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artazonearth · 9 days

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𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 — @forjustice

Name: Voloska Kalonymus Karashina (Volo) Age: 470+, semi-eternally youthful DOB: February 29, 400+ years ago Profession (e.x. 'baker’, 'florist’, 'painter’): Has had many professions over the years but the one most relevant here is that he used to be a doctor. Booth Theme: Healing :3 Booth Products (what are you selling/offering!): Acupuncture and chiropractic! Old and venerable, time-tested methods of healing that are still used today. Finally, what’s your favorite part about the earth?: I'm filling out two of these so I'll put my characters' favorite things about the Earth here! Volo's favorite things about nature are the feel of the wind chill at the top of Mt. Coronet, the crunch of its snow beneath his feet, and the scent of pine in the forests.

Names: Peony Asteria Skyherald, Yuuki "Brendan" Senju, May Birch Ages: 26 and the last two are 25 DOB: cries I can't think of them Profession (e.x. 'baker’, 'florist’, 'painter’): Asteria is Champion of Hoenn and Brendan and May are members of the Hoennese Peoples' Collective (with possible membership in the new Hoenn League, haven't decided yet). All are also Indigenous artisans. Booth Theme: Traditional crafts! Booth Products (what are you selling/offering!): Various crafts made by Indigenous Hoennese peoples. Asteria is selling geodes of various sizes (from those that can fit in your hand to those that are as tall as a person) with crystals grown by magic to fit certain patterns and shapes such as mythological figures and Tumblr blorbos from popular media, a Lavaridgean craft. Brendan is selling Sootopolitan miniature desk waterfall fountains, the fountain bases carved in whimsical shapes and intricate patterns with traditional wood-carving techniques, with the water magically charmed to always recycle. May is selling handmade Draconid beadwork flight suit commissions! Commissions might not be done by the end of the event, but they will be done; you pay half upfront and half when the commission is completed. Samples are included so you can see examples of her work, and if one fits you, you might be able to persuade her to let it go. The booth also has beadwork, bone carvings and woodwork from various Indigenous Hoennese artisans; each piece has a tag attributing it to a specific artisan with their name, their group, the part of Hoenn they are from, and the social media where they promote their work attached. All proceeds will go to help heal the world of Hopeverse/Fallenverse, a parallel universe to Risenverse that has been devastated by an environmental apocalypse. Money will be used to provide supplies and basic needs such as food, water, shelter and healthcare to the survivors, as well as to help heal the environment itself. Finally, what’s your favorite part about the earth?: They have many things that are their favorite. The way that due to the dynamism of Groudon and Kyogre Hoenn's land always shifts and changes, things are never quite the same as they were the year before. The way the sunlight dances across the bottom of the shallow parts of the sea. The feeling of your toes in the sand, whether in the beach or in the vast Route 113 desert. The calls of Pokémon ringing out across the verdant rainforest around Fortree City. Most importantly, the kinship between the Hoennese peoples and their land.

Name: Hazel Malkava Karashina Age: 200-300+ years old, semi-eternally youthful DOB: Some time in the 1700s Profession (e.x. 'baker’, 'florist’, 'painter’): Blacksmith, welder Booth Theme: Blacksmithing! Booth Products (what are you selling/offering!): Just like at the Ren Faire, she's setting up a blacksmith's shop where she sells all kinds of cool things she made. There are more ordinary objects, like home decorations, mirror frames, and kitchen utensils with fancy patterns on them. But there are also weapons, like throwing knives, katanas, broadswords--and you can even see her working 'round the clock on new items for the shop! And there's also jewelry. What's not to love? Finally, what’s your favorite part about the earth?: Getting all dirty and covered in mud after roughhousing in the great outdoors with her Pokémon.

#artazonearthday2024 #booth submission.#booth accepted.

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babbushka · 4 years

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Last Straw (3/12)

Newly married to your high school sweetheart Kylo Ren, the two of you move into Skywalker Ranch, a farm recently passed down after the death of Kylo’s grandfather. The place is charming, and the people seem friendly…but are they?

Content Warnings: NSFW content (shower sex)

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After a few seconds thought, you decide no, you want to help him. Between the two of you, you could splurge on some really expensive parts since you wouldn’t have to worry about paying anyone for labor. And the way Kylo is looking at you, standing there shirtless and sun-kissed, well, you think if anyone was going to be around your man ogling him, it better be his newly wedded wife.

