#yes this is about the 30 crickets pressing against the front door

[messyfandom]

Central Texas in the fall is just TMA season 1 but instead of worms it’s crickets and instead of doing anything we just let it happen.

#Texas #crickets #yes this is about the 8 crickets in my room #yes this is about the 30 crickets pressing against the front door #oh the crickets? #yeah we just…. let them do whatever #corruption would fail bc nobody is afraid #yeah yeah the swarm of crickets #we’ve all seen it #tma

[sexualsebstan]

Two Blind Horses | s.r

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: language, angst, allusions to make up sex.

Word Count: 1721

Summary: Steve hopes he made it in time to see the one who owns his heart and fix what was once broken.

a/n: I am so sorry this took so long to come out, I really honestly forgot what direction this part was going and lost it until now. Enjoy!

_____________

8:30. On the dot.

It was maybe the millionth time Steve glanced at his watch, making sure he was on time. He made sure he was there a whole fifteen minutes early, the chirping of crickets virtually drowning out the bustle of the nearby city. It was odd that she wasn't yet there, she said to meet him here, implying she'd already be standing and waiting for him by the river. He rationalized, telling himself it was probably traffic that’s got her late, or maybe her roommate whisked her off on an adventure, or maybe… No. She said she would be here.

Another five minutes pass by with no sign or indication she's coming, Steve spacing out as he stared out at the water. He'd have to come to the realization, that perhaps she didn't want to meet him and this was her sick way of saying they'd never get back to what they once had. Drawing in a deep and shaky breath, Steve ran a hand through his hair in frustration, not realizing the tears slowly slipping down his cheeks until he felt one roll down his chin.

Stupid, he thinks. How stupid could I be? I ruined us, of course, she doesn't want me back. With these thoughts drowning his mind, the teardrops began flowing faster than he could wipe them away as he made his way back to the car. Just as he made it past the tree line, he came to a halt at the sound of her voice, calling out to him.

”Steve, wait! I'm sorry I was late, I can explain!” So Steve stops, turning on his heel to face her now. In her hands are two cups, and it makes sense now. The signature ’I’m sorry, forgive me?’ hot chocolate from the cafe where they met. ”I had to get the hot chocolate.” She breathes out as she walks towards the super-soldier, holding out one cup for him to take, a very faint smile on her lips.

”I didn't think you’d come. I thought, ” Steve pauses to draw in a breath to calm himself down because his own voice is betraying him and revealing how broken he is. ”I thought that this was your way of saying you never wanted to see me again.” He finally lets out, and she can few her own heart shatter into a million little pieces.

”You thought wrong, Steve. I would never do that to you.” He doesn't flinch, doesn't move away, doesn't even take a step back as he watches her now free hand reach up and cup his cheek, thumb gently wiping away stray tears. Subconsciously, he moved into her touch, eyes closing and letting go of the breath he didn't know he was holding. Nodding, he lets her lead him back to the waterfront, where the two settle in underneath the large oak tree they've claimed as their own.

There are a few moments of silence as Y/n gathers her thoughts properly, teeth favoring her bottom lip in thought.

”Okay, ” she sighs finally, turning to look at Steve fully, letting him know all of her attention is on him. ”I want to start by apologizing for how I acted. It was idiotic of me to use that against you, and from the bottom of my heart, I want to say I am immensely sorry for it.” The argument of that final night haunts Steve’s memory as she speaks, his throat tightening once again as it replays in his head.

Flashback

”You're never here! You're always at the stupid compound, always away on a mission! There are other Avengers too, Steve, they shouldn't always rely on you to go on these missions.” She spat, venom lacing every word and seeping into his mind, searing a reminder of this moment into his brain.

”I'm their captain, of course, I have to go on these missions, Y/n! Why don't you get that?!” Steve bites back, noticing how she glares him down from across the living room. Just ten minutes earlier he was telling her about a new mission they'd been assigned to. Except this one would be the longest one yet, Steve wouldn't be back for six months. Before, he was never gone for more than a couple of weeks at a time.

”Hmm, maybe because there's Tony. You know, the one who keeps your stupid ass in check! The one who watches out for you on these missions, the one who has done more solo missions than you and came back without a bullet hole in his leg! Maybe because Tony fucking Stark can leave my fiance alone, and for once he can be home for longer than a week!” There it is. The truth about why she was so upset with the captain after he told her. Steve softens as he notices the tears streaming down her cheeks.

”Oh, darling…” he whispers as he makes his way across the room, pulling her into his chest. She's sobbing, fighting against his grip and hitting his chest when he doesn't free her immediately.

”You should be home, Steve. Y-You should fucking be home.” She repeats through choked sobs and short breaths as she buries her face into the fabric of his shirt, letting herself be held up by just Steve’s hold on her. He lets his back hit the wall behind him, sliding down to the ground with her still in his grip. The two of them stay curled in this position until the calm comes, sniffles and hiccups breaking the silence.

”You know I wish I could be home all of the time, but this is my job, sweetheart. You knew that when we began all of this.” And it's true, she knew dating Captain America would be difficult. But she didn't think it would be two weeks max with him home, only to leave again for another three weeks. It was exhausting, having the love of your life not being home all of the time.

”I know.”

A couple hours pass, and she's watching as he finally zips up his bag. By this time tomorrow, nothing will be the same and the two are completely clueless to it. They exchange words, not wanting to cause another screaming match that night. Y/n’s bottom lip is raw from the chewing, Steve’s heart is torn. As he makes his way towards the front door, he's stopped by her speaking once more.

”Do you really have to go?” She questions, fingers toying with the dog tags she wore. His dog tags. He doesn't make eye contact, he just simply nods.

”You know I have to.” He answers with a voice strained by the earlier yelling.

”Steven Rogers, you walk out that door, there is no more you and I. You walk out right now, I will not be here when you get back.”

There's a pause before the door opens and he steps over the threshold, making his decision. And two hearts break that night.

