#or maybe fog lifting while the sun rises? the maybe the thin clouds that cover the moon?

[maudiemoods]

Ok, would you rather be the wildflowers growing on the side of the highway or the crunchy leaves in autumn?

#or maybe fog lifting while the sun rises? the maybe the thin clouds that cover the moon? #ren won't shut up

[daydreambouquet]

Zack never survived the Nibel Reactor and therefore couldn't rescue Cloud from Hojo's clutches. From this single point of divergence, the story unfolds.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” - Cid Highwind

Preview of Chapter 23 - The Ancient Temple

“That must be it,” Cid says as he circles the Wutai carrier above a strip of tropic islands. Azure waters shimmer against sandy white shorelines, and rocky beaches press beneath thick jungle canopies.

Despite the otherwise clear weather, dense fog covers an island in the archipelago. Poking above the obscured tree line is the tip of a jet-black temple whose composition alters from glossy to matte with each strike of sunlight.

“Well, that’s...ominous,” Aerith says, leaning against the window.

Cloud couldn’t agree more. The hues of sky near the temple’s apex are sour yellow, and flocks of parrots spiral to avoid its vicinity.

“Can we get on the ground now?” Yuffie moans from the cabin. She’s curled on the floor to stymie her motion sickness while Barret paces and periodically curses Cait Sith.

“I knew that mother-fucker was up to no good,” Barret kept saying, but now that the temple is close, he stands beside Tifa near the pilot’s chair. “That don’t look like something the Cetra could build.”

It’s true. The angle of the crux is perfect. The material has a deep smooth luster that shifts dark colors and mirrors its surroundings like a window into a shadowed world. The Cetra are an ancient race, presumably without the tools or capabilities for such precision. But more importantly, this place does not appear welcoming. And weren’t the Cetra benevolent custodians of the Planet?

Tifa’s arm brushes against Cloud as she points at a clearing near the edge of the fog.

“There, look,” she says.

A Shinra helicopter sits motionless and vacant. Its windows carry a sheen of translucent dust.

“The hell? That it? No troops?” Barret asks.

It’s strange. There should be more Shinra officials or patrolling Turks. But aside from the scurrying lizards, there are little signs of life.

Nanaki stretches and lifts his nose to peer out. Vincent crosses his arms, watching without comment.

“Shinra knows we are coming,” Nanaki says.

Yet maybe not. They have the keystone, so perhaps they’ve already plundered whatever treasure lay within, though judging by the look on Aerith’s face this seems unlikely. She’s concentrating hard as if deciphering a masterful puzzle.

Tifa smiles over at Cloud. He hasn’t spoken to her about last night, but it doesn’t feel necessary. Nothing between her is uncomfortable. Affections turned tangible, and neither has regrets. He likes that he can trust this sensation. It seems the only unquestionable piece of him.

Cid lands the carrier next to the Shinra chopper because there is nowhere else in the temple’s vicinity, and Aerith asks him to get as close as possible.

When he cuts the engines and slides open the doors, a cacophony of jungle noises and hot muggy air assaults them. Giant insects buzz by, and curious predators slink in the outskirts of their arrival. The Shinra chopper rests inert with one door open, interior console blinking on standby as if the pilot had been in an extreme hurry.

The wall of fog is ahead, and beyond that, the temple rises.

The group hesitates. Yuffie swats at a fat mosquito. Nanaki tilts his head at the screen of mist.

“Is it...safe?” Tifa asks, but of course, nobody knows.

Cloud steps into the fog. Immediately, he’s cut off into another world of compact, quiet forest. The distant chirp of birds is behind him, and the sun is blotted out.

“It’s fine,” he reports, inhaling the odorless mist. “Just fog. Must be a weird weather phenomenon.”

There’s nothing alive in the jungle on this side of the border. The trees are frozen in full bloom, but no wind rustles the foliage. The shades of green seem muted and timeless. Cloud touches the leaves from a vine growing around a tree, and the particles turn to dust in his fingers.

The others enter behind him until the fog encompasses them all. Aerith leads the way forward. The peak of the temple somehow seems more prominent now and dominates the skies.

They follow her in silence, though Cloud insists on taking point in case of Shinra ambush. But as they venture forward, that possibility seems far remote. There is nothing and no one around. The temperature drops as they weave through the jungle in the shadow of the temple. Their boots crunch over dry leaves and brittle vines.

The base of the temple appears like a sudden sheet of milky glass. There are no markings in its facade nor windows or entry of any kind. The mist creates a low ceiling, the illusion of suffocation. As the others wander on, following the structure’s perimeter, Cloud finds himself caught in the intrigue of his reflection. Whenever he glances away, it distends and reintegrates, shimmers and dissolves. Then when he looks again, right at it, the doppelganger disappears and only his own pale blues stare back. He does this double-take four, then five times before a shout calls his attention.

Tifa yells from a distance. The entire party has moved on, and he rushes through the fog along the temple wall, ignoring the sensation of something at his heels.

He finds Aerith equally enthralled nearby. She stands alone, pressing a hand against the temple.

“Did you hear Tifa?” he asks because she’s acting as though she has not. She’s captivated, and his presence startles her.

“I...I can hear something else,” she says. He gets close and listens. Ahead, he hears the commotion of their friends but no urgent cries. No nearby fauna. He hears nothing else.

“The Ancients?” he guesses.

“I don’t know,” Aerith says. “There are many of them.”

Tifa shouts again, and this time it’s in dismay. Alarm. She calls everyone over. Aerith and Cloud move together, and a gap in the mist opens up.

Tifa kneels near a Turk lying on the ground. Red soaks the white shirt beneath the black jacket from a deep slash. He bubbles blood from his lips.

“Tseng!” Aerith runs to his side. “Oh no. No, this can’t be!”

Barret, Cid, and Vincent stand apart, unhelpful, as Tseng sputters a painful-sounding cough. Yuffie and Nanaki are staring at the droplets of blood leading into a narrow archway in the temple. A pattern as if shaken from a long, slender sword. A masamune.

And the entrance, a pyramidal door, beckons into utter black.

Inserted into an indent below is the meteorite. The keystone. Dio’s collector item, unlocking a thousand secrets. Cloud cannot look away.

“Help him!” Aerith says. “Cloud, give me your Restore.”

He pulls his eyes to the suffering Turk. Tseng’s long black hair hangs over a desperate dirt-streaked face. But Tseng is the enemy and a victim of Sephiroth. The General must’ve been here, sought the keystone, and taken it. Which means he’s just ahead. Inside the temple.

“We were wrong...” Tseng whispers. His hands tremble. “It’s not...the Promised Land he’s...”

Aerith soothes him. When the others don’t help her, she explains, “He was always kind to me. The Turks have followed me all my life, but that doesn’t mean any of them deserve to die. Don’t you see?” Her pleading eyes go to Cloud.

He waits, expecting her to whisk a healing breeze out of thin air, but she doesn’t. Maybe she can’t, or maybe Tseng’s wounds aren’t that severe. Sephiroth would’ve killed him if he’d wanted to. But whatever lay ahead was more appealing than Tseng’s death. The Turk wasn’t worth the time.

Cloud steps over Tseng’s body and approaches the entrance. Nanaki and Yuffie stand aside, but he pauses at the gaping void. Cold air coils from the other side, wraps around his forearms. Someone says his name. He thinks it’s Aerith.

Behind him, he sees her kneeling with blood on her dress. Tifa crosses her arms, and Barret gives Cloud a wary look. Cid paces, and Vincent cranes his neck to survey the temple’s peak. Aerith won’t leave Tseng’s side.

Cloud pops the Restore from his sword and tosses it to Aerith. Then he crosses the threshold.

An immediate cool disseminates like static across his skin. The world behind fades away. He hears Aerith activate the Restore, but the swirl of green light doesn’t reach him. The void pulls him forward, and the darkness shifts like a tangible being, becoming darker and lighter as if creatures were moving in its depths. The hallway is longer than it seems, extending beyond the visible footprint of the temple.

Then a rush hits him. It isn’t a physical sensation, but he knows he is falling. On impulse, he curls, shielding his head, yet his feet never leave the ground. The surroundings come up instead of him going down.

A harsh light flares, and in an instant he is outside, overlooking a vast complex of labyrinthine structures: staircases and archways, open-air walkways that loop into corners and angles of confusing geometry. Everything is pale stone and unadorned. The ledge where he stands is crumbled and worn, leading into a stairway that seems undisturbed for eons. The sky is a malachite haze.

#ao3 #fanfiction #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 fanfic #cloud strife #black materia #zack dies earlier

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter eleven. 

wc: 2,526. original publish date: october 23, 2020.

"Vincent," JFK says, leaning back against his pillow. He and Van Gogh are in the bedroom with the balcony, Vincent sitting cross-legged at the far corner of the bed and Kennedy at the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Hm?" Van Gogh mumbles in response, barely looking up from his sketchpad.

"How come you never let me see what you're drawing?"

Vincent pauses for a second to look up at the boy. "How come you never let me see what you're drawing?" He volleys.

JFK laughs. "Because I can't draw."

"Can't, or don't?"

John shrugs. "Same difference?"

Van Gogh sighs, chewing on the end of his pencil. He nibbles off some of the yellow paint, flaky and crinkly against his tongue. "No, not really. Maybe if you drew more often, you'd get better at it."

JFK pulls himself away from the headboard, folding his legs underneath him and walking on his knees to the edge of the bed, where Van Gogh is sitting. He tilts the top of the boy's book down, peering at the graphite curves etched onto the paper.