“I was thinking it might be nice if we worked on the house together.” You decide, making him absolutely light up. You take a big swig of your coffee and give him a playful wink as the birds chirp just outside the broken windows, “You know how I’ve been watching all those shows on HGTV? All the renovation ones?”

“Okay but you’re not actually an electrician or a plumber or anything honey.” Kylo snorts into his own mug, and you bite your lip in a chastised grin, reach out your foot and nudge him gently.

“Maybe not, but I can use power tools and I know how to follow instructions like nobody’s business.” You point out, and he does raise his mug in acknowledgment to that with a chuckle.

“Touché.” He says, and you just love him so much, you put the mug down and get up from the small rickety table to get all in his business, press yourself clad in only your robe, up against him.

“I figured you could direct me, Mr. Handyman, and whatever I can’t figure out myself, well, we always have YouTube.” You say, an attempt at being seductive, your lids lowered, and your mouth pouted.

It works, and he sets his mug down on the table hard, wraps his arms around you. His skin is warmed and already a little sweaty from the work he was doing in the kitchen, just some simple tidying up with the broom and a duster. He kisses you, licks into your mouth nice and slow, wet, hungry. He tastes like the roasted coffee beans he always buys, some locally grown brand from the big city that he’s now going to have to give up, living all the way out here in the farmlands.

But he doesn’t care, not if the way he’s holding onto you is any indication, doesn’t care about the coffee, only being here with you.

“You really want to work on the house with me?” He asks, eyes dark and brimming with nervous thoughts.

You know what he’s asking, what he really means.

You really want to live here with me?

He doesn’t need to say it, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve been through enough together, enough shared trauma that you can read him all too well, the best out of anyone. And the unasked question in his smoldering eyes breaks your heart, because how could you not? With all he’s done for you – all you’ve done for one another. How much you love one another.

“Of course I do.” You reply, answering both the spoken and unspoken, answering every doubt he could have had. “This house means the world to you, I know that. If I can do my part to restore it to its former glory, then I will.” You mean it, mean every word, always.

He nods, gives your hand a tight squeeze, kisses you. You kiss him back, right on the edge where the scar on his face is gnarled and brutal, feather light kisses letting him know everything is alright.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky, just, considering everything.” He says, and you sigh.

“Ky, there isn’t anyone I’d rather be with. I know it’s hard, I know it is. But we’re going to get through it together.” You reassure him, “And when it’s all said and done, and the house is put back together, we’re going to go out and get some cattle, maybe some sheep, and I’m going to make us homemade cheese just like Padme used to.” You grin.

He smiles at that, at the memory of the gentle baa-ing of Padme’s flock, the memory of frozen sheep’s milk accompanied by fresh strawberries. You raise your eyebrows in a comforting manner, as if to ask if that’s alright, if he’s alright. He’s not, but he’s trying, you know by the way he nods, and the attempt is worth more than you can say.

“I think our first trip should be to go into town and get stuff to fix the shower.” Kylo says eventually, breaking the heavy seriousness of the moment by catching a whiff of his underarms and making a face, scrunching up his nose. “The water’s been turned back on and the electric works, but that shower…”

“Alright alright, good thing we have deodorant.” You laugh, playfully swatting at his chest as you wrangle yourself out of his grasp.

It takes almost forty-minutes to get all the way into town, into town properly anyway. About half an hour into the drive there are houses that spring up, scattered about. Nothing that could really be called a suburb, not the way you think of it anyway. But ten minutes more and suddenly you’re driving down Main Street, a bustling road filled with people walking, biking, driving.

It’s just the one road, but it’s got all the sorts of stores you might want, anything you might need. There’s a grocery, a pharmacy, the library. A couple store-fronts selling clothes, home goods. There are restaurants, bars, but none of them, nothing on the street is a chain. Everything is mom-and-pop, established signs and plaques boasting over one hundred years of operation.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to live in a place like this? It was always my dream, getting out of the city, out into nature. I love how wide open everything is.” You say, the sun-bleached pavement smooth under the tires of the truck.