End of flashback

Steve’s eyes travel to her hands as she’s quiet once more, watching as she pushes against already popped joints. A nervous habit she had for years, and whenever she'd do it around him, he’d stop her by taking them into his own hands. He now finds himself fighting the urge to stop her, knowing he shouldn't touch unless he was given the okay.

”I still have the tags, ” she’s the first to break the comforting silence that fell between them. ”I still wear them every day. I never had the heart to take them off.” she admits, one hand coming up to pull them out, warm from being tucked into her shirt. His eyes travel up now, landing on the little metal tags that rested in her hand. At least she kept a piece of him with her, a piece that would be closest to her heart at all times. He doesn't say anything, just slowly reaches out and takes her hand in his, squeezing ever so gently and holding it.

”Can I come home?” He pleads, not daring to meet her gaze, too afraid to look her in the eyes. There's a moment, where she draws in a deep breath, thinking it over. ”I want to come home, please Y/n.”

”Yes.” She breathes out, giving his hand a squeeze back. And it's then that he raises his eyes to meet hers, searching for anything that may make her change her mind. And when there is nothing, his lips curl into a bright smile. ”Come home, Stevie. It's lonely sleeping by myself..” Before she can even really think, he's pulling her on to him and peppering her face with kisses before finally coming to rest on her lips.

The kiss is passionate, filled with everything left unsaid. I forgive you, you're my world, I'm never letting you go.

_____

Soft giggles and whispers to quiet each other down fill the apartment as the door comes open, and they step inside. Steve is quick to push her against it, causing it to shut as he leans down and kisses her once more. Her fingers are carding through his hair, ever so slightly tugging as he presses against her. Soft moans and needy whimpers are swallowed by the kiss. Pulling away, Steve smirks a little, looking down at her.

”What’s on your mind, Captain?” She questions, teeth tugging on her bottom lip as her eyes flicker from blue eyes to plush, kiss bruised lips. ”What are you gonna do now that you're home?” The question comes with a quirked brow, a playful smirk that's quickly wiped away as the super-soldier picks her up effortlessly, earning a little giggle from it.

”You.” His growled answer causes familiar wetness to pool between her thighs, a content hum falling from her lips.

”Get to it, pretty boy. You have seven months to make up.”

#steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #marvel fanfiction #mcu #captain america #steve rogers fanfiction #sexualsebstans masterlist

[silverfootstepswrites]

Lullaby [20%]

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Read Equinox here and come back!

“It’s too hot,” Sakura sighed. 

“Sorry about the AC. Should I turn up the fan?”

“Turn off the sun, please,” she groaned, rolling onto her back on the floor of his living room.

“I could try. But that might kill the whole planet, you know.”

“Don’t care. I wanna wear socks again. And sweaters. And scaaaarves,” she whined. She rolled over again, rubbing her face against the front of his shirt. 

Kakashi propped himself up on his elbow to watch her tantrum. A smile tugging at his lips. He draped his free arm over her waist. 

“Should we go get ice cream?” he suggested. 

“Ughhh,” she groaned. 

“Come on,” he urged as he sat up. Sakura buried her face in her arms shaking her head. All the talking and moving woke Biscuit, who wandered over from his spot by the door. He stepped over Kakashi’s leg to nudge Sakura’s arm. She wrapped her arm around him and hugged him close to her chest.

“Biscuit, make summer end. Mommy’s dying,” she lamented. Biscuit’s wide eyes flew to Kakashi, who laughed.

“Alright, let’s go. Ice cream time,” Kakashi decided. He lifted her easily, throwing her over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Her laughter filled the house as he carried her out into the hall.

“Let me try a bite.”

Kakashi held out his frozen yogurt bar. It was the prettiest shade of light green, dotted with pieces of brittle.

“I’ve never been a pistachio person. This is pretty good,” she had to admit. He gave her a smug look. She pushed him with her shoulder. Their sandals lay abandoned near the plastic bag from the grocery store.

They sat on the concrete patio behind Kakashi’s house. He had turned on the fan. It didn’t help with the humidity, but the air blowing over their backs did feel nice. She leaned against his arm until eventually he lifted it to drape it over her shoulders instead. 

The crickets and cicadas seemed to be competing to see who could be louder that night. Their combined songs filled the balmy air. But that was as much a part of summers in Old Pines as everything else. When she had first moved to town, the sound had kept her up at night. Now, she had trouble sleeping without the serenade on the hottest nights.

Sakura held up her spoon. “Say aah.”

He reached for the spoon, but she yanked it away from him. “Say it,” she insisted.

Kakashi sighed. “I can feed myself.” But he still lowered his hand. She fed him a bite of her strawberry ice cream. And then pecked him on the mouth before she acted like nothing had happened. 

Kakashi mashed his lips together. Trying to hold in both the ice cream and a laugh. Sakura went on eating her little cup of ice cream. Humming to herself as she tapped her bare feet on the concrete. 

“Sakura.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you finish your ice cream quickly?”

“Why should I do that, Kakashi?” she asked, not looking up at him. She bit back a smile when she felt him grab her free hand in the darkness. His palm damp with sweat.. 

“I want to go back inside.” He squeezed her hand a little as he added in a small voice, “...please.”

“Why? To play chess? Read a book?”

“Sakura,” he groaned, his head falling on her shoulder as she laughed a little harder. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll be right there. I can’t say no to those puppy eyes,” she relented.

A few days later, Sakura woke in the middle of a dream. A little unsure of whether she was still sleeping or not. Her bulky but reliable air conditioner hummed out back, pumping cold air into her house. Because even in the summer, she liked to sleep under the covers.

She lifted her head, eyes cracking open. Her phone sat on the nightstand where she had tossed it the night before. She had forgotten to charge it. The blinds next to the window were shut, but she could still see the sunlight trying to peer in past the slats.

“Whozzat?” she mumbled as she heard a click. 

The back door opened, footsteps clomping into the kitchen. 

“It’s me,” Kakashi called back. She could hear the rustle of plastic. And the tap of little black nails on the floor. 