"How long have you been practicing that for?" Kennedy asks wryly, snickering up at Vincent.

Van Gogh snatches the sketchpad away, embarrassed to admit how long he's really been drawing JFK for. "I've been drawing people for years. I've mastered them."

John smiles softly, and Vincent nearly melts. "You have."

Van Gogh closes his sketchbook and places it on the bed next to him, away from JFK. He places his pencil down on top of it before brushing some hair out of his eyes and looking up at Kennedy. He smiles sweetly, a soft look in his eyes. JFK smiles back, feeling free under Van Gogh's gaze.

"You know what I really like, Jack?" He whispers.

"What do you really like, Vinny?"

Vincent's smile widens, and his insides are set ablaze by the nickname. In an instant, he is transported back to his childhood. It wasn't good -- at least home life wasn't -- but to feel so simple, so uncomplicated and happy with JFK. He'd do anything to have it back, to leave all of his sadness behind.

"I like candles."

"That's not at all what I thought you were going to say," JFK replies, his tone light like the clouds in heaven.

"But aren't they fascinating?" Van Gogh challenges, sinkhole brown eyes widening. The corners of his mouth tick up, up, up, until he's grinning so wide Kennedy can see his teeth.

"You're just fascinated by fire," he says.

Vincent shrugs, but he's unapologetic. His smile hasn't faded, and JFK imagines pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, kissing him hard and deep, deep, deep. "Aren't you?"

"It's mesmerising," John replies, his voice hushed.

"Do you have a match?" Vincent asks.

Kennedy smirks. "It would be useless without a candle, don't you think?"

"Okay, then do you have a candle?" Van Gogh laughs, leaning in closer to JFK.

"There's probably one in this house that no one lives in," Kennedy volleys, leaning closer as well.

"We live in it now."

"You'd want to live with me?"

"It can't be any more of a sacrifice than you living with me."

JFK and Vincent sit with their noses touching, eyes darting down to mouths and back up to eyes. Van Gogh opens his mouth and his eyelids flutter shut. He wants for Kennedy to close the gap, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls his face away and slides off the bed. Vincent opens his eyes and frowns, closing his mouth and holding his jaw shut tightly. He swallows.

"I thought you wanted to find some candles," JFK grins deviously, and Vincent rolls his eyes in response.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. But I'm going to get you back for that," Van Gogh promises, sliding off the bed himself and following John out of the room.

Kennedy turns around, the same devious grin still lifting his face. "I'll be patiently awaiting that, my dear."

Van Gogh rummages through some of the drawers in the kitchen while JFK searches the rest of the house, both looking for candles. Kennedy manages to find a few tapers, magenta and coated in petrified wax droplets. Vincent finds two tea lights in the back of a drawer, one with no wick and the other with barely enough wax to burn. In the same drawer, he finds a box of matches.

"What do you intend to do with these candles, Vincent?" John asks, setting the tapers down on the kitchen table.

Van Gogh strikes a match and it fizzes, the sound searing like carbonation through the air. He watches the flame on the match grow, flickering before licking the thin wood and charring it black. He turns the match sideways, letting the fire grip onto the blackened wick rising out of one of the tapers before it burns to life. He lights the other with the same match before blowing it out in one breath, precisely and with no struggle.

"I don't know," Vincent replies. He shifts his gaze from the lit candles to JFK. "I just like the smell of fire."

***

That evening, Vincent sits on one of the plush outdoor chairs set on the balcony. He has a novel opened wide in front of him. He sits quietly and unmoving, concentrating hard on the words in front of him. The fog is cold and wet against his nose, his ears, his fingertips. The bandages around his head are getting soggy. He'll need to change them soon. He probably won't get to wait until the morning, thus throwing off his normal routine. He ignores the moisture in the air, immersing himself in his novel. He can't remember the title of it or the main character's name. He just likes the story, the way he feels while he reads. Silent and composed, with a hint of sophistication unparalleled. Van Gogh doesn't even notice when JFK climbs out the bay window and sits down on the chair next to his. It's a matching set.

John watches Vincent as he reads, breathing deeply through his nose. He blinks slowly, a shy smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He unfolds a novel of his own on his lap. He'd pulled it off one of the bookshelves in the living room. It's old enough to not have a cover -- the title isn't printed across the front, only on the spine. It's written in old English, and the author is clearly British. He thinks the protagonist's name is Eleanor, but he's only been paying half attention to the text. He likes to read, but he's slower at it than Van Gogh. He can sit in uninterrupted silence for hours, whether it be to paint or read or write. That's one of the many things JFK admires about the boy; it's also something he can't do himself.

"Vincent, can I ask you something?"

The boy jumps, nearly dropping his book. "Jesus, John, why didn't you warn me?"

He laughs. "Because you looked so peaceful."

Van Gogh smiles. "Sure, you can ask me something."

"Why don't you write a book?"

Vincent looks taken aback. He shakes his head, a nervous smile twisting his lips. "I couldn't write a whole book."

"Why not?" John asks in his soft tone, closing his novel and marking his page with his finger as he leans across the armrest of the chair.

"Because I don't have the stamina for something long-term."

"But you do write a lot," JFK states.

Van Gogh shrugs. "Yeah. But, like, poems and letters and stuff. Journal entries. None of that is intended for public consumption."

"Would you let me read any of it?"

Vincent blushes and looks away, pretending to be fascinated by the fog. All it ever does is hang in the air. Van Gogh wonders if Marshtown ever isn't foggy. It seems impossible to never see the sun. "I wouldn't want you to go into it with high hopes and then be disappointed. I'm not as good as you think I am."

"Then I'll set my expectations low and be presently surprised."

Van Gogh closes his own novel and leans across the armrest of his chair, his face inches away from JFK's. He stares into the boy's eyes, a raw smile spread across his face. Kennedy returns it. "I haven't anything to write about."

"Then I'll give you something to write about."

Vincent stifles a laugh. "I'm not writing about you, JFK. Love stories are tired out."

Kennedy looks down at the balcony floor and shrugs before meeting Van Gogh's eyes again. "I wasn't talking about me."

Vincent sits back in his chair and looks out into the fog, thinking instead of avoiding. "So show me." He turns back to the boy. "Show me what you were thinking of."

"So get in the car, and we'll go."

"No," Vincent shakes his head. "No more driving," he pleads. "I like it here. Let's stay here for a while. I want to stay here for a while."

JFK smiles. "We're getting in the car, but we're not leaving Marshtown." He reaches out to rest his hand upon Vincent's. "I like it here, too."

***

"So remember when I told you that this town was built to look abandoned?" JFK asks once they're in the car. They're driving down a line of houses; the residential part of Marshtown. Neither boy knew there was a non-residential part.

"Theorised. You theorised that Marshtown was built to look abandoned," Vincent corrects him.

JFK waves him off. "Yeah, yeah, same difference. Well, I was right."

"You have no proof."

Kennedy turns to look at his passenger, grin so wide it crinkles his eyes.

"Watch the road!" Van Gogh laughs.

"Marshtown isn't actually a residential town," John says, peeling his eyes off of Vincent. "You know why it was on that sign by the freeway exit?"

"No. Why was it?"

"Because..." JFK prolongs the word, pulling into a parking lot Van Gogh has never seen before. "It's actually..."

"Just get on with it!" Vincent demands with a smile.

JFK stops the car and twists the keys out of the ignition. He and Van Gogh get out of the vehicle, closing their doors at the exact same time.

"Come on," Kennedy says, interlacing his fingers with Vincent's. The smaller boy's breath catches. He forgot that there's romantic touching without kissing, and that romance is much more than just kissing. He squeezes JFK's hand, feeling the warmth wash over his skin. Vincent's hand is cold against John's, but he doesn't say anything. It's a comforting kind of cold; not clammy or sweaty.

"So, while you sent me off to look through that ginormous house for fucking candles-"

"You did that at your own free will," Van Gogh reminds him.

"-I stumbled across a book that had a map of Marshtown on the cover, so I was like, hm, let's see where this leads us..."

"Oh, so that's why you took so fucking long?"

"And, as it turns out, Marshtown actually used to be an amusement park!" JFK exclaims, a childish twinkle burning in his eyes. Vincent can't help but kiss his jaw.

"What do you mean 'used to be'?"

"Well, it's shut down now, but I guess all the houses used to be, like, activity centres in one way or another."

"So you brought me out into a grassy field in cotton-thick fog... just to tell me that Marshtown used to be an amusement park?"

"Well, I'm also going to tell you that our house is probably haunted because it's the only one that was built with the intention of having tenants."

Our house. "You could've just told me that back at the house, Jack."

"No, no I couldn't have," JFK squeezes the boy's hand, still walking. He seems to be leading Vincent somewhere.

In a couple more seconds, the fog thins, and Van Gogh understands why they had to get into the car and drive to the far end of the town. In front of them is a rollercoaster, rusty and paint-chipped. There's no cab, only a track, that seems to be missing pieces. Disappearing into the fog, it seems to go on forever. Most rollercoasters only run for thirty seconds -- it can't go on for that long. But the fun of this particular track, without any loops or steep drops, is probably that it plunges into the grey-white abyss. It seems like a perfect place to come and lose your mind.

"It's a rollercoaster track," Vincent states.

JFK grins and lets go of the boy's hand. "Yes."

Van Gogh takes a step toward it and rubs his hand along one of the metal pillars, the once-white paint tainted with water-stained rust. "How long has this been broken down for?"

"Since the early 1980s," JFK replies.

"You really did your research, huh?"

Kennedy flashes his giddy grin, Colgate teeth piercing through the limitless blanket of fog. "I wasn't gone for that long, now, was I?"

