#things could be worse! I have a roof and hot water and air conditioning

[agenttexsflippedshit]

Remember when you could do readmore on mobile? OTL

[thatlittleegyptologist]

Are we still clowning on the anons trying to tell you how awful living in Europe is? Because I (a USian) saw them spouting nonsense and was like 'Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones'. Several communities there do not have access to safe drinking water at all. Texas's insistence on building their own electric grid incompatible with the rest of the country's meant that about 246 died in the 2021 winter storm. I'm trying to move to the land of bones because the US? YIKES

The US is not without its problems infrastructure wise, yes. I don't think any country is in all honesty.

Though, I think I should address how anon seemed to be getting wires crossed about the situation in Europe:

Most homes here are maybe 100 years old at most, some 150 ish, but most only 40-70 years (something something rebuilding after two world wars). Of course, you get ones built earlier that people still live in. I've known several people in my life who lived in 16th century built homes with thatched roofs. My own home is about 60 years old.

'The buildings are crumbling' yeah, they're old...so they will. But they're not falling down so there's no issue. We make repairs!

Despite their age they do have all the mod cons! Yes, including the 16th century farm houses! You see with continuous settlement people repair and renovate the existing homes, so over the years things like electricity/central heating/plumbing etc have been added.

That said, depending on when stuff like electricity and plumbing was installed it can fail. Anon said that anecdotally a socket had blown. This could be due down to age. However, it can also be down to an american adapter being the wrong voltage for the european plug socket. That tends to make them short out. I've had two american friends at uni who had plug sockets short out on them when arriving in the UK because they used the wrong voltage adapters. Nothing to do with the wiring. Mostly to do with no checking voltage requirements. I've had to do the same when holidaying on the continent. If I take the wrong one I'm gonna damage something.

While central heating and air con are in abundance in Europe, not everyone needs air con. In Northern Europe, before climate change, we experience cold winters but mild summers so our homes needed good central heating and thick walls to keep the heat in. Which they have! However, now climate change is upon us...imagine living in a house where the walls are thick and trap heat but it's 40c outside and you don't have air con still because it's still too expensive a thing to install for 3 weeks use a year at best. That's why anon has seen Europeans complaining about being too hot. The temperatures are record breaking high, and because it's not normal for it to be like that we don't have air con. Southern Europe, where it's much warmer, is where homes more regularly have air con. Pretty much every commercial building, regardless of location or age, has some sort of air conditioning and central heating system.

The 'europeans don't have central heating' probably comes from the posts about how most of us are going to freeze to death this winter due to fuel prices/shortages. We have central heating, we just can't afford to put it on. Thanks to Pusheen (fameux dictateur Russe) invading Ukraine, gas prices in Europe have gone through the roof. In the winter I used to pay £75 for gas and electric per month. Now, I pay £120 for gas alone. I live alone. My consumption is less (I halved the time I have the heating on to save money so it's -3c and I only have the heating on 2 hours a day). Many more people are in a worse off state than me. They can't afford to heat their homes at all. Add in inflation, which has pushed food prices sky high, recession, and stagnant wages, and people are dying from not being able to put the heating on. They've got it anon, but they can't afford to use it and also eat.

Moving to the 'move somewhere without bones' part of it all. Europeans are fine digging up bones and mosaics. Happens all the time, I've no idea why anon thinks we'd need to move or why we'd be mad about it. It's our history! Part of continuously living in an area for centuries means that inevitably when you dig down for foundations you're gonna find bones. That's where the Archaeologists come in! Laws here dictate that an archaeological survey must be conducted on any build site, so that if there is something there it can be properly recorded! This is so we don't end up with what we currently have where it's like 'nope no idea what's down there' and the surprise is a WWII bomb or a roman cemetery, or even a plague pit.

Actually that last one is one I've experienced. When I was looking into archaeology as a degree I went to a dig site for a new shopping centre where they'd discovered victorian ruins, a medieval abbey destroyed by Henry VIII, and a plague pit all on the same site. An absolutely wild time. These guys had to be moved or secured before the actual building work could commence. You can still go down and see the plague pit if you know the right people because the building was built in a way that preserved it.

Anyway, the digging of graves is where everyone seems to get funny with regards to archaeology. They'll accuse archeologists of grave robbing or disturbing the dead and that's so far from the truth it's unreal.

Firstly, there's so much paperwork involved when remains are found. So much. 90% of the time archaeologists don't even deal with human remains because we're digging up buildings instead. I don't know why people seem to think 99% of our work is with the dead. It's not. After finding remains, then we have to decide what is safe for them. If we can leave them in situ we will. You excavate, analyse, record the find, and then cover them back up. People seem to think we're getting to the grave site and then removing everything to keep in a box. That's only done if the remains are in danger from the construction or agriculture that's being performed there. It's a choice between saving a person's remains, or letting them get destroyed by construction work. Which do you think is more respectful in that scenario?

We don't make that decision lightly either. So many elements are factored into the decision, including the safety of the site (will someone come along and steal for the antiquities black market? See: Egypt and the reasons mummies are moved to storage when found.) and how best to keep this person's dignity. We don't want to smash through remains with bulldozers and concrete. Where we can, like that famous McDonald's in Italy with the body in the floor, we keep them in situ so they do remain in their graves. In the UK, recently, there was a huge mosaic uncovered in a field by a farmer. Archaeologists excavated it, recorded it, took a load of photos, didn't disclose the precise location, covered it back up, and then told everyone 6 months after it has been discovered just to preserve the site.

Most archaeological finds were discovered months before the public even knew about them in order to preserve the site and not get illegal traffickers trying to make money off things (again, the reason mummies in Egypt are moved to museums. it's for their safety not because no one wants them to be in their graves). We want these people and artefacts to rest in peace as much as you do. Believe it or not Archaeologists do care about the people and places they are tasked with uncovering and protecting. Sometimes you've got to move those bones because if you don't someone who doesn't care for anything but making a quick profit will dig that site and sell what they find.

Often it's a race between archaeologists discovering sites and therefore affording them security from getting disturbed, and traffickers digging in locations they know something might be and selling what they find to some rich bastard where it'll never see the light of day.

TL;DR: Europe isn't living in the Middle Ages, we're suffering from climate change and soaring fuel/food prices, and Archaeologists perform a vital job that isn't about grave robbing but about preserving and protecting the past from traffickers and giving those dead we do come across a voice in the present.

[allsassnoclass]

rainy days in california

Pairing: Michael Clifford/Ashton Irwin Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 2023 Read on AO3

Southy is hiding under the bed.

It takes a while for Ashton to find him, because he hasn't experienced a thunderstorm while living with Michael yet.  The relationship between them isn't new or fragile by any means, but California has long periods of drought and they didn't decide to consolidate living spaces until the beginning of the summer.  It's been dry, and large booms of thunder haven't shaken the house until now.

Ashton reaches out to Southy, fingers gently brushing his fur.  Moose is with him under the bed, laying quietly but not whining like Southy is.  Ashton can't coax him out while the rain is still pounding on the roof, but he can offer some gentle ear rubs and soothing words, for what they're worth.

Michael finds him laying on the floor of their bedroom a few minutes later.

"Hey, Ash," he says, nudging his side with his foot.  "Scared of the storm?"

"Southy is," he says, arm still outstretched under the mattress still.

"He'll be fine," Michael replies, getting down next to him to greet the dogs.  "That's what we have Moose for.  Isn't it, girl?  Who's a good puppy?"

Moose licks his fingers, army-crawling forward to get better access.

"Southy used to cry a lot worse than this during storms.  She helps temper him a little."

Ashton hums.

"Come on," Michael says, sitting up and nudging him again.  "Unless you want to stay up here with the dogs all day, but I feel like you're going to start complaining about the hardwood soon."

"And just leave them?" Ashton asks.  Michael shrugs.

"They'll be fine.  Southy is just being dramatic."

"I wonder where he gets that from," Ashton says with a pointed look.  Michael sticks his tongue out at him, then heaves himself to standing, offering Ashton a hand.  He takes it, hauling himself to his feet and letting Michael lead him out to the main room.  The rain falls in thick sheets outside their windows, cloud cover painting the landscape a deep navy blue.  Michael leaves him by the windows and wanders to the kitchen.  Soon, Ashton hears the tell-tale sounds of the kettle being put on, clanking loud enough to carry over the rain because Michael has never learned to be gentle with the dishes.  Ashton watches the rain and lets the ambient sounds of their home wash over him until Michael presses a warm mug into his hands.

"It's scheduled to keep going all day," Michael says.  "The thunderstorm warning is only until two, though."

Ashton takes a sip of his tea, under-steeped and just a little too hot.  The temperature difference between the liquid and the air conditioning they have blasting makes him shiver.  Michael's hand sliding around his waist and his head on Ashton's shoulder makes him shiver for a different reason.

They pop in a movie, something lighthearted released years ago.  Southy and Moose wander out about halfway through, once the thunder has died down and lightning stops illuminating the sky.  Moose takes her place next to Michael, but Southy tries to worm in between him and Ashton.  Ashton pulls him onto his lap instead, running a steady hand over his fur until he settles.

He catches the end of Michael's fond smile out of the corner of his eye.

Once the credits have rolled through and the main menu is playing on a loop, Michael gets up to put their mugs in the sink.  When he returns he braces himself on the back of the couch and leans down to kiss Ashton before flopping next to him.

"You seem quiet today," Michael says.  "What's up?"

Ashton shrugs.

"I think it's the rain.  It always makes me a little sluggish.  I never want to do anything when it rains like this."

"I love the rain," Michael says, adjusting his position so he can stick his cold toes under Ashton's thigh.  "It's fun. Refreshing.  I like how everything smells afterwards."

"You always were a little weird," Ashton says.  Michael removes one foot so he can kick at him, then returns his toes to under Ashton's leg.

"Lots of people like that smell.  Besides, nothing is as fun as going out and playing in the rain.  It's like going to the water park but better because you can push your friends down into the mud."

"You're so weird."

"Am not!"

"Are too," Ashton says, giving him a lopsided grin.  Michael gets cute when he's teased, cheeks always turning the slightest bit pink and eyes lighting up.  Ashton likes gently ribbing him over unimportant things like this just to watch the way energy thrums through him.

"Fine.  Come on," Michael says, getting up once again and dislodging Moose.  He grabs Ashton's hand, pulling at him until he pushes Southy off his lap and stands.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"Outside," Michael says.

"Really?  Now?"

"Yep," Michael says, popping the last syllable.  "It's not thundering or downpouring too heavily anymore, so it's the perfect type of rain for us."

Ashton could dig his heels in and stop, but part of him wants to see what Michael is so excited about, and the other part of him is willing to do whatever it takes to make Michael happy.

Michael doesn't pause to let them put on shoes, just opens the door and marches out, Ashton's hand still securely in his.  The humidity hits him before the rain does, a heavy presence in the air that has been lessened by the storm but hasn't fully broken yet.  In contrast, the touch of droplets against his skin is refreshing.  It's a summer storm, so the rain is a warm, gentle kiss, dampening his hair and sliding over his face.

Michael tips his head up, pausing with his eyes closed and a smile on his lips.  Ashton watches the rain cascade over him.  After a few moments Michael cracks his eyes open, giggling in delight like a child seeing snow for the first time.  His laugh is infectious, bringing a smile to Ashton's face immediately.

"Come on," Michael says, pulling him forward again.  "Let's find some puddles!  Let's stand in the mud!  Let's stick our tongues out and count how many raindrops we can catch!"

They do exactly that.

The puddle comes first.  There's a dip in their sidewalk that always pools water when the rare rain comes to California and Michael jumps in it with no regard for his bare feet hitting the pavement, splashing Ashton's ankles.  Michael kicks more water at him and it's easy to succumb to the giddy feeling rising in his lungs, laughing as he joins him in the puddle, both of them sloppy with their footwork and nearly bonking heads due to how close they're standing while watching the ground.  

It's fun almost because of how not-fun it should be.  It's just water and them standing too close to each other, but Michael is laughing like a little kid and Ashton is thinking about how much joy there is in finding someone to be ridiculous and kind of stupid with.

Michael pulls them onto the grass, spinning them in a circle.  The dirt is soft under their feet, the blades of grass slippery enough that Ashton has to fight to keep his balance when Michael begins to lead them around in a jaunty dance, singing a nonsense melody with no words attached.

"What are you doing?" Ashton laughs.

"Singing in the rain," Michael sings back, twirling Ashton under his arm and continuing to sashay them both across the yard.  Ashton stumbles along after him, throwing an arm around Michael's shoulders to keep himself upright.  They keep that going for a few minutes until they trip over each other's feet, tumbling down to the grass intertwined with matching yelps.

"This is the 'pushing your friends down into the mud' part, I take it?" he asks, turning his head so he doesn't drown from the rainwater in his mouth.  Michael snorts and begins to detangle their limbs, so Ashton takes the opportunity to shove him back and wrestle a bit.  The rain means neither of them can get an easy grip, tumbling around on the grass with various yelps and expletives until Michael finally gets to his feet, Ashton catching his breath on his back.

"Ha!" Michael yells, pointing at him.  "Take that, Irwin!"

He still helps Ashton up when he asks for it, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

They don't stay out too long after that.  Ashton has grass and dirt all over him, and Michael shivers at one point despite the warm temperature.  They stand with arms out and heads tipped up to catch raindrops on their tongues, then call it a day and head back inside.

Ashton stops Michael in the entranceway with a hand on his wrist.

"We can't go through the house like this," he says.  "Strip and get a shower ready.  I'll throw our stuff in the laundry so nothing stains."

Michael waggles his eyebrows but does as he says, shedding his soaked shirt and shorts and leaving wet and dirty footprints in a trail to the bathroom.  Ashton picks up everything and gets the washing machine started, throwing his own clothing into the mix and shivering in their air conditioning.  Ashton likes keeping it at a lower temperature than Michael does, but right now he can't wait to warm up.

The bathroom is full of steam when he enters, Michael already under the spray of the shower.  Ashton slips in behind him, closing the shower door and accidentally startling Michael in the process.

"I didn't hear you come in," he says, grabbing Ashton's arms and switching their places so Ashton can rinse off, bits of grass and dirt swirling down the drain.

"You're lucky I wasn't a murderer," Ashton says, letting Michael's fingers scrub through his hair to ensure each strand gets rinsed.  "You'd be terrible in a horror movie."

"That's what I have you for," Michael says, grabbing the shampoo.  He squirts a dollop out onto his palm and rubs his hands together to get it to lather, then sets about washing Ashton's hair for him.  Ashton tips his head down and closes his eyes, exhaling.  Michael's fingers rub soothing circles against his scalp, backing him fully under the spray again when it's time to rinse.

He returns the favor, watching the way Michael's eyelashes flutter as he works.  He loves the way that Michael lets his guard down around him, the trusting way that he will let Ashton take care of him, eyes closed and head bowed.  He brushes his thumb over the shell of his ear, smiling when Michael blinks his eyes open at him.

Kissing in the shower is different from kissing in the rain.  They’re more relaxed here, the giddy energy having been transformed to a calm contentment, and Ashton can take his time cupping Michael’s jaw and exploring his mouth.  Michael hums against him, hands seeking Ashton’s waist and disrupting the paths of various water droplets trying to make their way across his skin.

“I love you,” Ashton says when they pull away.

“I love you, too,” Michael says, then grabs the body wash and Ashton’s loofa.

They stay in the shower long enough to enjoy it, but not long enough for the water to run cold.  They change into sweats and comfortable tees after toweling each other dry, piling back onto the couch with the dogs.  The rain has lessened even more now, just a drizzle at the end of the day’s storm, and Michael curls into him in the quiet of their home.

“Did you enjoy it?” Michael asks.  Ashton hums a question.  “The rain.  Does it still make you sluggish?”

Ashton tips his head towards him.

“It’s good,” he says.  “I had fun.  I see why you like it.”

Michael smiles at him and presses closer, leaning up to kiss Ashton’s cheek before resettling.  Ashton listens to the faint patter of rain against their windows and decides that it’s now one of his favorite sounds, second only to Michael’s delighted laugh that only he and the rain can bring out.

[grimrester]

The Heat

The fall semester of my last year of art school had barely started when the air conditioning in the senior art studios broke. If I lived further north that might not have been a problem, but I lived in Georgia, where the summer heat didn't quite break until September or October. And it was still August.

To make matters worse, the studios were in an old building with high ceilings and big glass panels built into the steep, sloped roof. All the natural lighting normally would've been a blessing. But with the air conditioning broken, it instead turned the studios into an oven. Heat seeped in all day long and remained trapped there indefinitely.

The studios themselves were two rows of cubicles with high, 8ft walls, built right in the center of the building after the college had purchased it. The open ceilings of each cell and the large gap between the cubicle wall and the sloped windows above allowed the light - and the heat - to reach anyone who might be working inside them. Each graduating senior was assigned a specific cubicle as their personal, 24/7 studio space.

There was a big hallway around the perimeter of the building. One section of the hallway widened to make space for a sink to wash brushes in and a table and chairs for critique sessions. The bathroom was there, too - a unisex one with a derelict little door, nearly hanging off its hinges.

Initially I'd worried that having just one toilet in the building wouldn't be enough, but it ended up not being an issue. Most of the students didn't last long. The heat during the day was too oppressive. At times, the air in the building was so suffocating that the heat almost felt like a physical presence, like a large creature weighing down on our shoulders, crushing us under its weight.

---

I caught the student assigned to the cell next to mine moving out all his paintings just a couple weeks into the semester.

"Hey," I said, pausing outside the door to my own cubicle to gawk. The student - I never bothered to learn his name - looked entirely morose as he stacked a few canvases by the door. "Moving out already?"

"Yeah," he said, solemnly, heavily dropping another canvas on the pile. "I have no idea how you can work in here. My oils keep melting."

"What?" I said, confused. I shuffled over to get a look at the top painting on the stack, and sure enough, the half-finished landscape he'd made with oil paint was completely distorted. Strangely, the melted paint seemed to be in round sections, about as large as my head, scattered all over the canvas.

"It's fucking weird, right?" he said, following my gaze.

"Wouldn't it melt all over?" I asked. "Why is it just in some parts?"

"Beats the hell out of me," he replied. "My best guess is it was cloudy or something so it melted unevenly where the sun got to it."

"Guess it's lucky I work with ink," I said. "It dries fast so it'd sooner burst into flames than melt, and it's too humid in here for a fire."

The student clucked his tongue. "I shoulda used acrylic. Might've held up better." He sighed and picked up the stack. "Too late now, I guess. I'm going to see if I can salvage them at home."

"Good luck," I said, watching him go. At least he had the option of working at home. My apartment was too small for the large paintings I wanted to make, so I was forced to bear the heat.

---

I and the few other students who had to work in the little plaster cells complained to the administration about the heat many times, but I guess our small group just wasn't a priority because the air conditioner remained broken. The heat remained an issue into September, even when the outside air had cooled off a little. I began to think there was something wrong with the building, that perhaps the AC was spitting out hot air or the large windows had been specifically designed to turn the place into an oven.

I eventually started coming into the studios later and later, hoping that the space would at least cool down at nighttime. I preferred working in crappy, dim synthetic lighting over standing there with the sun bearing down on me through the open top of my cubicle. But even at night, the heat was terrible. It felt muggy, smothering. I felt the weight of it on me from the moment I entered the studios.

To add to the uncomfortable conditions, the building was pretty old and made creaking and moaning noises as it marginally cooled down overnight. The exposed pipes near the ceiling were especially noisy, making all sorts of awful, creepy groans. I'd mostly gotten used to them after a while.

Then one night it got worse.

I was in my cubicle, in the final stages of one of my larger ink drawings. I was painstakingly cleaning up some lines with a fine brush when suddenly there was a huge slamming noise, loud enough that I could hear it through my music and earbuds. I jolted, screwing up my line in the process, and hissed through my teeth.

"What was that?" I called out, taking out one earbud. I thought maybe one of the artists who worked in the far end cubicles had dropped something or fallen over, but there was no reply.

I cracked the door of my cubicle and peeked out, looking around either end of the hallway. Nothing seemed amiss, so I just closed my door again and went back to work. I assumed it was just a new pipe noise or something.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, I was trying to decide on a new playlist when it happened again. My music wasn't playing, so I heard it clearer this time - a loud BAM noise from the back building wall, several cubicles away from me. It almost sounded like some huge beast was outside, hurling its body against the side of the building, trying to get inside.

But that would be silly. This was the first time I'd stayed past midnight and these noises were probably normal at this time of night. I just hadn't heard them before.

I tried to focus on picking a playlist. The noise happened again. But this time, the brushes on my work table rattled in their mason jar from the force.

I stared at them. I'd never heard a building settle so hard that it made things move.

I suddenly had the feeling that something was very wrong. I felt queasy - my stomach tightened and churned. Maybe I was just not feeling well and the heat was exasperating it? I'd been working long hours and late nights in the studio, so it was possible I'd made myself sick. I felt the need to vomit, and I hoped it would make my nausea subside.

I pulled my earbuds out and left my studio, walking quickly to the bathroom. The slamming noise echoed out again, on the other side of the building. I locked the rickety bathroom door behind me, my moist palms sliding against the metal handle as I did so. The back of my neck felt wet, too, that sort of gross, warm moistness that comes with the Georgia heat.

I knelt by the toilet, face hovering over the bowl. I still felt sick but nothing was coming up. I pressed my fist into my stomach hard and tried to retch, but still nothing happened. The nausea was starting to make me dizzy. Did I get heat stroke or something?

The door rattled behind me.

"Someone's in here!" I called out, my voice warbling a little. Weird, I thought, since the studios had been quiet all night. I thought I was the only one there.

The door rattled harder, the whole thing shaking with the effort.

"Jesus," I muttered. Then, louder, "I said, it's occupied!"

The rattling increased and there was a loud BANG as something hit the door hard. I twisted around and stared, gripping the toilet seat, shocked. Who the fuck needed the bathroom that badly? Whoever was outside smacked the door hard again and I worried that the shitty, old wood would simply splinter under the force.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. The rattling and banging just ceased. I stared at the door a little longer, wondering if the person outside had left yet. I didn't particularly want to run into them if a locked bathroom door was enough to make them throw a fit outside. I waited and waited, to be sure they left, so long that my nausea had subsided.

Put off by the whole experience, I quickly gathered my things from my studio and left for the night.

---

When I returned the next night, the heat was inexplicably worse than before. I couldn't even listen to music to distract myself this time. I was a little worried that whoever had given me a hard time in the bathroom would come back, and I didn't want to miss hearing them coming if for some reason they were on a warpath.

The relative silence of the studio was decidedly eerie. There was a faint buzz from the lights and the occasional groaning and moaning of old pipes, but otherwise you could hear a pin drop. I began to rethink my decision on the music because the silence was spooky and setting me on edge. I thought maybe I could play it on my phone's speaker so I could still hear someone coming. But then, if they were there and so quiet I couldn't hear them, playing music out loud might've pissed them off…

My train of thought was interrupted by that awful, thundering slamming noise from the far wall of the building. The great, hulking beast I had imagined was back.

Sweat began to gather on my palms and neck again and I put my brush down to wipe my hands on my pants. The air in the studio became so muggy that breathing suddenly felt like inhaling swamp water.

Hardly a moment later, there it was again - BAM. My paintbrushes rattled in the little jar. My first thought that maybe whoever had needed the bathroom yesterday was throwing another fit, but it really sounded like something massive hitting the wall. Something too massive for one person to hurl.

I once again had the distinct feeling that something was wrong. What would have the kind of force to make everything move like that? Was the old building going to collapse?

BAM - louder this time.

Maybe this was some bizzare, localized earthquake, I told myself. It didn't matter that I'd never heard of an earthquake that behaved this way. It seemed more likely than the alternative I imagined, that some huge beast was hurling its hairy, grotesque body against the walls.

I sat motionless, listening closely.

BAM. My door rattled.

There was no mistaking it that time. The sound wasn't getting louder - the source of it was just getting closer.

The monster I had imagined wasn't outside and trying to get in. It was already inside the building.

I stared, frozen in place, at my studio door. I felt ridiculous. How would some kind of monster large enough to shake the walls even get through the building's doors?

BAM. Even closer now.