Sighing, Sakura flopped back onto the pillow. She heard the jangle of keys before they hit the kitchen counter. Cabinet doors opening and closing. And then, several seconds later, she heard his footsteps approaching. She cracked an eye open, arms stretched out at her sides. 

“Long night?” asked Kakashi from the doorway. 

She grunted, eye drifting shut. 

“Alright. Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep,” he replied. He took a few more steps. She felt him smooth his hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. And she sort-of forgave him for waking her in the first place. Especially when he kissed her forehead too. 

Biscuit hopped up onto the bed. He seemed to know that she wasn’t in the mood to play. Instead, the pooch wormed his way under her arm, curling up against her stomach. She slept well, the air conditioner blasting, and the faint tap of a knife against the cutting board drifting in through the crack in the door.

The second time Sakura woke, she felt much less murderous. She sat up, rolling her shoulders a couple times. Biscuit was gone. Rubbing her hand through her hair, Sakura sniffed. She smelled coffee. And something else that made her stomach rumble in anticipation. 

As she opened her mouth to call for Kakashi, her eyes fell to the other side of the bed. Kakashi lay on his back, hands folded across his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. He looked so serious that she refrained from speaking. It seemed like he had something profound to say. 

“Even your snoring sounds pretty,” he finally sighed. 

“I don’t snore!” she exclaimed. 

“You do. It’s adorable,” Kakashi stuck to his story. And then he turned his head to look at her. She tried to scowl at him. But it didn’t last for long as he reached up to run his fingers along her cheek. She bent her head so that he could reach, his teasing forgiven right away. 

“I didn’t ask before. But are you sure you were just tired? You seemed... upset,” Kakashi then brought up. His hand fell back onto the bed. 

Sakura’s smile dimmed. Her mouth twisted to one side.

“Just... my head’s been busy, I guess,” she confessed. She ran her fingers through her hair, just to have something to do with it.

When he smiled at her, she returned the expression. Almost like a reflex. And it was just as reflexive to close her eyes when he leaned in to kiss her. Soft and lingering, just like his hands as they ran over her hair, down her back. His forehead pressing against hers as he inhaled. Exhaled even more slowly.

“Breakfast?” 

He had made a fluffy omelet for breakfast. She sat at the kitchen table, her chin resting on her fists as she watched him. Biscuit wandered over to sit at her feet. He knew better than to try to beg Kakashi for scraps when he cooked.

Kakashi draped a towel over his shoulder as he reheated the skillet. He popped slices of bread into the toaster oven as he waited for the pan to heat.

There was something incredibly attractive about a man who knew his way around the kitchen. She especially liked watching his arms and shoulders as he used the spatula or reached for something across the counter. Although, her personal favorite was watching his hands as he sliced vegetables with precise movements. Unfortunately, she had missed out on that part of the cooking process this time around.

“Honey?”

“Mhm?” she replied, only half-listening.

Kakashi turned to look at her. He had found a jar of honey in the cabinet. “I meant, do you want honey on your toast?”

“Oh.... yeah.” Sakura blinked a few times. As he twisted the cap off the honey, he turned his attention back to the stove. He nudged the knob to lower the heat. The contents of the frying pan sizzled a little more quietly. 

“Are you a ... pet name person?” Kakashi asked. 

Sakura considered this for a moment. “I’m a nickname person, I guess. I mean, all my friends call me Bunny,” she finally admitted. And then she tilted her head as she thought a little harder.

“Kakashi?”

“Yes.”

“Babe?”

He froze. 

“Do you not like that?” she inquired. 

Hands braced on the counter, Kakashi let out a heavy sigh. When he finally turned to look at her, he suddenly looked very tired.

“Sakura, despite appearances, I’m an old man. My heart can’t take something like that,” he warned her. His hand on his chest for emphasis.

“Aw, you’re young at heart, babe,” Sakura teased, tongue between her teeth as she grinned at him. Kakashi just sighed again. Shaking his head, he pushed off the counter to plate the food. 

He set breakfast in front of her a minute later. Thin slices of apple covered the surface of the toast, glistening from the drizzle of honey on top. The butter-colored omelet was flecked with what looked like chives. He had even sliced up strawberries in the shape of hearts to garnish the edges of the dish. But Kakashi didn’t sit like she expected. Before she could ask, Kakashi poured her a cup of coffee fresh from the carafe. 

“This looks amazing. Thank you, Kakashi,” Sakura said as he set the mug in front of her. He smiled at her in return. Chair legs scraping against the floor, he finally settled in the seat opposite from her. 

She took a big bite of the omelet and then fed him the next slice. They were content to chew in silence for a while. Save for Kakashi’s snorting laugh when Sakura took a bite of her toast and did a little happy dance in her seat. 

“I love you,” he suddenly declared as he watched her munch on her toast. 

And mouth dotted with crumbs, Sakura barely swallowed her mouthful of food before she replied, “Love you too, babe.”

Kakashi laughed as he reached over to brush the crumbs away with his thumb. And then he leaned across the table to replace his hand with a kiss.

#equinox #lullaby #multisaku #kakasaku #writing #happy valentine's day

[vampwrrrmistresslist]

Sweet Lies 3

A/N:  This is the third chapter for an in-progress series, the links for which are on my mistresslist. 

The gloaming descended, the moon a pale sickle in the darkening sky.  You walked through a quiet neighbourhood, surrounded by houses sitting with acres of woods on one side, and the bay on the other.  Fireflies lazily floated around you, some alighting on you, as you let your head loll back to better breathe in the humid, green scent of an oncoming southern summer night.  Though you detested the airless, wet heat, which gripped your skin like a needy lover, you loved this time of day, this time of year.  You loved the fireflies, the sounds of the crickets, and frogs, and alright, to be honest, there was a tiny part of you that found the humid warmth somewhat romantic.  It made you think of long, sweaty nights, with someone you loved. You sighed.  You’d watched too much True Blood as a teen.  