“Good, because we’ve got just about nothing but nature.” Kylo replies, as he parks the car in front of the home supply store.

It’s surprisingly modern inside, with all the latest gadgets that one might need when doing any sort of renovations. There are aisles and aisles of all sorts of things, plumping, wood paneling, bolts and nuts and screws, and all the power cordless tools to go along with them. An old woman turns to greet you both when the ding of the doorbell sounds, and she nearly drops her armful of foam insulation tube at the sight of Kylo.

“Bless my soul if it isn’t Benjamin! Benny boy how are ya?” She hurriedly puts everything down, rushes over and scoops Kylo’s six-foot-three frame into her arms, giving him a tight squeeze while his face goes beet red.

“Mrs. Carlton I go by Kylo now, and this is my wife, (Y/N).” He explains, and she nods in understanding, gives a cheeky wink.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say, holding your hand out for a shake, but she just leans in for a big embrace as well.

You of course oblige, and are surprised to see that while she may look frail, she’s got something of a good grip when she hugs you tight.

“Oh ain’t she a beaut! You got yourself mighty lucky with this one Benny – now don’t tell me, you’re here on account of the ol’ farmhouse needing repairs, ain’t that right?” Mrs. Carlton asks, a wistful look in her eye.

“How’d you know that?” Kylo asks in return, and the woman just tsks out a laugh.

“Oh folks talk, believe me. When I heard that state agents were snoopin’ around your granddaddy’s farm you can believe me and the guys went out to tell ‘em what for. We thought they were trespassing, but then they told us about ol’ Anakin.” She says, her voice going soft towards the end.

You look at Kylo, and Kylo looks at his feet, trying not to get worked up or emotional out in public. Being home in your arms was one thing, being in the middle of the doorknob aisle was another.

“Yeah.” Is all he says, voice thick.

Mrs. Carlton releases you from her hug, and you move over to Kylo’s side, wrapping your arm around his, comforting him.

“I’m real sorry to hear that sonny, real sorry. He loved you very much; you ought to know, any time you’d come over for the summers it’d be all he could talk about.” Mrs. Carlton says gently, and that make’s Kylo’s head snap up, eyes wide.

“Really?” He asks, and your heart breaks all over. All over again, for the way he looks so young, the way he looks like he did back before…well…everything.

“Really.” She nods, and for a moment you think she might cry too, but then she’s walking away, towards the register, the insulation tubing all but forgotten. “Now listen, I know that house has seen better days, so let me tell you what. Anything you need, you ain’t paying full price for it. I’d offer a hand myself to help but I’m afraid the last time I climbed up a ladder was the last time I climbed up anything.” She chuckles on her way across the store, making you frown.

“No, Mrs. Carlton please we are more than able to pay for everything, really.” You insist, not wanting to take any advantage, least of all of an old lady.

“Sweetheart I’m sure you can, but I won’t accept it. Angel!” Mrs. Carlton calls, calls again until a younger woman, probably around your age if a little younger, comes out from the back where she was no doubt on break, “Angel honey, could you please help Kylo and (Y/N) find everything they’re lookin’ for? She’ll take real good care of you.” Mrs. Carlton winks at Kylo, who only blushes all over again.

Angel leads Kylo down an aisle after taking a look at the list he had written up before leaving for town. You’re about to follow them, when you stop and take one more look at the kind old woman who was now busying herself behind the counter.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carlton.” You say sincerely, for the warm welcome, for the kind words, and for the understanding.

She only waves it off, but her eyes are wet when she regards you.

“You both are so young.” She says, and you nod, “Too young to be dealin’ with such heartache. But heartache hits us all, it doesn’t care how old we are, how prepared we are. Love is blind, but death is deaf.” She sighs, and you hum, mull that over.

You begin to walk away, when suddenly she asks with great urgency,

“Can I ask a favor?”

You stop in your tracks and rush back to the counter, eager to help her with anything. She takes your hand in between her own, spotted and wrinkled but soft nonetheless.

“Of course!” You say, because of course.

“If you happen to come across Padme’s old recipe book in that there kitchen, would you make me a sour cherry pie?” She asks, and you break out into a big smile, nod happily.

“Mrs. Carlton I’ll make you a pie every Sunday, if you’d like.” You tell her and she lets you go with a big laugh so that you can join your husband on his quest for two inch pipe.

