Twice. Alexander’s taken notice now. With a quick inhale, the lizard bows, similar to how Alex did earlier. He offers his hand out for a dance. Alex is taken aback, but he accepts.

Alex is obviously not used to being a follow, he instinctually looks down as soon as they start. As they dance together, there’s a small trip. It’s hard to tell who caused it, but the lizard’s footwork kept them upright and attempts to mask it through a spin. the crowd didn’t seem to notice. Perfect. A few minutes in, the lizard notices he’s trying to impress the audience with his dancing. It’s the mask. Probably.

The crowd let out another cheer, this is the lizard’s chance. He takes Alex by the hand and points up the stairs. Alex takes a second to look into the mask’s eyes and awkwardly nods. The lizard’s seen it before, Alex’s interested in the mystery of the man behind the mask. As they retreat upstairs, He swears he heard someone whistle.

In Alex’s master bedroom. The lizard, with a sigh of relief, takes off the mask. Alex seems a little surprised to find out the lizard’s identity, predictably. The lizard begins. “Okay, great. This was much more difficult than I thought it would be.” The lizard looks out the doorway “Were you on the guest list?” “No, I had faked my way in pretending to be an ambassador for Lizardfolk. Gave your bouncer outside a particularly tough time. More importantly, I’m here representing an individual named ‘Skirt of Snakes’, are you familiar with him?” There’s a quick pause. “Not particularly, sorry.” Alex takes the time to relax on his bed. “Ah, alright.” The lizard sighs to himself, Snakes misinformed him yet again. “We’re part of the rogues found here in this city. We’d like to request assistance with infiltrating the Slater residence.” “What would I gain from such a bargain? You seemed to do fine with entering the party.” “Yeees, but it’s going to be done in the dead of the night, looting everything that isn’t nailed down. We’d like to make this as easy as possible.” The lizard just realised he gave information to a man he hadn’t fully convinced. Fuck. “I could report you to the guards for what you’re telling me.” Fuuuuuuuck. “Come now, it’d be bad manners to imprison a dance partner.” The lizard lets out a smirk and continues. “If you help us out, we’d pin the blame on Samuel Hagan, stating that he bought off rogues to steal Mr Slater’s valuables. This would cause an uproar, discrediting his name. Meanwhile, you can snatch up his land.” Samuel had been known for being an… unsavoury sort. The lizard’s band of rogues have been trying to expose his corruption for months. “Tempting. I’ll consider this.” Alex seems deep in thought, it’s an opportunity few would refuse, after all. “Perfect, I’ll notify my crew and tell someone to meet you three days from now. We’ll leave a note outside your door for details.” As the lizard stands to leave the bedroom, donning his mask, Alex dons his earlier tone “Care to stay for wine?” “Maybe another time, you’ve got to be a good host after all.” The lizard winks and leaves.

He can’t believe any of that worked.

Chapter 2: https://theunnamedlizardrogue.tumblr.com/post/172107548441/chapter-2-feline-good

[leaves-of-three]

Day 8: Part Two || The Woods

Connor Murphy x Reader

Word Count: 4563

Summary: Reader continues her search through the woods for Connor. Memories from the past make themselves known. [ This is part of an in progress series. You can follow along here.]

[WARNINGS: This fic contains heavy mentions of rape, sexual assault, and being drugged at a party. It also contains repressed memories and the trauma that comes with them. Please be aware of that before reading<3]

Author Note: This is a pretty heavy fic. I’m always around if anyone ever wants to talk. Just shoot me a message. There will be a Day 8: Part Three soon. xKatie

“Hurry up, Y/N!” Alyssa bounced in her heels near the top of the drive way. She was looking back down at you while you shuffled up to her. 

“I’ve only worn these shoes for twenty minutes and I’m already getting blisters. How the hell do you wear these all the time?” Earlier that night, Alyssa had let you borrow her six inch, red platform heels and a dress. She had deemed your flats unacceptable for this party. They complimented the skin tight, little black dress that hugged your curves. Your father would never let you wear something like this out of the house. If he could see you now, he would have a heart attack. 

“They’re a pain to walk in but your ass looks fucking amazing,” She wrapped an arm around your waist when you finally reached her. “I promise. You look stunning. Now let’s go show all these bitches how to really party.”

Up ahead you spotted a group of thick, forest undergrowth. Probably ferns. Although you were no plant expert. They were a deep green with billowing leaves. Through the middle of plants was what looked to a makeshift trail. It was as if someone had decided to walk directly through the bushes, using their body to push and stomp them out of the way. You guessed that it was probably Connor’s doing. He seemed like the kind of person to take the hardest path available to him. You sighed. It was either Connor or a horrible, giant bear. Either way, you decided to follow the path. 

“I’m like Daryl from The Walking Dead. I’m a tracker now. I can find people just by looking at broken twigs and shit,” you talked to yourself as you followed the path. “I’m fucking awesome. I’m the most badass walker killer ever. No one can stop me.” You picked a stick off the ground and flourished it like a knife in front of you, stabbing imaginary zombies through the head. 

A noise of crunching leaves startled your thoughts and you quickly dropped the stick. You looked around, expecting to see Connor or some other random hiker, making fun of you from a distance. Instead you spotted a white tailed deer. She wondered out from behind a tree to graze on the leaves. You had never been this close to a deer before. You held your breath, afraid to scare her. She was beautiful. Her coat was a silky, chestnut brown with a stripe of white running down the length of her nose. She must have sensed you near by because her head shot up, a bit of grass still hanging from her mouth, and her large ears were perked and listening. Black, round eyes stared at you. For a brief moment you felt a connection this deer. You were both gentle creatures, you meant no harm to the world, but you were still hunted and chased, leaving you both to always be on high alert of your surroundings. You took a small step back. It was enough movement to send the deer sprinting off in the opposite direction. Your eyes followed her as she gracefully navigated her forest home until she disappeared back into the trees. Gone from sight, like she never existed in the first place, in similar fashion to Connor. 

The music was near deafening inside the mansion of a house. Crowds of under aged, drunk teens mixed in with college kids filled each room. Justin, Alyssa’s boyfriend, had an older brother who went to college near by. Him and his frat boys had provided all the booze needed for the end of the summer party. They’re only condition was that they were allowed to attend with all their friends. No one objected. College students only made the party more legit. 