Strains of Massive Attack’s “Angel” lightly floated through your earbuds as you sauntered through an after-work walk.  It was still too hot to run, but you welcomed the chance to wind down from another day of dealing with unnecessarily hysterical people loudly whingeing their way through ultimately irrelevant complaints.  Since the incident, you made sure to keep the volume on your music low enough that you could still hear everything around you, even though you bitterly resented that change to your routine.   Despite that precaution, you didn’t hear any movement when a shadow detached itself from one of the trees and slowly approached you, though you did see it out of the corner of your eye.  Turning, you faced the shadow, lips pressed thin, standing your ground as it came closer, though your heart was thumping so hard, you could feel the blood rushing in your ears.  You were in the middle of a neighbourhood nice enough for everyone to come running if you screamed but, as you weren’t much of a screamer, you slid your hand into your hip bag, wrapping your fingers around your brand new collapsible stun baton.  

The figure emerged from the shadows of the overhanging trees, the glow of a nearby street-light slowly washing over his pale face, eyes like black smudges.  

Your voice was sharp when you asked, “Baekhyun?”

A slow smile melted across his face as he held up his hands.  “In the flesh.”

You sighed, and released your baton.  Chastising him, you asked, “What are you doing here?  You startled me!”

He tilted his head.  “I was taking a walk after work, when a stone made its way into my shoe.  I was leaning against one of the trees for balance when you walked by.”  He sauntered closer.  “Fancy seeing you here.  First the grocery store, then the park, then work…”  He leaned down until his face was directly in front of yours. “Are you stalking me, little girl?”

You pushed him away in exasperation.    “We live three blocks away from each other in a relatively small town.  Of course we’d run into each other often.”  He smiled as if he had won some sort of victory, but you were still too grouchy from his heart-pounding entrance to pursue it further. “Besides,” you said as you turned to continue your walk.  “I’m not a little girl.  I’m probably older than you.”  

He comfortably fell into step beside you.  “How old are you?”

Here it comes, you thought.  Time to nip this odd flirtation in the bud before you get attached.

“30,” you said shortly.

“I’m 26.”

“Awww,” you sing-songed, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “You’re a baby!”

He maneuvered around you, neatly backing you into a nearby tree.  Looming, he leaned in, resting his hand on the trunk over your head, the close proximity forcing you to look up to see his face.  His eyes were in shadow again, though you could see their glimmer in the dark.  “I’m bigger than you.  Taller than you.” His glittering eyes drifted languidly down your body, as he tilted his head thoughtfully.  “I call you little girl, because that is what you are, despite being born a couple of years before me.”

“A couple of years?” You jutted your chin defiantly, and softened your voice into a condescending croon.  “Four, my dearest darling.  Four is not a couple.”

He leaned even closer, and you stiffened, your back thumping against the tree as he closed the distance between you until his mouth was only thought away from yours.  When he spoke, his voice was so deep and slow that you had to sink your teeth into your lip to keep from reacting. “I guarantee you, what I lack in years, I more than make up for, in experience.”

You looked up at him mutinously, actively controlling your breathing so as not to give away how nervous his closeness made you.  “Duly noted,” you bit out, your lips thin.

One moment he was there, with you, in the dark, and the next, he had backed back into the light glowing from the old street lamps.  He tilted his head, watching you.  “Are you coming?”

You took a moment to compose yourself, then pushed off of the tree and rejoined him, the two of you walking together in silence, through your normal running route.  He walked so closely that, if you wanted, you could touch him if you moved a handbreadth, but he didn’t touch you.  You reached your door much sooner than you would have liked, though the logical part of you primly reminded that what seemed to be happening wasn’t quite normal, that it would probably be wise and best to start politely shutting him down when you saw him around, especially considering the fact that you were now co-workers.  Without thinking, you dipped an awkward little curtsey, and started toward your door, trying to make your escape.  “Well, good night!”

“Come back,” he said quietly, using the same tone of command as he had in the grocery store, and despite yourself, you found your treacherous legs turning around, carrying you back to him.  

You cleared your throat, casually brushing your hair behind your ear with your ring finger, and tried to give off the impression that you had returned of your own accord.  “Yes?”

His eyes were giving off that dark gleam again.  You could almost imagine that there were no whites, just two black voids, where his eyes should be, but instead of alarming you, that thought thrilled you with a frisson of attraction.  He reached out, and slowly wrapped his hands around your wrists.  “I want to see you again.”

You fidgeted.  “You will see me again.  We work across the street from each other.  I’m at City Hall all the time.”

He tilted his head. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice brooking no equivocations.  

You sighed. “Why?  Do you have some sort of…damsel in distress fetish? Because any way I look at it, this flirtation?  What you’re doing?  Doesn’t make sense.  I am four years older than you.  I am poor, chubby, I live with my dad, and I’m a lowly city advocate. There’s absolutely nothing about me that should attract you.  Are you—“ here, you gasped dramatically, “–are you a chubby chaser?”

He snorted.  “First of all, you’re what, 10 lbs overweight? 15? I believe the word for that is toothsome, and believe me, all of that extra weight has settled into imminently agreeable locations.  Besides, even if you weighed more, the way I see you exercise, you’d probably lose it anyway, and you’re still quite pretty with it, all the same.  Secondly, why do you keep mentioning your age?  Am I going to spontaneously become unattractive on my 30th birthday?”  

You gaped at his bald speech, but then remarshalled your arguments, “Society makes it different for men, and you know it.”  

“I know that I’m a man. I like women.  Tall, short, chubby, slender, buxom, flat, athletic figures, hourglasses, younger than me, older than me, I like it all, and I like what I see when I look at you.  Furthermore, I like what I hear when you talk to me.  I like your pretty eyes, and your soft hair and skin, and your sweet little mouth.”

You sniffed in mock offense. “My mouth is not little, sir! It’s quite full, thank you very much! And, wait a minute, toothsome? What are you, the Big Bad Wolf?”

He laughed, eyes crinkling into crescent moons.  “No, that’s my brother.  He’s in France right now.  Listen. I think that you’re pretty, I think that you’re interesting, and I want to take you on a date.  Say yes.”

“You really are bossy, do you know that?”

“When I want something, I go for it. Besides…I’ve seen the way that you react to me.  I’m not unattractive to you.  So, there’s no problem.”