BAM. It sounded like it was right outside my door. I could see the handle shake with the force. Something was definitely wrong. This wasn't an earthquake and it wasn't some deranged art student. There was something out there and it wanted to be in here, with me. I tried to take deep breaths to remain calm, but sucking in big gulps of warm, humid air just made me feel queasy again. I looked around, trying to find somewhere to hide, but my cubicle was bare - just a folding table and a stool. There was nowhere to go. I pressed myself against the corner of my cell, as far away from my door as possible.

There was a long moment where there was no sound - not the slamming, not the usual groaning of the pipes. I slid down to the hard concrete floor and waited. Perhaps it was over?

The door handle rattled, this time unaccompanied by any slamming noise.

My breath caught. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I stared, watching as the handle jiggled. Whatever was making it move seemed unable to turn it properly, just fumbling it around without getting it to unlatch.

I waited. The handle stopped moving.

There was another moment of dead silence. Then another new sound - fast, heavy, stomping footsteps, heading towards the section of hallway with the bathroom, table, and sink.

I got up and grabbed my phone and bag. I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I couldn't stay there any longer.

There was a creaking noise, and then a terrible thumping sound, like something had just hit the ground hard. Then crashing, over in one of the cubicles on the far end, as though whatever had been in the hall had used the table in the critique area to hop the cubicle wall and was now making a mess inside. Another creak, another thump, more crashing, closer, just a few cubicles away.

I threw my cubicle door open. I just had to make it to the main door, but it was all the way on the other side of the building. I'd have to run around half the perimeter hallway to get there.

So I ran.

The beast, whatever it was, continued into another cubicle - creak, thump, crash. Then it paused as I rounded the first corner, my sneakers squeaking on the concrete. A terrible dread settled in my stomach. It was listening and it knew I was trying to leave. It didn't make any noise - no breathing, no wailing, no roaring - but I somehow still got the sense that it was pissed off by my attempted escape.

I rounded the second corner. I could see the door just ahead.

A creak. I looked at the tops of the cubicles as I ran for the door, but there was nothing there. No hairy beast hovering over the wall and dropping into the next studio. I slowed my running.

A thump. A crash. A creak.

I paused, my hand on the front door, my mouth gaping as I looked at the tops of the cubicles. I felt I had to see it, had to know I wasn't just crazy, but it seemed there was no beast to see.

Then I finally saw it, lurching over the wall, headed right for me. Warped air, shimmering, the way streets do on a hot day. A mass of heat made alive, barely visible unless you're looking closely. It was hard to tell the boundaries of it, but I could tell it was huge, fat enough that it nearly didn't fit in the cubicle it was lumbering out of.

It dropped down over the wall, landing in the hallway, with a thunderous thud.

I pushed the door open and ran into the night. I ran and ran and didn't look behind me. I didn't hear its thumping footsteps, but it was so difficult to see that looking might not have helped anyway.

I ran all the way back to my apartment, about a mile from campus. I slammed and locked the door behind me, blasted my air conditioner, and hid in my bed until morning.

---

I was eating a late breakfast, wondering if I'd somehow imagined the whole thing, when a friend called me.

"Were you in the studios last night?" she asked, a touch of panic in her voice, forgoing any pleasantries.

"No." The lie slipped out easily. I had that feeling of inexplicable dread again. "Why?"

"Apparently there was some huge break in," she said. "All the studios were trashed! It sounds like the people who did it didn't even take anything, they just… melted a bunch of stuff. Paintings, metals, anything meltable."

I struggled to think of an adequate response, just stared down at my soggy cereal. "Huh. Weird," I managed.

"Do you think they'll put some extra security on the building?" she asked. "It's weird they leave it unlocked all the time."

"No," I said, thinking of the broken air conditioning. "Knowing them, they'll probably just leave it, since no one got hurt."

---

I never told anyone what I saw that night. What would I even say? Who would believe me? Anyone would just assume I was crazy or suffering from heat exhaustion.

But I wish I'd at least tried.

I waited a week before going back to the studios to clean out my cubicle. I went during the day this time. I wouldn't be there long and I had encountered the creature at night so it seemed safer.

The building seemed empty when I arrived, but as soon as I opened the doors there was a terrible smell. It was sickly-sweet and sour, like trash left out in the sun. I pinched my nose as I rounded the corners to my cubicle, but the smell only got worse. It was so overpowering as I rounded the second corner that I considered cutting my losses and just leaving.

The cubicle door on the end was left wide open. Was someone in here working? I looked inside as I passed, then froze.

There, huddled under the table as though hiding from something, was a body. It was withered as though there for some time, almost mummy-like, the skin leathery and dry like beef jerky. The eyes were wide open, dry little balls pointed right in my direction.

I didn't scream. I just turned around, walked out of the building, and called the police.

---

The autopsy said the student died of dehydration and heat stroke. The news reported it as some sort of freak accident, a student that got so lost in their art that they stopped taking care of themselves and passed out in that hot studio, baking alive until they finally died.

The air conditioning finally got fixed after that.

[avengerscompound]

Neighbors

Neighbors - A Hawkeye Fanfic

Character pairing:  Clint Barton x F!Reader

Word Count:  3568

Warnings:  Smut (MF, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, phone sex, oral sex, vaginal sex)

Synopsis:  You move into a new apartment and discover you have a fantastic view of your very good looking neighbor.  A neighbor who not only is an Avenger but who also seems to have a very playful side.

A/N: This is a rewrite of one of my old RPF fics, so if it’s familiar that’s why.  I just liked it a lot and it worked well with Clint.  Also, normally I kinda write Clint and when I’m thinking about him I flick between comic and MCU Clint.  In this one, I was absolutely thinking about 6′4 blond dumbass Clint.

Neighbors

It had taken far too long for you to move into your new place.  It had been exhausting and awkward.  There was no elevator in this building and you were on the fifth floor, so all day you had been carrying boxes upstairs again and again.  You were finally done now, thank god.  All your stuff was still in boxes and you were eating pizza straight out of the box as you sat on the floor of your new apartment.

Things hadn’t been going great for you lately.  You’d been downsized and ended up taking a job that paid half as much.  Which meant you had to move to a smaller apartment in a worse part of town.  You’d broken up with your boyfriend.  You were trying to stay positive.  At least you had a roof over your head, even if it was water stained and only had views of the big ugly apartment block across the alley.

You finished your dinner and took a shower, washing away the sweat and muscle pain from the day.  When you got out you wrapped your towel around you and went into the bedroom.  You were about to drop your towel when you glanced out of the window and noticed there was a guy in the apartment across from you.

He was stunning and also just wearing a towel.  He was tall and muscular but in that way gymnasts were.  Lithe and slim but with defined abdominals and pecs.  His arms were amazing with the kinds of muscles men had who actually needed strong arms rather than the kind built up through lifting weights.  He looked both strong and flexible though he also wore a collection of scars and bruises that started on his cheek and went right down to his calves.

You both just stood staring at each other for a moment.  It was like you were looking in some kind of weird alternate reality mirror where your other you was a fucking sex god because you both bit your bottom lips at the same time, startled suddenly, and then rushed to pull the blinds closed.

As you got them closed a sudden realization hit you.

That was Hawkeye.

You kept seeing him from time to time in the apartment across from you.  You would try not to stare - or at least you’d be subtle about it if you did.  The next time you both really noticed each other, you were mostly moved in.  The few remaining boxes were stacked in the corner and you had started to think of the place as your own.  You were in your bedroom putting away one more box when your favorite party song came on your playlist.  You tried not to dance.  You really did.  You failed and started shaking your ass as you spun around the room.  You were having a lot of fun until you spun around and saw Clint Barton holding a cup of coffee and laughing.

He put the cup down and gestured for you to continue and you shook your head.  He made a pleading gesture and you decided to have a little fun.  If Hawkeye wanted to see you dance then you’d give him a show.  You started to gyrate your hips slowly, popping them with every few beats.  You slid your hand down from your throat, over your breasts, and took the hem of your t-shirt in your hand as you looked over at him.  He nodded enthusiastically and you lifted it over your head and tossed it to the side.  You continued to move around the room and started to play with the buttons on your pants as you kept eye contact with him.

His eyes darkened and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.  He leaned one hand against the window frame and he shoved his other hand in his pocket.  He nodded at you to continue and you unbuttoned your shorts.  You then grabbed the cord to your blinds and pulled them closed.  Just as they flipped closed you saw him throw his arm in the air and yell, ‘Oh, come on!’  You couldn’t help but laugh.

The next time you saw him you’d been out drinking and you’d come home very late.  You didn’t even bother turning any lights on, you’d just stumbled into your bedroom and flopped on the bed.  The light from the apartment across from yours was on.  You looked over with your eyes narrowed.  The light coming through was annoying but not annoying enough to get out of bed and close your blinds.

Clint was lying on his own bed.  He was completely naked and stroking his cock.  It was weird.  He was so far away but it was like you were seeing everything in high definition.  You could see the scar on his bicep shift as his muscles flexed and released.  You could see the head of his cock appear and disappear as his hand pumped it.  You could see the veins and tendons of his forearm twist and flex as he moved his hand up and down.  You could see his chest rise and fall as his breathing got shallower and shallower.  You could see his face distort with pleasure as he brought himself closer and closer to orgasm.

Your cunt flooded and you found yourself toying with your clit without even realizing it.  Just when you realized how fucking creepy you were being and that you needed to stop what you were doing and go and close the blinds - he came.  White ropes spilled onto his hand and stomach.

You had never felt as simultaneously terrible and turned on in your life.

A few days later a heatwave hit the city.  There was no air conditioning in your apartment and you opened your windows to the sounds of the city, coaxing a breeze in.  You spent the day in your underwear in front of your only fan, wishing you were anywhere else on the planet right now.

You weren’t the only one.  You had been dozing in front of your fan and when you opened your eyes you saw Clint looking over at you.  He was dressed in a pair of boxers with Deadpool on them and that was it.  He was glistening with sweat and holding a glass of ice water.  He smiled and waved at you and you raised your hand in return.

He mouthed the words ‘it’s futzing hot’ to you and fanned his face with his hand.

You mouthed ‘you are’ back and pointed at him.

He laughed and shook his head, pointing back at you.

Your face somehow got hotter than it already was.

Clint took an ice cube from his glass and ran it over his collarbone and down between his pecs.  You didn’t think he was doing it for your benefit, it’s just that it was really fucking hot.  But even still, it made you bite your bottom lip and your cunt tingled.

You saw him laugh and you let your lip go.  He pointed at you.  You knew exactly what he wanted.  You held up your finger and padded off to the kitchen, getting yourself your own glass of ice.  When you returned to the window, you took out a cube and sucked on it before sliding it down your neck and over your collarbone.  The water from the ice ran down your skin and into your bra making your nipples harden.

Clint nodded and you took another cube and ran it under your breasts and over your stomach, swirling over your belly button.  His eyes stayed glued to you and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.

You took the last remnants of the cube and ran it over the top of your bra.  You reached behind your back and looked at him.  He nodded just once and you unhooked your bra and slid it off.  You both just stood there staring at each other.  His underwear was beginning to tent due to an obvious erection but it was like neither of you knew what to do now.  He suddenly jumped and grabbed a t-shirt from the floor.  He looked at you and mouthed the word ‘sorry’ as he pointed to the door.

A couple of days later you got home from a work dinner, kicked off your shoes, and headed to your bedroom.  You took off your jacket and hung it in your wardrobe and you saw Clint lying on his bed, eating some pizza.

You went to your light switch and flicked it on and off.  He looked over to you and grinned, getting up off the bed.  He leaned against the window frame and crossed one leg over the other.  He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a purple target on it.  He waved and raised an eyebrow at you.

You started unbuttoning your blouse, keeping eye contact with him.  He smiled and pulled his shirt off over his head.  You tossed your blouse to the side and shimmied out of your skirt.  You didn’t know why, maybe you’d been hoping for this, but you’d dressed in matching black lace underwear with a garter and sheer black stockings.  When he saw you his eyes went wide and you could clearly see him say the word ‘fuck’.

Clint pushed his sweatpants down and kicked them aside and you both just stood staring at each other.  You began to tease your fingers over your breasts, flicking your nipples through the lace of your bra.

Clint mouthed ‘take it off’ to you.  You gave him a half-smile and unhooked your bra, tossing it to the side.  You started squeezing your breasts and pinching your nipples.  Clint just watched you, his tongue poking out between his lips.

You pointed at him and mouthed ‘your turn’.

He teased his hand over his cock through his boxers and gave you a look like he was asking for permission.  You ran your tongue over your bottom lip and nodded.  He pushed his hand under the waistband of his underwear and began to stroke his cock.

You slid your hands down your stomach and slipped one into your panties, rolling the tip of your fingers over your clit.  He smiled.  Once again it was like you were looking at a weird mirror to a parallel universe.  You were both leaning your head on your arm, pressed against the window staring at each other.  You were both stroking yourselves.  Your hands moved quicker and quicker.  You both came simultaneously, tensing up and relaxing as one.  You stood staring at each other for a minute.

Clint took his hands from his pants and wiped it on his boxers.  ‘Good night’ he mouthed at you.  You laughed and mouthed ‘good night’ back and went and got ready for bed.

You don’t see Clint for a few months after that.  You tried googling him but nothing really popped up.  You were a little worried but you figured because he was an Avenger, shit probably came up from time to time.  You went about your own life as normal.  Work, home, hanging out with friends, the occasional bad date.

It was a Saturday when you saw him next.  You got home from brunch and went to change into something more comfortable and he was in his bedroom packing away his bow.  You went to the window and waved.  He looked up beaming at you and waved back.  He was a little beat up.  His eye was black and he had a plaster on his nose.  He made a gesture at you like he was holding a phone to his ear.

You went to your desk and wrote your number on a sheet of lined paper with a sharpie and held it up to the window.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed in the number.

Your phone rang and you answered it.

“I missed you,” he said.

“Where have you been?”  You asked.

He smiled.  “Had a mission.  You been behaving without me, dirty girl?”

His words made you squirm and you rubbed your legs together.

“Oh, you like when I call you that, huh?” Clint asked.  “That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head since you danced for me.  That dirty girl from across the street.”

“Why don’t you come over?” You asked.

He shook his head.  “I’d love to, but not today.  How about you give me a show instead?”

“You gonna tell your dirty girl what to do?” You asked.

He chuckled and you watched as he rubbed his hand over his thigh.  “You’re my dirty girl, are you?”  He asked.  “I do like that.  How about you take that pretty dress off for me?”

You switched your phone on to speaker mode and put it on your bedside table.  You returned to the window and pulled the straps of your dress down and shimmied out of it.

“Good girl,” he purred.  “You’re pretty hot, you know?”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” you replied.

He laughed.  “Thank you.  Let’s see the rest of you then.”

“You’re not going to undress for me?”  You asked, fiddling with the cups of your bra.

“Not today,” he said, looking at you with a half-smile that said he’d devour you if you let him.  “Today you’re my dirty girl.  Today you’re gonna behave for me.”

“Come over,” you breathed.

“Ask me again and the game’s over for today,” he growled.  “Now take off your underwear.”

You shivered.  How could you possibly be playing this game with a complete stranger?  You don’t even know the guy.  Just because he was an Avenger and you’d been flirting at him through a window didn’t make this okay.

Your hesitation must have been obvious.  He walked over to the window and put his palm on the glass.  “Sorry,” he said, gently.  “I thought that was what you wanted.  We don’t have to do that.  I just… I can’t actually come over right now.  Fuck.”

“No, it’s fine,” you quickly assured him.  “I just had a minor freak out.  Let’s play.”

“Well then, what are you waiting for?”  He said, slipping back into his role.

You unhooked your bra and tossed it aside and then slowly unhooked your stockings from the garter belt.  You turned and dragged your underwear down.  His hum came through the phone faintly as he watched on.

“Leave the stockings on,” he said.

You turned to face him again, stepping out of your panties.

“Touch yourself,” he growled.

You slid your hand down your stomach and between your legs.  You slipped your fingers between your folds and stroked them up and down.  You rolled your clit between the tip of your index finger and thumb.  As pressure built inside you and spread out, you pushed a finger into your cunt and stroked it inside yourself.

“Talk to me,” Clint said.  “Tell me what it’s like.  Are you thinking of me?”

You stared across the street at him.  “I always think about you.  It feels good.  Warm. I wish it was you.”

“Next time, dirty girl,” Clint hummed.  “I promise.  How about you taste yourself?  Tell me what you taste like.”

You pulled your fingers from your pussy and stuck them in your mouth, slowly sucking them clean.  You hummed as you did and heard Clint take a harsh breath in on the other end of the phone.  You gazed over at him and he adjusted his pants.

“Salty, a little sweet.  Acidic.  Like eating lychees on the beach,” you said.

“Do you have a toy you can use?”  He asked.

You nodded.

“Go get it and hop up on the bed.  I want your pussy facing me,” he ordered.

You went and got your vibrator from your closet.  It’s a simple silicone rabbit in pale pink.  You sat down on your bed facing the window and leaned back on your elbows with your legs spread.

“Fuck, you look amazing,” Clint purred.  “You know what I’d do if I was there?”

“Tell me,” you hummed.

“I’d fucking eat that pussy out until you couldn’t walk straight,” he growled.  “Get yourself off for me.”

You lubed up your vibrator and turned it on.  You slowly ran it up and down your labia before pushing it inside you and letting the ears rest on your clit.

“That’s it, my dirty girl,” Clint groaned. “Fuck yourself for me to watch.  Are you imagining that it’s me?”

“Yes,” you moaned.  “Oh, fuck.”

As you brought yourself closer and closer to orgasm, Clint kept talking to you.  Telling you how much he liked watching you.  How it would be him fucking you next time.  How dirty you were and how much he liked it.

“Come for me, dirty girl.  I want to watch,” Clint growled.

You were sitting pretty close already but his words acted as a trigger.  You came, crying out and twisting on the mattress.  Your legs snapped shut around our vibrator and you pulled it away panting, and curled up on the mattress.

“That was beautiful,” Clint praised.  “I promise next time it will be me.  Are you alright?”

You sat up and switched off the toy, looking across at him.  “More than alright.”

“I gotta go, I’ll call you later, okay?” He said.

You waved at him and he gave you a guilty-looking wave in return before heading out.

The following day you hadn’t really seen Clint around at all.  It was just after nine at night and you were stacking your dishwasher when your phone buzzed.  It was a text from Clint.  It just said; ‘Don’t say anything’.

The next thing you knew there was a knock on your door.  You opened it and Clint pushed you against the wall, his mouth immediately on yours.  You kicked the door closed and wrapped your arms around his neck.  His hands slid down your back to your ass as you became light-headed from lack of oxygen.

He lifted you suddenly and for a split second he broke the kiss and you gasped for air before he was on you again as he carried you to your bedroom.  He tossed you unceremoniously on the bed and wrestled with your fly.  When he got it open he roughly yanked down your jeans and threw them to the side.

For one split second, you thought this might be the craziest fucking thing you’ve ever done and then his face was between your thighs, his tongue lapping at your pussy.  Two fingers entered you and you gasped and bucked up underneath him.

He expertly used his tongue and fingers on you, sucking and licking at your clit as he stroked your g-spot again and again.  You came apart, twisting and arching off the mattress, crying out incoherently as your orgasm crashed down on you.

He stood and fished a condom on his pocket before dropping his pants and sheathing himself.  You just managed to scramble back up onto the bed and he’d caught you again.  Before you even had a chance to think, he was deep inside you, kissing you hungrily.

He fucked you hard and fast.  You clung to him, your nails running down his back.  His mouth moved to your neck and he bit you - marking you.  You couldn’t even think straight, all that you were was what was happening to you.  A second orgasm hit and you spasmed under him.  He pulled out and flipped you over.  You pulled your knees up under you and he was inside you again, pounding into you from behind.  You scrambled for leverage at the headboards and his hands slid down your arms.  When he reached your hands he linked his fingers with yours.

The room echoed with the sound of your joint moans and grunts.  He tensed against you, his hands squeezing yours and he came.  For a moment he just stayed inside you, his cock twitching and his head pressed into the middle of your back.

He got up and just left the room.  You rolled over blinking, unsure of whether or not that was it.  Had he just come in, fucked you without saying a word, and left?  Before the panic really set in he was back, and he flopped down on the bed beside you.

“Hey,” he said, grinning.  “Nice to meet you.  I’m Clint.”

You burst out laughing and gave him your name.

“I feel all jittery now.  That was pretty full-on,” he said snuggling down into your shoulder.  “What do you want to do?  I can stay.  Or if you hate that, I’ll go. I mean, I dunno.”

You put your finger on his lips.  “So you don’t do that often then?”

He shook his head.  “Nope.  Fuck...” he dragged the fuck out several beats and ran his hand down his face.  “Just seemed like something you and I should do.”

“I liked it.  You can stay,” you said.

“Good,” he said, laughing.  “‘Cause I wanted to.  Can I take you out for breakfast in the morning?  I think maybe we should not only be crazy deviants.”

You giggled and nuzzled into him.  “Yeah, I’d like that.  But maybe a little bit of crazy deviates still.”

He laughed and pulled you into his arm.  “Of course.”

[writingdreamsnottragedies]

BTS Reaction // How you become a Couple.

A/N: Hello my beautiful, beloved 9 followers and and all who read this. I hope you like this reaction ^^

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Namjoon

The day couldn't have been better. Your parents had asked you to check on their house since they were on vacation. Namjoon also offered to accompany you. With his destructive powers you weren't sure if this was a good idea, but you loved his company and so you took him along. After making sure that everything was okay, you spontaneously decided to set up your younger brother's paddling pool and spend the afternoon in the family garden. Now you are lying on one of your parents' deckchairs, your bare feet dipped in the cool water. Only in the corner of your mind you hear Joonie offering you to make a drink. You nod absently, he knows where the fridge is. Your eyes close by themselves and you doze away a little. But the idyll doesn't last long. Suddenly you hear a loud boom and the scream that follows makes you wince. For a moment you remain stiff as a poker in your place, then you jump up as if something had bitten you: "Joonie!" When you arrive in the kitchen you are out of breath, your face is pale. In front of you is a scene of devastation. The blender is no longer what it used to be. To be exact, its parts are scattered all over the kitchen and the part that is still standing in its original place is smoking heavily. On the wall there are remains of what probably should have been a smoothie. As something drips on your shoulder you realize that these remains have also made it to the ceiling. Only Namjoon seems to have vanished: "Joonie?" "I'm here." His voice is quiet and at first you can't locate him. But eventually you'll spot him. He's on his back behind the kitchen counter. The remains of the Smoothie stick on his clothing, too. For a moment you are glad that nothing happened to him, but then your gaze wanders down on him and the panic returns: "You're bleeding!" You get down on your knees before him and take his hands in yours. While the backs of his hands are only scratched, you find his palms covered by numerous small cuts. You let go of his hands and take his face in yours instead, examining it for traces or even splinters. He doesn't move and lets you do: "It doesn't hurt, my hands are just a little scratched, I feel ..." He cuts off in the middle of the sentence as his eyes widen: "Y/N? Are you crying?"  You let go of him and now you're touching your own face. It's all wet. You didn't even notice how tears came out of your eyes: "I... I was just so afraid you could have hurt yourself more, I..." You can't get any further, because there are two strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you to Namjoon: "I'm sorry." Your ear is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, a sign that he's alive. You close your eyes and let the tears flow freely. You've been worried beyond belief and you feel your whole body letting go. Namjoon holds you until the sobs stop. He loosens his grip, holds you by your shoulders and kisses you on the forehead: "As long as you stay by my side nothing worse can happen to me than an exploded blender". You look down at yourself and now your clothes are dirty too, but his words make you laugh: "I will always stay with you". His next kiss hits your lips.  