You both get to work right away, when you’re back home. You smile at that, at the thought of how easy it was to call this place home. You’d not even been there a week, and yet you’re already thinking of how the dishes could go here, the dvd collection could go there. You’re envisioning where to put the vases on which tables in which rooms, where to hang the artwork and the family photos.

You don’t get very far, not the first day. Only the bathroom and the kitchen are dealt with, getting the plumbing cleaned and clear for the toilet and the shower, getting the sinks hooked up, the floors mopped and swept, counters dusted and polished. The fridge in the kitchen works, and you spend an entire hour cleaning it out, wiping it down, making it fit to put the drinks and snacks you’ve stashed in your cooler in the bed of the truck.

It’s dark by the time it’s all finished, the sun having gone down long ago. If you had to guess, it was probably ten o’clock at night. But the electricity worked, so you flipped the light switches on, illuminated the space with the soft golden glow of old bulbs that would absolutely need replacing, lest they burst from years of disuse.

“Shower with me.” Kylo says when you meet him at the top of the stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creak and groan. That’d be a project for another day, you think, replacing the wood there.

But for now, you’re more than eager to shower off the muck and grime and sweat of the day.

Kylo had done a damn good job on the bathroom, the tile all scrubbed and bleached, new shower-head and curtains, even picked up a soft bath-mat to catch the water when you stepped out after you were both clean.

You admire the job he did, but also him, his body, the wat the water runs in rivulets down his sculpted chest and arms, his broad back, those thick thighs.

“Careful sweetheart,” He says, voice low, “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to have to fuck you.” He says it like that’d be a punishment, like it’d be a bad thing, like you’re not eager, desperate for it.

In response you tug him forward to meet his lips in a searing kiss, opened mouth and hot, hotter than the water which steams up the mirror just outside the shower. It takes so little to get him groaning into your mouth for you, takes so little to get him to pant and his hands to twitch as they reach for you – but they’re reaching for you now, and you let him grope and grab and bruise you under the hot spray, as soapy foam slides down your skin, washing away the stress of the day.

He’s hard for you, turns you around and presses your chest to the cold tile where the water doesn’t hit, as he settles behind you. You brace yourself against the wall to get some purchase, some leverage, as you press your hips back, encouraging him as he slides the head of his cock through your folds.

“Oh,” You sigh happily, suck in a sharp breath when he nudges it further and further into you, hips moving moving moving back and forth to rock all the way into you.

He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, laves his tongue over your pulse as he fucks you steadily, building up momentum and speed. You have to be careful, in the shower, the two of you have absolutely slipped before, and it would be bad luck to get hurt now, on the first fuck in the new house. New home.

He grunts in your ear as he moves faster, really begins to find a good rhythm that has his flesh smacking against yours, has you moaning loud, echoing, bouncing off the walls of the bathroom, fighting the rush of the shower spray.

His cock feels so good inside you, and his hand slips around your throat to squeeze tightly there, to cut off your air flow just enough to make you deliciously dizzy.

Between your panting and his groaning, you almost miss it – the noise.

But there it is again, something foreign, not from your bodies, not from the bathroom. Your eyes fly open and you tense up immediately.

“What was that?” You ask, voice a whisper, and Kylo stops as soon as he notices you’re no longer in the throes of passion.

“What was what?” Kylo asks, immediately shutting off the water, ears trained, trying to listen.

The sound happens again, and you both look at one another, both naked and vulnerable.

“That!” You hiss, scrabbling for a towel, “There’s someone at the door.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Kylo groans, scrubs a hand over his face and gets out of the shower, quickly grabs a towel for himself and wipes down, throwing on his robe that he had pulled out from the suitcase. “Baby stay here, I’m going to see what’s going on.”

“Don’t!” You squeak, towel wrapped around your body, hugging it close, eyes wide. Your heart is racing, and you can’t explain it, can’t explain the sudden anxiety you feel.

“Why not?” Kylo asks, already sticking his big feet into slippers, already combing his fingers through his sopping wet hair.

“I don’t like it, it’s the dead of night what if – ” You start to worry, chew your lip.

Kylo put his hands on your arms to calm and comfort you.