“I have cellulite.”

“No, you don’t.”

You tilted your head, and looked at him askance.  “How would you possibly know one way, or the other?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but those leggings you run in leave very little to the imagination.”

“I am scandalized!”

“I’m not the one wearing the skintight leggings.”

You snorted, conceding that point, but quickly pivoting to another.  “I don’t think that it’s a good idea to date a co-worker.”

“We work in different departments, and neither of us reports to the other.”

You sighed.   “I can’t really afford to date right now—“

“—What’s to afford?  If I’m asking you out, then I’ll pay.”

“That makes me uncomfortable.  I don’t like having guys pay for me.”

“Then we’ll do something free.  I would be just as happy going on a hike, on a picnic, or to the beach as I would going to dinner, or the movies, or whatever, as long as it means that I get to spend time with you.  Go out with me.”  

“Even if our first date doesn’t cost anything, eventually you’re going to want to start going out on dates that do cost money, and we’ll run into the same problem.”

“That is a very easily surmountable obstacle.”  You looked to the side, and he moved his head to catch your eye, again.  “I think you’re pretty…  Say yes.  I think that you’re interesting…  Say yes. I want to know you more…  Say yes.”

You bit your lip, running out of viable excuses.  You couldn’t pretend that you were unattracted to him, not the way that you responded every time he came near.  And you had obviously enjoyed talking to him.  You tried again.  “If I go out with you, it will cut into my exercise time.  Also, I’ve been trying to brush back up on my French—“

“I’ll teach you Korean.”

You leaned back, to get a full look at him.  “Wow.  What are you, a lawyer?” A slow grin melted its way across his face.  

“That tone sounds like a yes.  Do you have any other specious arguments for me to shoot down before we agree on terms?”

You rolled your eyes, muttering, “They weren’t specious, you’re just abnormally convincing.” Sighing again, you looked at the ground, not wanting to share your next confession, but feeling as if you had no choice.  Quietly, “I have scars.”

“We all have scars—“

You rolled your eyes, “I’m not talking about metaphorical emotional scars, I have real, literal scars.” He said nothing, waiting for you to continue.  “I had to have a couple of laparoscopic surgeries, and I…have scars from them.  All over my stomach.  Six of them, to be exact.  It’s…” you looked away, affecting a careless shrug, “…the area’s not exactly attractive, anymore.”

His grip on your wrists tightened.  “What happened?”

You pursed your mouth, not really wanting to bare your flaws to this seemingly flawless man.  On the one hand, this was the way out that you had been trying to reach, but on the other hand…it was embarrassing to have to discuss your imperfections with a relative stranger.  “I had some…tumours on my…on one of my internal organs.”  At his alarmed expression, you shook your head. “They were benign, but they…caused internal bleeding, and they almost killed me.  A few months after that surgery, my gallbladder spontaneously failed—I had jaundice and, unbeknownst to me, I was going into liver failure due to the gallstones blocking my liver duct, so I had to have an emergency cholecystectomy.”

“Well, that’s a word.”

“Isn’t it just?  So, because of, not just one, but two surgeries, I’m all marked up.”  You gave him a self-deprecatory grin.  “I like to think of myself like a real-life Nightmare Before Christmas Sally.”

“Wait a minute, didn’t you say that you had these surgeries laparoscopically?”

“Ye…es?”

“Doesn’t that mean that these scars are like, a centimeter long?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Wow!  You’re acting like you’re Frankenstein, and you’ve got five little scars on your tummy?”

Tersely, “Six.”

His voice was sarcastic. “Oh, pardon me, six.  Look, your scars mean that you’re alive, and you’re healthy, now.  Which would you prefer, some scars here and there, or a pristine corpse?”

“Well, obviously, I would prefer the scars, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about a potential mate!”

He raised his eyebrow, looking at you sideways, with a flirtatious grin.  “Potential mate?”

“You know what I mean!”

“Look, all I’m asking for is one date.  If you don’t have a good time, you don’t have to do it again.  I will leave you alone, promise.”

You huffed, quickly losing the battle with his annoying Vulcan mind-logic.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Of course!”

You paused, fighting an internal war.  For once in your life, logic lost.  “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Alright!”

You laughed softly at his enthusiasm.  One of his hands slipped off of your wrist, reached into your hip back and pulled out your phone.  “How did you know my phone in there?”

He looked at you, disappointed.  “Please.”

You pouted, “It was a viable question.”  You waited as he programmed his number into your phone, and then texted himself.  He seemed to have trouble doing it with just one hand, as it took him a while, but when he was finished he looked up at you, and gave you a brilliant smile.  With your free hand you took back your phone, and looked down.  “Baekhyunnie?”  

He grinned, “Yes?”  

“We’re onto nicknames, already?”

“Of course, pet. So…are you free on Saturday?”

“I have to work.”

“You work on Saturdays?”

“I work Tuesday-Saturday, yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “What are you doing on Sunday afternoon?”

“My weekly Sunday afternoon death-nap.”

“How about a hike around the lake at Rocky Park, instead, say, 5ish?  You know…when the sun won’t be actively trying to kill us?  

You thought about it, and then nodded.  “I would really enjoy that, actually.”

“See?  We’re off to a good start already.”  

You chuckled, and looked away.  “Well…I should get inside.  My dad worries.”

Baekhyun looked reticent, but nodded.  “Okay.”

“Okay.”  You waited.  He didn’t move.  You tugged at your wrist.  “You have to let me go…”

He pouted.  “I don’t want to.”

You swung your arm. “I’ll see you on Saturday,” you placated.  

“I want to keep seeing you now.”  He poked out his bottom lip, and your heart fluttered.  Was this the same man who lit your skin on fire?  How could one man be so dominant and attractive sometimes, and others so cheek-pinchingly cute, that you wanted to feed him strawberries, read him bedtime stories, and sing him soft lullabies?  You smiled.  “Text me when you arrive home.”

Pacified somewhat, he let go of your wrist.  “Alriiight,” he sighed.  