Alyssa held onto your hand as she weaved her way through the crowds. “Keep a look out for Justin,” she called to you over her shoulder. You nodded in response. You had been to parties before but none of them had been this crazy. It was like something directly out of a shitty, chick flick movie. It was kind of exciting.

Eventually you were pulled into the kitchen. Justin was standing by the drinks, pouring some unknown substance into a red cup. His dark hair flopped messily into his light green eyes. He shook it out of his face and flashed you both a bright smile when he caught sight of Alyssa dragging you behind her. “My two favorite girls have arrived!” He put his drink back on the counter and jogged over to Alyssa, picking her up and spinning her around. “You look amazing!” He was clearly already drunk. 

Alyssa laughed but swatted him away. “Put me down, you freak. You’re going to mess up my hair.” He dropped her back onto the ground and turned his gaze to you. His eyes fervently stared you up and down in fascination. His look made you blush. 

“Damn, Y/N. You’re looking fire tonight! Spin around for me.” His arm wrapped around Alyssa’s shoulders, pulling her close to his side. You shook your head in protest but did a little spin anyway. Justin let out a low whistle. “We might need to have a serious discussion about a threesome, babe. Otherwise I might leave you for your friend tonight.” 

Alyssa rolled her eyes. “She is my masterpiece and you will keep your filthy hands off of her.” She tugged on his shirt and pulled him down to her level, latching herself onto his face. 

You awkwardly stood there while they kissed. After a moment, you realized they probably weren’t going to stop any time soon. You turned your attention to the booze. You were definitely too sober for this party right now. You needed a drink.

When the sun reached directly overhead, you assumed it was around noon. You had given up on finding Connor about an hour ago. Now you were just walking. Your legs wouldn’t stop moving. They just continued to push you forward. On and on with no real destination in sight. With no destination, you had no reason to stop. The woods sang to you as you moved through them. They were casting their spell on you. A trance to pull you deeper in, to keep you there forever. And you wanted to listen. There was such a peaceful life hidden among the trees. No one here could bother you. You could be alone. You could find true serenity here. Maybe Connor would even come visit you from time to time. 

Why were you even following him in the first place? Because he grabbed your arm this morning in the school parking lot? Because he told you to get into his car? You had done exactly what he had said without question. You got into his car and you drove away from the school. He hadn’t spoke to you during the ride. He listened to music though. He pushed in a CD and let the speakers fill the silence for him. You had picked up the album once he tossed it to the floor by your feet. The cover art looked familiar to you but you couldn’t place where you had seen it before. You flipped it over in your hand. Only on the spine of the album did it have the name indicating what you were listening to. Brand New, The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me. You always believed that the music people listened to told secrets about their soul. 

His window was rolled down as he drove. You kept yours up. His eyes stayed focused on the road but his head would occasionally move to the beat of the music. You studied everything you could about him. His right hand gripped the wheel while the left hung out of the open window. His nails still held black, chipped polish. Silver rings circled his long fingers. His forearms were exposed with his dark, denim jacket rolled up to his elbows. The black shirt under it had holes dotting around the collar. The wind blew his hair around, sucking stray strands out the window. His face was angelic. You had to resort to looking out your own window for fear that you might lean over and kiss his perfectly pale cheek. Connor continued to suck you in without uttering a single word. How could someone have that much power? It wasn’t fair. 

You did look hot. It was plain to see by all the attention from boys you had been getting since you arrived a few hours ago. You were used to Alyssa stealing most of the male attention but, tonight, you were the star of the show. You had seen her and Justin slip upstairs at some point. That had been your cue to go mingle. Most of the faces you passed, you didn’t recognize. Some were familiar from your school but you weren’t exactly friends with them. It wasn’t until you spied Madison and Valerie dancing together in the living room did you feel a sense of relief. Finally. Friends. 

You pushed your way towards them, Fireball spilling out the rim of your cup, and waving to get their attention. They both looked beautiful. Madison was donning a tight cheetah print skirt and Valerie had a matching zebra one. They had definitely coordinated their outfits tonight. It was cute. They lit up with excitement when they spotted you. “Y/N! Come dance with us!” Why not? You had a few drinks in you by now. You were feeling loose and care free. You looked hot. 

You laughed and joined them as the next song came up. 

Anxiety washed over you suddenly. You stopped walking. The forest was quiet. You didn’t know where you were. You weren’t exactly sure how large this area of woods was. Slowly, you spun in a circle. You couldn’t even remember which direction you had come from. There was no sign of anything but trees as far as you could see. 

You were alone. Completely and utterly alone. 

That wasn’t why you were anxious though. You couldn’t quite place it. Something was nagging in the back of your brain. Something was begging to come out. Whatever it was chilled you to the bone. You didn’t want to let it free. 

You swallowed and pushed the hounding thoughts away. You smothered the anxiety. Not now. 

Walk. Walk and forget. Keep walking. 

You did your best to move forward. If you kept moving then maybe you could run from whatever anxieties were starting to creep up and follow you. 

“I need some fresh air!” You called out over the music. Madison nodded and blew you a kiss goodbye as you pushed your away towards the back door. Stray hairs stuck to the sweat on your forehead and your breath came out in shallow gasps. You couldn’t remember the last time you had danced that hard. A smile stayed plastered onto your face. This was the best way to end the summer. Your senior year was going to be legendary. 

Warm, night air filled your lungs. You stepped out onto the back patio. It was much less crowded out here. A few party guests coupled off and scattered around the yard. You were drawn towards the pool. It’s lights danced and waved through the blue water. You peeled your heels off your sore feet and sat down at the edge, slipping your feet into the warm water. The music from inside the house was muffled by the walls. It created a surreal atmosphere as you stared down into the bottom of the pool. All the alcohol you had drank began to feel heavy in your head. When you were dancing, it was fueling you to keep moving. Now that you were stationary, it was starting to make you feel drowsy. The bottom of the pool looked so inviting. When you were little, you used to pretend you were a mermaid. You would swim down to the bottom and look up. The world was so beautiful, so peaceful and quiet, down there. 

