#man I L O V E good belly movement

[bellyburdens]

The kind of out of control movements I enjoy…

Oh my god, exactly. That kind of thing is so hot. Belly churning, visibly distended with kicks and movement, constantly uneasy, and so heavily pregnant. It's obvious to anyone even looking in that direction that something's going on. And all you can do is rub it and pray it calms down before you garner more attention.

Unless, of course, you can't. And you're stuck with eyes all over, tracing over every twitch. Turning heads any time they hear your stomach gurgle, or your little huffs of exertion. Better hope it's not contractions. ;)

[itsevanffs]

rage, rage?

My,,, war fic, yes. (Hi sorry for the wait)

I, uh, did delete like half of the outline since I posted the original post you probably got this from (and I might start over completely because i’m an idiot) BUT I’ll tell you what’ll stay the same :D ...the age gap (23 years) That’s it. Probably asjdshd

Ok, I’m kidding. It’s a muggle au, war fic, Tom is either a terrorist or a home terrorist (I can’t quite decide yet) and his goal is to go independent from whichever country I decide he’ll be based in (Britain or the USA, nothing else). It’ll probably be based in the past (the 1960s look so good but I’m personally having issues with the pesky thing called the Civil Rights Movement, especially should I base it in America (more playing ground). It’s a big thing and I’m not the right person to describe it, a white person with too much time on his hands and an attention span of ‘it interests me, 3 straight weeks, it doesn’t, 3 straight seconds’ so I might make it earlier? 50s, 40s. I do like the cars.) and a LOT of research will go into it. On the one hand I do sincerely hope that once I’m halfway through it the MI6 or FBI or whoever will start contacting me and demanding what I know because that means I write well, but on the other having to prove that it’s all inference and that I didn’t, in fact, steal army strategy plans or layouts of certain areas would be quite a hassle.

(Yes, it has happened to others.)

...while googling instances, I found that the FBI is willing to help writers accurately portray them, and have been doing so since the 1930s. This is fantastic fucking news, my day has been made, I sincerely hope MI6 extends the same courtesy. Gods, what a gorgeous world we live in. I’m literally ecstatic.

I digress. So, where Tom is a (home) terrorist, Harry is a newbie soldier in the army of whichever country they’re based in. They meet before they both slot in their respective roles, though, and while Harry leaves oblivious, Tom leaves with an enormous crush grudge. This, once they’re both active in their respective factions, this translates into a desire to make Harry Tom’s equal and opposite, so to speak, so Tom arranges it that Harry becomes the Big Power behind the counter-movement to his own so he can defeat him in a spectacular way. Of course, things don’t work out exactly as planned, and they fall in -fairy noises- l o v e. -fairy noises-

As I stated earlier, there are several ways this could play out. I’d say you simply have to sit back and enjoy anything that comes around. I can give you a snippet or two, but no promises that the end result will look anything like this.

Harry steeled his jaw, and Tom, seeing this, pulled back just in time to avoid their heads colliding painfully as Harry threw his head forward. Harry clearly hadn't anticipated him avoiding his attack, so they stayed there for a few, long seconds, harsh breaths intermingling, the smell of mint and blood mixing to something gruesomely sweet in Tom's nose. Tom's eyes wandered over the small dips in Harry's skin where scars criss-crossed over the pale expanse, following a thin white line that reminded the world of the gruesome split lip Harry had carried for weeks after the first time Tom attacked, and down to his mouth.

Then Harry tried again, and Tom only tilted his head this time, so that their lips pressed together clumsily with a bruising force. Instinctively, Tom closed his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose, his hand raising to the back of Harry's head and trapping him in place with a strong grip. The blood rushing in his ears almost drowned out the surprised, protesting noise Harry made. Tom shifted, resting his knee on the chair, next to Harry's thigh, and deepened the kiss, mouthing at Harry's lower lip. Harry opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but Tom simply took advantage of it and traced the sharps of Harry's teeth with his tongue. When Tom finally leaned back, he felt Harry following, and gave in once again, seeing through his eyelashes that Harry's eyes had shut too before their lips reconnected and his mind went blank except for the motions. Harry sighed softly into Tom's mouth and Tom traced the tip of his tongue gently against Harry's in reply. His mouth felt cold against Tom's, and was tinged with a metallic taste that could only be blood.