"I guess not."

Vincent continues to feel around the track, skeptical of its reality. Marshtown is a dumb name for a town, but an even dumber name for an amusement park. Everything about it seems so surreal, so made up. He doubts that it was really abandoned as soon ago as the late 1980s.

"Do you wanna climb up?" John asks hopefully. Even through the fog, Van Gogh can make out the burnt orange of his letterman jacket.

"It doesn't run anymore, Jack."

"We could go for a walk," he suggests.

Vincent looks up to the track and then down to the grassy floor, considering. "What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his smile. "Jesus, so this is what it's like dating you."

"We're dating?"

Vincent's smile falls. "No."

JFK frowns, the twinkle flickering out of his eyes.

"I mean, yes. I don't know. If you want us to be."

Kennedy takes a step closer to Vincent, and wraps his arms around the boy's waist. "How much clearer do I have to make it that the answer is yes?"

Van Gogh swallows and resists the urge to wrap his arms around JFK's neck. "You have to say the word."

"Yes."

"No, I mean... the one that you call a person when you're dating them."

"You mean boyfriend?"

"Say it."

"Vincent."

Van Gogh tilts his head up, catching Kennedy's eye. He knows this is childish. He knows it's stupid to want to be someone's boyfriend -- even the word sounds juvenile. He's always known that he's same-sex oriented -- that was never something he had to question twice. But hearing JFK say it out loud, to know in his head where he stands once and for all, would make it real. "I'm waiting."

Kennedy hesitates, but before Van Gogh can look away in defeat, he says, "Vincent, I want you to be my boyfriend."

Now, Van Gogh lifts up his arms and wraps them around JFK's neck, pulling his head down and kissing his lips. "Good, because I want you to be my boyfriend, too."

#clone high #clone high van gogh #clone high jfk #jfgogh #limitless

[agathaarts]

I Want You To Have Days Like This

My mental health is not always great, but I am lucky enough to be in a point in my life where I am healing. Today was very good, and I know a lot of people are not having good days- so you can borrow mine, for a little bit, if you’d like. Because I want you to have days like this.

Under the cut:

I Want You To Have Days Like This

by Agatha Reitz (03/26/2020)

I want you to have days like this

I want you to know life

I want you to wake feeling rested, with as little pain as possible, no more than a dull ache in my back and my belly when I move and stretch, readily forgotten, and to see the sunlight filtering in through the blinds and know in some deep animal instinct that it is spring. The energy and impulse to do things, the cobwebs and frost of winter shaking off of my soul and my mind. We move the old table aside, and bring in the new one- it is older, but not to us, and larger, and we can fit four chairs around it so we can all sit together someday, so we can all be together. The legs screw into place and it feels good. It feels right. It is time for a bigger table, it is time to sit with my family. The plastic is peeled from the windows, and they are opened, bringing the sweet breeze outside in. We roll the metal firepit from the garage, and promise that tonight we will use it for the first time. We promise.

I want you to know satisfaction

I take the plants outside, from the mudroom, onto the porch, and sink my fingers into the soil as I repot them- bigger planters, better ones, with more room to grow, dividing out the new spider plants and the aloe sprouts that have sprung up around their mothers. I want you to know what it is to plan, to look at the plot where the garden will be, and to think about how you will pull the life up out of the earth and into peapods and beans. Dividing seeds into egg cartons of soil, my daughter’s careful, delicate hands as she looks up to the sun and closes her eyes, smiling at the warmth of spring after a long winter indoors. Peas, carrots, chives, we line the seeds up a pinch at a time. Ready for warmer nights to come.

I want you to know release

We will go, we decide, out, out to my parents’ home, though we must stay so far from them now. Close enough to talk and for my mother’s smile, watching us chatter like the goldfinches at the feeders do. I want you to know what it is to see the woods, as they slowly come to life. Where wild raspberry and blackberry bushes spring up overnight into thorny tangles that branch and weave into paths you walked clear not a week ago, and to see the buds on the branches. To hike down to the river, past the fallen trees and through the new saplings, to where the tufts of fur and stained bones that were once a deer rest at a fork in the road, to where the old logs are now turning into vividly black and red dirt, rich and fragrant. We count thousands of mushrooms, tiny jutting shelves of white and black and green amidst the bark and lichen, on every surface of the trees, framed by moss and twisting thorny vines of purple. Life wastes no time here, reclaiming the wood grown old.

I want you to know peace

I would take you to the river, where we throw sticks into the waters made high and fast by thaws and rain, and watch them drift away. Where my daughter and I stand, in the woods where I roamed half-wild and unmastered as a child, eyes open and senses alert and huffing and puffing, for the hike is all downhill, then all uphill back, stopping to collect dried branches for firewood and to catch our breath as we carry armfulls, eyeing fresh-cut logs waiting transport, taken by the sudden wave of need to stockpile, to collect, like a game. To tired legs and aching arms, from climbing and carrying, and the knowledge that we will go back home and there will be food for our bodies now that our minds have been replenished.

I want you to know nourishment

My love makes marinated steaks on the grill, and over the firepit, and my brother makes potatoes rubbed in oil and salt and wrapped in foil and placed over the burning logs that we carried to the car not hours ago, and we all breathe the smell of burning wood and smokey meat and sizzling oils. We eat together, around the fire, something ancient and communal in us awakened and aware. Dog-eared comics in my daughter’s hands between conversation, laughing and squealing when the logs are stirred and send clouds of sparks rising high. We toast marshmallows and teach my daughter for the first time how to make s’mores, crushing the sugary treats between chocolate and cracker and stuffing them in our mouths while still warm, passing between us hot chocolate and strawberry soda. It is satisfying, in a way food ought to be, fulfilling in more than just our bellies.

I want you to know love

A thin silver sliver of the moon hangs over our house in the lilac evening sky, above it, what I think is Venus is a bright pinprick of light in a starless expanse. There is fog in my brain, much of the time. Static, like radio signals clashing and battling while driving across the state. A murmur of fear and anxiety and paralytic anger as persistent as water lapping at the lakeshore. I want you to know what it was to feel that lift, tonight. To breathe the cooling air as music played and we watched orange light dance on our faces around the fire. Ancient and instinctive, something inside me wonders if this was how our ancestors remembered times. Huddled around a fire, my daughter curled up between me and my lover, and we talk about things she desires to learn, about biology and geology. The air is chill and we stick our feet near the firepit though it is steadily growing dimmer, but it keeps our fronts warm though our backs feel the nip of still-wintery night. A bustle to bring everything back inside before it is too dark, to pour water over the embers and ashes and scatter them across the garden plot where we will grow our vegetables and flowers and bring forth butterflies and bees.

I want you to know days like this

I want you to know the good days

I want the evening to come and for you to feel satisfaction, as I have. I want you to know that for the nights I have spent screaming inside my head, that there was something beautiful and pristine about a day like this- even with scratched hands and burned fingertips, with aching knees and sore toes. We put blankets in the drier and pull them out hot and wrap ourselves in them. We pour hot cocoa and slice up apples with dollops of nutella for bedtime snacks. I want you to know these days, these blissful and strange days of peace in stormy, whirlwinds of time. To sit outside and watch the night creep in and hear the whisper of “I don’t want this night to end” but to be too content to really be sad when it’s time to turn down the covers, to ready the bed.

I want you to know nights like this

Where things are okay. Maybe they still hurt, maybe you still hurt, like I do, and maybe always will, but they are okay. You are okay.

It was okay, today

#my writing #oh hey i also write too #i don't know what to tag this as #mental health #a good day #comfort #borrow my good day it's okay to do so #especially if you've not had good days recently #you can have mine

[moonbeambucky]

Baby

Pairing: Lance Tucker x Reader Word Count: 5860 Warnings: fluff, angst

Summary: A bad date turns around when you find love in the last place you expected.

A/N: This is my submission for @interestedbystanderwrites 2k MCUxDirty Dancing Follower Milestone Challenge My prompt was “Go back to your playpen… baby.” Thank you as always to Sam @buckyofthemyscira for beta reading 💕 gif not mine

Terrible weather began a terrible day but it all turned around when he walked in…

Winter’s icy grip still held on firmly despite it technically being Spring. The temperature was barely climbing higher each day as thick grey clouds settled themselves in the sky making you wonder if you’ll ever feel the sun’s warmth again. It was cold and being near the banks of the Erie made it colder.

Rain beat against the window of your office from steady flows to heavy downpours that rattled you in your chair. You gave a quick glance at your umbrella at the foot of your desk, thankful for its companionship on a day like this when the clouds can’t make up their minds about whether or not today would be when they decide to unleash an apocalyptic flood upon the world.

The end of the work day was nearing and you were looking forward to going home so you could get ready for the first date you’ve been on in a while. After your previous relationship ended it took you a while to get back on your feet and put yourself out there.

It had been about a month since you matched with Danny. He was a junior partner at a law firm not far from your own office making you wonder if you’ve ever unknowingly crossed paths before. After all the talking and texting you decided to go on a date. You were down for a more casual meeting at a coffee shop but he insisted on a traditional first date dinner.

That wouldn’t have been so bad except his choice of restaurant, the most upscale and expensive place in the heart of Cleveland, made you extremely nervous. You weren’t going to disagree with his suggestion, even though you’d be a lot more relaxed getting to know him over tapas and drinks. Danny seemed really excited to go there making you think maybe he was trying to impress you.