 “I hope you aren’t thinking of drowning yourself. It would be a shame to lose a beautiful face like yours.” The voice was quiet and came from behind you. It cut through your muggy thoughts. 

You turned around to see Justin standing in the dark by himself. He had two drinks in his hands. You gave him a timid smile. “I wouldn’t want to ruin this dress. Alyssa would kill me if I got chlorine on it.” You paused and glanced around. “Where is she, by the way?” 

Justin shrugged. “Last I saw her, she was passed out in a guest room. That girl can not hold her drinks. Such a light weight.” He moved closer to you and sat down. “You seem to be doing fine though. Want another drink?” He offered you one of the cups in his hand. 

You shook your head. “No thanks. I think I’ve had enough for the night.”

He leaned in closer, flashing you his warm, dazzling smile. He slipped the cup into your hand anyway. “Come on. One more can’t hurt.”

You found it hard to resist his charm. He was so handsome. It was hard to say no to that face. “...Okay.”

No. No. Not this. You started to run. 

Repressed memories began to flood the surface of your brain. You tried to shake them off. You pushed yourself to run faster. They clung to you. They grasped at your clothes with cold, unforgiving hands like the souls of the dead were desperately trying to drag you down to hell. You whimpered as you ran. You forgot them before. You could forget them again if you could just get away. 

You had to get away. 

Branches scratched at your face, under brush pulled at your ankles, tripping you and slowing you down. The once serene forest was transforming into a dark, malicious nightmare. Your foot sank into water, the bottoms of your shoe slipping on a moss covered rock, and you went crashing down into an icy stream. The water wasn’t deep but it was enough to soak through the front of your clothes. 

You had been so caught up in trying to escape the memories clawing out of your brain that you hadn’t been watching where you were going. You tried get up but the rocks under you gave way and you fell again into the water. Tears sprung to your eyes. The sudden shock of the cold had stunned you. It had washed away the barriers you were desperately trying to build up. You could see clearly now. They hit you hard and fast. There was no time to prepare yourself. Once the flood gates had opened, nothing could stop what came pouring out.

You were walking. No...someone was carrying you. No, that wasn’t right either. You were half walking, half being dragged by whoever was holding you up. 

Dizzy. You were so dizzy. 

The thundering noise of music filled your ears and rattled around your skull. You flinched away from the sound. It was too loud. You hid your face in the person holding you. The smell of whiskey and sweat hit your nose.

Someone patted your hair in comfort. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” You heard them say. Their voice sounded distant. Far away. 

Blurred bodies moved in slow motion through your vision. Or maybe they were moving at normal speed and you were the one moving ultra fast. You had been dislodged from time itself. Nothing was real.

Dizzy. Dizzy. Dizzy. Blackness. 

You managed to drag yourself to the bank of the stream. You sunk into the mud and curled up into a ball. You were cold, wet, and heartbroken. You couldn’t move anymore. You didn’t want to. You wanted to lie on this ground forever while your body decomposed. Years from now a lone hiker would find your skeleton remains. Your bones would still be scrunched up together like a scared child hiding under the covers from the monster under their bed. 

You closed your eyes. 

Something grazed across your forehead. It smelled of expensive perfume. Your eyes blinked open. They rolled around your head in dazed confusion before they settled on what was touching you. 

The bottom of a shirt. Multiple shirts. They hung over head. Why were there shirts floating through the sky?

No, wait, not the sky. 

You were inside. 

A closet. You were in a closet. How did you get here? Why were you in a closet? 

You tried to move your head to look around but it felt like it been stuffed with bags of sand. You couldn’t move your neck. You were forced to stare up at the shirts hanging above you. 

You tried to move your arms next. One managed to flop up, limply hit something, then tumble back onto the floor. Someone made a noise of complaint when your hand made contact with them. You couldn’t make out what they were saying. You couldn’t move to see who it was. You tried to speak. Your mouth open and closed but only a low groan escaped. 

What was happening? 

A face appeared in your line of sight. Someone was hovering over you. You knew that face. Every thought came slow and sluggish to your brain. You had to work extra hard to remember. 

Justin. It was Justin. 

“Help,” you managed to croak out. He could help you. He was a friend. He could take you to the hospital. You were so sick. 

He smiled down at you. It was a wicked smile. His eyes were bright and wide. The world around his head blurred and swirled from your vision but his face remained crystal clear. Your stomach twisted into a knot. Something was very wrong. Nothing about his presence was good.

You covered your head with your arms. Your wet hair draped over your face. You breathed it in. Each breath came in short, shallow gasps. It was difficult to actually fill your lungs with the air. Mud clung to every soaked, wet piece of you. The autumn air had once been refreshing and kind. Now it was felt frigid and empty. You were shivering uncontrollably. Partly from the cold and partly due to what you were remembering. It was like you were experiencing it first hand all over again. You couldn’t get out from under the weight of memories. You were trapped. You were doomed to relive every suffocating moment. 

You let out a scream of agony and curled tighter into yourself.

You were dreaming. This wasn’t real. You sat in the corner of the closet. Your legs were pulled tight against your chest. You were looking at yourself. You were watching yourself lay there on the ground. You were watching Justin on top of you. His hands were invading your body. Violating you. 

“Get up!” You screamed at yourself. Tears were running down your cheeks. “Get up! Move! Do something!” Your voiced pierced through the silence. Neither you nor Justin made any notion that they heard your cries.

Why couldn’t they hear you? 

“Stop it! Stop it! Leave me alone!” The back of your throat burned as your screamed. They couldn’t hear you. 

This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. You couldn’t be in two places at once. You didn’t want to watch this. You couldn’t watch this happen. Not again. 

He was using you. He was sucking the life out of you. He was taking everything you had and leaving you a disposed shell of a person. You were nothing to him.

The closet door opened. Bright light poured in. Alyssa emerged from the light. A ray of hope hit you. 

“Help me!” You cried to her. You begged her to help you. You begged her to stop him. 

She couldn’t hear you either. You didn’t exist in her realm. You were cursed to be nothing but a bystander here. Her face contorted from confusion, to hurt, to pure rage. 