The fic will be based on two poems: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas, which represents Tom’s side of the story, and Bayonet Charge by Ted Hughes, representing Harry’s side of the story. I’ll include both under the cut. A random fact, while we’re at it: Bayonet Charge is my favourite poem of all times. I adore everything about it.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Bayonet Charge

Suddenly he awoke and was running- raw In raw-seamed hot khaki, his sweat heavy, Stumbling across a field of clods towards a green hedge That dazzled with rifle fire, hearing Bullets smacking the belly out of the air - He lugged a rifle numb as a smashed arm; The patriotic tear that had brimmed in his eye Sweating like molten iron from the centre of his chest, -

In bewilderment then he almost stopped - In what cold clockwork of the stars and the nations Was he the hand pointing that second? He was running Like a man who has jumped up in the dark and runs Listening between his footfalls for the reason Of his still running, and his foot hung like Statuary in mid-stride. Then the shot-slashed furrows

Threw up a yellow hare that rolled like a flame And crawled in a threshing circle, its mouth wide Open silent, its eyes standing out. He plunged past with his bayonet toward the green hedge, King, honour, human dignity, etcetera Dropped like luxuries in a yelling alarm To get out of that blue crackling air His terror’s touchy dynamite.

[mymelodyheart]

Highland Destiny Chapter 5 ~Dinner for Two~

They were standing in the middle of the lounge, suspended in time and space, between heaven and earth, looking into one another's eyes. Claire's hand was still in Jamie's, his fingers generating tiny sparks that surged erratically through her body, fanned into a flame with just a little pressure of touch. His eyes, dark with wanting, bore into her soul, sending delicious heat to her core. She felt the sudden rush of blood to her head as her heart raced, scattering all logic and reasoning into some unknown dark abyss. She tried to summon a memory from the past; Frank, Oxford, the hospital corridors, her parents, uncle Lamb... anything to keep her from drowning into Jamie's deep blue. But it was futile. She was falling, dropping, slipping, but she had no idea into where.

The electrically charged interlude was interrupted by the sound of ringing from Claire's iPhone, jarring them from their trance and making them both blink. "  Dhia  !" Jamie murmured under his breath as his hand released Claire's, to rub the nape of his neck.

Ding! Ding! Saved by the bell. 

O' sweet Lord Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Ding ding indeed!

Regaining a tiny bit of composure, Claire reached behind the back pocket of her jeans, extracting her phone. "I need to take this," she whispered hoarsely, barely audible.

He nodded and motioned with his hands towards the doorway as he made his way to the kitchen. She nodded back with an apologetic smile.

Seeing the image of the caller on her phone, Claire momentarily forgot Jaime and what just transpired. "Geillis, darling!"

"Hiya chick! How are you daein'? O' my God, o' my God ah heard from Joe yoo're in town. Sae, ye moved here for good?" answered an animated woman's voice in broad Glaswegian.

" Absobloodylootely – YES! Oh God, it's so good to hear your voice, Geillis. We ought to meet up as soon as possible. Listen, are you free Friday night? If so, let's catch up then. It has been bloody ages!"

"Och this is so excitin'! Aye definitely, let's meet up. Maybe Joe will come too. Ah cannae wait tae see you and show you our shop. By th' way, what's wrang wi' ye? Ye sound like ye hae bin runnin'. 'Tis a bad time?"

Claire twisted backwards to peek through the doorway. She saw Jamie leaning over the sink, splashing water to his face and neck and felt the heat crept up her own. "Well, kind of. Look, sorry to make this short but got to go. I promise to call you first thing tomorrow. Is Scotch & Rye Pub on Friday at 7 ok? I've been told that its the place to be. We can grab some fish and chips if you fancy."

"Brilliant, sorted! Scotch & Rye pub it is then Friday at 7! Ah cannae wait. An', och, Claire...you hae a laddie there wi' ye?" She can almost see her friend's cheeks dimpling and giving a wicked wink.

"Sod off, Geillis!"   She always knows, the bloody cow!   With that, Claire turned off her phone.

Although she was so thrilled to hear from her friend, the call was a welcomed distraction. Geillis was one of her closest mates in Oxford in medical school. And along with Joe, they were the three Musketeers in the campus until Geillis dropped out. In the earlier days, she developed an interest in Alternative Healing after joining a movement against big pharmaceutical companies; hence, she left her medical studies and followed her boyfriend to Inverness to set up a health and herb shop.