Seokjin

You spent the whole afternoon competing with Kookie. Actually, you had paid a visit to the boys to see Jin, who you had an incredible crush on, but the youngest had challenged you to a Mario Kart duel that you couldn't refuse. What you both had in common was a desire to win, and so it turned into a loud competition."Won!" You lower the controller and throw your arms up into the air in victory. Your opponent uses the chance to pinch your sides, a place where you are incredibly ticklish. With a laugh you throw yourself against Jungkook and you both almost fall off the sofa. He wraps his arms around you while you try to take revenge on him: "You will regret this. You're so gonna regret this." "Y/N?" Both of you look up as Jin stands in the doorway. His arms are crossed and the look on his face is hard to interpret: "Would you come with me for a moment?" You break away from Kookie and get up, tap your clothes a little: " When I come back, I'll beat you up again, I promise." In a good mood you follow Jin and don't even notice the look he gives Kookie. He leads you into the kitchen and you lean against the counter: "What's up Jin? Shall I help you cook? "Kookie said he wants curry, I think there's enough ingredients in here to make it and..." You flinch when you hear a boom next to you. Jin is on your side within seconds. His hands rest on either side of the counter, preventing you from escaping: "what's wrong?" Your voice shakes, not because you're scared, but because his sudden proximity makes you nervous: "All I hear is Kookie here and Kookie there". He's bending over towards you. He's so close, you can feel his breath on your skin, which gives you goose bumps. His smell is so unbelievably good that a pleasant fog forms around your thoughts and only his voice tears you out of the daydreams that form in your head: "It's almost as if you have feelings for him". From his mouth comes a throaty laugh: "But if that' s the case, then you shouldn't look at me the way you do" He raises one of his hands and strokes your cheek: "With these reddened cheeks". His finger moves to your lips, gently strokes across them: "With these slightly open lips". He bends even further forward so that his lips hover just a few millimeters above yours: "If you look like that I feel like stealing you away from Kookie. To steal a kiss from you..." He smiles slightly, almost sadly, and shakes his head: "But I wouldn't do something like that, that wouldn't be fair". He wants to straighten up again, but now a sound comes over your lips, which you cannot define. Your hands move to his hair and you pull him down to you in a passionate kiss. His eyes widen in surprise, but then he answers your kiss just as passionately. As you separate you are both out of breath. Your eyes meet and you want to kiss again, but a voice prevents you from doing so: "I think it' s nice that you have found each other. But I'm really hungry... can we make curry today?"

Yoongi

For Yoongi, summer was the season he liked least. Not only because it got way too warm for his taste, but also because that very heat made him more tired than usual. He preferred cooler seasons in which his skin didn't burn and he wouldn't sweat so fast.You were the complete opposite. Summer was your absolute favorite season and if you could, you would have spent every minute outside getting warmed by the sun's rays. "Let's go outside!" Yoongi looks at you as if you're asking for the impossible. Today's heat was so intense that not even an air-conditioned studio could stand up against it, so they allowed him and the others to shorten the training a bit. You watch him as he looks up: "It's going to rain soon." You follow his gaze and snort, "There's not a cloud in the sky." You go to him and grab his arm, pull him up from where he sits: "Come on! Just a little, okay?" He sighs and finally gives in. It would only be a short walk anyway. In retrospect, you wonder how he could be so right. Half an hour after you left the building, clouds appear and shortly afterwards it starts to rain. While Yoongi quickly takes shelter under a canopy you stay where you are. Within no time your clothes and hair are soaked, water collects in your shoes, but you don't mind. The water drops feel incredibly good on your skin. Another thing you love about summer is its rain and soon you' re spinning in circles with your arms outstretched. "You'll catch a cold" You hear Yoongi's voice only in passing: " Nonsense. And even if I do, a few days of being sick doesn't bother me, this is worth it" You close your eyes and laugh. You can't deny that on the one hand you think it's sweet that he's worried, but on the other hand you also feel that the rain revives something inside of you. You want to promise him to return to him under the roof, but then someone grabs you by the wrist: "But I would mind." You open your eyes and get almost startled because Yoongi is so close to you. He's got his hands on your wrist and his eyes are looking right into yours. Water drips from his hair falling down on his face, you wonder when he came to you in the rain and why you didn't notice it. What comes next only confuses you more, because he puts his other arm around your waist: "I would mind" he repeats. Then he pulls you towards him and you can feel his body against yours. His skin still seems heated from the midday sun and forms a contrast to you, whose body is already cooled down by the water. "That's why I have to keep you warm." He looks at you and a little smile appears on his lips. It is the first time you see him smile today and it makes your heart flutter. Your next action happens by itself. You wrap your arms around his neck and stand on your toes. Carefully your cool lips touch his warm ones. The kiss is brief, yet it manages to permeate your entire body with hot shivers. As you release he looks at you seriously. You wonder what is going on in his head and if what you have done is okay for him. His hand comes off your wrist and strokes a wet strand from your face. Then he grins: "Maybe summer's not so bad after all". Neither you nor he pays any more attention to the rain as you share another kiss.

Hoseok

You liked the last VLive from Hoseok very much. You had watched with joy how he had created bracelets for the other members and finally an ARMY bracelet. When he invited you to their dormitory, you couldn't help but bring a small bracelet craft kit that you wanted to give him. It had the desired effect, and when Hoseok saw the new pearls and pendants, he hugged you enthusiastically. Your actual plan to watch a movie had been cancelled, and Hoseok had decided that you should spend your time together making bracelets. You sit at the small coffee table for over an hour now. The lemonade you made in advance is almost gone and the cookies Jin baked the day before have also dropped to a minimum. In the background soft instrumental music plays, a few BTS songs but also other songs. You look up from your own work to watch Hoseok. He seems highly concentrated as he threads pearl after pearl onto the bracelet. While you randomly grab the pearls you like best, he seems to have a system after he goes and which he only changes when something specific catches his eye. You could watch him for hours. You have a crush on Hoseok for a while now and just spending time with him makes you incredibly happy. "Y/N?" Hoseok stops working and looks at you curiously. Only now do you realize that you must have been staring at him: "hmm? I mean, what up?" He starts laughing: "You seem a little distracted. What were you thinking about?" You can feel the blush building up in your face: "Well... I was thinking about how much effort you're putting into this. It's like you're thinking about the smallest things. How you arrange the beads, how you combine the colors. It' s beautiful".  You turn your gaze back to your own bracelet and don't see how he turns red too. "Who are you making your bracelet for?" You think for a while, actually you had it made without thinking. You put the last piece of the clasp on: "Give me your arm." He immediately follows your instructions and you put your work on him: "It's nothing special and you don't have to keep it but...""It's beautiful". Hoesok touches it with his fingers and plays with the little sun pendant you put on without thinking: "What's it for?"  "Well... you often say you are everyone's hope. And many fans also say you are their sunshine and...for me you are too".  You want to change the subject to play down the emerging nervousness, but he grabs your wrist and puts his bracelet on you. You look at it and inevitably you have to giggle: "It's almost like exchanging rings at a wedding" You stroke the pearls with love when his words make you look up again: "Don't you think we should start with a kiss?" You look into his face and finally discover the slight blush on his cheeks. For some reason, it gives you a boost of confidence. With a smile you bend toward him, your lips lightly brushing over his: "I think that‘s an incredibly good idea. But I'm not happy with just one kiss".

Jimin

Today was not made for you. Already when you woke up you felt bad and when it didn't get better after an hour you decided to stay in your hotel room, in your bed. Jimin had invited you to a music video shoot of him and the others and the surroundings including the beach were beautiful. And yet you didn't feel like going out or even communicate, so you didn't even respond to the messages on your cell phone. So you spend your time sleeping and brooding, and when evening comes you can finally get over the idea of listening to music. Your headphones are in your bag and your bag is too far away, so you just turn the music up loud. As your phone plays Serendipidy you close your eyes and breathe out deeply. This song made warmth flow through your heart and your whole body, it soothes you incredibly. You don't hear the knocking. Only when the sound becomes strangely doubled you suddenly startle. You turn off the music, but the singing is still there and it comes from outside. You can't deny your heartbeat, which gets faster with every moment you realize that Jimin is at your door, must have heard your music and is singing the song to you now. You listen to him singing line after line until the last note stops. Then his soft voice: "May I come in?" You hesitate, you're not sure. You look awful, your hair is all tousled and you're still wearing your pyjamas. But finally you get up, open the door for him. He smiles at you, he leans against the door frame a little. He looks exhausted, probably they have just finished the shoot: "I wrote you...you didn't answer...is everything okay?" You let him in and sit on the bed. It takes a while before you start speaking. About everything and nothing, just like that. He listens to you and doesn't interrupt you. You don't know how much time passes while you' re just talk to each other. When he finally asks you to go for a walk, you agree. In silence you go side by side, your path leads you to the beach. Finally you lie down in the sand, he in his music video outfit, you in your pyjamas. A beautiful starry sky opens up above you. Finally, Jimin breaks the silence: " How are you?" You think about it for a while before you answer, "Fine." He seems surprised. "Really? That quick?" During your next words you feel yourself turning red: "Well somehow...ever since I heard you singing outside my door...it's like I decided that all negative feelings have no place in my heart anymore..." After that, it's quiet for a while. You don't look at each other and you already thought you said something wrong, but then there's Jimin's voice again, so quiet that you can hardly hear it: "And? Would you let me?" "Let you what?" Silence again, then: "Well...like in the song...i mean...would you let me love you?" Your eyes widen and now you're the one who's silent. Jimin seems to misunderstand because he straightens up: "I'm sorry Y/N I didn't mean to pressure you, we can forget it, we never have to talk about it again we..." "No! No, no. I'm just... too shocked to understand."  You also straighten up and take his hands in yours: "I...I'm so shocked because you make me so incredibly happy..." You take a short break because your heart is racing so fast and the next words are hard for you: "But Jimin I need to know...will you let me love you too?" In response, he gives you an incredibly soft and gentle kiss.

Taehyung

Your preparations for today had already begun weeks ago. Buying a dress, an appointment with the hairdresser and cosmetician. A makeup test. Even if the boys told you that you would look good without all the frills, you wanted to get the best out of yourself for this one day. Tae was nominated for an award and you wanted to be there to keep your fingers crossed for him. Also, and you had to admit this to yourself, you wanted to take a certain person's breath away.      Your efforts seemed to bear fruit. On the day of the award you received compliments from many sides and Tae looked over at you more than once. You thanked them each time, but at the same time you made sure that the attention was drawn back to TaehyungDuring the show you took a seat next to the others. Your eyes stick to Tae and you notice his nervousness. But that's not necessary, because when the winner is announced it's indeed Tae.                      You join in the applause that breaks out right after the announcement while Tae steps on stage to receive his award. During his acceptance speech your eyes meet several times and you can't wait to tell him how proud you are of him. Right after the show you are led into a room backstage by the others. It takes a while until the man of the evening joins you. He accepts several congratulations until he' s finally with you: "Hello Y/N". He looks overjoyed: "I haven't had a chance to tell you how great you look". Your heart makes a little jump: "Thank you so much. But this is about you. Congratulations Tae!" You wrap your arms around him and pull him into a short hug: "You should be really proud of yourself!"  You loosen your arms and give him a big smile. He laughs too. Then he takes your face in his hands and before you knew what' s happening, he' s kissing you. It's only a short moment, but it feels like thousands of fireworks exploding inside you at once. As he separates from you, his smile disappears: "Oh Y/N, I'm sorry. I was a little overexcited, I didn't mean to..."He pauses as you shake your head and still smile at him, a slight blush on your cheeks: "I really do hope that this wasn't just a one-time thing". His eyes get bigger as he realizes, then he wraps his arms around your waist and strokes his fingers over the fabric of your dress so that hot shivers run down your back.  He bends forward and his lips tickle your ear. His voice sounds soft so only you can hear it: "It depends on what you want..." He lets go of you for a moment and turns to Jimin, who is standing right next to you. The two of them exchange a few words, then they grin, "Have fun." Tae takes you by the hand and pulls you out of the room towards the hotel rooms. Yes, you'd get lots of kisses tonight.

Jungkook

You certainly had your evening planned differently. Your working day had been long, it was already dark. You had eaten a snack and then laid down in the bathtub to relax a little. Time had passed and you had become tired. So you had slipped into your favorite fluffy pajamas, your hair in a towel turban. You didn't feel like drying it. On your bedside table was an exciting book and you wanted to read a few more pages before you finally went to sleep. But nothing came out of it. Shortly before you could open the book, you received a call from Namjoon: "Y/N can you come? We need your help with a situation". When you arrive, the situation turns out to be a slightly drunk Jin, a sober Namjoon and a completely drunk Jungkook. The two older ones tell you that they took the younger one along at his begging, but got distracted for a moment. Probably he had treated himself to more than just one high-proof drink at that moment. You had warned Kookie repeatedly not to overdo it. Not because he wasn't old enough, but rather because he was unbelievably uncooperative in this state and wouldn't budge even if he was asked: "You have to help us Y/N" Jin's voice sounded almost more desperate than Namjoon's on the phone. You sighed: "Go home. I'll take care of it". You spot Kookie almost immediately. He's sitting at the bar, just ordering another drink. When he sees you, a big smile spreads across his face: "Y/N!" he turns to the bartender: "A drink for my girlfriend!" His voice slurs and yet you blush because he calls you his girlfriend. Finally you are at his place and grab his arm gently: "That's enough for today. We can come back tomorrow" You want to pull him gently but firmly from his bar stool, but he holds you back: "You are beautiful" Throaty giggles follow and he bends forward, but you evade him. Your chest contracts painfully, you know that he is not serious. Still you smile: "I know. You look good too. Please come with me now". Finally you manage to pull him off his chair while he starts singing a BTS song. Not beautiful, but with many crooked notes. As you gently talk to him you wonder if you should film him. It might be fun for you and the others to show him that the next morning. Outside you let him go: "I'll call a taxi". You want to take out your cell phone, but his words make you pause: "You...you are so beautiful. I love you so much...Y/N".  Your heart stops. He doesn't sound drunk anymore. Instead, he sounds like he always sounds, only more serious. He leans over to you again, this time, you are sure he wants to kiss you. But you push him away from you, shaking your head violently, "Kookie. That may have been fun once, but not anymore. You don't love me". He frowned, visibly irritated: "You don't believe me... why don't you believe me?" "Why?" A laugh comes out of you, but it is not a happy laugh. It is rather bitter: "Jeon Jungkook you are drunk! You can tell me you love me as many times as you want. You are probably imagining it and even if you don't... you will not remember a single word tomorrow". You shake your head and want to turn back to your cell phone, but he grabs your hand and stops you: "I won't forget. I promise you that tomorrow I will remember it and tell you again". His voice sounds incredibly soft and it makes your heart beat immeasurably: "And then I want to hear the same from you. That you love me Y/N". Again you laugh, but this time to hide your nervousness: "And you really think I'm going to say that? In response, he gets down on his knees and kisses the back of your hand before grinning at you: "Of course".

[tealin]

Cape Crozier: The Winter Journey

As usual, please go to the original blog to see everything formatted properly. I will attempt to put most of this under a cut, here. Forgive me if it fails.

On the morning of 27 June 1911, three men set out from Cape Evans, on the balmy west coast of Ross Island, to cross to the east coast via its southern shore.  Wilson, their leader, wanted to acquire some Emperor penguin embryos, and the only known Emperor rookery was just off Cape Crozier.  Based on the chicks he had seen in September the last time he was in Antarctica, Wilson estimated that the eggs would be laid in early July, so he timed the trip to meet them at the right stage of development and to coincide with the full moon, to have the best visibility in a world of 24-hour night. 

  Wilson had discussed this mission with his assistant, Cherry-Garrard, when the latter was applying to join the Expedition.  Once in Antarctica, they agreed the obvious choice for a third was Bowers, who had amply proven his energy, enthusiasm, strength, resourcefulness, and resistance to cold. 

  To reach Cape Crozier at the full moon in early July meant leaving Cape Evans at the new moon, and so shortly after the solstice that most of the day was nearly black, lit only by the stars shining hard in the sky, and occasionally the aurora.  The first part of the journey was over very familiar territory, so the greatest difficulty was learning how to camp when one could hardly see anything and it was too cold to take one's mitts off or touch any metal.  So far, so surmountable. 

  The tune changed as soon as they left the sea ice and got onto the permanent ice of the Barrier (or Ross Ice Shelf, as it is now known).

 They left the tempering effect of the open ocean behind, and were under the influence of the frigid interior.  The air temperature plunged, and worse, for men hauling everything necessary for life on two 9ft sledges, they soon entered a zone of soft snow. 

  Runners slide over snow by melting the surface with friction – the glide is, in fact, slipping over a thin film of liquid water.  At such low temperatures, friction is not sufficient to melt anything, so the grains of snow act more like sand.  A hard, wind-polished surface would be like sandpaper, but in the deep soft snow it was like dragging a dead weight through the Sahara, albeit a Sahara where a day of -50°F felt like a warm spell.   

   They couldn't drag both sledges at once, so they had to take one forward, then retrace their steps and drag the other.  For every mile of forward progress, they actually covered three.  In the dead calm, they could use a naked candle to follow their outward steps back to fetch the second sledge.  Eight hours of dragging seldom got them more than two miles from where they started, and ended with the slow process of pitching camp.  After getting the tent up, the day's cook would burn his fingers on freezing tin matchboxes in a quest for a match free of frost, before he could get the Primus stove going.  Eventually the travellers would get some hot liquid in them – 

  Directly we started to drink then the effect was wonderful: it was, said Wilson, like putting a hot-water bottle against your heart.  The beats became very rapid and strong and you felt the warmth travelling outwards and downwards. [250] 

  – and then, after checking their feet for frostbites, it was time to thaw their way into their frozen sleeping bags for a miserable attempt at sleep. 

  For me it was a very bad night: a succession of shivering fits which I was quite unable to stop, and which took possession of my body for many minutes at a time until I thought my back would break, such was the strain placed upon it.  They talk of chattering teeth: but when your body chatters you may call yourself cold. [241]  We knew we did sleep, for we heard one another snore, and also we used to have dreams and nightmares; but we had little consciousness of it, and we were now beginning to drop off when we halted on the march. [245] 

  It was important for every field party to take regular meteorological observations, to contribute to an understanding of the region's weather.  At regular intervals through the day, Bowers would take an air temperature reading, and while they were sleeping, a minimum thermometer was placed under the sledge to measure the temperature in a sheltered place.  On 6 July, this got down to -75°F; the following afternoon, Bowers' thermometer registered -77.5°F. The day lives in my memory as that on which I found out that records are not worth making. [247-8] 

  The clear cold of the first part of their journey had given way to a fog, which diffused the little moonlight they got and obscured the terrain until they were practically right on top of it.  As they were rounding the heel of Mt Terror this meant crevasses, and not being able to tell where they were until one fell through, which was a nerve-wracking business on top of the sleep deprivation and physical hardship. 

  The horror of the nineteen days it took us to travel from Cape Evans to Cape Crozier would have to be re-experienced to be appreciated; and any one would be a fool who went again: it is not possible to describe it.  The weeks which followed were comparative bliss, not because our conditions were better – they were far worse – but because we were callous.  I for one had come to that point of suffering at which I did not really care if only I could die without much pain.  They talk of the heroism of the dying – they little know – it would be so easy to die, a dose of morphia, a friendly crevasse, and blissful sleep.  The trouble is to go on. . . . [237] 

  Finally they were on the home stretch, a narrow lane between the rough terrain of the land and the great pressure waves where the Barrier presses up against Ross Island as it flows out to sea.  This proved to be nearly impossible to keep to, in the poor light, but after much stumbling, and with a welcome rise in temperature to the mere -20s, they finally reached a moraine just short of the Knoll, within hiking distance of the Emperor colony huddled in the lee of the Barrier face below.  They pitched their tent on an icy smooth snow slope 150 yards down from the ridge, and the following day set about building a igloo near the top, using the exposed volcanic stone found there, in a method Cherry had been practising at Cape Evans.  July 16th, when they established the hut, was Wilson's wedding anniversary, and in the privacy of his diary at least, he named the igloo Oriana Hut, and the moraine Oriana Ridge, after his wife.  The others proposed 'Terra Igloo', 'The House on the Hill,' and 'Bleak House.'  In the South Polar Times, after their return, Bowers immortalised it in rhyme as 'The House That Cherry Built.'  On official Antarctic maps, though, it's now labelled Wilson's Igloo and the moraine is Igloo Spur. 

  Our trip to Cape Crozier was a walk in the park – 35 minutes in a helicopter watching the amazing views roll by – and our greatest challenge was finding the landing site, but that was only a question of how close it was to the GPS waymark, rather than whether we could land at all.  We were not exempt from the vagaries of Antarctic weather, however.  When our flight got the green light, the weather at Cape Crozier was 30% cloud with 7-knot winds.  Not your typical Cape Crozier weather, but great weather for helicopters.  By the time we arrived, 35 minutes later, it was 70% cloud, a fog was rolling in, and winds were at 30 knots.  I was warned our time here might be short.  But we set off to see the igloo anyway. 

 The plan had been to build the body of the igloo in stone, then bank up the walls with gravel and snow to make them weatherproof.  Unlike a stereotypical snow-block igloo, it was not a dome, but would be roofed using one of the sledges as a beam, with a canvas sheet spread over it, firmly anchored in the rocks.  This has an Arctic precedent: in Francis McClintock's account of his search for the lost Franklin Expedition in the 1850s, he describes meeting an Inuit woman who lived in a stone igloo of very similar construction.  Cherry's practice igloo at Cape Evans was an admirable structure, but the plan went awry at Cape Crozier, on account of a lack of gravel and all the snow in the vicinity being blown so hard as to be practically ice [261].  They improvised as best they could, chipping some slabs of ice out of the snowbank and leaning them against the exterior walls, but it was not as cosy a structure as they'd hoped, and they ended up stuffing spare socks into some of the larger gaps in the stones to keep out the wind.  This wind, they discovered on their second day of building, was much stronger at the top of the ridge than where they had made camp on the snow.  But the stone walls were more secure than the tent – which was left pitched outside the igloo's door for storage – and heralded a new 'Age of Stone' in which they could get on with their science. 

  It was more than just scientific interest that made a visit to the penguin colony imperative: on their grind to Cape Crozier, they had burned through nearly five of their six cans of oil.  As well as the penguin embryos they came for, they needed to burn some blubber to keep warm in their igloo, so that they could use the last tin of oil for the return journey.  So as soon as their building progress allowed, they scouted a perilous path down a snow drift over the cliffs and through the horrible pressure to reach the Emperor colony.  Instead of the two thousand birds found by the Discovery, there were barely a hundred, and less than half of them apparently had eggs.  Nevertheless, Wilson and Bowers secured five eggs and three birds' skins – the blubber comes off with the skin – and they legged it back to their camp while there was still a modicum of light to see by.  Cherry broke both of the eggs he was carrying in a fall, but they made it back with the remaining three and the blubber, which got its revenge on Wilson by spluttering into his eye from the stove. 

  “Things must improve,” said Bill [Wilson] next day, “I think we reached bed-rock last night.”  We hadn't, by a long way. [272] 

 The igloo is at the opposite end of the moraine from the helicopter landing site, or at least where the GPS told us it was.  There is nothing between the crest of Igloo Spur and the Transantarctic Mountains, hundreds of miles away, and the 30-knot wind flowed over our minor obstruction just like a river: barely any gusts, just a constant flow, solid as water, up and over the ridge and then out towards the sea.  I tried to look out for lichen as I stumbled along, but it was hard to be careful of where I put my feet when I was struggling to keep my balance against the wind.  There were patches of a beige crust – was this lichen or was it a mineral deposit?  Someone shouted that they had found some – it turned out to be black, and crawled along the ground like dinosaur fern.  Once spotted it was obvious, and easier to avoid. 

  A few good minutes' scramble got us to the igloo.  On the way, I saw a small log of petrified wood, shining pale on the chocolate-brown rubble.  This seemed very much out of place on a volcanic island, and I wondered briefly how it had got there, before an answer came: obviously it had blown here.  A joke, perhaps, but not as much of one as you might think: the further out along the ridge we walked, the stronger the wind seemed to be.  At last we reached the remains of Oriana Hut. 

  I should have been humbled, or at least struck with a sense of awe.  But all I could think was: You guys were completely insane. 

 The day after Wilson, Cherry, and Bowers returned from the raid on the Emperors, there was a small blizzard, and the flapping of the canvas roof on the igloo caused them some concern, so they set about weighing it down with blocks of ice and making extra sure it was securely fastened all around.  They pitched the tent right next to the door and put a lot of their gear into it, to make space for themselves in the igloo.  Then, with the weather calm and their bellies full, they settled down to catch up on some precious and hitherto scanty sleep. 