A chill had set in the air causing you to shiver and regret not wearing pants. Your navy dress was form fitting and a modest length, and any remaining skin was covered by dark tights and tall boots. Tiny pebbles of gravel crunched underneath your footsteps along the soaked brick of the paved road. Large puddles reflected the lights of the bars and restaurants flanking both sides of the street covered in a sea of pedestrians enjoying their weekend despite the day’s weather.

You spotted Danny under the sign outside the restaurant, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone. As you approached him you called out his name and were greeted with a bright smile as he looked up to see you. His arms wrapped around you for a welcoming hug bringing you in close.

“I’m so glad you look like your picture,” he said, pulling back to look you over again. “It’s such a turn off to meet someone that looks nothing like their picture.”

Your head quirked to the side thinking that was a very awkward statement to make especially to someone you’re first meeting. Still, you brushed it off thinking maybe he’s had a few experiences where people tried to present a version of themselves they no longer are.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I’m a little nervous and you’re… so beautiful,” he continued, a wide smile plastered on his face.

Danny held the door open for you and when you were led to your table he helped you out of your coat and pulled out your chair.

He peered over his menu to smile your way and when you caught his gaze you smiled back.

“That’s a beautiful dress.”

“Oh thank you I– ”

“I’m so happy you dress classy. Men don’t actually want their girls to show off a lot of skin in public, some things are meant for their eyes only.”

What… the fuck. Your classy dress was hiding the steam that was rising from the blood boiling beneath your skin.

“Well it’s not up to men or anyone to tell someone how to dress,” you sneered.

Danny’s smile turned sour on his face. “Comments like that are probably the reason you’ve been single for so long. Now that I’m here I can teach you how to act like a lady.”

“What you need to do is learn manners and respect,” you said, placing the menu on the table.

Pushing out your chair you grabbed your things and headed for the door. There was a bit of commotion behind you with Danny calling you a bitch but you held your head high, with pride strengthening your stride as you walked out of the restaurant without turning back.

Deliberate heavy footsteps carried you down the block and away from your disaster date. So much for putting yourself out there again. If Danny was able to fool you so easily by hiding his true nature it didn’t give you a lot of hope for the future. You were tired of being alone and were really hoping that Danny could have been the connection you were looking for.

Playful laughter of a couple walking hand in hand passed you only twisted the knife in your broken heart. You felt like shit and truthfully didn’t want to feel anything at all for the rest of the night. There were plenty of bars along the street you could have chosen to drown your woes in but they were filled with too many happy people that you could not be around for fear of bursting into tears. You wanted– no, needed to go somewhere quiet; a place where you could disappear.

Thunder loomed in the distance making you walk faster, hugging your coat closer to yourself with your hands shrugged together in the pockets, distancing yourself from the lively streets, walking quickly so you could get to the outskirts of the trendy neighborhood.

The journey to your unknown destination ended when you stumbled upon a bar that called you like a moth to the flame. Dingy, black exterior with peeling paint and no discernible name. The weather had fogged up the bottom half of the windows with mostly-working neon signs advertising name brand beers, blocking the rest of your view into the place.

Flashes of red peered through the soot black door, also peeling, covering up the former bright entryway for one shrouded in mystery. It seemed like a place you expected would offer moonshine from a questionable barrel and considering your current state of emotions you wouldn’t be surprised if you took up the offer.

Silver numbers of the address were drilled into the heavy door you pushed open revealing everything you expected. Rock music from decades past drowning out the groans of people that want to escape the world outside. It was loud but not blaring, just enough to fill the void of empty space in the room.

The long bar glows like whiskey in the sun. An older woman with dark hair shows off defined arms in a black muscle tank top, popping the cap off a beer she slides to a man at the end. There are only a few patrons sitting far enough apart from each other so they don’t have to make conversation. This place doesn’t look like it gets much traffic but what it does have seems to be familiar faces; a home for those who don’t fit in anywhere else, and right now that included you.

Boisterous laughter roared over the guitar riffs and you look to see a group of denim clad men crowding around the only pool table in the back. Dry, dusty hands chalk the pool stick as dry, dusty men make the best of their evening, just as you planned on doing.

Cracked peanut shells that litter the floor crack even more as you walk towards the bar. The old stool squeaks as you settle on it, slipping your arms out of your coat you hang over the back. Twisting forward again you see the bartender walking towards you. A friendly smile wrinkled the corners of her thin lips set against leathery skin as her smoke graveled voice asked what you’ll be drinking, because she knows you’re not there for the nuts.

“Jack and Coke,” you replied, not bothering to force a smile back.

It’s understood in the downward slope of your eyebrows and the corners of your lips that feel too heavy to ever lift again. A worn coaster is set in front of you with the mixed drink followed quickly behind it and soon you find one corner of your mouth twitching with gratitude for her haste.

“Name’s Sally. Let me know if you need anything else,” she offered before settling back towards the middle of the bar to get another round for those playing pool.  

The glass is cold, the drink is strong and instantly you feel relief along with the urge to hiccup and burp at the same time. Your hand covers your mouth as you try to do both silently as your other hand digs out your phone so you could delete your dating app.

For now this is what you needed, to delete the memory of Danny whose name burned your mouth worse than the strongest liquor. You didn’t want to deal with any other potential matches either, not tonight, not for a while. With another gulp of your drink you confirmed your decision, to delete men (temporarily) from your life, and that’s when you saw him.

Tall, tan, toned… he was… making your brain stutter or maybe that was the alcohol? Possibly both considering he was the most good looking man you had ever seen. He was photoshopped perfection in real life, an actual god. But what the hell was he doing in this place?

Sex on legs strutted out from the back, looking unfairly handsome in black jeans, a simple white t-shirt and a blue track jacket. He reclaimed his spot at the bar, the corner seat at the end leaving only a chair between you.

The glow of the bar bathes him in honey and his voice was just as sweet as you overheard him order a drink, flashing Sally a megawatt smile, the slightest crinkles surrounding his smoldering blue eyes. That’s when you recognized him. He was certainly a god made flesh, the god of gymnastics Lance Tucker. A gold and silver medalist that somehow ended up in some shit hole bar in Cleveland.

Blue eyes shifted your way making your face burn under the realization he caught you staring. Your lips pulled to a half smile before taking another gulp of your drink and grab your phone, highlighting with a notification. It was an automated text reminding you of your hair appointment tomorrow but it served as the perfect distraction to keep your nose down at your phone and not at the face of the man whose eyes you felt were burning through you.

A smooth voice pulled your attention away from your fake distraction. “What brings you here?”

Looking up you see Lance, elbow propped up on the counter and leaning his dimpled chin into his hand while the other was loosely splayed out beside his drink.

“You don’t look like someone that comes here a lot,” he continued, since you were in a slight state of shock by the fact that he was speaking to you in the first place.

You swallowed a smile, noting the way his body angled towards you now, awaiting your answer. There was no sign of impatience anywhere, but a genuinely curious smile slowly stretching across his face.

“I could ask you the same,” you said, lifting your drink to your lips to mask the surprise you felt by replying in such a bold manner.

“So ask me.”

The bubbly drink lifted up a burst of laughter with equal parts shock. You were surprised enough by your own response to him, never expecting him to reply this way. With no expectations from him you decided to roll with this conversation, knowing it would serve as a better distraction than dwelling on your bad date.

“Okay,” you began, shifting in your seat to face him. Shifting your eyes towards his hand you watched as he played with the condensation on his glass, dragging the wetness in slow circles as he anticipated what you might say next. “What brings Lance Tucker to a no-name bar in Cleveland?”

His face scrunched together as he held in a mixture of pride and embarrassment, licking his lips before swallowing back the rest of his drink. “So you know who I am,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

You nodded and broke the slightest bit of tension that hung in the air, remarking how you didn’t think anyone else had recognized him. He seemed to relax under that notion, hoping it was true. Lance has had a good portion of his life publicized but now things were different.

“Well that’s not fair, I don’t know your name,” he smirked.

After telling Lance your name you watched his lips whisper it back slowly, as if it was a secret he wanted to keep all for himself.

He leaned in closer and you felt compelled to do the same, bringing you inches away from his enticing features. “So, you want to know why I’m here?” he said, dragging the suspense out of every syllable.

“Yes!” you shouted.

Lance smiled and chewed on his bottom lip as he watched you laugh as a result of enthusiastically shouting. Your laughter washed over him in calming waves that lifted his heart. A year ago he would have rattled off some line that would guarantee him getting laid but a lot has happened in that time and he was a new man, trying to make the best of his new life in a new city.

“I’m here because of my daughter,” he said low and soft, with happiness lighting up his face like a sunrise over the horizon.

You couldn’t help the smile that formed, regardless of knowing the details he was about to explain, it was sweet to see the love he had for his child. Lance continued filling in parts of his story you had heard bits and pieces about. To be honest before meeting Lance you didn’t care about celebrity gossip, learning most news involuntarily through social media posts or the occasional office buzz.

Lance’s story in his own words was more fleshed out from what you knew and strikingly honest. He began coaching Maggie Townsend after her win in Toronto, he slept with her because she was “young and hot” and for nine months they tried to be in a relationship for the baby but that ultimately failed due to countless fights with Maggie screaming at him for ruining her career.

“To be fair, I kinda did,” he admitted.

Lance left Los Angeles for Ohio to be near his daughter Olivia who was now nine months old. He had an apartment in the city because “Cleveland is better than that shit town Amherst” and also because he needed space from Maggie. He hates it here but it’s a sacrifice he’s making to be there for his kid.

“Your turn,” Lance said, nudging a glass your way from the next round Sally poured.

Whether it was Lance’s candor or the Jack Daniels you felt comfortable in opening up to Lance as well, telling him how excited you were to go on this date, the first one since your breakup with your ex.