Claire was staring at the phone in her hand when Jamie walked back in. He leaned on the doorway, smiling, his breadth blocking the light from the corridor. "Hey, Sassenach. Shall we start dinner?"

She smiled back. "Sure!" And she followed him to the kitchen taking his outreached hand.

..........

In the next half hour, Claire busied herself with dinner's preparation while Jamie chopped the shallots and washed the chanterelles. Still rattled from earlier, she carefully stirred their conversation onto something neutral and avoided eye contact, but working in such a small area, touching was unavoidable. A couple of times, he had to place his hands on her hips as he navigated narrow spaces, and his mere touch sent bolts of heat coursing through her body. But with his laid-back and relaxed manner, it wasn't long before they were back to bantering and joking. Once the chanterelles had been sauteed, and the rice and shallot simmering in broth and wine, she left him to continue cooking while she washed and changed.

Drying herself after a quick shower and shave, Claire was very conscious of Jaime in the other room. Just knowing that he was there under the same roof was enough to make her heart do somersaults. She could hear him moving about as the wooden floors creaked and the pots and pans banged. For a very big man, he looked right at home and comfortable working in the kitchen.

In her bedroom, she looked for something to wear but looking into her wardrobe, there wasn't really a lot of choices.   Well, it's only Jamie anyway, it's not like it's a date!

Well Beauchamp, ready for round 2? Ding! Ding!

Wot round 2? There will be no round 2.

So why did you shave your legs?

Rubbish! I always shave my legs.

Liar, liar, pants on fire!

Annoyed with herself, she decided to put on a pair of black leggings, an over-sized sweatshirt emblazoned, OXFORD and white woollen socks. She twisted her hair to the top of her head and fastened it with a hair clasp after giving up on taming her wayward curls. Looking into the mirror, she scrunched her nose and poked her tongue out. 

Ok, Beauchamp, let's do this! 

Do what? 

Get laid? 

Not gonna happen. 

But you want to. 

I do not! 

Liar, Liar, Pants on fire!

Sod off!

Satisfied with her reflection, she went to the kitchen.

When Claire walked in, Jaime was in the process of opening a bottle of Chablis. He gave her one of those heart-dropping smiles as he took in the sight of her. His eyes travelled up and down, lingering for a moment at her breast.   Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Can he tell I don't have a bra?   She quickly reached down to touch the hem of her sweatshirt to check its thickness. Taking it as an awkward moment, Jamie reached out and guided her to the table, placing a hand on the small of her back. The scent of her favourite food made her stomach growl ferociously. He must have heard her belly rumble. "Hungry Sassenach? he said with a grin.

She was pleasantly surprised to see that Jamie did make himself at home. There was nothing else for her to do: the table was set, the green salad dressed, her flowers haphazardly arranged in the vase and placed on a side table, and he even had a few of her scented candles burning. In the background, she could hear L-O-V-E song by Nat King Cole playing softly in the lounge. In spite of her nervousness, she couldn't help but smile. Maybe the hunger was getting the better of her.

"Very hungry, indeed!" she replied. Then cocking her head, she exclaimed, "Oh my God, Jaime, you have Uncle Lambs record player working! Sorry, I don't have any sound system set up yet. It's been a hectic during the last few days. There's still a lot of things I need to do with this house."

"Och, dinna fash Sassenach. I love old music and light jazz. We still have my grand parent's record player in our family home, and occasionally, we play some of my ma's collections for 'ol time sake. I hope you dinna mind me going through your uncle's records."

"No of course not, that's what it's there for. Maybe after dinner, we can go through some and listen to some old jig."

"That's grand, Sassenach!" He took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm.

Over the next couple of hours, Jamie and Claire got better acquainted over Rissotto and wine. As the evening progressed, Claire began to relax and enjoy herself as they exchanged stories about their families and life. She found Jamie charming, and like most Scots, he was born a storyteller. He spoke of his late parents and his sister in Lallybroch where he grew up, and in return, she reciprocated in kind and spoke of her travels to archaeological sites with Uncle Lamb and what she can remember of her parents.