  I do not know what time it was when I woke up.  It was calm, with that absolute silence which can be so soothing or so terrible as circumstances dictate.  Then there came a sob of wind, and all was still again.  Ten minutes and it was blowing as though the world was having a fit of hysterics.  The earth was torn in pieces: the indescribable fury and roar of it all cannot be imagined. 

  “Bill, Bill, the tent has gone,” was the next I remember – from Bowers shouting at us again and again through the door.  …. Journey after journey Birdie and I fought our way across the few yards which had separated the tent from the igloo door.    

  … To get that gear in we fought against solid walls of black snow which flowed past us and tried to hurl us down the slope.  Once started nothing could have stopped us.  I saw Birdie [Bowers] knocked over once, but he clawed his way back just in time.  Having passed everything we could find in to Bill, we got back into the igloo, and started to collect things together, including our very dishevelled minds.[275-6] 

  Not sure when they would be able to eat again, they cooked a meal, and nervously watched the igloo roof.  The problem was not so much that it was in the wind, but that it was just out of it: the wind rushing up the southern slope of the moraine created suction just behind the crest, where the igloo was, and this was pulling the canvas up.  The motion of the canvas shifted the ice blocks weighing it down until they were off.  Then the incessant sucking up and flapping down started to stretch the material; as it stretched it got more play; as it played more the flapping became more violent.  At last the fabric could no longer take the strain and exploded into ribbons, whose frantic lashing in the hurricane sounded like pistol shots. 

  They hurried into their sleeping bags and rolled over so that the flaps were underneath, and huddled while the storm raged overhead. 

  I can well believe that neither of my companions gave up hope for an instant.  They must have been frightened, but they were never disturbed.  As for me I never had any hope at all; and when the roof went I felt that this was the end. [280] 

  And then … they slept.  The blizzard had brought a rise in temperature and the snow drifting over them made a good insulator, so they were more comfortable than they had been for a while, and of course there was nothing else they could do.  There was so much to worry about that there was not the least use in worrying: and we were so very tired. [282]  Occasionally Bowers would thump Wilson and Wilson would move a bit to prove he was alive.  When they were awake they'd sing songs and hymns to pass the time – we sang hymns because they were easier to sing than La Bohême and it was a good thing to sing something.*  Quieter moments might be spent cogitating over how to get back without a tent, but the situation looked pretty hopeless.  When they were thirsty they would pinch a little drift from just outside their bag and eat it, and so staved off the worst, but without a tent, 52 excruciating miles from the nearest shelter at Hut Point, and months away from spring, it seemed only to be delaying the inevitable. 

  Thus impiously I set out to die, making up my mind that I was not going to try and keep warm, that it might not take too long, and thinking I would try and get some morphia from the medical case if it got very bad.  Yes! comfortable, warm reader.  Men do not fear death, they fear the pain of dying. [281] 

  On top of everything, it was Wilson's 39th birthday. 

 I suppose the most surprising thing is that there is anything left of the igloo at all.  Some of the rocks came down when the roof blew open, but the many, many blizzards since then have worked hard to dismantle the rest.  And yet, in the shelter of the walls, protected by the drift that accumulates there, there are still some of the Crozier party's possessions.    

  Standing here, especially in a 30-knot wind, one cannot but think this is a pretty stupid place to build a shelter.  Cherry acknowledges this in his book, but reminds us that they had to build more or less where the rocks were, and the rocks were where the wind kept the snow from accumulating.  They had brought a snow knife to cut snow blocks, Inuit-fashion, but there was no such snow to be had; it was all ice.  And I had an additional insight, thanks to my midnight hike up Arrival Heights: 

 The igloo is built just off the crest of the ridge, exactly like where I was standing when I felt no wind on Arrival Heights.  They would have been very familiar with that ridgeline and had almost certainly observed the same phenomenon, so if they had to pick a spot on a desolate windswept hill, that was, in the circumstances, one of the better ones to pick.  There was a short blizzard their first night back from the Emperors, but aside from the drift blowing through the gaps in the rocks it didn't concern them much; they just had the bad timing to meet a monstrous storm shortly after. I have never heard or felt or seen a wind like this, Cherry wrote, even after having experienced the ferociously windy second winter at Cape Evans, where they feared the hut might blow down, I wondered why it did not carry away the earth. [283]  They had anticipated the wind in the construction of the hut, and the pyramid tent had amply proven its ability to stand up to blizzards in its years of Antarctic service; it was the suction that threw them a curve ball.  When the roof blew into ribbons, it was still firmly anchored in the walls, and even 108 years later, it's still there. 

 The storm first hit on Friday, 21 July; by Monday it was beginning to abate enough that they could speak to each other without too much difficulty.  They hadn't eaten for two days, but the first thing they did was go look for the tent.  When that proved fruitless, they returned and cooked a meal with the tent floorcloth stretched between their heads.  The cooker was full of penguin feathers, burnt blubber, and dirt, but the smell of it was better than anything on earth. 

 When the midday twilight returned, they had another search for the tent.  I followed Bill down the slope.  We could find nothing.  But, as we searched, we heard a shout somewhere below and to the right. They slid down the snow slope and fetched up where Bowers had discovered the tent, which must have closed like an umbrella when sucked off its moorings, and, with so much less surface area, dropped out of the sky only a few hundred yards away.  Our lives had been taken away and given back to us.   

We were so thankful we said nothing. 

If the tent went again we were going with it.  We made our way back up the slope with it, carrying it solemnly and reverently, precious as though it were something not quite of the earth.  And we dug it in as tent was never dug in before ... [284-5] 

 I have read Cherry's account of the Winter Journey several times, 'blind' as it were – in my head, Cape Crozier was a chaotic jumble of ice and rock with no shape I could deduce from the writing.  Unlike the landmarks of McMurdo Sound, and even the Beardmore to some extent, there were no historical photos of the theatre for this action; a few closeups of the igloo appear at the end of Mark Gatiss' 2007 docudrama, but they give no context in respect to the landscape.  This was why it was vitally important I stand there myself.  The moment I realised that ambition, I knew it was more valuable than I could ever have pitched in a grant proposal.  The tiered foothills of Mt Terror to the east, the back of the Knoll, the strip of blue sea visible from the igloo, the 'porcelain teacup' of the hollow between here and there, and most profoundly, how the igloo hangs off the edge of nowhere on this exposed finger of land.  In the midst of a blizzard, with howling drift on all sides as well as above and below, it would be a tiny mote of solidity suspended in the vast blank nothing. 

  My companions must have been a little confused by my behaviour.  I hardly took any photos of the igloo.  It was interesting, for sure, but the state it's in now would not help me much, to draw it how it was then.  I took a lot of photos of the surroundings, but on two sides it was blowing mist so that didn't take very long.  Mostly what I did was sit with my back against a sill of rock near the igloo and just stare and stare and stare.  I wanted to memorize everything – not just where things were, but the wind, the silvery gleam on the snow, the feeling of being utterly at the extremity of all things.  It's one thing to read Cherry's memories, and boggle at the experience; it's quite another to stand where they were made, and be able to measure your own experience against theirs.  Standing there in the light, I could see it dark. Their blizzard would have been blowing twice as hard as the wind that could have knocked me over.  Riding behind Cherry's eyes, memory viewed through the lens of grief and nostalgia, his companions fill the frame, so one does not get a proper sense of how extremely tiny they all were in this vast howling nothing.  And, of course, they had only themselves to get them home, not a waiting helicopter. 

 We had another meal, and we wanted it; and as the good hoosh ran down into our feet and hands, and up into our cheeks and ears and brains, we discussed what we would do next.  Birdie was all for another go at the Emperor penguins.  Dear Birdie, he would never admit that he was beaten – I don't know that he ever really was! … There could really be no common-sense doubt: we had to go back … [285]  They packed what they could that night and got what sleep they could in their horrible icy bags.  The next morning it looked like it was going to start blizzing again; they loaded the camp onto one of the sledges and stashed  in a corner of the igloo what they didn't want or need to take back, along with the other sledge, and set off into a rising wind.  After only a mile or so the weather forced them to camp, and Birdie tied a line from the apex of the tent around the outside of his bag where he slept: if the tent went he was going too. [287] 

  The journey back was still cold, but only hauling one sledge, they made much better time.  The men were exhausted, however, and their equipment suffering from their ordeals, so it didn't afford as much comfort or protection as it had on the way out.  But they were on their way home, and justifiably confident of getting there. 

 It was the helicopter that called time on my visit to Cape Crozier.  The anemometer had clocked 38 knots at one point and nothing looked likely to improve.  In the interest of fuel efficiency, the machine was a nimble fibreglass damselfly, not built to withstand this sort of onslaught, and our pilot was worried for his craft.  So my coordinator came and told me it was time to go.  The trek back was definitely windier than it had been when we arrived, and it felt longer, too, though that may have been because I had my head down, focusing on my footing, rather than looking at lichen and petrified wood.  We piled onto the waiting machine and with no undue delay were back in the air. One last wide loop around Igloo Spur, then we rode the wind seaward, and the igloo on the edge of nowhere vanished in the mist behind. 

  It is extraordinary how often angels and fools do the same thing in this life, and I have never been able to settle which we were on this journey. [273] 

  I understand why they did what they did, and made the decisions they made in context, but I have not let go of that impression that they were completely insane.  I've done pretty crazy things for an abstract goal, and while sleep-deprived, so on one hand I hesitate to judge.  On the other, a tiny unrepresentative sample of the extremity they endured beggars belief that they didn't start the trek home the minute they'd got the eggs, if not a lot sooner.  Surely they noticed that it was horrible?   

  But who is the more foolish here?  They threw themselves into the worst Antarctica had to offer in pursuit of knowledge, which could only be acquired this way.  They may not have known how bad it was going to be, but they knew it would be pretty bad, and went anyway, because they determined it to be worthwhile. 

  We, on the other hand, were only there because they had been there. 

  Correction: I was there because they had been there.  The others would not have been there except for me. 

  So who is the bigger fool? 

*All quotes in this post are from The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard, with corresponding page numbers, except this one, which his from his introduction to Edward Wilson of the Antarctic, p.xiv 

[remmushound]

Lita’s legacy, chapter 3!! @errorfreak88 @digitl-art-monstr

Growing up, Tang Shen tried to give Lita as normal of a life possible. Lita. That was what Tang Shen named her. For Lita meant ‘gladly’ and Tang Shen had gladly taken the abandoned child into her care. For eight years Lita remained under the careful watch of the lovely and fair Tang Shen. Lita, in her current condition, was unadoptable. So the kind nekomata cared for the fragile hatchling as her own, giving the needy creature all the love and care she could stand. When Lita’s protective membrane would dry out, which was quite often, there was always a spray bottle at hand to gentle moisten it. Whenever Lita left the comforting dark of her room, she was provided sunglasses to keep her sensitive eyes protected. She was allowed to play with the other orphans of course, but if ever they got too rough, Tang Shen would be there to swoop in and carry her out of harms way. Tang Shen would always be there.

Lita was asleep in the room that was all her own. All the other orphans shared one large sleeping space, but not Lita. She had a special bed, with a special sleep schedule, and special check ins. She was special. Her red eyes opened suddenly to the sounds of screaming and she sat up straight, clutching her blanket around her shell as she looked out into a room swallowed by flame and smoke.

“M-mama Shen?” Lita called out, but her voice was eaten by the roar of the fire. “MAMA SHEN!”

Her chest felt as if it were ablaze just as the room was, the membrane dried from the heat and sinking further into her chest than normal. She felt lightheaded. If from the smoke or the membrane, she wasn’t sure, but what she could recognize were flashes of pain like she had swallowed hot embers. She covered her mouth with her arm and crawled out of her bed, keeping her blanket around her trying to block out the worse of the smoke from her vulnerable heart.

“Help! Mama Shen!”

She yelped and covered her head with the blanket when a portion of roof collapsed in front of her. She stepped back to her bed to get away from the growing fire that was fed by the new oxygen, and her eyes followed the path of the escaping smoke up to the hole left in the roof. Through the thick black fumes, she could just barely make out a set of white eyes staring through the smoke, almost glowing.

“Help…”

***

Her life for the next few months was dreadful. Though the place she and her new friend had taken their stead was, at first, comfortable enough, it had quickly grown into a claustrophobic, suffocating environment. One that Lita didn't dare to leave. She and her new friend nested in a large air vent, lining the steel with blankets and old clothes to spare themselves the intensity of the temperatures that it often reached. When the air was on, it was easy enough to get warm snuggled up in the blanket, blocking out the worst of the chill by hiding behind a cooler filled with their gathered food and water. When the heat came, it was unbearable, and with no escape. At least, not for Lita. For Mondo Gecko, the one taking care of her, he could leave any time he wanted. And he did so quite often, leaving Lita alone in their nest with nothing to do but read the books he provided to her and sleep.

This endless cycle of reading, sleeping, and playing card games with Mondo whenever he’d return to the nest quickly took its toll on the young girl. Though she grew smarter from the constant flood of knowledge, she also grew despondent and dependent. She had to rely on Mondo for everything, from getting food to getting water to being entertained. Granted, it had been a similar situation when she was with Mama Shen, but at least then she had other kids to play with. Other games to stimulate her. Now, she had none of those things and she felt so truly alone.

She looked up at the loud clamor that told of her friends return and, sure enough, from the top vent fell the scrawny, vibrant creature. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, hardly more than skin and bones with the faintest beginnings of muscles starting to form. His baggy clothes that had once perfectly fit his formally human body now hung loose around his emaciated mutant body, and his four toes on each of his feet jutted out of holes cut in his shoes, as they could no longer fit otherwise. Lime green skin was speckled with red polka dots, and what looked like blue eyeshadow surrounded ruby eyes. His tail was a beautiful fade, going from the dominant lime to a darker green and ending in an ocean blue, though the underside was a light cream that trailed up along the length of his belly and chest, ending only at his chin. His hair, like all human-turned-mutants, remained intact; currently, the dark tangles were pulled back in a sloppy, makeshift bun.

“Heya dudette!” He laughed, tossing his backpack from his back with a solid CLANG. “Miss me?”

“You know I’m desperate when I’m excited to see your face.” She rolled her eyes.

“Haha, funny joke, dudette.” Mondo laughed and cleared his throat, watching as Lita immediately went to look through the night's spoils.

“Get anything good?”

She started to pull out what were mostly half-decent scraps, some with mold and others half eaten and a few things that Lita couldn’t even recognize. She tossed all the finds over her shoulder carelessly, where Mondo gave a yelp and raced to pick up the tossed scraps and bring them into the cooler so they weren’t lost.

“Uh— same old, same old!” Mondo said dismissively, “No biggie! I did find some smooshed banana though, so that’s good! Gotta eat it while it's still not-rotten.”

She growled and dropped the backpack, crossing her arms and sticking her nose stubbornly in the air. “Why don’t you ever bring back something good?”

“Sorry, little lady.” Mondo started to arrange the treats in the safety of the cooler, “There’s so many muties fighting for scraps now that finding anything half decent is like, super not easy.”

“Well, you should look harder.” Lita hmphed.

Mondo Gecko sighed. He closed the cooler and wiped his sore and bloody hands off on his shirt. “Sorry, Lita. I’m gonna catch some Z’s if you’s okay with it.”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Thanks!” Mondo flopped into the nest that was his and curled up among the blankets and clothes, giving a noise that sounded almost like a squeaky toy. “Goodnight, Leets.”

All Lita could think to say was, “It’s morning.”

[cajunquandary]

Whispers of the Desert

Pairing | Reader, Sam, Dean

Summary | When the reader takes time for herself in the mountainous desert of far-west Texas, the last thing she expected was to have to fight for her life.

W/C | 6100

Warnings | Canon-level violence, blood, drowning and nightmares. It’s angsty.

A/N | Several years ago, I took a trip to Big Bend State Park, which is the setting for this tale. While there, my better half shared some folklore from his heritage. This was written in part for @supernatural-jackles​ SPN Bi-Weekly Writing Challenge. Prompt is in bold. Happy spooky-season, y’all.

The can of beans bubbled gently over the open fire. You stirred them carefully, as not to spill the contents or allow them to burn on the bottom. Little else is worse than burned beans. Using a well-worn cotton kerchief, you reach quickly to remove the can from the flames, cussing to yourself as the smoldering metal burns straight through the thin cloth to your fingers. The can lands next to you on the ground in a whap, a few rebellious beans jumping overboard as the can tipped and wiggled to a stop. You place the burned digits in your mouth one at a time in an attempt to suck the zinging pain away quickly then give up, wiping them on your dusty jeans with a sigh of resignation.  

The sleepy spotted hound to the left of you continued to snore, exhausted from the heat of the day and the journey thus far. You’d been hunting for months straight without so much as a full night of rest and decided to take a weekend to yourself, far away from humans and monsters. You smile at the dog, glad to have such a loyal companion. Training him had been surprisingly easy, you reminisced while blowing on a spoonful of dinner-in-a-can to cool it.

You don’t quite remember when you stopped being a “normal” kid, if ever you were, and became a hunter. There was no dramatic intro, no amazing story—only a few ghosts and some salt. You sniggered at the thought, recalling how you’d been hooked on the Supernatural books as a kid, reading well beyond your grade level. So, when the time came that you actually confronted the supernatural in real life, you already had the answers. It was easy. You still weren’t sure about all the larger plots, like apocalypses and the Winchester boys, but the basic lore was solid.

Just a few years ago, you remembered being so lonely that it was throwing you off your game. Even though you craved human contact, you could never give more than a one-night stand on occasion. Loving me is a death sentence, you replayed over and over in your mind.

After a not-so-great hunt, you limped into a shelter, asking for the dog least likely to ever find a home. A puppy was unceremoniously thrown into your arms, the staff begging you to take it and go, as they were already struggling and couldn’t afford to keep a dog like this for long. Walking back to your old blue truck, you looked down at the small, fragile thing. Spotted all over, ears floppy and forlorn eyes that broke your heart. “A mutt,” they’d called it. One that just wouldn’t be wanted in that town. A runt and only surviving pup in a litter from a mix of a large, skinny hound dog and an even bigger, meaner pit bull.

As he’d grown, you trained him to hunt as well, bringing home bits of monster so he could learn the different scents and be able to tell you what may be approaching before you were caught off guard. The mutt grew up strong and confident with a huge loving heart.

On the rare occasion you make a public appearance in a town—any town—young children would come running to him, pulling on his ears and shoving their hands down his throat. He loved the attention. You couldn’t help but to smile, thinking that he would have been the perfect family dog, then sink into heart ache, realizing that the life you led would never allow for such a thing… that the two of you would likely both perish bloody at the hands of beasts.

You were scraping the bottom of the can now, grateful for the nourishment, when a shadow crept closer, curious of this new thing in its home.

Mutt sensed you stiffen and slowly turn your head to the midnight intruder. His hackles raised as he sniffed the air, a low, nearly inaudible rumble beginning deep in his chest as a warning. The waning light of the fire cast short, fleeting glimpses of the visitor. You dropped your shoulders and relaxed. It was only a coyote. Most people would be frightened by the animals if confronted in such a way, but you were familiar with them and with their mannerisms. You gently laid a hand on Mutt to reassure him that all was well. He trusted you fully, hackles lowering slightly, standing down.

The coyote lowered his head, sniffing towards your discarded can. You locked eyes with the scavenger, mirroring its movements. Its jowls drew back slightly, revealing short, sharp teeth in a smiling sneer. You drew back yours as well, baring your teeth and adjusting your features until your brows furrowed and eyes dared it to move closer. After a moment, the wild dog went back to a resting face, blowing from its nose and licking the air in peace. On swift, silent paws, it turned and trotted away in defeat, using the light of the Milky Way to guide it to its next meal.

You smiled and shook your head. Though during the day, the mountainsides and valleys looked barren and empty except for cactus and an occasional pile of wild grasses, the nights were always vibrant and teeming with life. Off in the distance, a chorus of howls echoed off of the cliffs and across the canyon below, rising and falling, sounding off in one direction, then another, then both. Cool winds of night lifted the solemn song through the air, carrying it for miles as if it were a raptor weightlessly gliding over the terrain.

Mutt released a tired huff, a bit of caliche dust stirring in a small curling puff in front of his nose. You killed the now flameless glowing embers with a swift kick of dust and your boot, smooshing it until the ash was cool. You climbed into the front seat of the truck, Mutt right on your heels. He laid next to you on the faded carpet as you sprawled across the bench seat and kicked off your boots. Folding your arm under your head, it was merely seconds before your mind fell to black.

 The largest owl you’ve ever seen haunted your dreams. It was persistent and aggressively following you, swooping and diving towards your head. As if being shrouded in a spell, where you could only move sluggishly as if in water and your mouth could fall open but emit no sound, was terrifying enough, the owls face would morph continuously between that of the animal and of a young woman whose face twisted in unnatural ways. More than anything, you were angry—angry at the being, angry at yourself. Frustration pushed at the seams of your sanity as your mind and body fought each other when they should have been unified and fighting against the feathered behemoth. The shape-shifting head seemed to whisper a steady string of words you couldn’t understand.

The more you labored, the heavier your limbs grew and a thick fog began creeping at the edges of your brain, poisoning every thought and emotion until there was almost nothing left. Nothing but absolute, bone-chilling, illogical fear. Quick, panicked breaths drew fire-hot air into your lungs, but you could not longer even writhe in the pain with your body completely paralyzed—suspended high above the black silhouette of desert. Every cell in your being began to swell and pull, tearing apart. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you felt it being ripped from your body.

Your soul.

With the last bit of strength left within you, you forced your eyes open.

Mutt whined as you came to, suddenly upright and back in the safety of your truck. The first rays of sunrise were creeping up over the horizon. You looked down, feeling coming back to your body in waves of numb tingles. You were soaked in sweat and nausea overcame you. Barely opening the door in time, you leaned out over the step and released your stomach violently, heaving for some time until there was nothing left. Right then and there, you swore off canned beans for the foreseeable future. Mutt laid his head on your shoulder, licking the beads of perspirant off your temple in concern.

When the retching and trembling stopped, the stars had been all but chased away and replaced by the soft, subtle rainbow hues of morning. You groaned and rolled over, staring at the cab roof and planning your recovery quickly. Starting a day out here already dehydrated and weak could be a death sentence.

The wind kicked up, blasting a sweet relief of fresh air into your lungs. Whistles and other unexpected noises on the breeze were fairly normal, especially during daylight exchange, but you could swear you heard the distant hoots of an owl. Mutt didn’t seem to hear anything, so you shrugged the spooky feeling off and put the keys in the ignition, ready to head into the nearest truck stop for a shower and a sports drink.

 About an hour later, you pulled your sputtering, rattling truck into the stop and parked next to a shiny black car. With windows rolled down for Mutt, you stepped out and around to get a better view of the old beauty. It was an Impala, probably a ’67 if you were to guess. You loved old cars, always wanting an El Camino for yourself one day. Even your truck was old—a faded and mildly rusty baby blue Ford. Your eyes traced and admired the curves of the car, the shine of the chrome and the matching leather interior. Everything was in perfect condition, as if it just come off of a show truck. You knelt down until you were on hands and knees, peeking up under the front of the car, taking note of the lack of rust underneath and original suspension. In all, you were impressed.

You straightened back up on your feet, adjusting your wide-brimmed hat back in its place. You went rigid, suddenly feeling a presence too close behind you for comfort. You spun on your heels, feet spaced and ready to defend yourself. It wasn’t often you had to, but once in a while, a particularly ignorant man would try to get a little too fresh with you—the small woman travelling alone.  

You weren’t prepared for this.

Only inches away, a very tall, very handsome man in flannel stood cockily, a bag of donuts in one hand, beer and jerky in the other. You slowly lifted your gaze from his chest up to his face. Shaded green eyes caught yours like a spider would a fly—you were ensnared and unable to focus on anything else around you. The rest of the world fell away bit by bit as you performed in this staring contest. He slowly popped a little donut in his mouth, the pastry filling his cheeks and dusting his lips and collar with white powder. He chewed slowly with a poker face.

“Nice car,” you managed to choke out.

The tension between the two of you was palpable now. The freckle-dusted man continued to chew, responding with a throaty, mumbled “Mhmmph.”