“Have a good night.”

“Have a good night…” his voice went up at the end, indicating the fact that you had missed something.  

You chuffed.  “Have a good night, Baekhyunnie.”

“You too, pet.”

You went inside, took a shower, did your facial routine, and braided your black lion’s mane for the night.  By the time you returned to your room, you saw that you already had a text waiting when you flopped onto your bed, feet in the air.  “Made it home safely. You having a good night, like I told you?”  Alone, in the safety of your own room, you allowed yourself to react like the girlish nerd you were inside, burying your face in the pillow to muffle your squeal, and kicking your feet.  After allowing yourself a respectable amount of time to indulge your inner pre-teen, you turned over, and responded.

“Yep.  Sorry for the delay; I was in the shower.”  You yelped, and dropped the phone as it buzzed and rang, signaling an incoming video call.  Sitting up in a panic, you looked around to make sure that you didn’t have a random bra, or something equally horrific nearby, took a moment for a deep calming breath, and then languidly lay back, trying to look carefree.  You accepted the call.  “Hey.”

He was lying in bed, having changed his work clothes for a white tee shirt.  His hair was wet, too, and he looked fresh, and adorable.  “Hey.  You take your showers at night, too?”

“Well, I think that it’s gross to put a dirty body in the bed.  I actually shower at night, and in the morning.”

“Ah, I just shower at night. Should I step up my game?”

“Of course!  You need to get on my level.”  He laughed, and snuggled down onto his pillows, turning on his side.  “Meanwhile, I thought that we were going to be texting.  We video call, now?”

“Mmm.  I wanted to see you. Though it’s a bit difficult through that sheet mask.”

Your eyes widened, and you snatched the mask off of your face.  Clearing your throat, “Well, now you see me in all of my wet, make-up less glory.  Is your face melting, yet?”

“I think you look cute. Especially with that huge teddy behind you.”  Your face froze.  You had forgotten about Bruin, your 93” teddy bear that you had since you were 8.

“Uhhh…”

“So, you’re not a little girl, huh?”

You scoffed.  “Having a teddy bear doesn’t make me a little girl. What was I supposed to do, throw it away when I turned 18?!”

“And the pigtails?”

“My hair tangles when I sleep!”

“And…the onesie?”

Your entire body froze in breathless horror, as you slowly looked down the expanse of your summer kitty onesie.  You went on the attack.  “I pay taxes! I have health insurance, and I make my own doctor’s appointments!  I’m an adult!”

He crooned condescendingly, “Yes, you are, kitten!”

You wrinkled your nose. “Kitten?”

“If the onesie fits…”

You rolled your eyes. “How about no.  My ex used to call me that.”

“Well then, I should call you that even more!  That way, instead of relating it to nasty old what’s-his-tits, you will connote it with the delightful me.”

You burst out laughing. “What’s-his-tits?!”

“I call them like I see them.”

“You have never seen him.”

“I haven’t…but I feel that he has tits.”

“He did not have tits. He was pretty attractive, actually.”

“Better looking than me?”

You gave him a flirtatious sideways look, “Hey…no way!”

“Who’s taller?”

“You are.”  He nodded, and gave a smug smirk, relaxing even further into the pillow.  You watched in contented silence as his eyes began to grow heavy.  “You should go to bed.  You’re sleepy.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yes, I am,” he sighed. “Sing me a lullaby.”

Your breath caught.  You turned off your bedside lamp, and then got under your sheet.  “What would you like?”

“Anything.”

“I can’t think of any lullabies.”

His eyes were closed. “Sing…anything…”

You turned on your side, and rested the phone, so that it was like he was right beside you.

Softly, softly, “You…are my angel, come from way above, to bring me love…”

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[elfnerdherder]

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 15

You can read Chapter 15 on Ao3 Here

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Chapter 15: Mesmeric Revelation

           That night, long after he heard the clattering of dinner plates and laughter, long after he heard music and chatter, and far long after he heard doors closing, showers running, and feet mumbling, Will Graham left his room. It had been locked, but the gum did its job and kept the bolt from setting. A mere fiddling with the ink cartridge of his pen did the rest of the job, and the lock turned with a muted, triumphant click.

            His feet padded along the soft carpet that muffled his steps, and the solidly built stairs didn’t betray him. He paused before the front door, staring. Every muscle in him begged him to go to it, begged him to throw the locks and make a break for it until he could find a road and a good Samaritan to help him.

           He didn’t, though.

           Just how many stalked the trees surrounding the house? Just how many cameras were on every angle he could take to escape? He thought of Matthew knowing the moment he’d tried to run, and he rocked back on his heels, away from the door.

           Instead, he made his way down another hall and headed towards the security room.

           He didn’t expect it to be empty. No matter how many slept, Dr. Lecter was no fool. Sure enough, poking his head in, he saw Francis beside one of the monitors. His back was to Will, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the antenna of a satellite phone that cut into the shadows of the room, nor did it stop him from seeing the map lit dimly by a few desk lamps and the monitor’s glow.

           “You got the voicemail? Good. He’s getting desperate.”

           A pause as Dolarhyde listened to the speaker.

           “The man whose phone was bugged got transferred. I’ve got another guy, but he’s not there yet. Dr. Lecter needs you to find out exactly what they know so far, that we can plan the next step.”

           Another pause, and Will swallowed, a dry click in his throat.

           “You don’t need to know how many dead. You’ll see soon enough.”

           He hung up and set the phone off to the side, beside the monitor. There was a pause, a long and dreadful silence as Dolarhyde stared down at the monitor. The lamplight gave his bones a sharp edge, his mouth a cruel twist. The hollows of his cheeks were pronounced, the curve of his shoulder elegant.

           Truth be told, he looked like a dragon.

           Will slipped down the hall and hunkered down in a corner of it, melding himself into the shadows. From his pocket, he produced a hairclip, nothing more than one of the things he’d found in one of the many bedrooms. Decidedly, and with a fair amount of careful aim, he tossed it at the door. It smacked the wood, fell with a quiet and plaintive thump.