“It felt like I had been talking to one person this whole time and then he sent his evil twin to go on the date.”

“What an asshole,” Lance said, swallowing back his drink. He was thankful you walked on out that idiot because it lead you here with him.

Lance was easy to get along with as you slowly empted your glasses discussing this new city he moved to, finding out as many tips as he could about the best places to go while you listened to all of his complaints.

“It’s not that bad,” you joked. “Wait until winter though. That’s the worst.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not looking forward to that. Maybe I could take Livi to LA for a few months…” he wondered out loud, knowing he was lucky enough to have her for a few days a week. “You ever been?”

“Once when I was a kid. My family went to California and did all the touristy stuff, Hollywood Boulevard, Disneyland.”

“Well LA’s a lot better as an adult,” Lance playfully chuckled. “Plus it’s got everything, except winter.”

Lance winked and you burst out laughing, watching as his own eyes crinkled with delight as he joined you.

“Another round?” Sally asked, clinking the empty glasses together as she grabbed them.

Mischief simmered in Lance’s eyes as he asked you, “Want to have some fun?” Your brows knitted with confusion until you heard him ask Sally for two shots of tequila. Ahhh, fun.

She came back with three glasses, one filled with lime wedges and two empties, setting a salt shaker down beside them. You thanked her as she filled the shot glasses as Lance picked up the salt.

Your cheeks were already burning from the drinks you had but now it felt like every part of your skin was scorching under Lance’s gaze as he watched your tongue dart out to lick the back of your hand. With a smirk plastered on his face he poured out the salt to cover the wetness on your skin. It was difficult to not look at him do the same, watching his bright pink tongue expertly swipe at his hand sent an ache straight to your core.

He lifted the shot glass waiting for you to do the same, and with a nod to show you were ready you both licked the salt from your hands, swallowed the burning liquid in one gulp and sought out the lime for relief.

The glasses slammed on the table with vigor, a bit sloppily in your case as you realize a shot after two drinks and no dinner might not have been the best idea. The music has faded to a loud hum as you sit as still as possible, trying to reign in your head that felt like it was floating like a balloon through a storm.

Lance’s tongue darted out once more to swipe over his lips. That shot hit the spot in helping to erase the memory of an earlier fight with Maggie that had him seeking out a bar to begin with. Meeting you certainly kept his mind off things. You were easy to talk to, funny, beautiful and as he looked over towards you now, spacing out hard.

“You okay?” he leaned in to ask, as you felt his hot breath against your ear.

Your head felt miles away while your eyes, glossed over with a haze, were focused on seemingly nothing straight ahead of you. “Yes,” you lied at first, “No. Can we maybe get something to eat?”

You didn’t hear Lance’s answer but saw him leave money on the counter to cover the tab for both of you. You stumbled a bit to get off the stool but he was there to hold you steady. With your coat slung over his arm, Lance helped guide you to the door.

The rain had stopped, leaving the air cool enough to feel amazing against your heated skin and instantly you felt a little bit better. With Lance’s arm around you tightly you walked a few short blocks to small plaza with a lineup of food trucks. There was a variety to choose from, some with just desserts that looked so good but you knew you needed something a bit more substantial.

“Burgers?” you suggested, looking at Lance for any objection, not that he would; you were his top priority now and he made sure you got whatever you needed to feel better.

The line for the truck was long but it seemed to go by quickly and once you had the food in your hands you could not wait to dig in. Your mouth opened wide to take a large bite of the burger, loving the way the juicy meat mixed with the melted cheese and buttery bun.

“This is so good,” you attempted to say with a mouth full of food, chewing as much as you could while trying not to spit anything out.

Lance smiled at the way your face glowed under the fairy lights strung throughout the tree branches above you. He was happy to see you smiling, knowing he had a small hand in turning your night around.

“Feelin better?” Lance asked as you both threw away your trash and began to lazily stroll down the sidewalk.

“Much, thank you. And thank you for paying back there.” Your steps were small and deliberate, unsure of where you were walking with him but it felt like the end of the night and truthfully you didn’t want to say goodbye.

“It’s nothing,” Lance said, smiling as his fingers accidentally brushed against yours. He wanted to take your hand, lace your fingers with his and see where the night would take you.

Reaching the corner of the sidewalk you waited to cross as cars zoomed by, not paying attention to the car that drove through the giant puddle of water by the overflowing sewer. Dirty water splashed and rained down on you and Lance as you shrieked out of surprise by the freezing cold wetness.

“Oh my god!” you shouted, wiping water from your eyes.

Lance stood there in shock, his white t-shirt now see through and clinging to the sculptured muscles of his stomach. You couldn’t help but laugh some more at his face, his wide gasp turning into a wider smile as he saw your drenched hair and clothes. He remembered a time with Maggie before they had gotten together, screaming at the top of her lungs when a teammate threw a water balloon at her. But here, drenched in disgusting water that’s been pooling on the dirty street you were laughing your ass off.

Lance cupped your face and crashed his lips to yours, abruptly stopping your laughter that quickly turned into moans he was desperate to swallow. His lips were soft against yours though his tongue was rough, on a mission to taste every part of your mouth. Your hands ran through his damp locks in an effort to grab hold of anything that could confirm this was real.

Reluctantly you broke away for air but kept your forehead pressed against his as you panted heavily, desperate to feel his lips against yours again. The blue of Lance’s eyes retreated fully, revealing a deep lustful gaze that spoke volumes for how you both felt. Your tongue glided over your lips as before you closed this distance this time, kissing him with no intention of stopping.

Lance’s apartment wasn’t far and you found yourselves there, removing sodden clothes from your bodies in a frantic haze. His body was burning hot with desire and your lips traveled all over his chiseled form. Skin to skin, slapping against each other in the throes of passion. Sweaty, hungry, eager kisses chasing after your swollen lips.

“Baby,” he grunts, gruff and needy with every thrust inside you. “Baby,” he whispers, soft and sweet like a prayer as you soar to the heavens together.

Every inch of the room is coated in a primal musk as two sweaty, sticky bodies rested together under the cool thin sheet, with sleep overtaking you both.

Warm light filtered in through windows gently stirring you awake, making you wish you remembered to shut the blinds like you normally would. Your fingers dug at crust from your eyes as your head pounded against the pillow that felt too soft. Looking over to the nightstand you searched for your alarm clock, instead finding an unfamiliar lamp. This morning seemed… off. 

The bright light was too painful so you turned your back to it, coming face to face with the reason why everything felt different.

Lance Tucker was fast asleep, his face smushed into the pillows; his pillows in his apartment where, judging by the clothes strewn across the floor and delicious ache between your legs, you had sex.

Your hand rubbed behind your neck, feeling a sore trail of love bites left from the night’s activities. Now you remember, and quite frankly you don’t know how you could have ever forgotten your mind blowing time.

If the Sex Olympics were a thing Lance should win the gold in every category. He was a generous and skilled lover, who brought you tumbling over the edge several times. But now with the sheet wrapped closer to your chest and your head feeling like it’s in the middle of a construction zone, you worried about what he might say with a more clear headed mind.

Would he regret taking you home? Should you slip out while he’s sleeping and forget this ever happened?

It was too late to make any decision, Lance groaned sleepily, opening his eyes to find you beside him.

“Mornin’ baby,” his parched mouth groaned out, his lips pulling slightly into a smile.

Baby. The pet name you apparently earned last night, falling sweetly off his lips. Lance pulled you close to him so your head could rest on his shoulder. You were both exhausted and hungover, but spending a lazy morning tangled in each other’s arms didn��t seem so bad.

A few hours later you woke up for real, with a splitting headache you wish wasn’t real. Lance made coffee that helped a little bit, though when he pressed his lips against your temple for a soft kiss you definitely felt something. Not cured of your hangover but the stirring of butterflies in your stomach. You left shortly after with his number in your phone, a wrinkled dress and sex hair that was worth missing your salon appointment over.

You hadn’t expected to hear from Lance, in fact you convinced yourself he wasn’t going to text, making each day you hadn’t heard from him a lot easier to deal with but as your phone buzzed with an alert a big smile overtook your face and instantly you felt relief.

Lance had apologized for not being in contact, he had Olivia for the past few days and he was focused on her. Of course he had nothing to apologize for, you really enjoyed hearing about the mess she made while eating or how he played with her.

“If you’re free tonight I’d like to see you again.” He held his breath hopefully letting out a sigh as he beamed widely at your answer.

Seeing Lance became a regular thing except on the days he had Olivia. You respected the time he spent with his daughter and didn’t dare intrude. Other times you were together, back at the food trucks trying a bit of everything, exploring the city hand in hand with Lance slowly coming around to other positives about living there aside from you.

Most nights were spent at his place, cuddled up together on the couch binge watching the latest series or in bed where your body trembled with aftershocks of the Earth shaking, hot white pleasure you had experienced. Above all, Lance had found a way into your heart as if he was always meant to be there.

Lance’s handsome face appeared on your phone and you quickly swiped to answer the call.

“Hey baby,” Lance greeted through a yawn. “Livi had me up all night, I’m exhausted,” he continued, trying to talk above the noise of traffic around him but not too loud to wake up Olivia in the car seat.

“I’m sorry about that babe. I could have driven if you wanted,” you offered.

“I’ll be alright, plus…” he sighed, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to bring someone new around Maggie. I don’t need the headache, I’m sorry baby, but I appreciate it.”

After driving back and forth Lance came over for dinner since he was too tired to make something himself. Above the sizzle of the frying pan you heard his groans, looking up to find his shoulders slouched, head in his hands on the table.