“If it’s the dead of night and they’re knocking politely on our door, they must be in trouble. Folks around here help one another, this isn’t the city where everyone’s out to get you.” He says with a bit of a chuckle.

“Please?” You ask anyway, hoping that maybe if you just ignore them, they’ll leave.

“I’m just going to see if everything is okay, I won’t let them in, I promise.” Kylo shakes his head, those good boy instincts coming through too strong.

“I’m coming with you.” You decide, pulling on your robe too.

Standing on the porch in nothing but the light of the moon are three men; one much older, and two younger ones who look to be identical twins. The twins are boys really, just barely getting through puberty from the looks of it. They’re clearly family, sharing the same crop of red hair and sprinkling of freckles, and when Kylo opens the door they all give you the same smile.

It’s a slightly disconcerting smile, particularly on one of the twins, who looks like he isn’t used to the gesture, like it hurts his face almost.

“Good evening sir, ma’am, we’re so sorry to bother you at this time of night.” The eldest, maybe their father, says. “My name is Brendol Hux, and these are my sons, Armitage and William.” The man, Brendol, has an accent, something thick and heavy but not one you can really place.

“How can we help you?” Kylo asks, shaking the man’s hand, shaking it still even when he won’t let go. When it’s awkward. When the shake has gone on for too long.

“Our car broke down about a mile up the road.” Brendol says, still shaking Kylo’s hand, nails starting to dig in too tight.

Kylo rips his hand out of the man’s grip, and you try your best, your very best not to notice, not to scream.

“Shit, I’m sorry, engine trouble?” Kylo wonders, but the younger looking boy, the one with the long red hair, William, shakes his head.

“No we think we, we think we accidentally hit some nails, our tires busted.” The boy stammers, eyes big and blue and watery. They’re so light that they’re almost see-through. They look sad, you think.

“I’m afraid we can’t help you, we don’t have any spare tires.” You say, already ready to close the door on them, when Brendol laughs.

“Oh no! No that’s not why we’re here,” He says, making you and Kylo both frown, “We were hoping you might let us spend the evening in your barn, just until sunrise when we can flag down a tow-truck or someone who might have a spare.”

“I can call a tow-truck for you.” You announced happily, glad to be able to help and get them off of your property. You had already connected the phone lines that afternoon, so it wouldn’t be any issue, not for local numbers anyway.

“No!” William says far too loudly, too panicked, and Kylo frowns.

“No?” He asks, voice deep, shoulders square.

Armitage and Brendol both shoot William a look, one that makes you wonder if maybe you should call Child Protective Services instead.

“What my son means, is that there’s no one awake right now, no one would answer.” Brendol says easily, smiling politely, smiling in that way that makes you break out into goosebumps, because you feel like you’ve seen that face before, but you can’t place where, or why.

You and Kylo look at one another, and you silently debate what to do.

They looked to be genuinely in distress, and Kylo was right, people helped one another around here. You felt awful about the thought of leaving them to fuck off into the night. They had clearly come to you for help, must have seen the lights on and thought this was their only option, or else they wouldn’t have shown up. If you agree to let them stay, it wouldn’t even be inside the house. They asked to sleep in the barn, which is a good many yards away. It’s not like anyone else was sleeping in there, you reasoned.

On the other hand, you didn’t like the idea of strangers on your property. The phone lines worked, and maybe you could call the police or something too while you were at it. You don’t like the way poor William cowers in fear of his brother, his father. You want to hug him close, but at the same time you want them all to go very very far away.

What will you do?

(If you agree to let them stay, click here) (If you decide to call the tow-truck anyway, click here)

#reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo x reader #kylo/reader #my writing #dead dove do not eat #last straw

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toffeetaffy · 5 years

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Beast at My Side [3]

Manners for My Killer It's perfect. Being here with you, our fingers interlaced, lying in bed, talking just like we used to. Soon it will be midnight. The droop of my eyes and slow slur of my speech are reflections of every hour that I have been awake. You have been awake for months. You look better than you ever have. You are dead.

I write it like a letter in my mind while I stare at her inhuman beauty. I don't want to find her so captivating, and I tell her as much. She wishes I didn't have to either. It's all a part of the 'package', she says. A little taller, a little curvier, straightened teeth, thickened hair. Unquenchable thirst for human blood.