After dinner, they moved to the lounge to listen to records. While Jamie lit up the log burner and prepared the whisky and tumblers, Claire fixed a tray of strawberries and cream and coffee. Claire couldn't help notice how at ease Jamie was - he looked like he's lived in Uncle Lamb's cottage forever. For the first time she arrived in Inverness, Claire felt at home, and she wondered if it had to do with Jamie.

..........

Three-quarters of the whisky bottle later, Jamie and Claire collapsed on the floor, spent from laughing so much, after attempting to dance the can-can to Sinatra's "New York, New York." Jamie was a terrible dancer, and Claire couldn't help but giggle her way through the routine. After a few more twirls and twists, they decided to call it a night. She didn't want the evening to end, but it was getting rather late. 

Claire got up from the floor and holding up an almost empty bottle in the air, she announced, before slumping on the sofa, "Ok, Jamie, last drink. I'm totally knackered."

Jamie followed suit, but instead of sitting beside her, he sat down on the coffee table facing her. He reached out and took her hands between his own. This time, there was no hint of seduction or suggestion of flirt. "Sassenach, thank ye so much for a lovely evening. I've never laughed so much in my life, but I will need a taxi, I canna drive back home in my state," he said with a slight slur.

"Rubbish, you can stay here, there's plenty of room. I won't have you driving after drinking so much, and you can have my bed, it's the biggest in the house. I'll take the guest room," Claire insisted. She tried to stand up but swayed a bit. As she regained her balance, she looked up at him and smiled. "And Jaime, I had a wonderful time too. Thank you." Claire got on her tip-toes and gave Jamie a kiss on the cheek before swaggering backwards. She giggled. "Ooops."

"Weel, if ye don't mind, then I don't mind either." Jamie slightly unsteady on his feet, caught Claire by the elbows and laughed.

Claire peered into the almost empty bottle of whisky and poured the rest in each of the tumblers. "Good! That's settled then. And no, I don't mind at all. Last drink?" she said, handing a glass to Jaime.

"Aye." And raising his glass, he made a toast. "Slange var Sassenach!"

Claire wobbling on her feet managed to raise her glass, laughing. "Cheers mate!"

After downing their whisky, Claire handed the glasses and empty bottles to Jamie. "Right, I'll go and get some fresh sheets, and you can bring these in the kitchen. Then off to bed."

"To bed or to sleep?" he asked mischievously with a glint in his eyes.

"Ha-ha,"

Claire hurried to the bedroom, slightly zig-zagging as she made her way. That last remark from Jamie made her conscious of him all over again.   Damn you, Jaime!   As she was getting some fresh linens from the cupboard, she heard a thump and glasses falli

"Jamie, are you alright?" She went quickly to the kitchen and found Jamie taking off his shirt stained with wine. On the floor were shards of glass and spilt leftover wine.

"Och sorry Sassenach, I'm not familiar with your house, and I forgot you had boxes laid there. I tripped over them."

Claire thinking he might be still shaky on his feet due to intoxication, pulled him away from the broken glasses. "It's alright, Jamie. Just stand back a little please." After cleaning up, she went over to him to see if he had a cut. "Let me see you hands Jamie."

"Dinna fash Sassenach, it's just a wee cut." He held up his thumb, and she saw there was a shard sticking out. She quickly went to her first aid kit drawer, to get a tweezer, iodine and some cotton. It was a small cut, but the shard had to be taken out. 

Holding Jaime's thumb to the light, she pulled the glass out from the cut, and fresh blood started to flow. Without thinking, as if it was the most natural thing to do, Claire put his thumb to her mouth to suck the blood.   Oh, sweet Mother Mary, what did I just do?    She only came to her senses when she felt Jaime drew a sharp intake of breath. She felt embarrassed. Feeling idiotic and foolish, Claire didn't dare look up to Jaime and slowly released his hand. Head bowed, she realised he had taken off his shirt after forgetting about it for a moment. As her eyes wandered to his naked torso, she noticed his hard washboard abs and the movement of his breathing. On the hollow of his navel, ran a trail of dark reddish-gold hair that disappeared into his jeans. The thought of running her finger on that trail made the insides of her legs quiver. The skin on her face and neck turned hot.   Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, what have I done, and what am I thinking?

"Sassenach, are you alright?" Jaime said softly as he lifted her chin to look him in the eye. What she saw in Jaime's eye was a concern, instead of his usual mischief. She can only nod, too aware of Jamie's naked torso "You dinna need to be scairt of me - I wouldna force me on you." He paused, taking her hand. "But I would verra much like to kiss you. Would you mind?"