The door to the building opened with a ring-ding, startling you from the awkward competition. You took a step back, breaking the stare and following the alert towards an even larger man walking towards you, face buried deep in a local map. “Hey, Dean, get this—”

His eyes snapped up, assessing the standoff before him, and he shook the hair out of his face. His eyes were nothing like the other man’s—they were softer, drawn together inquisitively, the sun highlighting the different shades of green, blue and brown folded and swirled around black pupils. He stopped next to the passenger door and cocked his head to the side. “Uh, Dean. Everything alright?”

Without so much as wavering his intense regard, Dean answered the taller man. “Yeah, Sammy. She’s just admiring the car.”

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed. “Dean, we don’t have time for this. Let’s go.” He waved amicably in your direction and settled into the Impala. You crossed your arms and turned back towards Dean after shooting a smile at Sam.

A little more confident now, you returned back to your game of glares. “Can’t take a compliment, Dean?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Yeah, it’s my baby. I put a lot of work into her. Thanks.”

The man continued to stand there, looking you up and down and eyeing you warily as if you were about to explode. You shrugged off the strange encounter and turned away, throwing a “have a good day” his way before you entered the welcome air conditioning of the store.

As you pre-paid for your shower and sports drink with the clerk, you could still see the man standing there out of the corner of your eye, watching you cautiously through the window.

You took the key and headed off towards the back of the building, ready to wash away the night terrors and bizarre encounter.

When you reached your private bathroom suite, you closed and locked the door then set down your backpack and turned on the hot water in the clean, sand-colored tiled shower. Steam started to fog the mirror, but you glimpsed yourself before it went completely white. Horrified, you wiped at the mirror. Your eyes were bloodshot and there was dried blood, almost black, that had trickled down your nose. Your veins were prominent and unnaturally blue, spiderwebbing across the thinner areas of skin. Your pupils were blown wide. You reached up to touch your face, confused, but your hand wandered to an itch under your ear. You leaned in closer and angled your head to see that blood had seeped from your ears as well.

You hastily stepped into the drumming water and tried to scrub away the knowledge that the nightmare may have been more than just that.

 Back at the Impala, Dean watched you through the window, unmoved from the spot he’d caught you sneaking around the Impala. When you were out of sight, he slipped into the driver’s seat, hinges protesting with a squeak.

“You okay, dude?” Sam asked.

Dean set his snacks down between them. “No, Sam. Did you see her face? I found her creeping around the car. I didn’t see any hex-bags, but I think she’s a witch.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Dean, she just looked like she had a few too many last night and maybe got in a fight.”

Dean shrugged, not willing to argue with his brother. One of his favorite things about Sam was also the worst—he always saw the good in people and, all too often, was blinded by it.

He turned up the music and peeled away from the truck stop, ready to put some distance between them and you.

 You walked back to your truck, fully refreshed and looking much more like your normal self. Mutt stood up in the front seat, tail wagging and you couldn’t help but grin back at him. As you popped up next to him, you pulled out your phone to search for the nearest library. It was time to figure out what the hell happened last night.

 The library wasn’t too far—another town over about a half hour away. It was a relatively small place, with only two computers and a few rooms. What it lacked for in size, it certainly made up for in quality and quantity for the research you required. Mutt walked silently by your side through the long, narrow passages between bookcases. Just before you reached the end, one book caught your eye.

Folklore of West Texas

You pulled it from the shelf, a familiar green eye arresting yours once more where there should have been another book on the opposite shelf. Startled, you took a stumbling step back, spine crashing into the full bookshelves behind you and digging in uncomfortably. Mutt stood at attention then, low growl emanating from bared teeth towards the stranger on the other side. You dropped your free hand to him, knowing that if he made a ruckus, you’d both be kicked out. He quieted, but still leaned into you, rigid and on high alert.

Dean rounded the corner quickly, looking down at the hackled dog and drawing his hands up quickly, as if mildly scared. “Mind calling off the attack dog?”

“Only if you tell me why you’re following me.”

“Following you—what? You’re following us!” He hissed, barely above a whisper.

Sam trotted up behind you, footfalls heavy on the old hardwood floor.

He looked from you to Dean to Mutt then to the book you were holding. Ignoring his brother’s strange demeanor, Sam asked kindly, “Hey, uh, mind if we borrow that book from you? The librarian pointed us towards it. It for research—important research.”

You gripped it tighter, suddenly feeling quite cramped in the small space and wanting to run the other direction, away from these crazy people. “Sorry, uh… Sam, is it?”

He nodded, small, thin, friendly smile coasting his lips.

“Sorry, Sam, I need it urgently. I uh… I have a paper for my college class due in like four hours and I haven’t even started. Maybe come get it tomorrow?” You hoped they would accept your lie and let you be.

Sam sighed. “Maybe we can share? There’s seating over by the computers. You can write and when you’re not using the book, maybe we can?”

You had to hand it to him, he was thoughtful and it would have been a good compromise. Unable to think of another excuse, you nodded in agreement.

 After a few hours of searching through the book and the internet, through the library computer, you found a promising lead. Something called a Lechuza bruja, a type of witch or spirit well-known around the Texas-Mexico border.

The whole time, you could feel the eyes of the men as they bore into you, watching your every move.

You stood quickly, numb legs stretching and ready to carry you away from the situation. You smiled and tipped your brim at the men and quickly walked back through the maze of shelves and to your truck. The afternoon heat hit the parts of your face not shadowed by the black hat. Once in the vehicle, you opened the cooler to check your provisions. Hmm, running low. Next stop—the market.

 Sam and Dean whispered with each other, huddled so close that their heads were nearly touching.

“A lechuga?”

Sam huffed. “No Dean, a Lechu-ZA. We aren’t fighting lettuce.”

Dean hung his head in his hands, dragging them across his hair and back down, rubbing his temples. “Frickin’ witches man,” he mumbled. At least for Dean, lettuce and witches were held in the same regard—both revolting.

 You were glad to be back out in the wide-open human-less landscape. You cracked open a cold beer from the cooler and let the fizz glide down your throat, both cooling and warming you in delightful ways. Sunset was fast approaching and painting wildfires through the sky. Atop your plateau, you could look down and see Texas to the North and East, Mexico to the South and West, and the Rio Grande snaking between them, forming an oasis along its banks. You were close enough to hear the constant, deep rumble of water. You closed your eyes, imagining people from a thousand years ago listening to the same sound.

Letting the peaceful daydream fade away, you set the beer on the hood and went to rifle through the tool box in the bed of the truck. You pushed aside the smaller items of necessity and heaved a large bag of salt over your shoulder with a grunt. You painstakingly dug a shallow trench with your heel all the way around the vehicle, filling it with an unbroken line of salt along the way.

After you prepped the truck for a sleepless night potentially fighting away ghosts and witches, you climbed into the bed of the truck with the cooler and opened a bag of jerky. Mutt enjoyed his kibble and curled up next to you, happy and relaxed, innocent of the danger that would likely find you tonight.

As the temperature dropped and the familiar refrains of coyotes filled the air with music, your eyes grew heavy. You curled into yourself, pulling the rough blanket over your shoulders. You looked up at the stars, trying to tally the larger ones to keep yourself awake. There were so many that the dark sky was not truly black anywhere—everywhere you looked there were more. Every time your eyes adjusted and focused on a dark spot, you could count even more of them as they appeared.

 Everything was true black and silent, as if you’d gone blind and deaf. This was not the desert you knew. You turned and felt the ground with your feet, trusting that your tall boots would block any cactus or unfriendly critters. You shuffled forward and tried to call out to Mutt, but the words caught in your throat. It began to constrict, as if something had you in a vice grip, crushing your windpipe from the inside out. You reflexively tried to breathe deeply, but fell to your knees, scratching at your throat, panic rising. Your eyes bugged and strained, desperate for any miniscule bit of light. You blinked hard, just to verify that your eyes were indeed open. Gasping for breath, your lungs burned and you fell onto your side, convulsing as if drowning. As numbness creeped its dark tendrils through your body, and you began to sense gravity fall away.

You continued to struggle, allowing fear to set in. Off in the distance, a light appeared. Like a shooting star destined to destroy worlds, it hurtled towards you. In mere seconds, the bright, glowing owl was there, once again sporting the glitching face of a woman contorted in sickening ways.  The owl dwarfed you, calmly flapping its wings and whispering those strange incantations that drew such agony from your breaking body.

It floated closer to you, and in the light, you could see your hair suspended as if you were fully submerged under water. When the monstrosity got within arms reach with open beak, you reeled back and punched it right in the eye.

 You woke with a start, Mutt pawing at you and barking violently. Urgently.

Shaking off the nightmare, you could taste blood in your mouth. Tears had run down your face at some point, and you hurriedly wiped them away.

The blinding light of the full moon revealed otherwise—blood. You were bleeding tears?

You withdrew a kerchief from your flannel pocket and wiped your face as you scanned the salt line. The wind had blown away several areas. You looked up at the sky and tried to calm Mutt, who was trembling for the first time since he was a small pup. The full moon snatched the breath from you, and your chest heaved. It looked exactly like the eye you’d just punched in your dream.

The night was far colder than you’d expected, the chill reaching down to your bones. That was it.

It was time to leave. This was not something you could fight on your own. You jumped from the bed of the truck and Mutt joined you in the cab. You tried to start the truck, but the engine just sputtered. You tried a few more times, then nothing—as if the battery had died.

“No no no no no,” you cursed, hitting the steering wheel with both fists.

Time seemed to slow to a stop, Mutt frozen mid-bark and facing the windshield.

A large gray owl landed on the hood and its striking yellow eyes sent shockwaves through you—overwhelming pulses of anguish. You screamed, mouth falling open and eyes shutting against the spell, trying to break its hold. A vision of a small child drowning in the river filled your mind. It was screaming, choking, begging for help.

When your eyes opened, the screams of the child urged your feet forward faster, now running full speed through the desert.

You were not in control of your body anymore, but merely a hapless passenger. Your feet betrayed you and you went tumbling down the side of the cliff, catching every sharp rock and thorn on the way down. If you had your wits, you wouldn’t have been able to move, too broken to continue. The rush of the water nearby caused your veins and arteries to constrict and pulse at a dangerously high rate. Adrenaline coursed along with your blood and you rolled and stumbled towards the river once more. In a kicking leap, you crashed into the frigid waters searching for the screaming child. The shrieks were so loud that they rattled your brain and hurt your ears, threatening to consume you. You thrashed against the strong current.

The owl screeched and swooped down, tearing at your drenched hair. The freezing black water helped ground you enough to realize that there was no child—only the horrid cries of the bird.

The Lechuza, you reminded yourself. Just as you reached for the vial of salt in your pocket, the witch-owl dove into the water, catching the back of your collar in its sharp beak, dragging you to the depths with it. Its eyes glowed, the only visible thing in the dark waters.

 Dean pulled the Impala slowly up to your truck, eyes locked on the salt circle. “Shit!” He shouted as he threw Baby into park. He bounded from the car towards the abandoned vehicle. He whipped back around towards Sam.

Sam picked up the blood-soaked kerchief in the bed of the truck and gave it to Dean. “I think we’re too late,” Sam noted, his voice faltering with the worry rising in his throat.

“I didn’t know she was a hunter! How did we not know?! The signs were all there!” Dean cursed and kicked the tire violently, throwing firsts in the air as he gripped the soiled kerchief. Of course, he blamed himself. In fact, the only reason they were out there was to gank you. Until this moment, they’d had no idea that you were another victim and not the bruja herself.

Mutt whined and cried a high pitched imperative. Dean ran back to the Impala with a long string of creative curses, retrieving two shotguns and extra witch-killing bullets. Sam opened the truck door and Mutt spilled out.

“Here boy, here,” Sam called to the frantic dog. “Take her to us. Go get her!”

Mutt seemed to understand and took off towards the southwest, nose close to the ground and paws practically levitating across the rough earth. Dean tossed the extra gun to Sam and they raced off, following the dog’s brays. They carefully descended the cliffside, sliding partway down and narrowly missing a large crevasse. The men watched in horror just as the large owl drug you beneath the waves.

 You thrashed violently against the authority of the currents and the essence of pure evil leeching into you through osmosis. Once you were fully saturated in the foul concentrate, the Lechuza Bruja reared its ugly head back, screeching at a decibel that whales would envy, resounding through your entire being and threatening to shred you to pieces. Whether it was the spell or hypothermia kicking in, your limbs grew stiff and immovable. Your lungs screamed for air until you couldn’t fight it anymore.

In that moment, you felt your very soul being stripped away, and in the void, water filled your lungs. The pain only lasted a moment more before you started to sink towards the rocky bottom, bits of freshwater weeds outstretching soft, welcoming arms. You blinked slowly one last time, looking up at the disappearing monster above you as it emerged forcefully from the opaque waters. With the fading light, you closed your eyes, ready to greet your reaper. Your limp body fell to rest with a soft thud into the bed of river grass.

 Sam dove into the water immediately, shoes and shirt flying off in a frenzy along the way. Just as he submerged, Dean angled the shotgun full of salt pellets and hit the fleeing bruja like a game of skeet. The nasty beast crumpled at his feet but did not stay still long. Dean dropped the shotgun and withdrew his pearl-handled pistol. The man-sized owl stood and flared its wings, beak agape in a blood curdling scream. Without hesitation, Dean aimed carefully and shot it center mass twice then between the eyes once in rapid succession.

The creature exploded in a ferocious affair, leaving only dust and feathers behind. Dean held his arm up, coughing into the crook of his sleeve. When the particles settled, he rushed towards where Mutt dug at the bank, barking and whining, careful not to touch the water.

“C’mon Sam,” he prayed, pacing impatiently. Just as he thrust off his own shirt and shoes to rescue both of you, Sam broke the shallow waves with a loud gasp. He held you in one arm, treading towards shore with the other. With a waterlogged body, you were more than a typical deadweight. Dean grabbed onto you when he was close enough, about waist deep in the river, feet sliding on the slippery stones. He traded a glance with Sam to make sure he was okay. Sam nodded between coughing fits.

He would be alright, but he couldn’t say the same for you. Your eyes were half open and far away, likely lost on this plane. Dean set you down on a sandy patch devoid of sharp protrusions and slammed fists on your chest. You were cold and blue.

“No no no, shit! Come on!” He yawped into the waning night. He started CPR. In desperation, he rolled you on your side and slapped your upper back hard. Your lungs rejected the water, projecting it up to a few feet away. Shallow, agonal breaths shook you furiously, your limbs going into straight, fixed positions. He sighed a minor breath of relief then picked you up and slung you over his shoulder, hoping more water would drain that way. The boys scrambled back up to the plateau where they reached the Impala in record time. Your body still racked and spasmed, trying hard to intake oxygen but still unable to expel all the water on its own. Dean handed you to Sam and jumped in the driver’s seat, breaking his “no dogs in the car EVER” rule as Mutt joined him in the front. Sam slid into the back, still pumping your chest when needed.

Dean grimaced as he flew as fast as he could down the winding, bumpy excuse for a road through Big Bend. He checked his phone, waiting anxiously for a bar of service since the nearest hospital was almost three hours away by car. “Sam, is she—?”

“Drive faster, Dean.”

The car gained air a few times, until at last Dean slammed the breaks to a sliding halt, atop a peak near the park exit. He dialed 911, pleading with the operator to send a helicopter to them like yesterday.

Minutes passed.

Dean paced outside the car, searching the sky and spinning in circles, the first rays of morning shining in his eyes. Sam pulled you from the car to the ground when you stopped breathing again. This time, he started CPR and you didn’t react.

Ten minutes.

Sam sang the Bee Gees under his breath, struggling to hold tempo and arms shaking in exhaustion. Mutt lay by your side, eyes closed and whining softly.

Dean kicked and punched at the world around him, screaming curses into the sky and towards himself, tears coming freely now as he felt the full weight of his guilt. He’d allowed another hunter to die because he couldn’t see past his own pig-headedness.

Fifteen.

Sam collapsed, arms shaking with exhaustion. Dean picked up where his brother left off with torturous thoughts raging rampant through his mind.

The long-awaited sounds of a helicopter in the distance graced their hungry ears. Sam jumped to his feet, waving wildly. He helped guide the crew to a clearing just a few yards away. Dean shielded you from the flying debris.

Two medics quickly wrapped you and continued CPR. In seconds, the helicopter was pulling away towards the rising sun.

Dean’s hands were clasped together atop his head, but internally, he was imploding.

 Your eyes opened slowly, blurred vision confusing your already muddled mind with distorted images. You winced against the cool, damp cloth brushing against your temple. You groaned as your body woke in stages, each one more painful than the last.

A solid, warm hand wrapped around your forearm. You clenched your fist in response, a sharp sting in the top of your hand. “Shhh, shh shh. You’re okay. You’re at the hospital,” the soft yet gravelly voice whispered reassuringly.

Bringing your other hand to your eyes, you roughly wiped and rubbed until you could see more clearly. You started to gag and heave at the tubes connecting your lungs to a breathing machine. You pulled and flailed, panic striking fight or flight into you once again. Nurses rushed in and your eyes followed them wide open and wild. They carefully withdrew the apparatus and strapped your limbs down, replacing it with a much gentler nasal cannula, and lastly lifting the bed so that you were sitting up slightly.

You tried to choke out questions, but the more you tried, the more it hurt. You gave in to frustrated silence and took in your surroundings. Dean was there, hovering closely, tears at the corners of his red-rimmed eyes and an apology already spilling from his mouth.

You shook your head, confused, and motioned for something to write with. He handed you a small whiteboard and expo marker.

Who are you?

“Dean Winchester.”

You looked at him, unbelieving that it could be that Winchester—the one from the Supernatural books. It was only a story, right? Yet it was all right there—the character description, the car, and even Sam. Erasing your last question, you sloppily wrote a new one.

‘The’ Dean W.? SPN Legend?

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah, that one.”

You took in the view of your body—wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages, some of them still bloody.

What happened?

“You don’t remember?”

You shook your head no.

He recounted his version of the night, looking over his shoulder to make sure there were no prying ears.

You could tell it aggrieved him—the whole thing. You didn’t blame him of course; you’d almost wondered the same about him and Sam, suspecting that they may have been the evil bewitched spirit.

Sometimes, hunters die.

He placed his palm over the scribbled words, eyes cast down. “No. Not like that, not when we can stop it.” You squeezed his hand then shoved it away lightly.

I forgive you.

The words brought the large hunter to his knees. When he found the strength to lock eyes with you once more, you gave him a thin, strained smile. Looking at the band on your wrist, it was obvious he’d guessed your name and age. You jotted the correct information down and showed it to him. He smiled back.

“Nice to formally meet you, Y/N.”

You, too. What now?

Making sure the room was still clear, he leaned in. “Now, we get you out of here. Sam has your dog back at the motel. You owe me a deep clean for my car, by the way,” he quipped.

Teaming up with the Winchesters wouldn’t be the worst thing, you considered. It sure as hell beat living this empty, lonely life.

Mutt could finally have a family.

As Dean expertly snuck you out of the hospital, you weighed the pros and cons of associating with the two most wanted men on the planet. Your decision came when the Impala pulled up to the door of the first-floor room where Sam stood out front, Mutt by his feet looking happy and well fed.

Through everything, we found each other. That’s all that matters.

Come Heaven, Hell, or Beyond. You owed them your life.

FOREVERS:

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ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

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[barrysjumpsuit]

blindsided - oc x rafe cameron (ch. 1)

requested? nope!

word count: 1.9k, others will be longer

warnings: cannabis use, underage drinking, mention of hard drugs, mention of sex, typos probably

synopsis: christy is a lifelong resident of the outer banks. after a series of hookups with rafe cameron, kook royalty, she’s smitten. what she doesn’t know is about what her boyfriend and brother are involved in behind her back

a/n: not much happening here - mostly introducing the oc and the backstory! italics represents flashbacks

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

Christy leaned against the railing, the wind whipping her hair around her face while the sun was warming her skin. She stood on the top deck of the Druthers, holding onto the railing loosely with her fingers while the boat trudged through the choppy surf.

It almost felt like she was flying.

Behind her, Rafe sat in the captain’s seat, one hand resting on the throttle while the other worked the steering wheel of the boat. Christy could feel his eyes on her, devouring her, wanting her. She smiled softly to herself.

“Hey babe,” he said from behind her. Christy turned to face him; a backwards cap tamed his hair, and he wore only his shorts. His skin was tanned, glowing from long days outside in the sun. Rafe was smiling at her, and Christy took a few steps towards him before throwing her arms around him from behind.

“Yes, cap’n?” she said, her chin resting on Rafe’s bare shoulder. She kissed his cheek and he chuckled before replying.

“I just wanted to say I think you’re hot as hell,” he said back, leaning into her hold.

“You’re too sweet,” Christy said, stepping around him to sit on his lap. Rafe let go of the wheel and held her waist instead. She looped one arm over his shoulders.

Ahead of them, the various docks and marinas of the Cut came into view. They were still in disarray due to Agatha. Christy could see people working, scrubbing decks and rebuilding docks and piers. She knew what it was like, living in the Cut over summer with no electricity. Even as the sun set, the air remained warm and uncomfortably humid and sticky.

They followed the coast north, as the houses grew larger and the boats became nicer. Christy stood and stepped back as Rafe brought the boat to dock, and it shuddered as he eased off on the throttle and Rafe was silent as he watched his father’s employees tie the Druthers to the dock.

Once the boat was tied, Rafe grabbed Christy’s hand and tugged her towards the ladder that led down from the top dock. Rafe climbed down first and as she followed, his hands gently brushed her waist as he helped her from the ladder. Once they were on the deck of the boat, they stepped onto the dock, her boyfriend once again holding out his hands to her.

“Babe, I’ve been on boats my whole life, I can get off of one,” Christy said, smiling.

Rafe threw his hands up in a surrender. “Okay then,” he said, laughing.

Christy followed Rafe down the dock and up through the lawn. There were still some branches in the yard, but most of the mess and rubble had already been cleaned up. She felt slightly guilty seeing the lush green turf and perfectly trimmed shrubs, and how the hum of the generator reminded her that so many people in the Cut still lived with leaky roofs, destroyed yards, and no power.

Her guilt was made worse seeing the breathtaking interior of the Cameron house. Rafe had made his way to the fridge, pulling out a six pack of beer before scanning the food packing the shelves. Christy had pushed herself onto a stool, watching him.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Rafe asked, his head still in the refrigerator. 

“I should probably make an appearance at home. Just so that my brother doesn’t think I died or something since I’ve been staying here for almost a week now.”

He stood, sighing and crossing the tile floor to lean against the counter Christy sat at. He shook his head, and Christy opened her mouth to say something, but Rafe spoke before her. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Rafe, I know you hate the Cut and everything that comes with it, and I know you and my brother have a history, but I promise you, I’ll be fine. He’s an ass, but he’s the only family I have left.” 

“Well why would you want to go there and not stay here? We have power. Air conditioning. The Cut doesn’t have any of that!”

Rafe was starting to get angry, and Christy sat up straighter to look him in the eye. “Rafe,” she said sternly. It was how she had to talk to her brother. “Seriously. I just need to go home for a night and get more of my shit to bring over here. Make sure my brother hasn’t OD’d somewhere or gotten himself shot. Alright?”

She hadn’t realized it, but she had raised her voice at him. Rafe set his jaw before sighing, visibly forcing himself to relax. “Okay. Well, I’m going to go to a party at Kelce’s, if you want to come.”

“I’ll pass for tonight. I really should go home.”

Rafe hung his head, disappointed, so Christy got up from the stool and went around the counter to where he stood. She pulled him to her in a hug, and he wrapped his arms around her. He was still shirtless, and Christy laid her cheek on his bare chest.

“Is something bugging you, baby?” she asked quietly.

“Nah. Nah, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Bull fucking shit,” Christy said, looking up at him. “We may have only been together officially for a week but you forget I know you, Rafe. Tell me. Your words are safe with me.” 

“I know they are,” Rafe said, and Christy could feel him take a breath under her grasp. “Which is why I want you to stay.”

“Rafe… you can always call me, okay? I need to go. Please, for my own peace of mind.” Christy reached up, took off Rafe’s hat, and ran her fingers through his hair before pushing his head down to meet her lips.

“I am in love with you,” he murmured, his lips bumping her.