“No...please...” You reached out for her, dark wet lines of mascara filled tears coated your cheeks. “Please. It’s not what it looks like. Don’t leave me alone. Please. Don’t leave me...” 

Alyssa turned and ran back into the blinding light. Justin got up and followed her. Before he left, he turned back around to look at your weak, crumbled body on the floor. He sneered down at you and slammed the door shut. Casting you into the dark. Alone.

You looked at yourself on the floor. Your dress was gathered around your waist. Your chest was exposed. Your black, lace underwear was tossed beside you. You watched yourself try to move. You watched as you tried to stand up, only to fall back down again. 

You watched yourself give up. 

You covered your face with your hands. You couldn’t bare witness to this. Not anymore. It hurt too much. It was too much. “I want to go home,” you muttered to yourself through your hands. “I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home! I want to go home!!” You voice rose in volume until you were screaming into your palms. Your eyes were squeezed tight. You didn’t want to be in the closet anymore. You didn’t want to be here. Sobs racked your body and you rocked back and forth. “Take me home...”

It was dark when you opened your eyes. Panic filled you. You were still in the closet. You sat up quickly with a muffled scream. Someone placed a hand on your shoulder. Instinctively you shoved the hand away, crawling backwards in fear until your back hit something hard. 

You blinked. 

Connor was kneeling in front of you with unease. He had his hands up in defense. “Whoa...careful. You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

You looked around. Trees. There were trees. The stream trickled softly as it flowed through the forest floor beside you. Tears pricked your eyes. You weren’t in the closet. You weren’t trapped there anymore. 

A mixture of relief and heartbreak filled the sobs that shook through you. You hugged your legs to your chest. They were coated with drying mud. You didn’t hold back as you openly weeped. For so long you had been shoving those memories into the deepest, darkest corners of your mind. You had hid them from view. Cast them into hiding. Refused to let them ever see the light. 

You forced yourself to believe the stories Alyssa and Justin had told you. You had gotten drunk. You had hooked up with your best friends boyfriend. You had lost everything because you were nothing but a slutty, drunk mess. None of that was true. You knew the truth now. 

And the truth destroyed you. 

The closet floor was where you had stayed that night. You had fell into an unconscious sleep. When you awoke the next morning, you felt stiff and nauseous. You looked around at your clothes. Judging by the state you were in, you must have fooled around with someone last night. You couldn’t remember who. In fact, you couldn’t really remember anything. 

You fixed yourself up and stumbled out of the closet. Standing made your head spin. You made your way down the hall, leaning against the wall for support, until you reached the bathroom. You immediately vomited up the remaining alcohol sitting in your stomach. You retched again and again until you finally felt empty. Then you stood up, splashed some water on your face, and stared at yourself in the mirror. 

You didn’t even recognize the girl staring back at you. Make up was smudged across her face. Her eyes were dull and empty. Her hair was a mess. There was no trace of life in her face. You didn’t know this girl. You slowly glanced around the bathroom. Your shoes were missing. So was your purse with your phone inside. You vaguely recognized that you were at Alyssa’s step-father’s house. They had been gone for the week on vacation. There had been a party. You had shown up with Alyssa. She had let you borrow her dress and shoes. She did your make up. Why couldn’t you remember anything after that? 

You had never been black out drunk before. This was a new experience for you. You had heard of people blacking out whole nights from drinking. You couldn’t remember drinking that much but, then again, you couldn’t remember anything at all. And who the hell had you hooked up with? 

You still didn’t feel real. Your hangovers had never been this bad. This was hell. You managed to make your way downstairs. The house was a mess. You kicked away discarded cups with your foot as you entered the kitchen. With a glimmer of good luck, you spotted your purse still sitting on the counter from where you had left it. You had to step over a passed out boy laying on the floor to reach it. You had no texts. It was 7:30 am. Alyssa, Madison, or Valerie would have to help fill you in on whatever had happened last night. One of them must have all the gossip. You were sure you’d get crazy pictures from the party over the next few days. You smiled softly to yourself. It must have been one hell of a night if you couldn’t even remember anything. 

You pulled out your phone and ordered an uber to take you home. You ignored the restless uneasy feeling swimming around your head. It was probably nothing. This was just what feeling hungover felt like. Nothing to worry about. Everything was fine. 

“He drugged me,” you were finally able croak out the words. Your cries had subsided to nothing but the occasional hiccup. Tracks of dirt ran down your face as your tears had washed through the dried mud. You stared blankly ahead. Connor’s jacket was draped over you like a blanket. 

He stared quietly at you, “...Who did?” 

“Justin Crawford.” Each word you spoke was hollow. You felt empty.

Your eyes slowly moved across the forest floor until they landed on Connor’s face. You stared into his eyes. It was dark now. Night had come. He was lit by the pale glow of the moon which broke through a clearing in the canopy overhead. “How did you find me? I was walking for so long by myself. I thought you left me...”

He chewed on his bottom lip. “I was-” His words failed like he was going to explain where he had gone off to. Instead he changed his line of thought. “I heard you screaming. I thought you were being murdered. I ran to find you. You were just laying there. In the mud. You were shivering. And you weren’t...there...I think you were dissociating. I’ve...I know what that’s like.” He shook his head. “I tried to pull you out of the mud. I gave you my jacket because you were freezing. You wouldn’t wake up. I know sometimes you just have to wait it out. So I did. It took forever. I kept thinking that I should call an ambulance in case you were hurt but there is no service out here. I didn’t want to leave you alone like that. But you kept muttering to yourself. Sometimes you’d start screaming. I was...it was really scary...” 

That the most you had ever heard Connor talk at one time. You rubbed your nose and pulled his jacket tighter around you. You were so tired. 

“I want to go home. Take me home.” 

[jawllines]

Can we get a tiny peek of some smut

:D

But this -- this was different. It makes her peek up at him, where he stands with a towel slung loose and low around his waist. The inked ferns are prominent on his skin, glistening from droplets of water that cling to him. His hips are soft and round, his torso a decoration of abs, soft spots, a happy trail leading down into dangerous territory for her eyes to follow, and such a broad upper half she has to tear her eyes away before her thoughts get filthy. They might not get along, but Y/N isn't fucking blind. He's damn gorgeous.