Point of no return, she swallowed. "No Jaime, I wouldn't mind." She paused and then continued, her voice sounding raspy to her ears. "Please kiss me," Then she placed her cool hands on his hard abdomen. 

The moment, Claire touched him, he felt his body was on fire. He thought of the other women in his life in the past,   Louise, Geneva, Annalise, Laoghair e, and looking back, he realised how shallow they have been. The sex was always a welcome release, but beyond that, there was nothing. With Claire, everything came naturally; he was himself, he can laugh, and most of all, she was herself. He looked down at the woman before him but still found himself confused with what he was feeling. 

Jaime, staring into Claire's golden caramel eyes, slowly lowered his head, one hand behind her neck and the other on her waist, pulling her against him. Their lips met, just the lightest touch, but it was enough to send electricity sparks across every nerve ending. It was just a grazing of lips, but he was shaken to the core. He pulled away, his heart hammering, taking shallow breaths. He looked at Claire's beautiful face, her eyes were closed and her lips lightly parted.   Dhia!   Unable to contain himself, he pulled her back once more, this time into a more passionate and intense kiss. He gently thrust his tongue to the opening of her mouth, parting them to delve inside, teasing and probing until she made whimpering sounds. Her own kisses became hot and urgent, her arms snaking around his neck while her fingers ran through his hair, and this made him kiss her harder more. Standing on tiptoes, she pressed her body closer, crushing her breast against his hard chest, sending pleasures down his groin and making Jamie groan.

They pulled away for air, and Jamie searched Claire's face. "Sassenach, I want ye so much, I can scarcely breathe. Will ye have me?" His voice cracked.

He thought his heart would burst when she nodded. 

Feeling emboldened, Jamie then hoisted Claire on to the kitchen counter and clumsily pulled up her sweatshirt, releasing her hair from its clasp and revealing her white breasts. Her curly mass came tumbling down, and Jamie ran his hands through them, raining her neck with urgent kisses and nibbling her earlobes. "  Mo Nighean Donn,"   he whispered. Her legs automatically wrapped themselves around his waist, and she arched her back as an invitation, Jamie's Gaelic endearments making her wild. "Christ Claire, ye are so beautiful!" Jamie whispered in a ragged voice.

Claire moaned loudly as he lowered his head to suckle at each breast, paying homage to each erect nipple. Then his tongue started its frenzied exploration on her skin as his hands tugged at the waistband of her leggings. Once released from the constriction of clothing, Claire said in a husky voice, "Take off your pants, I want you now." 

Seeing Claire exposed on the kitchen counter with her legs apart, was enough to drive Jamie wild with lust. He quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his jeans without taking his eyes off Claire. Relieved of his jeans, he gathered her into a crushing embrace, his hands fondling her round arse, pressing his hardness against her. Her hips started to rotate, wrapping her legs tighter. He reached down between her thighs, and the feel of her slippery wetness made him groan and grab her thighs even tighter. "Jamie, I want you inside me, please."

Hearing the plea, Jamie lifted her with ease, spreading her legs as he pinned her against the wall. Without a word, he plunged his cock into her wetness. Jamie silenced her cries with a hard kiss thrusting his tongue in the same rhythm as his cock. After a moment, breathing hard, he released her lips, biting and kissing her neck, his hands tightening their hold on her arse as he rammed into her, slamming Claire's back against the kitchen wall. She whispered "harder," and "deeper" as she bit him hard on the neck, which drove Jamie to the edge. He did as she asked and more. As Claire let out a loud cry, her body began to convulse, making his balls tighten. Finding his own abrupt rush of release, Jamie arched his back as he thrust one last time and let out a grunt. 

They held each other for a long while, not speaking, not moving. Eventually, Jamie carried Claire to her bed. She was limp in his arms. As he laid her down, he slipped in under the duvet with her and gathered her close to him. They fitted perfectly. And then he whispered softly,   tha gaol agam ort mo chridhe.

[hellstate--rp-blog]

↪ b a s i c s ;

N A M E: Rhiannon Cooper Nankova A G E: 25 P L A C E   O F   O R I G I N: Berkley, California G R O U P: None F C: Nina Dobrev

❝ There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. ❞

↪ p e r s o n a l i t y ;

P O S I T I V E   T R A I T S: solicitous ; resolute N E G A T I V E   T R A I T S: insecure ; capricious

↪ b i o g r a p h y ;

L I F E   B E F O R E   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

“Rhiannon rings like bell through the night and wouldn’t you love to love her?”