Adjusting the knobs on the stove you stepped away briefly and walked towards Lance. Your hands skimmed across the hard planes of his back up to his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles as he groaned appreciatively under your touch.

Maggie had fought with him again, this time about Olivia’s first birthday. She wanted to plan an extravagant party and got angry that the children’s party venue, that she had months to book in advance, would not squeeze her in.

“She’s so frustrating. She got it in her head that LA was bad and things would be better back here but clearly she forgot that Amherst hates her.”

“Why?” you asked, applying more pressure as he you felt his muscles tense up the more he spoke about her.

Lance reached his hand back to cover yours. “It’s my fault. It always is,” he sighed.

The sizzling grew louder so you placed a kiss to his cheek before going back to tend to the cooking. “Don’t say that Lance.”

“It’s partially true. She abandoned this town for me, to train, and then…” he gestured with his hands. “She hates me because of everything that happened.”

The opportunity to talk about Maggie seldom appeared. You had a lot of opinions about her that you kept to yourself. It wasn’t your business and you didn’t need to add fuel to the fire they were trying to curb for Olivia’s sake but something inside was itching for you to find out.

You and Lance had been seeing each other for a few months and you loved him though you hadn’t said it out loud yet. You hoped he knew it in your actions, just like you felt it from him in the gentle ways he held you at night, the longing looks, the bright smiles. You wouldn’t push him to say the words to you but part of you needed to know how he felt about her.

“Do you hate her?”

Lance straightened up in the chair, staring contemplatively before answering. “No. She’s the mother of my child, I don’t hate her.” But do you love her?

Lance’s warm scent invaded your senses as your lips were pressed together. He would be leaving for Olivia’s birthday party, with your colorfully wrapped gift in hand. You wished you could go with him, hoping that one day everyone would be able to get along.

That night Lance was supposed to call but you didn’t hear from him. Before bed you said goodnight via text, figuring he was tired after such a long day. He didn’t return your text until the following day, apologizing for the delay. He had caught a stomach bug and didn’t want to trouble you with anything.

Two days later you finally heard his voice. “I’m sorry baby,” he weakly groaned. He was cancelling your weekend plans again, needing more time to recuperate.

Lance didn’t sound like himself, but you attributed that to all the vomiting. He was a nightmare when he caught a cold last month so you can’t imagine how he’s been handling everything a stomach bug entails.

A week had passed and each day without him felt like an eternity. Lance was surely better now so you decided to surprise him, hoping he regained enough of his strength to go for a stroll with you on this beautiful day.

As soon as the elevator doors opened to his floor you wished they hadn’t. At the end of the hallway was Lance, his hand cupped around Maggie’s cheek, his tongue going further and further down her throat.

The ding of the elevator alerted them to your shocked presence. You wanted to run, to go back home, to somehow wake yourself up from this nightmare because that’s what this had to be. Instead, your shaky legs carried you towards them against your will in search of answers.

“Lance, I…I don’t understand…” you began.

A sharp laugh pierced your heart like a million arrows, each one tipped with poison in the form of lies and betrayal.

“Is this who you’ve been wasting your time with Lance?” Maggie asked incredulously, still laughing as she looked you up and down.

The ability to speak had left, your voice abandoning you when you needed it most. Your mouth hung open, trembling as you looked at Lance wondering why.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said softly with regret. “Maggie and I are… we’ve been…”

“We’re together,” she smirked, lacing her arm through his as if she was claiming her prize. Maggie won the gold, again, this time in the form of Lance.

Lance couldn’t meet your gaze. He stared at the floor, lifting his eyes to your trembling hands. He felt terrible lying to you and even worse now with you standing in front of him, deserving of a better explanation than what he could give.

“We thought it would be best to try… for Olivia. After her birthday we…”

It made sense now why he hadn’t called when he came home that night, he hadn’t; and he had been lying ever since. You broke at the realization.

“How could you do this to me?” your voice cracked as tears began to stream down your cheeks.

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“I thought we had something… I lo…” The word died on your tongue, you couldn’t say it. It wouldn’t change what happened and you couldn’t forgive him.

Maggie rolled her eyes hard, “Pfft, this girl whines worse than Olivia. Go back to your playpen… baby.”

Baby. The nickname that rose from the flames of lust now turned to ash.

Muffled cries from inside the apartment draw everyone’s attention towards the door.

“Great, now you woke up our daughter,” Maggie huffed, stomping off into Lance’s place.

Silence drowned the hallway as you stared at each other. With every tear that fell Lance felt worse He fucked up, big time, and there was nothing he could do to fix this.

“Y/N.”

He whispered your name like the first time he said it, the night you found each other in the last place anyone would think they could find happiness. Lance took your hand and you wanted to pull it away but you couldn’t. You were pathetic, still desperate for his touch, one last time.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffed back a tear before it could drop, letting go of your hand and going back inside his apartment.

You were paralyzed, crying like the baby you truly were, moving only when you heard their voices through the wall. Slowly you turned back to the elevator, descending to the lobby and back out onto the street with nowhere to go.

Beautiful weather began a beautiful day but it all turned around when he walked out…

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

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#interestedbystander2kmilestone #lance tucker x reader #lance tucker fanfiction #lance tucker x you #lance tucker imagine

[hxneymalfxy]

hell of a ride. [INTRO]

summary: draco malfoy- Slytherin prince himself- has formed a grudge against you. famous harry potter’s twin, the star seeker of Gryffindor. after losing the first game of the season, he’s made it his mission to bother you at every chance he gets. but when you and the pretentious boy get stuck with each other for an entire month of detention, unexpected things start to happen between you two.

genre: fluff, enemie-to-lovers, idiots-to-lovers

pairing: draco malfoy x twin potter!reader

song rec: Bang! by AJR

next | masterlist

»»————-　★　————-««

The Quidditch pitch was empty, much to your surprise. Today was the first game of the season, a day that almost everyone in the entire school anticipated. So you being the only one at the stands confused you. Although to be fair, it was five in the morning.

The sun had started to come up, it’s rays rising behind the mountains. You sat alone on one of the Gryffindor bleachers admiring the view of the field. Memories flooded in- moments that you wish you could just travel back to. You sighed deeply, watching the cloud of fog from your mouth disappear into the cold November air.

You remembered the first game you had ever watched at Hogwarts. You were so small, so adventurous. You missed the feeling of excitement as a part of the crowd. The happy feeling of butterflies in your stomach when Jordan announced that your house had one the game.

That was all gone now. Now you were part of the team, a whole new world you had learned to adapt to for the past year. The ‘Star Seeker’ of Gryffindor House, [Y/N] Potter. Some would even say you topped Charlie Weasley. You doubted that, obviously.

You smiled slightly, enjoying the forgotten memories buried in your mind. The warmth of the sun spread across your cheeks, and it was a nice feeling in contrast with the winter season. It was incredible really, the weather at Hogwarts could change in a heartbeat. One day it’ll be scorching hot, the next cold and frozen.

“Sneaking out again are we?” You heard the familiar voice of your brother suddenly say.

You turned and saw his floating head, the glasses on his face fogging up due to his warm breath. You smiled at him, happy at the fact that Harry was still the same goofy boy you shared your life with.

“You know it.” You replied.

He slipped the invisibility cloak off his shoulders and took a seat next to you, his arm resting on your shoulders. You melted into your brother’s embrace, feeling warm and safe.

“Why are you up so early? We don’t have to warm-up until another hour or so.” He asked as he looked at the vast array of mountains surrounding the school.

You didn’t know yourself, actually. You don’t even know why you chose to go the Quidditch pitch in the first place. All you knew was that you needed to get out of the castle for a bit, enjoy the solitude of being alone.

“Just,” You paused. “needed to clear my mind I guess.”

Harry shifted in his place, his gaze leaving the mountains and focusing on his twin. He watched as you chewed on your inner cheek, a habit you’ve had ever since you two were little. It was something you did whenever you were unsure of yourself, or whenever you were jittery.

“You’re doing the thing again, [Y/N].” He stated, and you lifted your head from his shoulder, shrugging off his warm hug. You looked at him now, the same blue eyes meeting yours.

“I’m fine Harry, I really am. I think I just need to take a breather, that’s all.” You reassured. You patted his shoulder and stood up, leaving him alone at the bleachers.

“Be careful, [Y/N]!” Harry shouted when you were finally a good distance away from him.

“Yes mother!” You yelled back, smile adorning your features. You heard his low laugh, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

You were once again in your own headspace, the solitude from earlier coming back. Walking down the damp, worn out wooden bridge, you enjoyed the smell of pine wood surrounding you. Hogwarts was awfully quiet, but you couldn’t complain. It was rare moments like these that you appreciated the most, quiet and still.

You loved your friends, you really did, but being babied all the damn time did a good amount on you. Especially now with the dark lord running around, you were always protected at all costs. You were in just as much danger that Harry was in, so everyone trying to hide you didn’t make sense at all.

You stopped in your place. Maybe that was why you were so pent up for no reason. Maybe that was the cause for all of your restless nights. You huffed and continued on your way down the pitches, finally exiting the tall structures.

—

When you finally reached the Gryffindor common room, you were greeted by the same two people everytime you snuck out on your own. Ron and Hermione stood from their places on the couch and Hermione sprinted towards you. Her arms wrapped themselves tightly around you, her worried expression never leaving her face.

“Where were you? One minute you’re lying in bed, the next you’re off to who knows where!” Her embrace got tighter around you, and you mouthed a quick ‘help me’ to Ron.