Y/N feels like she's straining her eyes to keep looking down, though they're begging for another glance up at the Adonis like creature before her. What didn't help is that she hadn't been with anybody in a long while -- work got in the way a lot -- so she wasn't in tip top shape with keeping fly away hormones in check. Especially when her mouth waters at the thought of what's beneath the towel.

"Y'know, you could look if you wanted. I don' mind." Harry speaks casually, though she can hear the smirk on his stupidly cocky mouth.

She snorts, as if she wasn't just trying to keep her thighs from trembling, "Don't flatter yourself."

He makes a noise, like he knows she's lying, but she chooses to ignore it in favor of slinging her bag over her shoulder, "M'gonna go start the car."

"S'my car innit?" He grunts, "Why don't you just wait two minutes while I get dressed?" When Y/N finally chances a look at him, she sees he has a sly smile painted on his mouth and his eyebrows risen some, "Unless me being naked is --"

"I'll be outside." Y/N snatches his keys and slips out of the door as quickly as she can, before he can even think about finishing what he was going to say. She may be good a lot of things, but lying wasn't one of them -- it's part of the reason she could never say no to Jeff. Could never muster up an excuse believable enough to both of them to even sound real. It's also why she's shit at firs dates. . .gives too much away in one go.

[reg-darling]

A Hitch in His Get-along

(for Rollin David Wilson aka Baldy, 1900 – 1971)

 Baldy’s grandfather was captured by the Confederates at Gettysburg and after a long, hard, hungry march, spent the balance of the war at Andersonville. Baldy’s brother returned from World War I with a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, and a broken spirit.

Baldy’s father, Scott Wilson, was a blacksmith in Mayburg, Pennsylvania.

 In the mid-twentieth century timber and oil culture of Northwestern Pennsylvania, a widely accepted male ethos of bravado and grace made “outlaw” a colloquial term of cautious admiration for those men who had the wildness of the forest in their blood; they were generous, funny, outrageous, and outspoken men who played hard, drank hard, laughed loudly, poached venison, trusted their luck more than most people dared, and got away with it more than most people thought they deserved. Their surplus energy, which could not be contained by the drudgery of hard labor or the preachings of hellfire and brimstone, nurtured and protected the wildness of the human heart, the wildness that could look into the forest as a mirror and see itself.

Baldy was an outlaw.

 Baldy and a few friends organized Saturday night dances in Mayburg. He was the bouncer. Grizzled characters from lumber camps would come out of the woods looking for booze and a fight, in that order. Baldy’s job was to keep them from ruining everyone else’s good time. Usually, he could defuse cabin fever and moonshine weirdness with humor and empathy.

One night, a burly character with a reputation for his love of a good brawl, arrived fresh from weeks of lumber camp isolation and began harassing people outside. A crowd gathered to watch the seemingly inevitable fight. When Baldy was alerted, he went out, approached the irate drunk from behind, grabbed him by the seat of the pants and shirt collar, lifted him over his head, and threw him completely over a nearby truck. He turned to the fight-hungry spectators and said, “Where’s that big son-of-a-bitch everyone was complaining about?”

 When Wilda Deshner’s passion for Baldy’s wild heart culminated in pregnancy, they married. Given the cultural context, their romance must have been powerful, but its story was erased by stigma. Wilda was driven into the crippled spirituality of fundamentalist Methodism by shame and the dominance of self-righteous and unattractive sisters.

[Baldy stood by his commitment to the end of his days, but, like the multiple dimensions of quantum physics, they occupied different worlds in the same space.]

 Baldy had driven the train from Mayburg to Sheffield when he learned that Wilda was in labor. He decided to make the return trip, even though there was an ice jam in progress on the Tionesta Creek.

[The Tionesta Creek is larger than many rivers.]

He drove the locomotive as fast as he dared in the strange silver half-light of a New Year’s full moon with the rising ice closing over the tracks in the visible distance behind him as he raced down the creekside.

 In the depths of the Great Depression, Baldy and a couple of his friends decided, since it was strawberry season when venison is prime, they ought to get some. Home brew probably played a role. They jack-lighted a nice fat doe—she went down in her tracks. While one of his friends held the light, Baldy stepped astride the fallen deer. Mysteriously revived, she stood up. The light was dropped and, while his friends were helpless with laughter, he rode the deer off into the darkness.

 Baldy knew how to be happy. He was a big-hearted man with a full compliment of the flaws we associate with big-hearted men. While his wife’s pious family spewed repression and damnation, he danced in the background and taught his children and grandchildren to laugh and fish.

 Baldy drove his car off the bridge that spans the Tionesta at Mayburg. The car landed on one of the concrete supports and hung there, teetering precariously. A bystander heard a voice yell out, “Jesus Christ, the moon’s upside down!”

 In the fall of 1941, Clyde Darling, the man who would become my father on the far end of that immense decade, was enjoying an after-work beer when Wade and Ira came into the bar, already crazy drunk.

Wade and Ira were bad boys. They lived and worked in lumber camps, often for several weeks at a stretch, then came into town to drink and brawl until their money was gone. The bartender wasn’t happy to see them, but feared refusing to serve them would ignite the brawl he wished to avoid. He turned to the men seated at the bar and said, “Drinks on the house for the rest of the night, if anyone can get those two assholes out of here without busting the place up.” A tall, wiry man rose from his barstool, walked up behind Wade, grabbed him by the belt and collar, and threw him through the screen door. Ira rushed to his brother’s defense and was knocked senseless by a single punch. The man grabbed the semiconscious Ira by the ankles, dragged him outside through the ruined screen door, and dipped Ira’s head in the cesspool.

After the man returned to his seat amidst laughter and handshakes, Clyde raised his free beer in a toast to Baldy Wilson. Though he didn’t know it at the time, this was Clyde’s first encounter with his future father-in-law.