Rhiannon Cooper Nankova was born to Ivan and Pamela Nankov on September 12th, 1991. Both professors at UC Berkeley ( Ivan in glaciology and Pamela in anthropology ), the two had waited longer than many of their peers to have a daughter and were in their early forties when she was born. Both having been active in the counterculture movement of the 1970s, they didn’t give Rhiannon the strict homes they’d been raised in. Named for the Fleetwood Mac song with the cool edge of Alice Cooper ( Ivan was by no means traditional, and did not even blink when Pamela rebuked the idea of adding a patronymic name for their daughter ), Rhiannon found herself the odd girl out in many settings. Her parents were older, hippie professors from UC Berkeley, her father from a country no one her age had even heard of and their parents often assumed was Russian instead of Bulgarian. Instead of allowing herself to feel as though she didn’t belong, Rhiannon made it clear early on that she didn’t need friends to find her own happiness, which could be made in public gardens with her dog Bogart, or in the simplicity of a good book, curled up in the hammock that hung off her back porch.

The bright-eyed child with a halo of chestnut locks grew into a charming, delightful girl. With a gregarious personality and a strong sense of self, she cruised through life well-liked and happy. After finishing high school, Rhiannon opted to live an ‘artist’s life’ ( as her mother so often called it ) in a loft in downtown Berkeley while working part-time at a trendy restaurant and helping her mother with her research. With her parents’ support, she spent little time forcing herself to create and though their connections got her gallery shows from time to time, she didn’t actively pursue a career–her dreams mercurial. With her passion distributed across so many different interests and genres, nothing she did seemed to ‘belong’ together and after several years of forcing herself to make something cohesive, Rhiannon accepted that she was never going to make it big in the art world. 

Frustrated and unsure of her future, but tired of working a dead-end waitressing job–even if the tips were enough to accommodate her lifestyle–Rhiannon started to take advantage of the free tuition at Berkeley. A couple terms in and she still didn’t know what she wanted. Rhiannon enjoyed the classes and learning, the environment and the social aspects, but wondered if it wasn’t a waste of her time. Nothing seemed to grab onto her and insist that it was meant for her and she for it.

When her mother took sabbatical to travel with her father to Antarctica, planning to stay for a year to write an ethnography on the scientists’ lives during the harsh winters after being inspired by a thousand and one stories Ivan brought back from his research trips, Rhiannon was eager to tag along. The experience was the most unique thing she could think of doing and she was eager for the adventure it promised; a stark contract when held up against her cool summer days off lounging on the balcony of her loft apartment.

The expedition went off without a hitch, aside from some terrifying weather on the plane ride in. Rhiannon felt EXHILARATED. The cold air stung her eyes, the silence deafening to her ears, but the harsh wintry landscape was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The first couple of months were grueling, but the novelty didn’t wear off. Not even when they ran out of “freshies” and were stuck eating non perishables. Not when a guy freaked out over not getting cheese on his burger and threw a tray at the cook after mumbling over an empty plate for half an hour. Nothing seemed to tarnish the invigorating landscape that had captured the hearts of the entire Nankov family. Rhiannon had found the right place to rekindle her interest and cure her of her prodigal boredom.

L I F E   D U R I N G   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

“All your life you’ve never seen woman taken by the wind”

The Nankov family was still in Antarctica when the outbreak occurred. When the internet was knocked out, neither were shocked or surprised. They had a supply ship coming from France to replenish their stores and with it would bring new blood onto the continent which meant stories from the outside, magazines, and the WORKS. But when the ship finally docked, it brought with it something worse than than a beat-up outdated copy of Italian Vogue or Rolling Stone. The crew were shaken up–they’d stopped in Argentina to pick some of the awaited scientists on their way to the continent and things had only gone south from there.

During the two-day trip, one of them had gotten feverish and sick.Twelve hours before docking, he “fucking snapped” and attacked the doctor in the ship’s infirmary. ‘A wounded animal will bite when cornered,’ one of the ship’s crew said bleakly. After a short scuffle, the scientist was killed when he was shoved back and slipped, striking the back of his head on a medical supply cart. No one was more shaken up than the physician who’d had her arm bitten in the attack. She was brought in immediately to see the physicians on base after she developed a fever and chills–signs, Rhiannon overheard, that might be indicative of sepsis.