He quickly lept from his place to help you, finally letting you out of Hermione’s tight embrace.

“Jeez you two- I just wanted some fresh air. No biggie.” You remarked as you made your way past the duo.

Falling onto the old couch, you feel the soft wool pillow meet your head. The couch may be a few centuries old, but it never failed to make you feel comfortable. Hermione stood next to you now, her arms crossed and her mouth slightly pouted.

“But [Y/N], you know how dangerous it is for you to be out by yourself. Vol-“ She paused, not wanting to mention his name in fear of him finding you. “You-Know-Who’s back and-“

“-Could capture me anytime blah, blah, blah!” You cut off. Getting up from your place on the couch, you make your way towards the staircase. “Give me a break, Mione, please. I’m tired of everyone nagging me about that bald headed freak.”

The both of them stood still in their places, clearly not expecting you to respond with such an agrivated tone in your voice. You sighed for the thousandth time this morning, and you turn to face them.

"Look- I'm sorry for yelling, but please for the love of god, let me be for just a few hours. Especially today." You pleaded to the duo in front of you.

Hermione's lips were pressed into a thin line, obviously not happy with the idea of you out on your own. Your eyes averted to the ginger-haired boy, his eyes trying their best to avoid your pleading gaze.

"I want to mate, I really do. It's just that Dumble-" Ron never got to finish however, since Hermione had taken it upon herself to cover his mouth before he could say anything else.

Intriguied, you raised a curious brow the both of them.

"Dumbledore?" You ask, now determined not to leave the common room without an answer.

Ron’s eyes were wide, along with Hermione’s. She let out a quiet cough, quickly taking her hand off his face.

“Nothing!” She replied rather hastily, and made her way next to you. Grabbing you by the shoulders, she ushered you up the stairs and did her best to change the subject. “[Y/N] I think you should get ready now- don’t want to miss the big day and all!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Hermione shoved you into your dormitory before you could even utter a single word. Now you were left with your mouth open, staring at the wooden door in front of you. Everything happened so fast, it almost felt as if someone had obliviated you.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you closed your eyes and let out a suppressed sigh. Great, just great. Hermione was now definitely going to keep a closer eye on you, and now all of a sudden Dumbledore was in on this as well. You let your forehead bang on the door, not caring if it would leave a mark.

“Come on [Y/N], pull yourself together. You’re a Potter for Merlin’s sake.”

»»————-　★　————-««

author’s note: hi loves! i am so so sorry about the wait, i lost motivation in writing for a little while. however- i am back and better than ever! i really hope you enjoy this series, because i am so excited to continue writing it. stay safe everyone!

#draco malfoy #fanfiction #fluff #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #draco malfoy fanfic #enemies to lovers

[grecoisms]

title: sun sonnet (summer rain) rating: T pairing: Sakura Haruno / Kakashi Hatake summary: In times of war, love comes easy.

No one else will travel through the shadow with me, only you, ever-living, ever-sun, ever-moon.

"Room four is free" says the innkeeper to the young woman, a little bit to quickly, not quite meeting the eyes of the foreigners. He can smell and see the blood in their rigid stances. Soldiers, no doubt, from the front. Konoha, which is oh so very far away.

Behind the young female ninja, her partner, a man with one eye levels him with intent. He looks exhausted, but there is kindness, the keeper thinks, in his eyes. One of his hands linger on the shoulder of his partner for a second as she steps closer to the desk to sign the guestbook. 

"Do you have running water?" rasps the girl, coughing a bit. The heat from which they escaped from is unbearable. Sweat travels from her hair, a crown of pink. The sweat curls in her cheek, making it look like the woman is crying. She has dust on her nose, something they should all smile about, were it not for the sadness in her eyes.

"It will work for five minutes so you'll have to be quick." 

Needless to say; water supplies have been cut off. The conduits were blown to bit three weeks ago. The girl nods, knows. Such is the nature of war. She looks back at her companion and begins to head towards the stairs. The man with one eye thanks him, then follows the girl.

*

What awaits them, is a laughably casual room, with one huge tatami mat just under the small, etched window. A philodendron in the corner. Ancient yellow curtains smelling like smoke and walls looking rice-paper thin. The woman sighs. The man checks the entrances and the small drawer across the plant. But he, too, appreciates the normalcy, finds comfort in this banally conventional interior. The girl can see that the way his hands cease to run into his hair. 

"Shower. Now." the girl says, and tosses herself gently into the back of the man, who hums in agreement. 

They strip with methodical acumen, logical willingness, not yet in the bathroom, but between the tatami and the plant. Holding and treating their bodies as instruments seem to come naturally to these two. The man with snow-soft hair has a long scar running down his face and his belly, old wounds, familiar stretches. Yet as he peels his boots and gloves off, the skin under his left eye - the one halved by a scar - jumps. There are new wounds, and it would appear that they are a bit too fresh to ignore. His stubble is a week old.

Next to her, facing him, the girl with the flower-petal locks seems exhausted beyond the day. She is younger, still, a woman of war. This is obvious, the way she is examining her hands - hands that lack softness - as she uncoils her tunic. The belt and the bindings around the curve of her breasts, the arc of her hips follow the dress onto the grime, the dust of the wooden floor. It does not matter, not really: all of her clothing seems to be bloodied, a sign that she has been on the front half a day ago. An eternity ago.

Finally, the bathroom. It feels crowded with the two of them standing in it, all revealed and tired and shameless in their nakedness. Then the woman of war lets the man with the strange eyes lean on her shoulders as he helps himself into the tub. He winces and she does not blush at the contact. They do look at each other with a certain soft wistfulness though, a light entrancement as she follows him; eager for cleansing.

Steam rises. Hot water starts running, running, running in big, fat, warm droplets and they do not speak as it trickles down, tickling their bodies. Dirt and blood and maybe some guilt and worry, too, leave their clockwork muscles, all knotted from the fight. There is an inaudible sigh, a nonverbal, mutual ecstasy of relief in their shared spaces. Purity is luxury in their trade.

No, not words, but a single bar of soap is all that travels back and fro; all they want and need to share now. She might have been pickier when younger and he might have made a remark or two by now, but this summer evening is austere, the war is in their marrows now, heavy and sharp. The woman wonders whether they should sleep with windows open tonight. The man wonders whether they will be able to sleep at all. Battles, after all, write their curses onto the skin of their dreams and it is no easy task to erase or smooth them. There is no peace in war. These moments thus become powerful.

Small blessings, such as these: a hot shower, a roof above their head, something to sleep on. 

Blessings, like him bowing his head, hand curled in a tent above his eyes, so she can soap his hair, washing the thick-wire curls with routine and care. She massages the foam into his scalp and temple, careful not to get any in his eyes. Her fingers are full of ridges, holy hands, full of scars. Holy things are, after all, hard things. 

After washing off the froth, another blessing, him holding her as she scrubs the soles of her feet, intent of bidding goodbye to the tiniest of scrubs. Until nothing remains but the zigzag way her body tanned weeks ago. There is a click, signalling there is not much time left. 

The woman straightens up, puts her other hand onto the man's shoulder. Steam rises still, and in the fog, the two figure embrace each other, as if wanting to wash each other's back, but really, it is a mutual exhale of grace. Time does not stop. War does not stop. They are alive and the water stops. And they do not let go of each other. 

Only when they start shivering -  the water drops are now ice on their bodies - do they lift their heads up. The man's arms are longer, so he is the one clasping the towel while she steps out and helps him again, and now, now there is more in the way she fastens her hand, more than relief in the way he relies on her help, because the pain is here again, although water made him forget.

She makes him sit on the brink of the tube, and drapes the towel from his hands to his head and starts to ruffle it until it resembles a nest. They both reward it with a small smile. A familiarity. He helps her drying her back, making great circles, carving a mishmash symbol onto her spine. It makes the young woman tilt her head, chuckle.

There is some water leaking from the tap as they head back to the bed. The sun is setting and there is a strange mixture of scents in the room already, something like ozone and that heavy earthly odor they both miss dearly. The man does not bother with dressing again. After stuffing their uniforms back into his bag, he stretches on the mattress and closes his eyes.

"I am opening the windows" says the girl softly, putting on a fresh tunic, all white, immaculate. Her companion lulls. The sun is setting, although there are clouds in the horizon, shielding the orb, shadowing its presence. 

Drawing the curtains, Sakura is calm now, knowing the light won't disturb them in their sleep. Her limbs feel eternal-heavy, but when Kakashi draws her closer with one extended arm, relief comes easy, her head is clearer. 

"We got lucky" he mumbles. 

"I didn't heal you."

"Later, Sakura" he says, and still, forces to open his eyes to see her face, before sleep weighs him down. Such is the nature of love. "Let's sleep now."

She smiles and caresses his elbow, heavy-lidded with fatigue.

"See you."   

They close their eyes, buried in the embrace, hopeful the nightmares won't come to hunt and knowing that even if they do, the other will be there to anchor the fright.

Kakashi starts to snore, light and content. Sakura adjusts the cover on their bodies. 

There is a rumble. The sky opens up. Rain pours down. 

Serenity awaits them both.