“I love you too,” Christy responded back. Her words were barely audible and she felt Rafe smile.

They kissed, one of Rafe’s hands grabbing Christy’s ass, making her open her mouth in surprise. His lips parted hers and then held on to hers, as if he never wanted her to leave.

Ward Cameron’s voice broke them apart, and they instantly moved so that they were standing side by side. Rafe pushed his cap back onto his head to hide his tousled hair, and Christy averted her gaze to pretend to read a fishing catalogue that was conveniently in front of her. Rafe’s father walked into the kitchen, largely ignoring the two of them.

“Good evening Mr. Cameron,” Christy said. She felt obligated to greet Ward, but he barely acknowledged her.

“Hey Rafe, how are those generators looking?” he asked, pulling a beer out of the six pack Rafe had removed from the fridge minutes earlier. He popped off the cap and took a sip, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“There’s a high demand, I managed to find some. They should be here in a day or two,” Rafe said. Christy could hear the tightness in his voice, but Ward seemed to accept his answer and left without any more words. The two looked at each other, and Christy leaned into Rafe. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“You bet, baby,” Rafe answered, kissing her once more before Christy stepped outside into the muggy evening heat and began the walk home.

--

Rafe stood between Topper and Kelce. In his right hand, he held a plastic cup full of a cheap, somewhat flat beer. He had barely touched it. Tonight, Rafe wasn’t looking for comfort in the form of alcohol; his mind was preoccupied on something else.

He knew she would be here. From where he stood, he had a good view of the pool in Topper’s yard. People crowded into the water, some in the pool while others sat on the ledge, dipping their feet in. More people stood in the yard, many clutching drinks and some smoking cigarettes. 

Rafe found his eyes drawn to a small group of people – just three of them. They were in the periphery of the yard, standing close together in a dimly lit area, but he knew she was there.

He kept an eye on her all night.

At one point, Topper left to find Sarah and Kelce went to chat with a girl in the basement. “Hey Rafe, her friend is pretty cute too, come talk to her!” he had said, but Rafe just shook his head. 

“Go have fun, Kelce,” Rafe insisted, nodding in the general direction of the blonde and her friend he had been eyeing all night. As soon as Kelce was turned away from Rafe, he started weaving his way through the people filling the lawn, running a hand through his hair before he crossed the turf to the group. 

His nostrils confirmed his suspicions before his eyes could. Her back was turned to him, but the scent of the weed wafted over and Rafe could see a joint pinched gently between her two fingers. It looked like a cigarette, he noticed. A very pogue thing to do, emptying out cigarettes and packing the weed back inside them. 

The two people she was speaking with were standing close to each other, their arms bumping. One guy and one girl. Her friend and her boyfriend. 

“Hey, Christy,” Rafe forced himself to say. She turned to look at him, her lips parted in slight surprise. Her thick dark hair was frizzy from the humid air. 

“Rafe, hey,” she said. “It’s been a while.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “It has.” There was an awkward silence and he continued before she could walk away. “I, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink?” 

Christy peered at him through squinty eyelids before the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. “Sure. I was just about to head home, but I could go for a drink.” She brought the joint back up to her lips. It was almost gone, burnt down to the filter. After she exhaled the last of the smoke, she dropped the butt to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of her sandal before turning back to her friends and saying a few words. 

Rafe almost didn’t realize he stuck out his hand for her to take until she gently took it in hers. 

Christy was by his side the whole night, and Kooks kept giving them looks. “Rafe Cameron with her?” they said. Rafe purposefully avoided Topper and Kelce. He didn’t want to have to explain why he was holding the hand of his old pogue fuckbuddy, or why he was taking her home with him. 

That night, before he went to sleep, Rafe stared at the ceiling. Christy was nestled beside him, asleep, the blanket covering her bare chest. Her head was nestled on his bicep, Rafe’s hand gently cupping her bare shoulder. His thoughts were constant, screaming almost. Half of them insisted that this was a bad idea. The other half were more reassuring; that he had missed what the two of them had, and something more should come out of it. It was more than just sex they shared.

Was he going to use her? Probably. But he did have feelings for her. He did feel what he thought was love, once. It had scared him away from her.

Getting with her - for real this time - may have been a bad taste of morals, even by Rafe’s standards. He tried to push the thoughts aside, but they kept assaulting him and reminding him.

Rafe was sleeping with his drug dealer’s sister.

---

taglist @stargazingstarkey @letsgofullkook @macchiatohno @ampanonyg @hoeforpankow @jjsmentalpolaroids 

[pagankingfinn]

Izuku Midoriya was in a bitter mood. Not only had Katsuki destroyed his personal effects, the nasty angry pomeranian had to throw them out the window into the polluted and neglected koi pond below their classroom window. The burning words he added on still stuck with the broccoli haired boy, haunting him as they endlessly echoed through his skull.

“If you want to be a hero so badly there might be a faster way to do it, take a swan dive off the roof of the building and pray for a quirk in your next life,” Katsuki had spat at him, laughing with his cronies about how they bullied him. Izuku had glared at him, but any courage he had was gone with an explosion from the school’s king bee.

By the time Izuku had gotten his book from the koi pond, it was burned, tinged an ugly color from the water, chewed on by the fish, and utterly destroyed. He couldn’t even read his notes, having bled into the paper and through the pages. With a tears in his eyes he clutched the ruined journal to his chest and began his trek home.

“You can’t just go around telling people to kill themselves. What if I really jumped, what would he do then?” Izuku bitterly mumbled to himself as he walked. He wasn’t paying attention as he did so, getting jumped by a slime like being as he walked through an underpass. The book fell to the ground as he struggled to remove the vile substance penetrating his nose and mouth, not only did it smell awful, it tasted even worse.

It was saying something to him, but he couldn’t process what it was. His brain too focused on survival to even bother listening to whatever the invasive criminal had to say. Suddenly there was a flash of light as he and the sludge went flying, he hit a concrete wall in his flight. His head banging against it as he lost consciousness.

He woke up an uncertain amount of time later when someone was desperately patting his face. Slowly he looked up, only to jump back in surprise when he saw who it was. It was his idol, All Might, standing over him in a tee-shirt and olive green cargo pants. Quickly he scrambled for his notebook, only to see it was already signed by the hero.

“Wait, Mr. All Might, I have a question to ask you. Can I still be a hero, even without a quirk?” He blurted out when he turned to see the hero about to jump away. What he said next utterly crushed Izuku.

“Some villains just can’t be beat without powers, so no, I honestly don’t think you can become a hero.” And with that the blonde man jumped away, only for the bottles in his cargo pants to fall out and burst open. Izuku let out a screech of alarm as the sludge started forming together and woke up.

Izuku turned tail and ran as fast as he could. He could hear his attacker behind him, jeering as he chased Izuku, telling him to stop running and that he just wanted to talk. Izuku didn’t listen, holding his hands over his nose and mouth as he ran. His lungs began wheezing and his legs screamed at him, but he couldn’t allow himself to stop running for even a moment.

The hot breath of the person behind him was ever present. Izuku wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, desperately weaving through streets and alleys. Nobody even stopped to help him, just watching in silence as they moved out of the way. He had no idea why this guy was so fixated on him, perhaps because he was an easy target. Quirkless, unathletic, and small.

He didn’t notice when he sprinted past his classmates, barely acknowledging when he heard explosions. It was only when he tossed a look over his shoulder that he saw what was going on. Katsuki and his cronies were now following Izuku when they discovered that their quirks had no impact on the perpetrator.

They got to the end of an alley near the main street, when Izuku heard his tormentor trip. He turned around to help him back up, only to stumble back when the sludge enveloped his friend. Explosions from Katsuki’s palms sent flaming bits of sludge everywhere, fires starting wherever they landed.

Only now did people actually stop, yelling for someone to call the pros as Izuku sat there frozen on the ground, his brain struggling to process what was going on. Why couldn’t he move? Why wasn’t anyone helping?

Then Izuku noticed the only solid part of the villain, his eyeball. Grabbing his backpack he stood up and ran at the person. Only to flinch back before throwing his backpack directly at the villain. It struck him in the eyeball, causing him to momentarily lose his form as Izuku grabbed Katsuki by the arm and pushed him to the end of the alley.

He followed, only to be tripped and land face first on the concrete. He saw the shadow above him and could only scream before he was being dragged away. His throat and nose were filled once again, the being holding him up in the air as he struggled. Tears began to stream down his face as he got weaker. The pros had arrived but weren’t doing anything, only watching while the bystanders congratulated Katsuki for his bravery.

This was it, Izuku was going to die here. He had already been light headed from running, and now his brain only screamed even more for oxygen. It was getting harder to move, he was only distantly aware of the cameras filming this for the news. He knew that his mother would probably see this, he became more desperate when he realized that. Flailing in the air as he kicked wildly once again, thrashing until he felt his foot connect with something solid and he was suddenly dropped.

He scrambled to safety without thinking before coughing up what was left of the sewage in his throat. His sinuses burned as he shuddered in disgust. He didn’t seem to notice when the very same person who had saved him came flying in and made it rain the disgusting green goop with a punch.

Afterwards Izuku grabbed his stuff, and sat there bitterly while he was laughed at. The pros were lecturing him, while his bully was praised for his bravery in sacrificing a quirkless boy to ensure his flashy quirk would still be around. Eventually Izuku stood up while being lectured, he was so tired of everything, so sick of being thought of as anything but human because he didn’t have a quirk.

He walked away silently, not listening as the pro hero called after him. Not that they would chase him anyways, that would just be a waste of their precious time. And yet they had the time to stand around as a kid was nearly murdered in front of them. He was almost home when he was stopped by Katsuki, who grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him to the ground.

“Who do you think you are? A weakling like you, saving me! Get back in your place Deku, you’re nothing but a waste of air anyways! You’re lucky my home is in the other direction, or I’d kill you right here and now,” Katsuki growled out as he stepped on Izuku’s wrist until it snapped, he stormed off afterwards and left him there with a broken wrist.

Despite being in agony, he could only think about how he should get back to giving up on his dreams. He stumbled home, holding his wrist the entire way. It was dark out by the time he finally got home, slipping through the front door. His mother was upon him immediately, sobbing as she pulled him into a tight embrace.

Izuku felt tears spilling out of his eyes as he hugged her back. He was sobbing, snot running down his face while his eyes became red and puffy. He barely managed to say that his wrist was broken before his mother was grabbing her things and rushing him off to the hospital. They had an older car, but it still ran. Inko, Izuku’s mother, didn’t use it all too often.

Despite the horrendous condition of traffic, they made it to the hospital fairly quickly. Izuku was signed in to the E.R., where he was finally able to explain what happened when the doctor asked how he broke his wrist.

“A classmate of mine and I got caught up in the sludge incident today, and he was angry that a quirkless kid managed to get him out while the pro heroes just stood and watched. He approached me later on my way home, and threw me to the ground before stepping on my wrist until he heard it snap,” Izuku explained quietly. He didn’t include the part where he had threatened to kill him tomorrow. His mother sat in silence, clutching her skirt in her fists. He was only able to speak because he had been given some painkillers.

“I see, we’ll have to do an x-ray to determine the damage,” The doctor explained. Izuku nodded before he was led out of the room. The rest of the hospital visit was as to be expected. He was given a cast for his hand, and after they left his mother called him out of school for the rest of the week.

The car ride home was in silence, finally Izuku spoke only after they had gotten to their apartment.

“Mom, I need to talk to you,” he spoke once the door behind them was closed. His mother gave him a worried look as she responded.

“Sure, why don’t we go sit down?” She suggested, getting a nod in response from her son. The two of them sat down on the light blue living room couch, Izuku took a moment to gather his thoughts. His adams apple bulging when he swallowed.

“Today… There’s more to it than Katsuki breaking my wrist. Today he… He told me to take a swan dive off the roof, and hope I get a quirk… in my next life. He utterly destroyed my Hero Analysis journal, and even though he says he stopped bullying me whenever you talk to Mitsuki, he doesn’t stop,” he spoke as he fidgeted with his pant leg. He could practically hear his mother’s look of horror, pausing for a second before he continued.

“And… The sludge “villain”, he didn’t attack me just once. I was walking through an underpass when he attacked me. All Might saved me, but I’m lucky I didn’t get a concussion when he blasted me into the wall with his punch. He went through my things… he signed my notebook… and I asked him if I could become a hero,” Izuku explained, swallowing once again so that he wouldn’t choke on his own spit. He spoke in a dismal tone the entire time, voice cracking as he forced back tears.

“He told me that I couldn’t become a hero because I didn’t have any power… He jumped away, the same guy who attacked me both times was stored in a pair of soda bottles, and the bottles fell out of his pocket. They… they burst open when they hit the ground, so I ran. He chased me the entire time, not a single person bothered to stop and help me. It wasn’t until Katsuki got involved that they stopped to get help, but the pros didn’t do anything after he was safe,” he spoke, sobbing at this point as his voice trembled. His mother hugged him tightly as he trembled, the fear he felt finally hitting him full force.

He pulled away a couple moments later, determined to keep going even if he could barely think about the entire event without freezing up.

“And… you saw the news, how Katsuki was congratulated for… for sacrificing... me to save his own quirk,” he whispered in distress. Inko quietly hushed him as she pulled him closer, crying as well. Neither of them knew how much time had passed before Izuku spoke up again.

“Would you be upset if I got a second chance at life?” He asked, moving away to pick at his cast. His mother looked mortified at the suggestion that she’d even blame him for wanting to start over. She knew about what her son went through, even if he didn’t tell her, because a mother always knows.

“Izuku, why would I be upset? You’ve struggled all your life, and if starting over means that you’re happy then I won’t stop you. Just tell me if you want to start over and I’ll see what I can do,” Inko responded, Izuku gave her a crooked smile before hugging her once again and thanking her profusely.

That night after they ate, Izuku hopped into his computer and began scouring the internet for a way to entirely forget his past. It wasn't until the early hours of the next day when the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon that he found what he was looking for.

Hastily he scribbled down the address before he finally let exhaustion take over and he crawled into bed. He slept well past noon, waking up around the time he would be leaving school.

[kissthegogo-goat-witch]

Misery of the Vampire: Chapter one.

I want to try something and post the first chapter of a novel I wrote up. Its the auto biography and journey of a vampire through out the ages.

 breech The years pass by like grains of sand in an hourglass. Agonizingly slow with each passing day, a far cry from how a writer would describe my people. It would be a dream, a wish fulfillment for it to go swiftly by and bring us closer to death who awaits us with its welcoming, open arms. I have seen how the mortals often described us and the life we live. There is no glamour, no beauty, nor charm.

 An only pure tragedy with so many flaws to our being. There is nothing beautiful about falling from God's grace. I am both ashamed and outraged about how the modern world perceives vampires such as myself, spreading lies and turning humans gullible as they fall into a trap. I have taken it upon myself to inform future generations of the unspoken and forgotten world of the true night creatures. Let my story be a warning to those who are lusting for a life in which would soon make them seek death itself. 

My rebirth took place within the country of Italy, during the time in which many had fallen victim to the Black Death. Or what we know now as the bubonic plague. I myself was a coward, fearful of dying a horrific death such as my beloved wife and daughter. I know now that I should have gone with them. But alas I was no more but a fool. A young man who was but a boy inside. 

My desire to live have outweighed what I know now would have been right. To bury me along with my small family. But how is an ungrateful fool such as myself supposed to know that while barely above the cusp of manhood? This was when I met my sire, a tall and elegant older gentleman who had the darkest hair and fairest skin of Verona. He was unaffected by the plague, having others believe that he was in God's favor. Including myself.

I sought him out so I could have a chance to avoid the Lord's wrath, even if I was a peasant at the time. I can still remember it as it was a muggy summer night. The stench of death rose from the bodies piled in the streets.  Amidst the foulness he stood, arms wrapped around a young man. His back was facing me while I watched him a feast. Back then I did not know what he was doing, but as a human, I had been drawn to such chaos. Well, I myself would not call the death of a mortal chaos but primal instinct told me otherwise. That is when I have uncovered the ghastly truth of how he survived the disease which struck and killed hundreds, if not thousands. 

He realized I was watching him when his head jerked up, blood seeping into a crimson pool beneath them both. 

That gorgeous, which beguiled any woman who gazed upon it, turned ghastly. In its place was a pair of wicked eyes made worse by the fangs of a putrid yellow, jagged like the shiv of a crazed convict. Blood was smeared across his lips, chin, and cheeks. and I soon realized I was staring at the face of a corpse. I did what any man would and ran, though knowing that he would pursue me, and I hid in an alley that stank of urine and worse. Covered by pitch black darkness like my own funeral veil, I thought foolishly that he could not see me.  now I know that my kind can pierce through the blackest of darkness with their keen sight. Despite this, he did not pursue, and for the time being I knew not why. 

When I returned home that night I simply went to sleep, thinking that this was all a nightmare and that I would wake up to the usual bellows calling for corpses. This is how we capture you, we simply come when least expected. There is no invitation, that myth about vampires is foolish. We do not give warning, we are cheaters to when it comes to getting what we want.

 You can ask any vampire, even some of the purest of blood and they will say the same thing such as I, a dirty blood states as mere fact. When I awoke, my whole body was burning from the inside out. I was plastered in a sordid sweat that soaked my sheets, while my veins threatened to burst through my skin likes plants bereft of light... ironic as that now seems. That, however, was not the worst of it- for when I rinsed my face with water, I noticed two obscene marks on the side of my neck. They were fresh and like forbearers of my fate, also weaped.  As you most likely know, If you are not careful, a bite mark can become infected. For me, they began to swell to a size like that of spring tomatoes; red, ripe and raw- leaving two horrid scars that shall remain upon me forever, the physical manifestation of a memory desired forgotten. 

  For days I have suffered to where it felt like I was the victim of the plague. My skin was pale while the appearance of my body was grotesque, black liquids were seeping out of everywhere as the stench was horrid. I dared not to venture outside in this condition, nor I couldn't for I was bedridden. Sooner or later, somebody would find my corpse. 

The last final phase of turning is the hunger. Do you know how it feels when you are starved? Multiply that by one thousand, add the heat of a fever, and every single muscle in your body tearing itself apart. Now I still had my morals, but my dignity was nonexistent. Desperation caused me to slip out in the night, unseen with only corpses as witnesses.

 They were my first victims. I still remember the putrid taste and how easily their flesh torn. They were rotten of course. The cysts upon their bodies bursting with the faintest of touch. Those disease-ridden corpses would be the source of drink in which kept me alive. I endured days of agony, due to myself being repulsed by consuming the blood of the already dead. But when it became too much I had no choice. It was either to feast on corpses during my weakened state or else, children. 

I am no monster, I can tell you that now. My own decisions are based upon my morals, for I still have kept my humanity. Most vampires chose to leave it behind due to the traumas their new life can lead. During the phase before my sire, I was a ghoul. No one in the city had caught on to what was happening to the bodies.

 But my sire had, for he watched as I suffered. There was no intervention as I struggled to manage my very existence. It was a test to decide whether I would survive or not and if I was worthy of his own teachings. To this day I do not know why I was chosen, for my sire was a madman. After the course weeks, he finally deemed me worthy enough to claim.

 It was another typical night, the moon was high on her perch while shining down, illuminating the streets below. I stepped out of my home while wrapped in a tattered cloak. Hiding in the shadows, I used them to my advantage not to be seen, silently making my descent towards the nearest corpse I could smell.

 By now I have grown accustomed to this vile act. I can remember the corpse being still fresh, having passed during the hours of daylight. Even though, it did not sit in the hot sun and become putrid, the disease was still evident. I still grimaced upon the nights I fed. The blood was still disgusting as ever. Above myself, I heard a soft flutter. 

Suddenly I felt a large hand grasp around my neck. Roughly, I was jerked up and came face to face with my sire. His eyes were blazing like embers, amber in color with blackness ebbing around them. Rows of hideous fangs were inches away from my face. He was like a statue, still and silent. I was fearful of what was to happen next. My face was plastered into a mask of horror.  My heart would have been pounding if it was alive.

 "Pathetic is what you are, ghoulish corpse eater. Not one of my finest creations, but you have too much resilience to waste." 

His voice was smooth, deep and calloused. There was no emotion to it. But I could feel his own rage. Suddenly he had a look of disgust. I remember being over his shoulder as he took off into the night, leaping into the air with a powerful force. He danced from roof to roof with his graceful movements. No one would believe that such a man in Verona existed. Not even I, if I wasn't here telling you my life, that is. Just as swiftly as we had left, we arrived at where he lurked about during the daylight. Before I had a chance to look, to take in my surroundings, a coffin was sealed. 

[the-general-hux]

@finishwhxtyoustartxd

Armitage Hux rested his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. His parents had stopped talking hours ago, his mother was asleep in the front seat and his father was driving with white-knuckled fingers crimped around the steering wheel. Hux shared the backseat with luggage that wouldn’t fit in the trunk of their rental sedan. His knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat and he longed for chance to stretch out his legs. His eyes blinked open and shut as he looked out the window at the endless procession of trees.

Traffic slowed down and his father spat out a string of curses at the other drivers’ abilities to keep stopping distance on the rain slick road. The air smelled damp, even through the filter of the air conditioning. A small town appeared and a sign declared it Bayport. Perhaps the settlers had never heard of redundancy, Hux thought. A smiling whale spouted a flourish of water on the sign. Hux gritted his teeth and put in his headphones.

Tourists crossed the highway, oblivious to oncoming traffic and the increasing frequency of his father’s cursing. A bead shop. Souvenirs. Weed shop. Rinse and repeat. Hux caught a glimpse of some amazing biceps in front of a coffee shop and he wrenched his neck to see if the potential face matched the muscles, but his father turned a corner and Hux lost his sight line. He huffed out a sigh. Probably just a tourist, maybe one of those bikers that cruised up and down the Oregon coast. Doing what? Whale-watching?

They pulled into a driveway that was marked with a jaunty lighthouse, Driftwood Cove. They named the rental house. Of course they did. His father stopped the car, turned off the ignition and announced. “This is our home for the next month. Let’s try to not kill each other.”

“No promises.” Hux said and his mother shot him a warning look. “Fine. You work on your book, you work on your paintings and I’ll work on growing a thick coat of mildew.”

“Now darling, it’s not that bad. The ocean air is marvelous for my health and I only have so much time with you before you go off to college and leave me behind.”

Forty two days, six hours and twelve minutes, Hux thought as he got out of the car. He sighed again and nodded because that was what you did when your sick mother guilt tripped you. This wasn’t his idea of a beach holiday. The sky was painted in shades of blue and gray, the whole landscape looked angry and battered into submission by the relentless coastal wind. Then he turned to the ocean. There was a haze covering the entire Pacific Ocean, as far as he could squint. “Twelve hours in the car and I can’t even see the fucking water.”

Hux claimed the room at the very top of the rental, it had a window overlooking the ocean and a stupid sign. “The Crow’s Nest.” He dragged his luggage up the stairs. The whole room smelled musty and forgotten. He sat down on the edge of the queen bed and flopped backwards, staring at the rafters. There was no need for a bed this big in such a small space— Hux scrunched his face up in disgust. Do not think about how many people have had sex in your bed, just don’t. That way lies madness, Hux thought. I am not going to look under the mattress pad.

“Boy!” His father hollered up the stairs, “Come help your mother with her junk!” Hux blew out the breath he was holding and descended the stairs.

It started to rain.

It continued to rain for three days. Drops splattered on the window panes and wind shrieked through the eaves. Hux made a bet with himself about how soon the roof would fly off. It was even money. He curled up on the bed, surrounded by fifteen decorative pillows that some poor soul had embroidered with seagulls and a two year old copy of People magazine. He’d read it cover to cover three times. Cellular service was complete shit and WiFi was apparently an alien concept in rustic vacation rentals. His father’s laptop had not survived the road trip and Hux’s had been commandeered, so no jerking off to his carefully curated archived amateur Alpha porn. The television downstairs had a dial to change the channels. All three channels.

“I’m going to start talking to myself. I am. I’m going to start talking to myself and go find a great white whale to have a battle to the death with. Honestly, it’s inevitable.” He could go talk to his parents. See what they were doing— Hux shook his head. Mother was sleeping, exhausted from her medication and Father was writing. He could write for days at a time, eating what was brought to him and pissing in a milk jug by his desk. He had a bestselling series, it was Regency romance of all things and the royalties were sending Hux to a very good school.