I want to drift off, give in to the sleep my body is calling for, but Bella won't let me. She's giggling nervously about something. You could almost forget that she is a monster. Having waited long enough, she leans in close and speaks in a whisper. She wants to know about Jasper. Where did we go? What did we talk about? The questions are flying past her lips even as I try desperately to cover her mouth. She giggles, I shush her, there's a gentle rapping on the bedroom door. Bella calls for them to enter before I can clap my hands back over her face. Esme lingers in the doorway. She informs Bella that Ren is sleeping soundly, and that Edward will stay with her at the cottage. She turns to leave when the thought occurs to her.

"Careful, dear," she points to her own mouth before gesturing back to us, "sharp teeth."

A little shamefacedly, Bella zips out of my grasp and starts tucking me in before I can protest. She tells me she should never forget how frail I am. I tell her I want to climb another tree. It is then that she tells me how I sound just like she used to: reckless and stupid. It's easier for her to infantalise me than to engage in a serious discussion about our predator-prey relationship. I want to tell her that she sounds just like Edward but my eyes are heavy, and my mouth is full of cotton. ___ Breakfast is a quiet affair. I am the only one eating though Bella, her husband, and daughter all sit with me making idle chatter while I chew. I have never enjoyed idle chatter. When I finish my meal I wash the dishes. The crockery is modern and white, and it looks perfect stowed away next to its counterparts. All seldom used, all expensive beyond my estimation. I am weary for the early hour.

When their conversation lulls I clear my throat. I have an appointment in Seattle, the time has changed, I cannot stay as long as I have promised. I provide them with little more detail and this upsets Bella. It upsets me, too. It might only have been one more day but we could have made that day last forever. Could have written it in the sky.

She tells me to come back. She says it without consultation or hesitation, without any regard for a life that is not hers or mine. Come right back, she pleads, meet Rosalie and Emmett. At that statement, Edward grimaces. Whatever dark thought he has captured in his pinched face - it is not for me to know. I tell her that I want to, that I would if I could, that returning here would make me happier than I have ever been. The truth of that leaves me raw. In the end I acknowledge that it is a family matter, she should discuss it with them.

Exiting the kitchen, Carlisle crosses my path.

"Bartók," I greet.

"Frankenstein," his reply.

I laugh all the way up the stairs.

My hands are clammy, resting on the handle of the bedroom door. The air is thick with a feeling, I swallow it deep. It is heavy like mud in my lungs. Before I can turn the handle he opens the door and beckons to me, shutting us in. This is part of his gift, as I understand it. A cloud of emotion that he is prone to wearing around as though it is his Sunday best. I cannot name it, only feel the weight of it upon my shoulders. It will crush me to death.

"Please stop," I plead. And it does. I know better than to expect an apology. If I have found my emotions twisted and strange it is because he wants them to be.

He asks me what is in Seattle. We appear to have moved beyond formality and in to familiarity. I do not like the change. I do not think he cares. Rather than answer him, I take a seat on the bed. It still smells sweetly of the creatures who normally reside here. The scent is a trap. One weapon in a thousand.

"You know," he begins, "some humans are gifted with a quality that grants them exceptional power. Those qualities are what evolve in to the supernatural gifts we possess after our transition."

"Do you think I'm gifted, Jasper?"

"Perhaps." He stares at me for a time, my heart gives an irregular thump. "We're all surprisingly willing to share our secrets with you, yet you seem to share so little with us."

I tell him I am an open book, that there is nothing more to me than what can readily be seen. Ask me anything, I challenge, knowing he will. He asks me what is in Seattle. An impasse, apparently.

"Come on. You get one question, one guaranteed answer, don't just throw it away!"

He asks again why I'm going to Seattle and again I stare mutely in to his eyes. Edward could pluck the thought from my head, he tells me. I imagine he already has. There is nothing for him to gain from that answer other than the knowing, but my only power lies in the withholding. It is childish. But I am little more than a child. He asks me again as I climb off the bed, he asks me again as I put on my coat, and he asks me again as I am leaving the room.