           It took less than two seconds.

           Dolarhyde was at the door, his sharp gaze peering into the dark. The light behind him gave him an ethereal glow as he turned his head one way, then another. Even hidden as Will was, he still felt too exposed, far too noticeable as Dolarhyde took one step, then another out of the door his nose to the air like he could smell Will if he tried hard enough.

           After a pained, loud heartbeat, Dolarhyde turned away from Will and headed down the hall to investigate.

           The moment he was gone, Will rushed into the room.

           The satellite phone was first, although he paused long enough by the computer to glance at it.

Thirty-Two Dead in Will Graham Killing Spree:

The Faces of Will Graham: Dozens Dead in Lecter Slayings

Where is Will Graham?

           News updates. Links to articles. Dolarhyde was watching the media as much as he was trying to watch the FBI. If time hadn’t been a rapid pulse bulging right beneath his eye, Will would have stopped to read them, glean over the first one in particular –thirty-two dead? Will Graham Killing Spree?

           Another time; some time when Dolarhyde wasn’t hunting through the house to see who lurked outside of his door at 3:30 in the morning.

           The back door was quickly unlocked, and he was rushing down the steps before he had time to really consider his actions, before he could wonder just what was going to happen when he was caught.

           Fingers fumbled over a phone number he’d come to memorize over the years, a failsafe to him in times of need or duress. He hadn’t had occasion to use it in six years, normal as things had seemed, but he used it now, running across the back lawn to the safety of the shadows of trees. The air was cold, wet. Cicadas screamed for their lives.

           He didn’t answer the first two times, and Will let out a hiss of impatient air as he dialed it again. If he’d risked his live, if he’d risked his fucking life just for the bastard to ignore his call…

           “Crawford here,” Jack said tiredly.

           Relief seared him, a pleasant burn that made his legs give, and Will pressed his back to the tree, a sob managing to rip past his lips.

           “Jack…Jesus, you finally picked up.” Will let out a sharp, aggravated breath of air as he hunched down, cradling the phone close to his face like the lifeline that it was. “Jack…it’s Will.”

-

           “Cold as shit out here,” Duncan commented.

           Earl swirled his spit around in his mouth before he spat it on the ground before them. Their rocking chairs creaked out of time, and the autumn breeze sent the wind chimes to clacking and smacking together in a horrendous cacophony. Late evening, and the crickets yowled.

           “Hate them wind chimes,” Earl muttered. “Debbie likes them.”

           Duncan grunted. “Debbie likes being a pain in my ass.”

           “Yeah,” Earl said with a snort.

           “Yeah.”

           They stared out at the road, the distant sound of semi-trucks roaring by on the interstate their only companion. It was quiet in Telefar County, peaceful. Sunsets were mighty nice.

           Cold as shit, though.

           “She gonna make us come out here every time we chew?” Duncan asked.

           “Says she wants her house ‘to be a fuckin’ home’.”

           “I’ll show her a fuckin’ home. God damned forty-five fuckin’ degrees out here.”

           “She’ll slap you with the barrel of that shotgun in there, that’s what she’ll do,” Earl replied. “Did it to her brother just the other night, came home drunk and shouting.”

           “No shit?”

           “Slapped him with the barrel of that sum’bitch, tossed him outside to sleep out here.”

           “All ‘cause she found those church folks,” Duncan muttered. “God damn pastor coming around every other weekday. ‘Askin me, when I’m gonna get my ass to the pews? Bein’ a veteran an’ all, when’s my ass gonna warm a pew?” He sent a decisive wad of spit out onto the dirt; a complimentary response to a ridiculous notion as a Sunday morning sermon. “I serve my God’n my country, ‘n I figure I find God in more holier places than a church. Get my spir’tual en-light-ment from the forest, see.”

           Earl hummed in agreement. “More’n one way to skin a cat. More’n one way to love a God.”

           “Got damn eight AM service, wantin’ me to slap my ass on a cold pew,” Duncan continued. When he got on a roll, it was hard to deter him. “Cold as shit pew.”

           “Better them church folks than those god damn psychos running up and down the east coast,” Earl said. He watched his old dog, Mutt, lazily crawl out from under the house in order to plop himself properly at his master’s feet. He nudged him with his boot, rubbed the dog’s side with the heel of it. His tongue lolled as his tail whapped against the wood.

           “Saw that,” Duncan said with a sneer. “Bunch of crazies with their panties in a damn knot, stealin’ them doctors and killing cops.”

           Earl spat on the ground. “God damn cop killers.”

           “Death penalty for cop killers is what I’m saying,” Duncan pressed. “That’s all I’m sayin’, they won’t stop killing if they think they’ll just get a slap on the wrist. They’ll just keep killin’ cops, and I heard that doctor was a nice fellow; testified on account of his finding one of those agents and all. Saved his life since he got stuck with a knife.”

           Earl was stopped from sharing his own opinion on the fate of cop killers when a car pulled up in their yard and eased to a stop. It was a fancy sort of thing, black with chrome accents and tinted windows. The man that climbed out of it looked the real city sort; slicked back hair, leather dress shoes, and a blazer of all the god damn things.

           “Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted.

           Earl and Duncan shared a look. Duncan spat on the ground, and Earl rocked in his rocking chair.

           “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” the man pressed.

           “Cold as shit,” Duncan grunted. “Forty-five fuckin’ degrees.”

           “It is chilly.”

           Silence. The car idled, and Earl wondered what sort of year it was. 2015? 2017? His cousin had a really nice Subaru, 2015 with a decent paint job.

           Duncan didn’t have such curiosities. “You lost there, boy?”

           “I am a bit turned around, yes,” the man said with an awkward laugh. “Would you mind giving me directions?”

           “You ain’t from around here, are yeh,” Earl noted.

           “No, sir, I’m not.”

           “What’s a boy like you doing out here? Where you headed?”

           “It’s a bit personal –I hope you understand.”

           Duncan and Earl exchanged looks, and Duncan snickered. Earl absently spit another wad out into the yard.

           “Oh, I understand just fine,” Duncan assured him.