“Yet another thing for me to grateful for.” Hux told a decorative seahorse on the wall. “I have to get out of here. I have to.” He grabbed his coat and one of the guest umbrellas from the hallway. “I’m going out!” He called to his father who grunted in response and waved him off.

Hux made his way down the driveway towards the town center. He paused in front of the map of the town, drawn in a cartoon fashion that made the library and the police station look like equally jaunty places to visit. His sneakers squelched with wetness as he made his way to the coffee shop. It seemed like ages ago that he’d caught a glimpse of those glorious biceps. Everyone was wearing shapeless polar fleece and practical galoshes that he coveted with an practical intensity he’d never truly felt before.

He ordered a hot milky tea, something to chase the cold away from his bones and wrapped his fingers around it. “It's June,” he reminded himself and the counter girl smiled at him and then at his Omega Pride lapel pin. “It really is June, isn’t it?”

“It usually clears up by now. It’s not so bad. Just remember to take your vitamin D pills until the sun comes out again.” She pulled another shot of espresso after that bit of unsolicited advice. Hux pushed his sopping wet shock of red hair out of his face. He was not a natural sun worshipper, but the next time he saw the sun even he might offer up a few prayers of gratitude.

Hux wandered over to the small shelf of used books that lined the back wall. A hand lettered sign read, “Lending Library”.  Out of habit, he looked for his father’s name on the spines of the books. Only one volume this time. The fourth. Savage Unbroken Hearts. Hux couldn’t read his father’s writing, it was far too intimate an act. It was worse than the time his father had walked in on Hux taking a selfie, wearing glitter and a rainbow thong. Hux cringed at the memory and selected a paperback space opera that boasted about galactic conquest. He sat down at a table and thumbed through the yellowed pulpy pages. The previous owner had scrawled his name in childish block letters on the interior cover. Ben.

The counter girl gave him a plastic bag for the book and Hux stepped out into the rain. It wasn’t going to defeat him. “You hear me?” Hux muttered to the weather as he made his way down the boardwalk. He rolled his eyes at the tiny salon and a candy store that was only open on the weekend. He paused in front of a photograph studio that specialized in pirate portraits. Skywalker Studios. Tourists grinned in tawdry costumes and posed in front of pirate flags. Rain dripped from the tip of Hux’s nose and he snorted in disdain. There was a 90% chance that his mother would drag them all in here for a souvenir portrait.

The beach access stairwell was just beyond the photography studio and Hux gripped the guardrail as he wrestled with both the slippery seagull shit smeared steps and the wind that threatened to steal his umbrella. The ocean was surging, the tide rolling in. Hux stared out at the dark, seething waters and felt begrudging respect for the power and intensity of the storm. Also for the warning signs posted all over the beach. Rolling logs that could kill you. Rip tides. Sneaker waves. Tsunamis. This was not the ocean that was in the brochures. Icy spray hit him in the face and he blinked saltwater from his lashes.

There was a man strolling along the pebbled beach. Long dark hair whipped around his head. What kind of Alpha bullshit was this? It was a stereotype of course, but the only person who would have the sheer ballsy stupid confidence to be walking on that beach would be an Alpha. A shameful thrill trilled up the back of Hux’s neck and he tasted the salt on his own lips.

The man reached the stairwell and as he ascended, Hux hid behind his Driftwood Cove umbrella. The man paid him no mind as he passed, Hux peeked out from beneath the umbrella shade. He swallowed hard as he caught the hint of a defined, youthful jawline, speckled with interesting moles that reminded Hux of constellations. The man unlocked the door to Skywalker Studios, stepped inside and flipped on the OPEN neon sign.

Oh god dammit. He wasn’t going to follow that weirdo guy, no matter how broad his shoulders were, no matter how bored Hux was, no matter— he stood on the steps of the photography studio and pushed open the door.

A bell jingled announcing Hux’s presence as he folded up his umbrella in the entry way. “Just a moment!” A deep voice called out from behind a curtain. “Be right out!’

Hux looked at the puddle of rain water accumulating around his feet and he flushed with embarrassment. He glanced to the side at a mirror for the tourists to check their costumes. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his ears. No, no, no this was a mistake—

The broad-shouldered stranger walked out in a muscle baring tank top, drying his hair with a towel. The lack of fabric made one thing painfully clear to Hux’s libido. This was the owner of the Glorious Biceps. He wrapped the towel around his hair in a makeshift turban and looked at Hux. For a long moment, the Alpha’s plush pink mouth fell open as he took in the bedraggled, soaked ginger making a mess of his shop floor. If the Earth could open up and swallow me whole right now, that would be just dandy, Hux thought. He turned to leave.

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 5: The Way It Was

Chapter summary: Fluff and angst. Price finally makes an appearance! First fight between Alexis and Alex and an interesting revelation...;) & glimpse of Alexis’ childhood. [2404 words]

Warnings: Shitty childhood (mention of alcohol & rough childhood.)

26 OCTOBER 2019, 2200 "Alexis" and "Alex", Codename Aces CIA agents with Urzik militia Al-Raab, Urzikstan.

"What was that?"

Alexis stormed forward, harshly jabbing her partner's back. They were taking the scenic walk back to the militia's base. While Farah and Hadir walked ahead of them, Alexis and Alex lagged behind to breath in the scenes of their victory.

"What was what?" Alex perplexed, cheekily plucking a few yellow chrysanthemums off the road and waving it in her face.

Alexis took the tiny flowers, a warm smile on display as she admired the adversity these flowers had to bloom in a place like this. Then it faltered upon realising it was an attempt to distract her. "You radioed Viper for me. That's against the rules."

Alex quickly brushed her off and walked into the militia's armory, Alexis hot on his trail. Standing in silence as they waited for the room to clear. "Since when are you one for following the rules? What, you wanted to personally say bye to him?"

What the hell, that took her by surprise. Where did that come from? "I only follow the rules to keep you out of trouble. Sorry for caring."

The hardened look in Alex's eye softened, "I was doing you a favour, come on! Viper was outrightly hitting on you over the comms. If Laswell wanted to bitch about it, you could get dragged into his mess." He shrugged and busied himself with removing his gear.

"Because minor flirting is worse than trashy comms etiquette?"

Alex stretched obnoxiously loud.

"No, fraternization is." That stung more than it should.

"That's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?" Spurts of anger gnawing at her rationale incited her to spit those words without hesitation —instantly regretting it. From the nostalgic look on Alex's face, he must have realised they were in a loop again. The last time they had this conversation, it didn't end well.

To put this delicately, Alexis and Alex were no strangers at fraternization. It happened one time after she returned from St. Petersburg, a drunken mistake that Alex agreed. Overtaken by choking wave of emotions —vulnerability, lust, the need to feel safe. It was the first time Alexis was desperate enough to ask for something, and Alex gave it to her. Like moths drawn to a flame, lonely agents like themselves, cut off from the rest of the world, take whatever comfort they can get.

They left that night without ever mentioning it again. Only the next drunken time (clearly not a good drinker) when she accidentally mentioned it —her mistake for assuming it meant... more.

Alex assured her it wasn't. It did some serious damage to their friendship for a while. After a few weeks, everything snapped back into the exact same, best friends and partners for life.

Now, leaning against a counter, she searched for any answers in his eyes. One thought crossed her mind —maybe he was jealous...? Impossible, she deserted the thought, Alex had never been the jealous type.

Plus, what happened was a one-time thing. It wouldn't, or rather, couldn't happen again. Alexis couldn't lose him too.

"Maybe." Alex murmured, refusing to meet her eyes, his jaw clenched tight while cleaning his rifle, the chiselled jawline highlighted from his profile. Wide-eyed, the female agent slowly cleared her throat, scattering to form a reply.

Alex's satellite phone rang, breaking the tense silence. Saved by the bell.

Speak of her and she shall appear —it was Laswell.

Alex hesitated, did Laswell really wanted to bitch about it? He was blindly shooting from the hip. The palpable tension dissolved, replaced by a flustered Alexis. His lips pursed in amusement, "Laswell wouldn't. I'm pretty sure she has a soft spot for you."

Alexis was smart, confident, witty, resourceful, strong —the strongest person he knew. Resilience built steadily like a rock, he could write lists after lists. Alex wasn't blind, who wouldn't have a soft spot for this woman.

"This is Bravo 6, Echo 3-1 and Saint, do you copy?" It was Price.

A nudge shook Alex out of his trance. Excited at the appearance of her mentor, Alexis snatched the phone from his grasps. It was a relief to know Price was on the mission too. Looks like this assignment was really bringing her old friends back together.  "Price? Send traffic, Cap."

"Good job, hitting the airbase. Now that you have limited Barkov's air capability, we'll do our part."

"Glad we could help. What's the plan?" Alex replied to his field commander.

"We traced the masterminds of the Piccadilly attack to a townhouse in North London, we'll take care of it. You can put your feet up and rest."

"That is a command I can follow. Have fun, cap." Alexis spoke, ready to end the call.

"Not so fast, young lady. I was at the debrief, I managed to keep you out of trouble. If it was up to Norris, you'd be running laps like Viper. Don't get stupid, Alexis."

Alexis exhaled frustratedly. "Thanks, Cap." She replied in between scowls in response to the burning triumph look from Alex. His hands covering his mouth to muffle his wide smile. By taking his side, Price had inflated his ego unnecessarily bigger.

"But, you still have to run 5 miles for your insolence towards Laswell." Price delivered the ultimatum.

Her jaw slacked. "You're joking. Says Norris?"

"Colonel Norris." Price corrected with a sigh. "Says me. I told you one day that mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble. 5 miles. Alex?"

Alex exploded into laughters, no longer trying to suppress it. "Hah, roger that! I'll make sure of it. Out."

The call ended. Alexis had respect for authorities, to a certain extent. It wasn't impertinence, but rather her conditioned nature to bypass it. Coming from Task Force Black —a tier-one task force in the JSOC that didn't even answer to the President, falling into the chain of commands was never needed. Also might have to do with the fact that she started to detest the political bureaucracy over the years in the CIA.

John Price, Daniel Maddox —Alexis' commander in Task Force Black, and Samuel Forbes —her CIA handler were the only ones she would willingly abide. Kate Laswell was also close.

"Is this a bro code thing?" Alexis motioned in between them and the satellite phone, inspecting Alex as he raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence. "Price doing the dirty work on your behalf?"

"You heard the man, he said it was for your insolence."

"Wipe that smirk off your face." She mumbled, trying to use a dirty cloth to wipe his chin but he stopped her. If looks could kill... you know the rest.

"Let's go, babe. I'll time you."

"Aw. How kind." She retorted, thinking how badly she wanted to dig those blue eyes out from that arrogant face of his.

40 minutes later, a very sweaty and out-of-breath Alexis returned to the starting point. "5 miles... 5 god damn miles." She breathed, catching a towel and water bottle tossed her way. The entire 40 minutes was filled with killer glances towards Alex. They both knew the punishment wasn't for her insolence. Price wasn't the type to demand respect for other officers, the man could care less and so could Laswell.

This was an indirect way to lecture her, the brotherhood they had caused Price to take Alex's side. Judging from the glowing delight, this ought to satisfy him. Her punishment attracted a few audiences, including Hadir and Farah, who watched happily with her enemy on the roof.

"40 minutes on the dot. Impressive." Farah shouted from above. Hadir excitedly nodded, showing thumbs-ups.

Past the fourth mile, even her vision started to swirl. Blame the ever humid Urzikstan, it was insane she completed it without hurling. "I don't want to impress... I need a seat!" So she willingly fell on her butt and sat in the middle of the carpark.

They joined her shortly, grinning at her flushed cheeks and breathless words. Farah extended a hand and pulled the CIA agent up, "Steady now. Alex, why did you make her run so much!" She chided, elbowing him.

"Not me. It was Price."

"Keep lying, I'll harvest your toes." Farah gave a weird look at her insult. "All I have to do is look Price in the eye and he's a goner." Alex remained suspiciously silent, but yelped when Farah jabbed him in the gut. As revenge, Alexis smacked her sweaty towel against his tattooed arm, disgusted as he failed to swat it away.

Farah, who supported her to walk, didn't seem to care about her sweaty state. "Farah."

The commander hummed, bringing her inside the kitchen to sit. Hadir refilled her bottle.

"Would you like it if Alex and I trained your people? We can teach them some proper fighting tactics and medic courses. With your permission, of course."

Farah took a seat opposite her, mouth opening slightly before closing, as if she was unsure what to say. Hadir, witnessing this, said with a smile, "That would be extremely kind, Alexis."

A bright glint that could be interrupted as a tear reflected in the commander's eyes. Farah's hand squeezed hers tightly. Eyes crinkling upwards, Alexis knew that was her way of saying thanks.

"Great. We start tomorrow."

The two siblings soon left Alexis and Alex in the kitchen to unload some trucks that just entered the compound. He replaced Farah on the seat, "That is a great idea, Lexi."

Finally, some wind started blowing into the kitchen. She closed her eyes at the relieving night breeze. After today's mission, seeing how Farah's people fearlessly ran into the battlefield was reason enough to help them. Although a good trait, fearlessness can also be dangerous. "I want to help them. We were trained by the best in the world, it would be cruel not to share some of that knowledge."

They sat in silence, feeling the cool air while quenching their thirst. Putting their feet up, as Price ordered. Outside the kitchen, playful insults were thrown around by the pair of siblings. It was heartwarming, seeing genuine smiles and watching them be... normal. It was nice.

Growing up, Alexis wouldn't complain she had a bad childhood. Her dad was an honest man, a construction worker. For a man with such a harsh job, it translated into his personality. Her father wasn't affectionate, but he played a good father by putting a roof over their heads and food on the table.

Her life was normal, up till the very day her mother got into a fatal car accident, then everything changed. It was never said but Alexis knew her father blamed her for it. She only grew up to realise it was ridiculous. How could it have been her fault? But grief knew no sense.

Life waited for no one, years later, her father remarried. Lily was a great stepmother, not conforming to the stereotypical evil stepmom Alexis was so afraid of. Lily loved her, but not as much as her blood-borns.

Loved her, but not enough to stop the drunk shoutings, that much Alexis understood.

Alexis didn't remember much of her mother, only recognizing her face through photos. They looked nothing alike —her mother was blonde and had bright blue eyes, while Alexis inherited dark brown eyes and hair. For a man who held an imperative amount of self-loathing, imagine raising his reflection.

She envied the pair of siblings, even after everything, they still had each other. Seeing them together somehow felt lonelier. Emptier.

"I can hear the gears turning." Alex placed his chin on her shoulder, the action bringing her back down on Earth. She sniffled inconspicuously, pretending to use the damp towel to wipe her sweat. "What's wrong?"

"Why must something be wrong?"

"You're making that face."

Friends for five years, it would be foolish to assume something could escape his eyes. Goosebumps raised over her arms, feeling the stubble on his chin tickling her skin. She turned to examine the man who had been through everything with her. Hell and back, literally.

Alexis didn't know how she could ever live without him.

"Just reminiscing." She replied, a distant look in her eyes while she continued smiling at the siblings' bickering. Alex followed her gaze, knowing.

"The past is the past, Alexa–" Alex almost uttered her birth name but stopped in the nick of time. "Sorry, it slipped." His voice was muffled by Alexis' hand.

"You get my point. What matters is the now, and now you have me."

"I'll always have you." She recited, hands intertwined.

The usual smirk on Alex's face was replaced with a heartfelt smile, their gaze connected meaningfully. "And I, you." He laid a gentle kiss on the top of her hand.

Alexis and Alex stayed like that for a few more minutes, her head resting on his shoulder. Suddenly, a sound pierced through the peace —it came from Alex's stomach. Alexis laughed before tossing him her rations pack.

"Uh-huh. No. You two are not eating that." Farah walked in to snatch the rations away. Their mouths fell open, watching their favourite ration pack out of their reach.

"Hey! That was shrimp fried rice, proper good stuff!"

"Closest to gourmet." Alex backed her up. It was the tastiest ration pack. Alexis even secretly raided the base's stockpile to neat pick the most decent ones —there goes her efforts.

Farah tossed the unopened pack to Hadir, who caught it with ease and wiggled it higher when Alexis tried to reach for it. "You cannot win this war with... that." Hadir inspected it, face twisted with distasteful when he opened it, revealing an unappealing mash of rice compressed into a box.

Farah tugged on her wrist, already pulling her down the stairs. "If you don't throw it away, I will tell Captain Price about your horrible English accent.

Alexis groaned, "If this war wouldn't kill me, Price would."

"Better yet, he'll make you run the miles for real."

Her lips parted with a gasp, pointing accusingly as Farah continued to drag her down the stairs. "So you admit it was you!"

"Come." Hadir pulled away the agent who tried to jump Alex with a punch.

"We will show you the real gourmet."

taglist: @flyboidameron​

a/n: it was my birthday yesterday so i decided we need this fluff.... it's so 🥰. masterlist here. want to be tagged? let me know!

[vmheadquarters]

Welcome to… 

We're going to play a game of written hot potato! Dozens of your favorite authors will take turns telling this story. Each writer will craft a chapter (with no prior planning) and then "toss" the story to the next person to continue the tale. No one knows what will happen, so expect the unexpected! Follow the “vmhq presents” and “murder we wrote” tags for all the installments, or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Chapter One of MURDER, WE WROTE is written by @susanmichelin​ (a/k/a CMackenzie). 

And stay tuned next week for Ch.2 from @nearfantastica​ - tag, you’re it! -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER ONE by CMackenzie

“Welcome aboard!” The captain of the luxury trawler, ominously named Irish Wake, greeted them on the dock with individual thermoses of hot cocoa, and dire predictions about the weather. “There’s a snow squall coming so we best be on our way– you’re my last two passengers for the night.”

Veronica managed to contain her eye roll- barely. This was going to be a very long weekend if all she had to look forward to were predictable ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ cliches. How Wallace had convinced her to make this trip North was still unclear. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because I’m tired of watching you mope.” Wallace, following the captain’s orders, headed below deck to the saloon. It was paneled in teak and outfitted with leather banquettes and an actual, working fireplace. Wallace dropped onto the bench, leaving the seat closest to the fire for Veronica, and tugged off his gloves.

“I’ve only been home for THREE days,” Veronica said, reluctantly joining him on the sofa. She loosened her jacket and stared morosely through the windows at the gray water.

“Exactly. Three days of unwashed you walking around in a robe, wearing a sad face, and acting more pathetic than Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. I will not spend the rest of winter break listening to you sing Unbreak My Heart.”

“As if.” She leveled Wallace with a hard look. “And for the record, my heart’s NOT broken.”

“Sure, V.” Unfazed, he pulled out the multi-page invitation for this party and started reading. “The island has its own pond for ice skating, and there are--”

“Hello? Grew up in Southern California, I don’t skate.”

“You don’t surf either, so what’s your point?” He waved the expensive vellum invite at her. “They have snowmobiles, a heated pool, an extensive library, a wine cellar--”

“What no conservatory and billiard room?”

“Plus,” he continued, undeterred. “There’s a murder mystery for you to solve. You can show off your detective prowess, while I play your devastatingly handsome side--”

“Devastatingly handsome?”

“The Watson to your Holmes.”

“This is more Christie than Doyle-- And Then There Were None ring any bells? Do you even know who owns this mansion?” Her best friend was being VERY cagey about this entire weekend. “And why were we invited?”

“WE weren’t invited, I was, and you’re my plus-one.”

“So why were YOU invited? Since when do you have rich friends who can throw Gatsby-like part—” Veronica’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “NO, absolutely not, I’m not going to be trapped on an island with HIM.”

“Totally over him, my ass,” Wallace muttered, shaking his head. “You know Logan Echolls isn’t the only rich guy in the world, right?”

Veronica humphed. She could count on one hand—on one FINGER—the amount of wealthy people Wallace knew well enough he’d consider traveling to this desolate place, and risk incurring Veronica’s wrath. 

There was NO WAY she was staying. She rebuttoned her jacket, and folded her arms across her chest. As soon as they docked, she’d make the captain return her to the mainland. If Logan…  Veronica frowned. “Let me see that invitation.”

“I thought you weren’t interested?”

“I’m not.” But her curiosity was getting the better of her. There was just no way Logan Echolls would throw a lame THEME party. 

She held out her hand, and Wallace hesitated, staring at the card like he was trying to come up with a good reason to say no; but when none materialized, he relented, and passed it to her. 

This time Veronica didn’t hold back the eye roll. The first line read: ‘Mistress X’ (Seriously? What is she, a porn star?) ‘cordially invites you to a mysterious good time.’ As far as Veronica could tell, the only ‘mystery’ was the identity of their hostess (and why she loved stale cliches). And maybe-- “Who else will be there?”

Wallace shrugged. “It’s a party, Veronica. Did you forget how those work? We eat, drink, and have fun- the only mystery for you to solve is a fake one.”

Sorry, BFF, but you’re wrong-- there was NO mystery solving in her future, fake or otherwise. Even if her curiosity was demanding to be satisfied, she would NOT be staying on this island, which is exactly what she told the captain after he docked the boat, and she scrambled topside.

“We need to go back to the mainland.”

The man continued to wind the dock line around a cleat in a tight, figure-eight pattern, ignoring her demand. Or maybe he just didn’t hear it? Frigid January air howled around them and buffeted the sides of the boat, making it thump against the wood pilings. Veronica tried again, a little louder. “You have to take me back to shore.”

“Sorry miss, no can do,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve upgraded the storm to include white-out conditions and at least a foot of heavy snow.” He stopped adjusting the boat fenders long enough to squint uphill at the imposing limestone mansion. “I just hope you kids will be safe up there all alone.”

Veronica followed his gaze. Copper-trimmed windows glowed from inside, and several chimneys dotted the black slate roof, all of them puffing billows of gray smoke into the night sky. It was both inviting and foreboding. She shook off the ridiculous thought, stomping the cold from her feet and shoving gloved hands into her parka. “Aren’t you returning to Rollins?”

“‘fraid not; I’m gonna have to hunker down in the caretaker’s cottage till the storm passes. ”  The captain glanced at Wallace who was still standing on the boat, luggage at his feet. “Let me help you with those bags, son.”

“We good, V?”

“It’s not like I have a choice.” Too bad she hadn’t paid more attention to Duncan when he’d tried to teach her how to sail, then she could take the—skiff? Scow? Sloop?—berthed next to Irish Wake, and make her own way home. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Without waiting, she left him to carry both duffels, and marched toward the house. Wallace stopped her at the front door. “Uh, Veronica, before we go in, you should know there’s a story to follow.”

“Say what now? A story?”

“Yeah, for the mystery. It’s called Murder at the High School Reunion.” He dropped the bags, and withdrew a blood-red envelope from his coat pocket. “You’re supposed to be Enid Curtis,” he added, handing her the sealed letter.

Veronica groaned. As if this wasn’t bad enough, now she had to be called Enid AND attend a pretend reunion. She ripped open the character summary. 

Enid Curtis was the high school outcast. She couldn’t wait for senior year to be over so she could escape her hometown. Immediately after graduating, she fled to New York and became a successful lawyer, but she never got over her one true love, Mason. Enid is attending this weekend in the hopes of rekindling their relationship, but a dark secret—

“You are so going to owe me for doing this,” Veronica said, skimming the rest of the contents to confirm she wasn’t the killer. “I’m thinking YOU will be the one driving to Stanford every single weekend from now until the time I graduate.” 

“Haven’t I been doing that?” 

“Yes, but now you’ll do it without complaint.” She shoved the red card into her messenger bag. Depending on how many guests and bedrooms, she could have this solved in under an hour. All she needed was to search everyone’s things to read their dossiers. “So which high-school stereotype are you? Wait, let me guess-- class president? Teacher’s pet? No, no, I’ve got it, you’re the new transfer student!”

“You disappoint me,” Wallace said with a sad head shake. “Obviously, I’m the lovable jock- Brady Huddle.”

“Bad puns too? Could this weekend get any worse?” She entered the house and got her answer-- yes, it could. In fact, the party completely bypassed ‘worse’ and went straight to intolerable as she crossed the threshold into the living room. Dick Casablancas was behind the bar (natch), pouring a liberal amount of vodka in a collins glass. A probably-tipsy Gia, who was draped over Luke Haldeman, giggled at Dick, and Veronica’s eye twitched. Hell. I’m in hell.