The clouds are bruised, ripe with rain. My boots squelch in the sodden earth, sinking deeper the closer I move to the tree line. I want to be angry. I want to hate him just a little, but I can already feel the lethargic creep of his manufactured calm upon me. My legs are heavy. My feet are dragging. I do not know exactly how far I have walked carrying the burden of my own body but I hope that it is far enough. I turn to find him behind me. He was always right behind me.

"Can they hear us?"

"No," Jasper says, "not from here."

He is waiting for me to tell him my secret—a secret he is sure I have—but I am frozen in front of him. Always. Crushes are cruel like that. So awful to the heart that holds them. His eyes pin me in place and scrawl illegibly on my lungs, stealing my breath. I want to embrace the panicky euphoria that should be here in my ribs where all I feel is cold calm. I plead with him to stop again, and he returns my emotions to me. Sweat crawls across my brow, hidden in the rain. He has perennial patience and I wonder if my silence will ever find the end of it.

"If you don't plan on tellin' me, why come all the way out here? Why care what they can hear?"

"Scheherazade."

"Scheherazade?"

"I'm worried. What if my story isn't interesting enough to keep me alive? What if you kill me before I get to finish telling it to you?"

"Why would I kill you?"

I press my chest against his, I clutch his sweater in my fists, I kiss him with my eyes closed. He lets me. Even damp, strange, and disgustingly human as I am - he lets me. I shouldn't have. Never without permission; maybe never at all. I step back and the air is electric. His jaw twitches, his fingers flex, his skin can barely contain him. This cannot be fixed if it is broken, it is the sort of bridge that burns too easily. I tell him I am sorry, and he asks me why. The answer is obvious. The answer is manifold. The answer is a many-splintered thing.

It happens too quickly for me to comprehend. His hand is inside my coat, resting on my hip; the other on my nape, knotted in my curls. My body aches and my mind is stained when he slants his mouth over mine. I gasp. He captures one lip between his two. I shatter. My hands reach out for him, my heart pushes up into my throat, my blood boils. When I imagine that there are no more thoughts left in the universe, I hear it.

Careful, dear. Sharp teeth.

I am choosing from one million ways to die by moulding myself against him. The panic strikes me, and blood that once burned with rebellion runs cold in my veins. I am frozen in front of him. Again. Always. He hovers around my unresponsive form, lips linger over my pulse before his body makes an earnest retreat. My lungs are full of coal and I am breathing in fire. I want it to burn forever.

He reaches for me and I flinch. Before I can finish the end of my breathy apology he is reaching again. Slowly. So slowly. His thumb ghosts over my cheek, and drifts under my eye. His eyes were brown once. Dark, like mine.

"Am I in danger?"

"Always."

"Do you think that you'll kill me?"

A crooked smile stretches up one side of his face. It's all sharp teeth and southern charm. "Well, not on purpose."

And just like that he has ruined me. My hand is not my own when it reaches out and presses against his mouth, fingertips lightly tracing. My thumb draws back his upper lip. My body shakes. It could be the cold, it could be my nerves, it could be my end. He steals my wrist away, grips my pulse in his fingers. I am saved from the inconvenience of tearing myself open on his teeth, from bleeding into his mouth.

We walk back towards the house and I am slowed by the damp. He makes no move to aid me. There are some things, he says, that we must do for ourselves. But he opens the door for me. He offers to take my coat. ___

I am in pieces by the time the rain stops. I worry at my lips,and rub at my eyes. She issues me some kind of warning but I cannot process even a single sound. There is thunder in my ears. She milks me for information even knowing that I cannot hide from her husband's gift. He has picked my brain clean. I want to be principled, keep this memory safe because it is not mine alone, have them take it forcibly if they must at all. There are no secrets kept from them, only the secrets that they keep. So why does he keep my secrets?

Edward must have told her, I say. It is a statement, and a question, and a mystery beyond my imagining. She shakes her head. There is a lot he doesn't tell her, she says. It is both sad and true. What she doesn't know can't hurt her, ignorance is bliss. He thinks that he protects her. He shelters her like a child.

I tell her she is a supernova, that she is whisky and wine. I tell her that if she lets me keep this secret, lets me hide it in my heart just for now, that tomorrow I will tell her anything. But I won't. Because I am tomorrow what I am today, and today I am a liar. If she sees that I am shot full of nervous holes—or too transparent to her eyes—she does not say. Instead, she asks when I will return from Seattle. Wednesday, at the latest. We spend the afternoon running, talking, and biding our time.