 When Mayburg became a ghost town with the closing of the Mayburg Chemical Company in 1943, Baldy and Wilda moved to Warren, and Baldy went to work in a factory that made steel components for a variety of large weapons. One of his duties was to don an asbestos suit, cover his nose and mouth with a wet towel, and enter an idle blast furnace to scrape encrusted debris from its interior walls. They worked in teams a rushed few minutes at a time to avoid the risk of lung damage from the intense heat. Part of their job involved unbolting and replacing large metal plates, and one day in the rush to finish and get back out, they bolted Baldy’s thumb down. There was no time for hesitation—he drew his knife and cut his thumb off. Even that small delay scorched his lungs.

 [My grandfather never truly recovered from the incident. He healed well at first, but he got old quickly. He must have felt the loss of his vigor keenly, but he didn’t complain. He became wise and his wisdom comingled with his wildness in the same way his former physical vitality had.]

 No longer able to hunt, Baldy became the camp cook (and conversationalist) at Aunt Gert’s camp in deer season. When he said, “I just make a big pot of Mulligan,” I asked what “Mulligan” was.

“I make a stew with pretty much everything we’ve got. I keep it on the stove and add stuff to it as it gets eaten. When it turns green, I throw it away and start a new batch.”

 Reminiscing about a time many years before, when one of his children had been bullied, Baldy said, “I went and had a talk with the boy.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him the next time I needed to have a talk with him, I was gonna spike his pecker to a stump and push him over backward.” He laughed softly and shook his head.

 Baldy said, “This is a special truck—with it, I don’t have to pay any attention to speed limits.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have limited speed.”

 [Baldy was a one-man counterculture within the family. His humor and recklessness—the lightness of his heart—kept the family’s ancestral wildness from suffocating beneath the terrible weight of plastic industrial culture.]

 Baldy drove a succession of battered old jalopies—hundred dollar vehicles that only needed to get him around town and trout fishing now and then. After his old truck finally died, his mobility was compromised for a while, until he found a baby-shit brown Volkswagen, which had most definitely seen better days.

That summer, Baldy was late for a family gathering. Just when my aunts, uncles, and parents were beginning to worry, he drove into the yard. Branches, leaves and ferns were stuck in the Volkswagen’s windows, doors, trunk lid, and bumpers, making it look like he had driven wildly through a clearcut jungle. He got out of the car wearing one of those novelty fake arrows that give the appearance of one’s head being transfixed, danced a little jig, and said, “I was ambushed!” The glove compartment was stuffed with crumpled, wadded currency. He’d had a great afternoon betting on (illegal) cockfights.

 [Everyone, except my grandmother, including his grandchildren and great grandchildren, called him “Baldy.”]

 My mother lamented the misery and injustice of a late April snowstorm.

“It could be worse,” Baldy said.

“How?” she asked with audible annoyance leaking from the edges of her voice.

“It could rain cow shit and rocks to splash it,” he replied.

 [Such humor may have been my first conscious appreciation of multilayered meanings as he separated my mother’s complaint from her self-pity, affirmed the validity of the complaint, and substituted laughter and irony for lamentation.]

 Clyde and Baldy were talking about a local politician whom they both loathed, probably for a good reason—I don’t recall the background or even whether I ever knew it. Clyde launched into a loud rant of manly rage sprinkled with threats of violence. When he paused, Baldy said, “He isn’t worthy of a fist, but I’d be happy to slap him until he pissed like a pup,” and laughed softly.

 Advice from my grandfather seldom came in direct form, rather it was the subtext in stories, so when it emerged from the subtext into direct statement, it commanded attention. Once he told me about a man whose dishonesty had gotten him into a world of trouble.

“He didn’t intend to be that way. He only meant to tell one small lie, but every lie needs seven more to make it stick. That’s why it only takes one lie to make a liar of you.”

 I was sitting beside Baldy on Mayburg Old Home Day. His morbidly obese, fundamentalist sister-in-law, Lottie, walked past.

[Lottie and her sister, Helen, were ever eager to forthrightly assure anyone and everyone that if you drank beer or failed to attend the right church regularly, you were doomed to eternal hellfire.]

“She’ll grow a lot of nice flowers on her grave when she dies,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Lotta shit there.”

 I showed Baldy an odd-shaped machine part I had found in the woods near Mayburg and asked, “What do you suppose this was for?”

“It looks like a hooty-cackle for on the butt end of a sneeze bar,” he replied.

 My girlfriend and I were making love on my parents’ living room floor when the front door opened, and Baldy walked in. Seeming to take no notice, he walked past us, through the dining room, into the kitchen, and closed the kitchen door behind him. We heard the refrigerator open and close, a can of beer being opened, and the back door open and close.

 As Baldy’s emphysema progressed, he could barely cross a room without pausing to catch his breath, but he refused to give up trout fishing. He loved to fish little forest streams for native brook trout with a long fly rod, a bait casting reel, and night crawlers. He walked miles into the woods in twenty-foot increments. His daughters (my mother and aunt) were worried.

[His blend of patience and courage was a larger lesson than I was able to assimilate at the time.]

Aunt Gert asked, “Dad, what are we going to do if you don’t come back one of these times?”

“Wait a week or two and take a walk. You’ll smell me,” he replied.

 My plunge into the late-sixties zeitgeist seemed to send seismic shock waves through the boondock Methodist contingent of my mother’s family. Some were forthright in their conviction that I had embraced both eternal damnation and present treason, while others were content to merely squirm and fill the room with the veiled vibes of their nervous confusion.

My grandfather mostly seemed not to notice, but one day as we drank my father’s beer, while he was at work, Baldy said, “You know back in Prohibition, me and my friends used to buy illegal booze knowing that some of the bad stuff out there could make you go blind or worse, but we knew each other and knew who we could trust. Make sure you know who you can trust.”

I said, “That’s what life is all about.”

We tapped our bottles in a toast.

 Following a tip from my grandfather, I went to Hank’s Plumbing to apply for a job as a clerk/shop assistant/laborer.

“So you’re looking for a job, huh? Well, come on, let’s go out back,” Hank said, as he picked up a softball and walked out the back door. I followed. In the backyard, he gestured to where he wanted me to go twenty-five feet away and threw the softball at me—hard.

I have an eye convergence problem, which compromises my depth perception. In order to make the catch I had to get my face directly in front of the ball and save myself with my right hand. So, that’s what I did. I caught the ball and fired it right back at his face.