She scanned the rest of the room, searching faces. Very familiar faces. 

Cole was lounging on a leather Chesterfield the color of old parchment, his arms spread across its back like he was trying to redeem the lost souls of Rio, and blathering on about the Ivy Club at Princeton. Listening to him with rapt attention was Kimmy, who looked eerily like a dead Meg. Obviously she was still going to Fantastic Sam’s with Meg’s picture (and maybe even a trip, or ten, to Dr. Griffith’s office).

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall and in front of them stood Carrie Bishop, sipping a white frothy confection from a punch cup.  Her bored expression was reflected in the darkened panes as she absently nodded at Susan Knight.

“Who’s the girl about to be swallowed by the fireplace?” The carved-limestone monster was massive. Its mantle towered over the unknown brunette’s head and the firebox was tall enough for a man to stand inside.  

“That’s Alexis Link,” Wallace said, wearing the same moony expression from senior year when he pined after the perky cheerleader.  His sudden interest in this party now made sense. 

“Don’t even think about leav—” The warning was too late. Wallace was already on the move. She sighed. If the weather wasn’t clear by tomorrow morning, she was going to need a new escape plan.  

Someone playfully bumped her elbow, and a frisson of excitement shot down her spine. Please let it be, Logan. Her eyes flew to the window to see the person behind her, and she had to fight to control her disappointment when she identified Casey Gant.

“Welcome to Whispering Rock, Veronica.” He jutted his chin toward the non-existent view. “It’s not much to look at right now, but during the day it’s pretty impressive-- a pond, trees, mountains.”

“Is this your house?”

“God no, it’s way too rural for my parents. I think my mother might literally die if she was this far away from civilization… and a Starbucks.” He smiled. “I got here early and went skating with Susan.”

Veronica nodded, then schooled her features into a mask of disinterest. “So is this everybody?”

“You and…”—not remembering Wallace’s name, he skipped right over it—“...were the last to arrive.”

“Oh.” Any interest she may have had completely evaporated. What was the point without Logan? Could she swim back to shore? Throw herself into the freezing water and hope for the sweet escape of death by exposure? “Guess I’ll go find my room.”

“Do you want me to get one of the maids to bring your stuff up?” Casey glanced at the lone duffel at her feet. “Or did the butler already take your bags?”

“Veronica travels light.”

Logan. She whirled around to face him. It had been over seven months since she’d seen him last (seven months, nine days, and five hours, give or take) and she deserved a little ogling time. She drank in the visual. His hair was shorter, his shoulders a little broader, and his arms… woof. 

Her head tilted. “Hey.”

His smile was slow. “Hey.”

Her fingers itched to touch him. To reassure herself he was actually here. Missing him these past months at Stanford had been a physical thing. Before she did something foolish, she tore her eyes away, and leaned down to grab her bag. Straightening, she blurted, “Are you Mason?”

“Echolls. Logan Echolls.” He pulled a mock-sad face. “Have you forgotten me already?”

As if. She was never going to forget him. Or get over him. Or move past him. She knew this. Even if she’d never tell him. “I meant your character.”

“Shouldn’t you know? I mean I am your great love.” 

“True love.” She frowned. “And Mason is Enid’s true love.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.... But I am surprised you had to ask. Haven’t you already searched everyone’s rooms, or were you going to do that next?”

She flushed at how quickly he’d guessed her strategy. Was there such a thing as knowing someone too well? “Says the original snoop.”

“Takes one to know one.” His hand closed over hers and he took hold of her bag. “I’ll show you to your room-- it’s right next to mine-- and I can tell you about the other players.”

Logan took a step toward the stairs and the lights went out. A scream pierced the sudden silence. Veronica identified the direction of the ear-splitting sound (near the windows) and her head swiveled in that direction. It was too dark to identify the person (her guess was Susan), but the cause of her fright was plain to see. 

With the darkness inside the house equal to the night sky, the view through the windows had changed. Moonlight and a battery-powered lantern illuminated the pond. A body lay in the center of the ice, still and unmoving.  

“The game is afoot,” Logan whispered near her ear.

“Who’s the dead dude?” Dick asked, as he passed in front of the dim-glow of the dying fire to move closer to the windows. “We’re all in here.”

“Maybe it’s one of the staff?” The suggestion came from the vicinity of the bar; Veronica guessed the speaker as Gia. 

“That’s lame.”

Veronica was forced to agree with Dick. It was lame. Why bother to set up all the backstories and character histories if you weren’t going to use them for the plot? She unsnapped the front pocket of her messenger bag and withdrew two LED flashlights. After clicking on hers, she passed the other to Logan.  “Guess we’d better go take a look.”

A smile flirted across his lips as he took the Maglite and tipped his head towards the door. “Lead the way.”

Wind whipped through the entrance, tearing the knob from Veronica’s grip and pushing the door wide. Logan caught it mid-swing before it hit the wall and held it for her. Obviously the captain’s weather report wasn’t just part of the story. Heavy snow was beginning to fall and a thin shroud of white already covered the ground. 

Veronica slowed her pace, taking tiny steps across the slick flagstone to the lawn. Icy flakes pelted her face, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes tear. A wide path was cut through the center of the grass leading directly to the water’s edge. 

They trudged along. Each slippery step treacherous as the snow continued to build. Veronica kept her eyes focused ahead. The body on the pond had yet to move. Its stillness rang warning bells in her brain. It was too cold out here for a partygoer, or even an actor, to remain that motionless. 

She stopped on the berm and glanced over her shoulder. Everyone had grabbed coats to follow her and Logan outside. All of them still believed this was a game. “I think you need to stay here,” she shouted over the wind. “And I’ll go—”

“Steal all the clues?” Cole scoffed. “We should all go examine the body.” He moved around her and took a step onto the ice.

Logan angled the light to see Veronica’s face and frowned. His gaze slid toward the body. “Let me go first,” he said, brandishing the flashlight in Cole’s direction. “No sense for us to be wandering around in the dark.” He enveloped Veronica’s hand in his. “Ready?”

Together they started across the frozen pond, inching closer to the body.  It was bathed in light from a camping lantern. The green lamp was on its side in a puddle of red. 

Blood. 

Veronica tightened her grip on Logan’s fingers when she saw the face of the corpse. A bloodied ice skate was near the top of his head, and a deep gash ran across his neck.

“Nice makeup job, dude.”

“I don’t think that’s makeup, Dick.” Logan played his flashlight over the scene. There wasn’t much to see. 

“Hey, that’s my stalker from senior year- Leo somebody,” Gia gushed. “Well, he wasn’t like, you know, an actual stalker, stalker, but he followed me around, and I definitely think I was his type.”

“Young?” Carrie said, without any trace of humor. 

Veronica didn’t have any doubt, but she needed to be sure. She let go of Logan’s hand and used her teeth to pull off her glove. Gingerly, she stepped closer to the body. Careful to avoid the blood, she bent down and felt Leo’s wrist for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

[sherlollydramoine]

Soulmates

Here it is you guys and gals, I'm so grateful for your patience. I'd like to give a huge shout out two amazing people whom without this prologue would have ever been finished. Thank you both for your guidance, feedback, suggestions, and amazing edits, @ramibaby and @ramimalekpeen

Warnings: ancient curses, language, and eventual smut. 18+ only

Link to chapter one: X

Prologue 

The story of King Femi and Queen Maye's burial is a curious one, fraught with tales of lawlessness, love and loss. 

It was 2649 when King Femi's dead body was entombed beside that of his beloved Queen Maye, his death unknown and petrified hand placed in hers. Their joint burial was a monument to their eternal, undying love and an assurance that it would continue into the afterlife. Buried with them were many envy inspiring objects, their coffins laiden with jewels and gold. 

At the centre of this chaotic story is a man by the name of Nephi who, as a labourer, worked on construction of the Pyramid that housed King Femi and Queen Maye' s mummified bodies. This bestowed him with valuable knowledge of its layout, which, driven by greed, he would etch to the walls of his memory.

On the day of King Femi's burial alongside his already deceased wife, a curse was placed on their tomb - a warning inscribed on the coffins inner walls, for those who dare disturb the deceased and prevent them from being together in the after life.

"Cursed be those who disturb the rest of King Femi and Queen Maye. They who shall break the seal of this tomb shall too be cursed with eternal separation from their beloved by meeting death by a disease no doctor can diagnose."

Nephi, undeterred by such a presage set about robbing their tomb of the many treasures he desired so greatly. He did so with not a light heart, as it was with careful consideration he pondered every possible outcome. What if someone were to spy him? What if he turned the wrong corner and became lost in the labyrinth of corridors and tunnels he helped create? 

What he hadn't accounted for however, was something far worse, a horrible fate granted to him the moment he creaked open the coffin door.

Although Nephi had been successful in his pillage, he did not have much time to celebrate, as the following morning he awoke with debilitating illness. Unable to stand, he was left bed bound. His wife Maia, tended to him day and night for the following two weeks as his condition steadily deteriorated, much to the bewilderment and dismay of his doctor. This perturbingly undiagnosable and incurable disease finally took Nephi from Maia on the 14th night after he first entered the cursed tomb which, many believe to be the cause of his illness.

Poor Maia was left distraught after his passing, doomed to live her life separated from the man she held so dear, the man she deemed to be her soulmate. Her heart ached for the love of a man she would never see again but, when she showed signs of being pregnant a week later, she took solace in the knowledge that, through her new born child, Nephi's legacy would live on.

Since the opening of the cursed tomb, centuries of similar occurrences of this curse are rumoured to have plagued Nephi's  family lineage.

These rather fanciful tales may be hard to believe, but one undeniable fact is the commonplace of chaos in the love lives of Nephi's successors, even to this day.

*****************

"Jesus, " you huffed, eyeing your best friend Beatrice and her boyfriend Joe, whose disgustingly affectionate display had your stomach churning.

Bea was straddling Joe's legs as he lay back on his sun chair, his hands gliding up and down her back as they shared a deeply intimate and disturbing kiss.

Lowering your sunglasses, you frowned at them from where you lay across the other side of the pool- partially due to the harsh sunlight, but mostly because you were repulsed beyond words.

Sick of their complete and utter disregard for your presence, you proceeded to shout with all the dramatics of a Shakespearean actress,

 "Oh, what curse has befallen me, that I, Y/N, have to witness such vulgarity?" 

From Bea, you received nothing but a soft giggle against Joe's mouth in return, your words doing nothing but spurring her on. When Joe's hands moved down to squeeze her ass, you knew it was definitely time for you to make a hasty exit.

As you swung open Joe's back door, you were met with the cool breeze of the air conditioner, and the sight of a bare bronzed back, hunched over, it's muscles flexing as the man it belonged to raided the refrigerator. 

Taken aback by his presence, you stopped dead in your tracks, giving yourself a moment to muster the energy to play coy. 

"Not even gonna say hi before you raid his fridge huh Rami?" 

You broke the silence so suddenly that, upon hearing your voice Rami jumped, banging his head on the fridge's roof as he did so.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, one hand shooting up to clutch his throbbing head, his eyes screwing shut.

"Oop- sorry!" You implored, hands out in front of you.

Although you truly were, you couldn't help but giggle as you walked toward him.

"S'ok…" he began, before opening his eyes and standing up straight. 

It was then he was able to fully appreciate your scantily clad form. His doe eyes seemed transfixed on your legs, hips, and chest - all in that order and you felt embarrassingly weak under his gaze. 

"Oh Y/N." He jerked back his head, before leaning an arm 'casually' on the fridge door as he continued, "Didn't know uh, you were coming today." 

His gaze shifted to the fridge, studying its contents as he waited for your reply. It was as though he was trying to appear unfazed by your presence, which you knew he certainly was not.

"Ah, yeah." You replied, stepping closer. "Joe and Bea invited me over for a swim, kinda feel like a third wheel though, haha. Supposedly there's pizza and a movie later, so I'm holding out for that."

Rami nodded and smirked, eyes still on the rather empty fridge before him as spoke,

"Thank god, doesn't look like Joe's done any shopping since his parents went away."

" Thankfully, I brought drinks. I just popped in to grab one, did you want one?" you smiled as you reached to the counter and grabbed the tray with an abundance of drinks on it. 

" Sure gorgeous, maybe a Coke? " He quirked a brow, letting the fridge door with a bang shut.

You giggled and mock saluted, obediently retrieving his preferred beverage from your plastic bag of shopping. Setting the can down on the tray with other drinks you headed back outside toward the pool. As you set the tray of drinks down on the patio table and turned back to shut the door, you caught a glimpse of what had no doubt been going on since you'd left. Joe and Bea hadn't moved from their previous position.

"Ugh you two are so gross! You invite us over just to make us feel like we're stuck watching some soft core porn." you complained.

Rami just laughed from where he was leaning against the side of the house smoking a cigarette. 

"She has a point Joseph. How would you feel if the tables were turned and YN and I started acting like that in front of you two?" 

Your cheeks immediately warmed at the thought of you locked in a heated make out session with Rami, something you were fairly certain would never happen. 

"Well Ram I'd say it was about fucking time. You two have totally had feelings for each other since Y/N was in, like, kindergarten, so seriously, just kiss and hook up already. Maybe then we can give you two shit for being the disgustingly in love couple." 

God damn Joseph Frances Mazzello III, had to open his big Italian mouth. You couldn't do anything to stop your body from feeling too warm, and the sudden spread of heat through your whole body gave all the evidence needed to prove your embarrassment. The crush you've had on Rami had been well hidden (or so you thought) until this moment. 

"Hey Y/N are you okay? You look like you are about to die of sun stroke." Bea inquired, glancing at your flushed state.

"Haha, yeah...it's just really hot out here..." was all you managed to say before abruptly ending the conversation by cannonballing into the pool.

You resurfaced just in time to see another body hit the water, and within seconds felt yourself being pulled back under it. When you came up for air moments later, Joe was laughing. His childish chuckle was infectious, and soon you were laughing too. 

Grabbing ahold of his shoulders, you attempted to use your body weight to push him back under but sadly, he was stronger than you. He laughed at your failed attempt before wrapping his arms around you, and flinging you both back under the water. 

This time, resurfacing, you used your arms around his neck to try and pull him back under, laughing maniacally as you did. As Joe laughed and resisted your tugs, you heard a shout. 

"Cannonball!" 

You found yourselves being nearly drowned by Rami's tidal wave. 

Rami resurfaced a few feet away from you and Joe, and you can't help the heat pooling between your thighs at the vision. All you saw was his olive skin glowing as the water run rivers down it. 

You turned to look up at Bea who was still yet to join the three of you in the sanctuary of the cool water. She simply smirked at you and motioned her head toward the boys, who were now locked in some kind of heated water battle. She raised her brows suggestively and you knew then you had been caught staring at the golden God of a man. You blushed immediately before decisively shifting the attention to her, 

"You joining in bitch, or you just gonna sit there looking cute and sweaty?!" you teased with a smile before disappearing back under the water. 

Popping your head back up a few seconds later, you heard the boys shouting something at you just before a ball collided with your head. It bounced off your face with a soft thunk before it floated lazily off to the side of the pool. 

Both boys looked at you sheepishly while muttering out their apologies. Scowling at both of them you did the next best thing you could think of in that moment yelling,

"Bea, help meeee!"

Ever the loyal friend, she came through, hopping into the pool next to you and sliding over one of the pre-loaded water guns. You both took your aim and fired at the ill prepared boys, neither one of you caring who got hit. 

The boys shouted and splashed at you both in retaliation. You surrendered pretty quickly but Joe and Bea seemed to want to duke it out and what originally began as something cute and innocent, turned into another repulsive makeout session.

"Ugh!!! You two are so gross. Joe, I swear if you cum in this pool while I am in it, you'll not live to see your next birthday." You huffed while swimming over to the edge of the pool where Rami was leaning. 

"They are so gross!" you reiterated.

"Disgusting." Rami agreed. 

After a moment of silence Rami spoke up,

"Hey uh, I was wondering--"  He stopped himself mid sentence, looking as though he was debating on whether or not to continue.

"Yeah…..?" You pushed.

"It's nothing, forget it." he muttered.

"Didn't sound like nothing. Come on, you've never been one to not speak your mind…."

Rami sighed, closing his eyes before blurting,

"Okay, so ummmm, I've been wanting to ask you something for a while." he stopped himself again. 

"Rami, what is it?" you implored.

"I was wondering if maybe, I know the timing couldn't possibly be worse since I'm leaving soon for school, but, well… would you maybe want to go on a date with me sometime?" he nervously scratched the back of his head, avoiding eye contact.

"Oh," you gasped. "Why were you so nervous to ask? We've known each other for forever, it's just me. Of course I will. And uh, it's never been a big secret that I've had a big crush on you since I was in like, Kindergarten."

Rami's eyes widened, and he let out a chuckle of relief.

"Surely Sami has clued you in, or even Joe." you continued, smiling.

He smiled and reached out to cup your face, but at the last moment he faltered and ended up dropping his hand back into the water. 

"Well, great." He laughed. "How about next Friday? I can pick you up or meet you somewhere?" 

"I can meet you at our favorite all-night diner on third after I get off of work on Friday, about seven?" you offered.

"Sounds great." he smiled, seconds before splashing you with water and then gracefully gliding away. 

Friday

Your day seemed to have crawled by so slowly that it was almost driving you insane. When it was finally time for you to clock out of work, you almost screamed in excitement. 

It took no time at all for you to be out of your work clothes and into the gorgeous dress you bought specifically for this occasion.

Finally landing a date with Rami was like a dream come true. You never thought it would ever happen, and you were beyond thrilled.

Getting to the diner, you practically floated inside and headed for the table your group usually occupied. It was there you waited. And waited. And waited. For over four hours, you waited and he never showed.

You threw a handful of bills on the table to cover for the drink and to leave enough for a really nice tip. Running out of the diner to your car, hot tears of humiliation and anger fell while the cliché rain started pouring down. 

You felt like a fool, like you had just had an elaborate prank pulled on you. In your rage you screamed until your voice felt raw. 

"RAMI SAID MALEK I FUCKING HATE YOU!!" 

END OF SUMMER

"Come on YN, it will be super fun!!! Plus, it's my birthday, so you know as my best friend, you're sort of bound by best friend code to go." Bea begged. 

"I don't want to go. If Joe's there then he'll be there. All damn summer he's not once tried to get in touch with me. I've tried and now he probably thinks I'm insane."

"Okay, one that doesn't matter. Two, who fucking cares. Three, you'll be looking fantastic and all it will do is remind him of just how fucking hot you are. What his dumbass could have had all summer. You two would have been lifers!" 

"Lifers? Bea what the hell does that even  mean?" 

"You know. Together for lifers."

"That's... not a real saying….All that snogging and fucking around with Joe has certifiably made you crazy. We wouldn't have been lifers, but I guess we'll never know. You and Joe though, I can see it now. In about 5 years you'll be getting married and having little Joe's, and I'll be the single fun auntie to your whole baseball team of kids."

"Seriously YN, are you smoking crack? And also, that is definitely not happening! You know what is though...you going to my birthday party slash end of summer pool party...ey..ey."

She raised a brow and nudged your shoulder.

"Ugh whatever, fine you win! Maybe I could borrow your little red bikini? It's a little small up top but, I'll make it work."

"If that's all it takes to get you to go then, hell yes!!" 

DAY OF THE PARTY

"Wow YN, isn't that Bea's bathing suit?" Joe rasped.

"Uh- huh." You nodded, smirking at his attempts to keep his eyes away from your chest.

 "Thought so, coz uh...fuck could that top be any smaller on you?" He blurted, finally resting his eyes on the particular part of your body he'd been avoiding.

You glanced over at Rami who was standing behind him, and his reaction seemed nearly the same, except that Rami started to shift his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. While you hadn't said anything to him since he had shown up, you smirked, knowing that your plan was working. 

"Babe, just say she has amazing tits and move on." Bea sighed, smirking.

It was then you felt a small pair of hands cupping your boobs as Bea came up behind you and gave them a gentle squeeze. 

Close friends as you were, you simply laughed as Bea continued on,

 "They make amazing pillows, and they are soooo soft and squishy. Look at how bouncy...." She jested, bouncing your breasts in her hands. 

Both boys looked shocked and a little uncomfortable, and Rami audibly gulped, before turning on his heel and walking away with a tinge of red to his olive complexion. 

" Yeah YN, great uhh.. Job. I mean. Tits. Yeah. Fuck…. " a very red faced Joe stuttered out as he clapped you on the back, before wandering off in the same direction as Rami.

"Well that went well." you shrugged as Bea just laughed uncontrollably behind you. 

"That. Was. Amazing." was all Bea managed between huge guffaws of laughter. 

"You can let go of my tits now Bea." You dead panned.

"Oh…" she promptly retracted her hands. "Sorry."

As the evening progressed and more fun was had, you continually found yourself searching for a familiar face. You knew that Rami had brought his brother Sami with him, but you had never confused the two in all the years you've known them both. 

While in the middle of a conversation with some random classmate that you can't seem to remember you felt it - his eyes on you. You caught his eye and smiled only to watch a deep frown form on his beautiful face as he turned to look away.

Anger bubbling just below the surface, you run into the house, up the stairs and straight to Bea's room. As you slam the door behind you, you can't help but to let the tears you'd been holding back fall freely. Your body wracked with sobs but you decided that you are done, absolutely positively done with Rami fucking Malek.

Throwing your clothes on over Bea's bathing suit, you grab your bag and go in search of your best friend. Watching her chatting happily with some friends with Joe's arm around her tiny waist, you decide to just leave. Sure your friend is going to be mad as hell at you but she'll get over it eventually. 

Walking along the pool in your haste to get away you collide with another person. You gasp when you realize who you've just run into and the tears begin to pool in your eyes. Fuck. Of course, of all people, it would be him. 

"What is your problem?!" came your outburst. 

"I don't have one YN, unless it's a staring problem, because that's been you all night. You can't take your eyes off of me huh?" his tone was light and mildly joking. 

"Why?!" was the only other thing that you could think of to say. 

"I don't know, you've been staring at me."

"No, why, why did you not show up?" 

"Fuck that was forever ago, I didn't know you'd still be hung up on that." he laughed.

"You're an asshole Rami, you embarrassed me. I wanted you and you… you… you just left me fucking hanging."

"I never said I didn't want you, I-I- you don't understand, I couldn't go."

"Then prove to me you still want me then." 

You reached up to grab his face for a kiss,  but before you could, his hands found your hips and slowly, he walked you backwards. With a laugh, he gave you a playful shove, and into the pool you went. 

*****************

ABOUT 20 YEARS LATER

You looked up at him in complete confusion, as you desperately tried to pry your hands apart once again. It was like they had been superglued together - nothing you'd tried to do to unstick them had been successful. 

"Rami, what's going on?" You quirked a brow.

He didn't seem all that concerned about this predicament, and simply threw back his head, speaking between mocking chuckles,

"Looks like you're really stuck with me now."

"Rami,this-it-it isn't funny! What's happening? What did you do to our hands?!" You pressed, suddenly on the verge of tears. You were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse on the shitty bed awaiting you in your hotel room.

It was then your attention was drawn toward Rami's hotel room door. With a loud bang, it swung open, that sound like a knife cutting through the tense, heavy air surrounding you. A rather dishevelled looking Sami peered out from behind the dark wood, his hair a mess and eyes weary.

"There you are!" He exhaled, shoulders slumping and eyes rolling. "I thought I lost you!" 

He gestured toward you and Rami as he made quick strides toward you both. It wasn't until he came to a stop before you his relieved expression vanished, replaced by one of pure shock and disbelief. With wide eyes he stared at your linked hands, his mouth agape. Why on earth such a seemingly innocent gesture caused this reaction was beyond you, and only added to your growing sense of anxiety. Suddenly, Sami's face broke out in a smirk and he reached up to nervously scratch the back of his head.

"Uhhh…" He stammered, eyes darting between you both, before resting on Rami's. " I think it's time you two had a little discussion..." He raised a brow, nodding knowingly toward Rami who seemed adamant on not meeting his brothers stare. 

With a sigh, Rami's eyes met yours and he reluctantly huffed,

"I guess so."

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