At night they light a fire in the yard. It is hot, and bright, and it scorches our names into the horizon. The doctor and his wife dance to the music, the stereo swells with a tune I cannot name. Ren perches on her uncle's shoulders, weaving flowers through her mother's hair. They are all beautiful. Each one of them so perfect in death that living seems like a mistake. I close my eyes tight and try to burn this memory there, keep it etched on the back of my eyes. Let it haunt me in my sleep.

"Would you do me the honour?"

His hand is outstretched, his expression almost sombre. I want to carve a smile on to his lips just to prove that they exist.

"Of course, Edward." The name sticks like glue in my teeth. I knew an Edward once. I had disliked that boy, too.

With my hand wrapped in his, and another on my back, he moves us gently to the music. I feel weary and calm when our dance becomes no more than a subtle sway, and Bella's smile is a blur hidden deep within her silhouette. There exists a peculiar temptation to rest my cheek against his chest. I do.

"You're such a hypocrite," he says. "You hate Bella's choices, and then you mirror them. You can't stand the way I treat her, but you treat her much the same." He takes care to keep his voice low, his lips close to my ear. "If you come back here you'll be making the same mistake she did."

"Her only mistake is loving you." It is a stupid thing to say. It is ugly, and mean, and I believe it with every cell in my body.

"I know," he says. It sounds like defeat.

I take his face in my hands and our dance has ended. I call him a fool and his cheek ticks, his jaw grinds under my palm. The beast is awake. If only it will listen. I tell him that his daughter is proof of his kindness, that his music is proof of his soul, that his family is proof monsters are only what we make them.

"There's only one thing I truly hate about you, Edward. You torture them when you torture yourself."

My hands move to his chest. There's a hole here where a heart would fit, I tell him, it's a perfect place to keep one.

"And what about you?" he asks me, "Don't you need one, too?"

I stand outside long after the fire has died down, long after the Cullens have retreated into their warm, wooden homes. I stand outside until my fingers turn blue and my lips are numb, heavy with regret. The sky is punctured with stars, swollen with life. I could almost feel immortal. Out here I bleed moonlight.

Darkness settles around me as I close my eyes. The memory is there—scratched inside, inked with fireflies—the perfect family on a perfect night. Forever is not long enough to stand here watching the doctor twirl his beautiful wife around the fire. And besides, I do not have forever. All I have is now and everything that came before it. It will have to be enough. Even open, my eyes can see their ghosts, see the smoke, see their souls. It fills me with a longing that tugs at my sleeve, begging for me to let it wash me away. For a second I think that I might.

There is a rustling in the trees. I hear the snap of a twig. Fear grabs me by the ribs, shakes bile in to my throat, and sends my heart crashing against my chest. One careful step backwards is all I can make. My legs turn to jelly, I am sinking in sand. He emerges from the tree line: he is tall, he is big, and he is entirely unknown to me. I whisper Bella's name. I draw a jagged breath in between my teeth and hiss her name again. My lungs are filled with broken glass, it shreds my attempt at a scream. If my terror is reflected on my face, it does not bother him. The stranger narrows his eyes to take me in. He stalks closer until I can plainly see each muscle working under his dark skin.

"Stop."

My voice is thready and hollow. As I draw in breath to try again, he speaks.

"Haven't seen you here before. You a friend of the family?"

There are questions in his questions, there are questions in his eyes. If I am meant to know what they are - I do not. Two more steps back. His one giant stride forward is worth any three of mine.

"Please stop." Niceties with a stranger. Manners for my killer. "Just stop and tell me who you are."

"You first." His voice is a bark, a gunshot, a fire under my feet, and I am running for the door.

I take all of the steps in two long strides but I do not reach the door. Between the beats of my heart it opens and closes again and I am caught up in stony arms, slammed firmly against a chest. My bones jar with the impact. My teeth rattle. The stranger halts his pursuit and my rescuer murmurs in my ear. Jasper.

"Easy Jacob, you're scarin' our guest."

___

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#twilight fanfiction #twilight #fanfiction #bella swan #jasper hale #edward cullen #title:beast at my side

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