He caught it and asked, “Why are you out of work now?” as he threw the ball again. I caught it, threw it back, and said, “I dropped out of college.”

He threw the ball back, “Why?”

“School didn’t seem nearly so attractive after I flunked my draft physical.”

Hank caught and returned the ball, “Why’d they flunk you.”

I caught and returned, “I don’t have binocular vision—shitty depth perception—it’s no big deal.”

[This was a lie. I had evaded the draft by claiming to harbor ”homosexual tendencies” and catching a hard thrown ball was, indeed, a big deal.]

He caught the ball and threw it back hard, “When can you start?”

“Right now,” I said and tossed the ball to him gently.

“What’s with the beard?”

“Nothing, it just grew there all by itself.”

Hank laughed and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

I spent the rest of the day learning Hank’s bookkeeping method, how to operate the pipe threading machine, how to handle sales, and getting an introduction to Hank’s collection of pornographic magazines.

 I bought a 1963 Rambler station wagon for a hundred thirty-five dollars.

 Baldy was hospitalized when the emphysema that had been steadily draining his vitality for years reached its final, critical stage. It was obvious to all that death was closing in on him fast.

Aunt Gert said tearfully, “Dad, don’t leave us.”

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”

A nurse brought his dinner.

Baldy turned to me and said. “This hospital food makes me wish I was a dog.”

“Why is that?”

“So I could lick my ass and get the taste out of my mouth.”

He died the next day.

 My parents moved to North Carolina not long after Baldy died. I lingered in northwest Pennsylvania for a while and dreamed of wild, faraway possibilities.

 [He was so intensely alive, even when he was half-dead, that mourning seemed unnatural, and my journey from grief to gratitude was short. The wisdom beneath the surface of his wildness slowly bubbled to the surface in the decades after he was gone.]

 From my earliest memory, my grandmother had parakeets. They all had names, but no one ever spoke about them. They were just there, one or two at a time, in a cage in the dining room.

There were no more birds after Baldy died.

 My parents had expressed a longing to have a dog again, and their new home in North Carolina had a large fenced-in yard. They also wanted me to visit them before I headed for the West Coast. On the way, I stopped to visit my friend and former teacher, Aaron, and traded a selection of my prints for a borzoi puppy, Mona.

[Aaron bred and raised borzois, some of whom seemed like canine bodhisattvas.]

As I traveled southward, it became obvious that my aging Rambler’s top speed was in steady decline. A mechanic told me it would take two days and more money than the car was worth to resurrect it. Creeping into West Virginia at thirty-five mph with the gas pedal to the floor, a change of strategy was called for. I checked into a motel and dropped off Mona and my worldly belongings. Then, I drove to a supermarket parking lot a half-mile away, scraped off the inspection sticker, removed the license plate, and walked back to the motel. On the way, I bought two cheeseburgers—one for Mona and one for me. I called my parents and explained the delay in my expected arrival.

The next morning, I stuck out my thumb with a knapsack, two large bags, and a puppy. My mother picked me up not far down the road. My father was utterly smitten with Mona.

My parents paid for an airplane ticket to San Francisco. I didn’t have a place to settle, but I had a phone number for a bright friend who was living in a commune in Oakland.

[spellyjane]

Splash, Hammer, Meh, Yay! Chatty 70.3 RR

I was heading into Chattanooga 70.3 with no taper and a month after IM Texas. My coach and I fit in a bit of speed work but it has been a bit of an adjustment. They are such different races. I have been in Ironman mode since last September. Sounds like a good excuse for a wussy day right!? It isn’t, I had a cracking day, it just did not play out the way I planned it.

My team mate / mate Alex and I hit the road loaded with bikes, coffee and enthusiasm for the long drive from Chicago to Tennessee. Even with a delicious lunch stop in funky Nashville we made good time and arrived in time for race check in.

I am probably never going to be in charge of booking race accommodation again. The Days Inn was truly hideous, truly. But it was walking distance to the race start, it had a bed and a lamp, so some may say it was perfect.

We met up with my race mate Jeff for dinner at a pub on the main street. He had flown in earlier from Denver and was there on a mission to claim a 70.3 WC slot. We had an early dinner so that Alex could go and pick up his wife Theresa from the airport.

So our weekend gang of Alex, Theresa, Jeff and I assembled for breakfast at the Frothy Monkey next door to the Chattanooga ChooChoo hotel. There was a lot of good eating that went on this weekend. We planned our day and got moving.

A little recon ride showed the worst part of the course, the suburban streets were cracked and potholed but brightly marked with orange tape. It hardly seemed possible while we were sweating buckets at the unsheltered 3pm athlete briefing, but the weather forecast for race day was for thunder storms and a 100% chance of rain. After hearing the few key bits we needed to know, we staggered back to our rooms for a pre dinner rest and heat stroke recovery. I must say, those athlete briefings are important BUT sitting us out in the sun for an hour is counter-intuitive. What a crock of shit that weather forecast turned out to be, but at that stage it was a significant concern for all of us.

As we wandered up the street to meet Jeff at the restaurant he reserved for our pre race dinner, we saw formally attired people coming and going from what was obviously our destination. I was lucky to have had the sense of occasion to add a pair of loafers to my shorts and shirt combo but really that is as fancy as my race travel wardrobe goes. We arrived quite under-dressed but clearly oozing enough confidence and our blue athlete wrist bands to carry it off. No spaghetti and red sauce to be found anywhere on the menu we endured with soup with lobster, sorghum buttered bread and some sort of tree fern sprouts. I have eaten pre race fish tacos in mexico, schnitzel in Austria and quinoa in Calgary and know that this pre race dinner in Chatty will be just as memorable!

As we dined the heavens descended and the forecast epic weather arrived violently. We stared out the window of the restaurant all dreading our trip back to our hotel let alone the race the next day. I don’t mind swimming and running in rain but riding my bike in heavy rain is just plain scary. I was thinking about the numerous man hole covers and the road conditions I had seen earlier that day. All I wanted at that stage was a safe race, to not crash my bike or be struck by lightning. I was committed to racing, after all I had to burn off all the calories I had just consumed!