Pamela had always been a compassionate woman. When she’d heard about the sickness the physician faced, she confessed to Rhiannon that it was hard for her not to see herself in the same professional woman’s shoes. With no family accompanying her, Rhiannon suggested her mother visit the woman, if not for her own peace of mind, then at least to give the sick woman a comforting hand. If nothing else, she could give the medical crew their much needed break to get some rest for themselves after a long day.

Pamela brought the woman clean clothes, a cool rag, and a book–hoping to ease her woes–but the physician was much sicker than she had allowed herself to hear. Resolved to be strong, Pamela spent the woman’s final moments with her–wiping sweat from her feverish forehead with a cool rag, humming softly to her the tunes of her favorite songs fromRumours. Halfway through Landslide the woman began to arrest and Pamela called for help, holding her hand in tears. If someone heard her cries, no one came. The physician passed away, delicate hands cooling quickly in Pamela’s clammy, shaking grip.

When the medical team members returned after filling their bellies and resting their weary eyes, they were horrified by the amount of blood in the room. Their terror was short lived, as their attending physician and the woman who’d come to give her compassion tore through their necks with expert finesse for a couple of monsters so fresh and inexperienced of maiming. The group made it through the corridors and into the cafeteria before they were gunned down by a toastie who’d been heading through the caf on his way to repaint his own quarters with his brains after spending six hours crying for no reason he could figure out. After that he dug his heels in and clung to living harder than he’d ever clung to anything in his life.

The outbreak in antarctica was FRIGHTENING but quickly contained. Those left on the base were clever enough to connect their recent loss of contact with the outside world with the disease brought with supplies. They chose–unanimously, but with heavy grief–to stay on base as long as they could before leaving on the ship that brought the virus to them in the first place. Ivan had never felt the pressure to be so strong as he did now, a grieving daughter held tightly in his arms as they watched the love of his life burn alongside the bodies of the other infected. The two learned to be strong for each other, but in the process never allowed themselves the shelter in grieving with one another. ‘We’ll keep living.’ Ivan would say, blue eyes fixed ahead on the distant glaciers he’d once loved that broke through the ocean in white sheets, so cold at their core they were blue–like the hottest part of a flame.

L I F E   A F T E R   T H E   O U T B R E A K: 

“She rules her life like a fine skylark and when the sky is starless”

After another year, supplies had run so low that they had no hope of surviving without leaving their barren, but LIVING wasteland. Rhiannon kissed the snow goodbye from the hull of the boat as flakes landed on her lips and eyelashes. Her favorite place in the world might only have her again in her dreams and she was terrified of the world that she was returning to. After docking in Ushuaia, Argentina the Americans left alive made their way home–uncertain of what else they could do aside from looking for their loved ones and hoping for the best. 

Ivan and Rhiannon had little hope to returning to Berkeley, both of them shared the unspoken feeling that returning home to a California with no sun ( no Pamela ) was as comforting as volunteering to live in a crypt. Cobwebs clung to their memories, suffocating and binding. There was nothing left for them there. The two heard of Cheyenne from some traders who’d helped them out with an extra map ( not all human kindness had been sucked from the world, it would seem ). 

The pair made their way to the city, which her father was convinced shined in the Wyoming wasteland like glittering ice. Those cold, distant eyes held smiles once again and the man who’d held her hand and walked her to school everyday seemed to return. One morning he left to catch some breakfast near the Colorado River. She waited five days for him before she let him go. Even a lark knows when its song is done. As far as Rhiannon knows, out of all those she left the frozen south with, she’s the only one who survived. 

The prodigal, childish girl she once was became replaced with a stronger, faster girl–still frightened of the world around her and the DEATH, but rising to the challenge of survival. It seems any courageous part of her, despite her determination to keep it, wavers with the overwhelming loneliness of being without her family. Since she’s arrived in Cheyenne after finding nothing worth living for in California, she’s been trying to rebuild herself and figuring out a skillset she can actually use. Still, the weight of survival buckles her knees some days and she cannot help but break down–in private moments, in desperate hope–regretting every small thing she might have redone if given half a chance.