#kakasakumonth2017 #kakasakumonth #kakasaku #waiting is wasting #my writing

[erinelezabeth920]

#mtnbabes

Something bothered me this week, and I wanted to be able to talk about it. On Friday my friend and I went on a hike, down route 90 out of Seattle. We didn’t have graduate school class that day and it was a sunny day, the last before a long week of rain. I woke up early from my boyfriend’s house, threw on the layers I had in a little backpack, nabbed his rain jacket and first aid kit, because sometimes I’m not very prepared, and got in my car. I drove down the early streets of Seattle as the sun was rising over the eastern Cascades, listening to the country music station. A song came on which I had put on a birthday CD for a friend last summer, who I hadn’t heard from in a while. It made me sad. I sang along anyway. I pulled into my friend’s driveway, banged on her door and told her we had to get going to avoid traffic. She opened the door hurriedly, pulling on a hiking boot, and pointing me toward the fruit and a french press pot. I loaded the snowshoes and poles into her car, and she rushed out a second later, layers and jacket in hand. We were on the road about 7:15am.

Driving down rt. 90, the sun was starting to rise above the mountains. There was mist and some early morning Seattle city traffic commuter, straight faced, sad looking, holding their coffee in one hand, steering wheel in the other. I was so happy to be wearing hiking boots instead. The clouds hung low, but there were hints of blue sky above. The kind of day in February in the Northwest that makes you tingle with the longing of what long days used to be like, an aching in your wet and frozen bones like a reminder of a nice faded dream. I munched on a cliff bar and drank some of my friend’s coffee. We played a CD a guy had made her a while back, when he had come to visit Seattle before he left to travel to Ecuador; sappy sweet acoustic songs of love and leaving. I stuck up my middle finger to the dashboard. “Mountain men.” I scoffed, an angry band aid covering up my own handmade country CDs and heartbreak.

After a stop to a gas station, and up and over Snoqualmie Pass, we made it to exit 63, where the trail report said to park. Just a few other cars, and a line of porta potties shoved into a snow bank six feet high. A fog hung over the valley, but hopefully the sun would burn it off. We grabbed our snowshoes, packed our little packs, and prayed the car would go unnoticed without our parking permit. (I’m sorry Washington State Trails association. I’ll buy a pass soon, I promise.) Crossing the highway, we started up the trial, a series of groomed cross country ski tracks. After about half a mile we saw the sign and right turn off to Amabilis Mountain, a dirt forest access road that’s not maintained in the winter. Strapping on our snowshoes, we headed up.

As we walked, I was ecstatic. The pine trees were tall, draped in snow that was dripping in the warmer air. I had felt cooped up in the city for weeks; a combination of rain, sickness and graduate school exhaustion. This was exactly what I needed. I loved walking next to my friend too, the female energy and a sense of freedom. 

After coming to a fork in the road, and heading left as the trail report said, we ended up walking up a small side trail into the trees. According to the WTA website, there was a shortcut through the trees that would cut off about 2/3 of a mile, which seemed okay by me. We started walking, following some tracks. Eventually the tracks thinned to simply a few animal prints, squirrels and maybe a rabbit. The air was silent. Absolutely no wind. There was a steady drip, drip of snow from the trees, falling into the stillness. The sun was warm between the trees, and as the fog began to lift the valley spread, highway and lake far below. As we walked our awkward snowshoe legs up the so-called shortcut, the trees thinned until we came to a kind of wide ledge. Apparently this trail was supposed to connect to the main road at some point; however as we walked it became apparent that it did not, and we had simply gone down a false path. It was beautiful where we were however, completely untouched, smooth wide patches of snow and pine trees. We frolicked for a bit, our snowshoes crunching through the fresh powder. Stopping to take in the view, a wide lake under crisp snowy peaks, my friend looked at me, grinned and said, “You know what we should do? Topless photo.”

I laughed, a little unsure. But subsequently we did, posting the camera on a backpack. Stripping off my layers and finally, in a quick movement, my sports bra, I walked up to the edge. I felt so good. Amazing really. Happy. The sun on my bare skin was warm, in a way I hadn’t felt in months. It felt like years, forever. I felt connected to all the things around me, safe in my body and space. We laughed, as my friend tried to get her phone to stand up and I danced a little to the mountains, alone and free.

Later that day, 10 + sunny miles later, dead legs and exhausted, I looked through our photos in the car on the way back. The topless one was just beautiful; in my mind natural female bodies in the mountains, both strong and powerful. An accomplishment both of what women were capable of. After a while, I decided to post the photo on Instagram. I wanted to show off our accomplishments, and unabashedly share our moment, the ability to feel comfortable in our bodies and to climb mountains.

Soon after, later that night while out with friends, I received a comment on the post from an old co-worker and avid outdoorsman with the hashtag, #mtnbabes. I clicked on it. Soon my phone screen filled with a series of photos similar to ours; women in the outdoors naked or topless in similar forms. It was beautiful, the scenery and the bodies of the women, but immediately I was filled with annoyance, shame and a kind of burning feeling in my stomach. I almost wanted to take the picture down. It still makes me mad or embarrassed writing this, and the worst part is, I can’t entirely articulate why. Maybe it was the fact that it was a male that had posted this, even one who I knew well as a friend, and progressive minded outdoor person. We had even sat together in a staff training once having conversations over privilege and accessibility in the outdoors. So maybe then it was jealousy, seeing all these beautiful competent women, and feeling lesser than.

But I think it was something else. Talking it over with my friend out to dinner over Indian food in Seattle the other night, I was able to rant through my curry and verbally process enough until something kind of coherent came out. “It felt, objectifying, kind of Spring Break-ish” I said. “Like, you know, WOOO TOPLESS, type of short skirt background dancer of a music video, pretty girl by the side of the pool kind of feeling. Like the girls on this feed are doing this for attention from men.” That even as well intended though the audience might be, the fact that they’re spending their free time scrolling through half naked pictures of women leaves a bad taste in my mouth. 

And I know that’s not the whole story, of course. I’m sure most or really all of them are bad ass, competent women who want to promote the freedom of their bodies in the outdoors, and the absolute right of women to exist in those spaces, the same as men. That social media is a slim filter to show our whole selves. But it bothered me still, to be associated with that feeling of sexualized inferiority somehow, and that I couldn’t figure out in our world of social media how to portray this feeling of freedom, the sense of womanhood, empowerment and belonging in the mountains because the system was so ingrained in the way that women’s bodies have been objectified. So that’s a simple solution, right? Just don’t post the pictures.

And there is it, the strong part of me that feels as though this whole feeling is completely invalidated. That I’m incredibly wrong here, with no grounds to even stand on. It’s like there’s this voice in head, Erin If you don’t want to cause problems, why even post the picture in the first place? You’re not good enough to say these things, you don’t have the power to think like that. Why do I feel like that? That every time I get angry it’s not a valid thing; that I’m being silly? That it’s just, as my (incredibly wonderful supportive, feminist minded boyfriend), laughed after seeing the picture, calling it another ‘Girls Show Their Tits To The World’ photo. (He later apologized.)

I think it’s confusing moments like these when I listen to Lemonade, cry a lot and then resolve my steel. (Thank you Beyonce, always). And moments where a good friend takes me to an all ladies naked spa day the weekend after I had my IUD procedure, just to thank me for being brave. And moments on Orcas Island, in the clothing optional hot tubs, sitting with friends and laughing in the salty pine air, just like the majority of Europe where bodies are not sexualized in our staunch puritanical bullshit principles, but appreciated as unique, natural and beautiful. 

So I WANTED to post the picture. I wanted to try to accurately depict an incredible, powerful moment in the quiet of the mountains and the sheer beauty thereof. And of being women. And not following any man up the mountain, but hiking it ourselves. And how hard, how so fucking hard that is to maintain, promote and demand as equality in this society, simply to be recognized as equals, as equally entitled. I work for a rock climbing gym, and as part of staff training we had to write through safety scenarios. One of the scenarios was a woman following her boyfriend to the gym, and acting unsafe in the environment. It pissed me off so much, and I still haven’t been able to say anything about. That was months ago. Every half hour on shifts we have to tally up the total of men and women in the gym, simply for record keeping purposes. Every time the ratio is always in favor of the men, and every time it digs me, just a little. Yesterday was the first time I had ever seen the number equal. I actually wrote an exclamation point next to the tally. 

I was listening to the SheExplores podcast in the kitchen the other night, in which a woman told of a story of going hiking with her boyfriend. He was an ex-marine, and she always felt like she was slowing him down, feeling the need to overcompensate and prove herself. She told a story that one time, he told her that he didn’t want to hike the John Muir Trail with her, even though it was a long term dream of hers, because she would, quote, “slow him down.”

“DUMP HIS ASS” I yelled into the sink of dirty dishes I was washing, splashing water onto myself, knowing full well I had no right to dictate life choices to a woman from a podcast.

The thing that got to me though, was that that wasn’t even the point of the story. The point was her work as a product researcher for an outdoor company or something along those lines. The fact that she felt inferior to her boyfriend in the outdoors was just a small detail. What got to me was the way she spoke of it like it was almost normal, the following of men up mountains and on trails. And the feeling of disempowerment it brings. Like it’s just something that women just have to “deal with” in order to go outside. The podcast producer expressed similar sentiments, and the whole thing just got me so upset that I had to pour a glass of wine to keep listening.

Up on the climbing wall cork board is an article entitled, How to Fight Sexism in the Climbing World. Yesterday I saw a guy read it, scoff “interesting…” like it was a new and foreign concept to him. I stood there quietly, insides burning. So goddamnit, yes I will take my shirt off, and if you want to objectify me, then let’s remember, that mountains are shaped exactly like female tits. So who’s house is this really?

Here’s the photo. I captioned it “Views for days”. I kind of hate myself for it. It sounds objectifying and diminishing. 

Here’s what I really wanted to caption it, my favorite U2 quote, and one of my favorite song quotes of all time.

If you want to kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel. On your knees boy.

#outdoorwomen #pnw #outdoors #feminism #instagram