Before bed I pottered around got all my transition gear into plastic bags and just got myself into rain racing mode. I pictured my whole day wet and soggy but killing it anyway. My husband sent me some words of encouragement and I was in bed by 10, I managed an ok sleep. I was up at 4am to see a dry parking lot and low cloud cover. Whoa, I was immediately elated!

I met Jeff on a dark corner near my hotel and we walked up to the race together. He was his usual quiet pre race self, perhaps a little more so because I know he was really wanting a good race and a slot.

I got myself ready, went and found Alex near his bike, he is a special breed of chilled out, after letting some of his vibe rub off on me, I told him I would see him near the swim start, and I went off to collect Jeff for the shuttle bus to the swim start. He was not as chilled. He was staring at me with scary evil possessed eyes. I was horrified until I figured out it was not actually directed at me but the member of his nemesis tri team who had racked his bike next to Jeff’s.

We caught the bus to the swim start, and wandered down to the sub 30 min swim time area. (I was anticipating a sub 30 min swim given the river current.) Alex found us and we chatted away nervously while we waited. Actually I chatted away… Still no sign of rain but the deluge the night before had an impact on the current in the river. They had sent the pros off on the original course, swimming 300m up stream, turning, swimming 100m across then the remaining 1600m downstream. But it was evident that the current was too strong for us mortal age groupers so to the cheers and hurrahs of the crowd around me, they cut the up stream portion. I wasnt saying boo, but I certainly was not thrilled to be doing the short swim. So without the upstream portion we just had a mad 1300m sprint downstream. I got that into my head straight away. Don’t hold back I thought, just get in and go hard.

The rolling start works well when people self seed properly. But oh man of course they don’t. I started with Jeff, Alex putting himself a few mins back waved us off as we stepped over the timing mats and took off. I lost Jeff within a minute. I was pushing. I was breathing every other stroke for most of the way. I was swimming over the top of a lot of people.

I found the step and hauled myself up and headed off to the wet suit strippers. I made the climb up the steep ramp into T1 to Theresa’s cheers. I donned my gear and headed out. Jeff teased me about not wearing bike shoes in transition as he caught me just before the bike mount line, dammit, he may just have a point. Anyway we took off within seconds of each other but he was out of my sight very quickly.

I was feeling super. My plan was to hit watts that would give me an IF of about .82-.83 (Intensity factor, a fraction of normalised power over my functional threshold power, I am talking about dosing my effort based on my known maximum average watts for a 1hr effort, or something like that) The problem was that the rolling hills on the course were causing a lot of bunching. In order to keep clear of other riders and avoid drafting I was pushing up the hills and when ever I found myself caught up in any bunches. I was finding that as I was coming into the back of a slower rider’s draft zone and beginning to over take that another rider would come up into my draft zone to overtake me, but then we would hit a hill and everyone would slow down, I could tell who the hell was overtaking who, it was a nightmare, in the end I just felt the best thing to do was to get well away of it all. I channeled my Team INTENT Tuesday afternoon hammer-time mojo and went nuts. I vaguely recall passing some poor guy on the side of the road having a mechanical as I headed up the steepest climb, turned out that was Jeff fixing his dropped chain. I finally got some clear road as I hit the easiest part of the course. I rode past a flock of big black birds sitting in the grass on the side of the road, apparently they were vultures, they were scary looking ugly things. A bad sign? Not for me, they were there for the female pro I was gaining on.

Jeff came up and passed me with about 5k to go, shortly after that Alex was there. It was amazing that of all the almost 2500 people racing, that I would be lined up behind those 2 right at the finish. Neither was pulling away from me too fast so I caught up, I giggled as I passed Jeff and finished ahead of him. My IF ended up being .85, not ridiculous but not particularly smart given the hilly run course to come.

We all took off into T2. I was on my way out when I realised I still had a top on that I did not want, the awesome volunteer helped me get it off and dropped it back at my bike while Jeff ran past me laughing. Jeff, Alex and I all hit the run course within 30s of each other. They were gone and I was already feeling that my effort on the bike was going to make this a bit of an ugly run. Spectathlete Theresa was ready with a super smile and cheer as I ran by her at least 3 times out on the run course. I could see Alex and Jeff running together for a bit, they both looked great and I was super jealous that I did not have the legs to keep up. It was hilly and there were lots of U turns but it was a great run course. The aid stations were fantastic. I was not holding a pace I needed to hit 1:40, but I sure as heck was not going to let 1:45 slide by. I watched as a girl with a strong run and a “45” inked on her calf cruised by me with about 8k to go. Oh darn, had no hope of matching her pace, but still in decent shape and not completely falling apart I kicked on and managed a not so terrible run after a killer bike and a hilly run course.

I high fived Jeff and Alex and gave Theresa a sweaty kiss at the finish. All of us were happy. Alex finished 20th in the insanely stacked men’s 30-34 AG, Jeff came 8th in his 50-54 AG both very happy with their performances.

I was 3rd in my 45-49 AG with a 4:31. I can’t call this a 70.3 PR because the swim was cut short by 700m, but it was my fastest bike run combo ever. It was not executed the way I planned but when I look at the data and past performances, it really was one of my best days out. I had a smoking fast bike split of 2:24 which was 5th female overall, including the pros, my run was mediocre at 1:43, but over all a very fast day.

After the world’s most refreshing beer we headed down to the insanely hot river front to attend the award ceremony and slot allocation. Alex and Theresa escaped after awards but Jeff and I stayed. He was fairly certain, that he had a slot but it really was not till they called his name that he breathed again. I was holding my breath too. There was a lot of joy!

I passed on my slot because I already picked it up in Racine last year but was thrilled to see it roll down to a girl sitting right by me, again more joy!

Post race dinner at fab Chattanooga find, Urban Stack, was followed by ice cream thick shakes. We happily all fare welled Jeff before wobbling back to our skank hotel.

Alex, Theresa and I drove home via awesome food in Nashville, we sung a little John Denver, read and chatted, they were such great company all weekend.

I send my huge love and thanks to Simon for his support.

I send more huge love and thanks to my coach Rick Schopp, yeah, I am respectable on the bike these days, thanks for getting me there.

Next stop, cheering on my boys this weekend at their 1st triathlon. Lookout Brownlees.