           Silence once more. The man shifted, unsure of himself. Mutt huffed a breath and lifted his head, only now just recognizing a stranger in the yard. He peered up at Earl, as if silently questioning if he should do something about it.

           “Oh, you see it now, do you, Mutt?” Earl grunted. He nudged the dog affectionately and swirled the chew around in his mouth. Tasted like ass, but he’d eat his leg rather than give it up.

           “Really, gentlemen, if I could just-”

           “We don’t take kindly to strangers just hustlin’ along and getting right in our business, see?” Duncan said. He stood up and adjusted his pants, hitching them up at his hips. “So you just get along now and go buy one of them maps at a gas station like all the other folks do when they get lost down here.”

           “Damn Yankees,” Earl muttered in agreement.

           The man was dumbfounded, and he looked between the two of them with the same kind of expression Debbie had when she went to throw a cup away and splashed chew all over her arm. She hadn’t realized it was his chewing cup ‘till that moment, but god almighty he’d never heard the end of it. Now, he was stuck outside in the cold-as-shit weather when he wanted a chew.

The stranger’s eyes bugged for a moment, and he let out a laugh, incredulous as all get out.

           “You’re serious.”

           “As serious as sin, boy,” Earl said. “Got all them crazies runnin’ around our state, fuckin’ things up and makin’ us get some bad publicity. Last thing we need’s a Yankee boy comin’ down here, huntin’ and gettin’ lost and comin’ after our women.”

           “I’m here on business, it’s simply that-”

           “Telefar County business is our business, see,” Duncan interjected. “And since you’re inclined to your secrets, we’ll be inclined to ours. Secrets like directions, see?”

           Silence again.

           Earl squinted a bit at him, and when the stranger didn’t immediately move to leave, he stood up and went shoulder to shoulder with Duncan, giving him his most impressive stare down. It was a damn good one, all things considered. Farm work and ranch work had left him leathered, sun-beaten and wrinkled. Debbie still liked him, though, when she’d had one shot too many. She said he was a pretty as a newborn babe.

           Now that all those bible thumpers got her roped into weekly church, she didn’t drink no more. Probably didn’t think he was a pretty newborn babe, neither. God damn bible thumpers.

           “I’ll…be going, then,” the man said. He inched back towards his car.

           “That’s the best idea I’ve heard today, Earl.”

           “A damn fine idea, Duncan.”

           They stayed standing until the man peeled out from the yard, fast enough that it kicked rocks.

           They were just sitting down once more when another car pulled up, far less fancy and with a great deal more sputtering and general noise-making.

           “God damn, we’re popular tonight,” Duncan grunted.

           Earl fished about for another wad of chew, then tucked it into his lip. “Damn popular.”

           It wasn’t another Yankee –if it was, they were a decent sort. A pretty lady with wild red hair and the most darling baby blue eyes Earl had ever seen made her way over. She’d turned the car off and tucked the keys into her jacket pocket. Sensible shoes and a camo coat, like she knew how the hell to dress for the elements. Earl liked her infinitely better.

           “I’m sorry to bother you,” she began. The closer she got, Earl was able to see red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.

           “You okay, sweetheart?” Duncan asked.

           “No, I’m…I’m not at all. I’m in desperate need of help, you see.” She fiddled with a handkerchief in hand, and she stifled a sob as her knees tried to buckle on her. At the sight of tears, that did it. Earl was down the steps and leading her up them before he could think of a reason why not to. She was seated in his rocking chair, and after several prompts to Earl, a sweet tea from the fridge was produced.

           “Now, now take it easy, little lady, what’s wrong? Someone get you bad? In some trouble?” Duncan asked. The woman fiddled with the glass and took a sip, casting them a grateful glance. Tears rimmed her eyes, although she fought to keep them back. A strong type.

           “I’m…trying to find my husband, you see,” she said. “I think he’s run off with another woman.”

           “What a got-damn, worthless-”

           “Duncan,” Earl chastised. It wasn’t right to cuss near a lady.

           “Sorry, miss, I just…if he’s left you, why are you going after him?” Duncan scratched his neck where the beginnings of a beard were growing. “Why you want him when, no offenses out here, but he clearly ain’t wantin’ you?”

           She looked up from her glass, and there was fire in her eyes. “So I can beat the sense into him, then out of him, that’s why,” she snarled.

           Earl decided he liked this gal. A sensitive sort that didn’t take shit from no one.

           “Well, we don’t get a lot of people out around here.”

           “I’ve been following him, and I think he passed this way. If I showed you a photo, could you confirm it?”

           “If we’ve seen him, we’ll tell you,” Earl promised.

           And damn, when she pulled out her phone and showed them a picture of that guy they’d just been shooing off their property, it just made Earl’s heart swell a bit. He looked over her head at Duncan, and Duncan looked back.

           “Yeah, sweetheart,” Duncan said with a grin, “yeah, we seen him.”

-

           “Have you ever thought about killing someone, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked.

           He sometimes loved asking questions like that, mostly because of how Dr. Lecter took his time answering. He always gave Will’s question consideration due their seriousness. No matter how odd, off-the-wall, or obscene, he took his time answering. On nights when Will woke up with remnants of his night terrors clinging to his eyes, he needed to know that someone else out there felt that way, too.

           “We all have,” he said after a moment. “Although, I’d suppose you’ve given it a lot of thought lately?”

           “I keep dreaming of killing people,” Will murmured. “I keep…dreaming that I have this…insatiable hunger. That no matter how much I kill, I will always want more.”

           “Have you given your father a lot of thought lately?”

           Will nodded, standing up to pace. He often paced in Lecter’s office, and he liked to think of himself as remarkably familiar with the whorls and dips of his wooden floor. Sometimes the words got stuck, but Dr. Lecter seemed to hear them all the same.

           “Is there some form of aggression to your dreams? In the manner in which you take a life?”

           “My heartbeat feels calm…steady. It doesn’t race until I wake and think back on what I saw.”

           Will paused beside the ladder that led up to a wraparound second story, and he dragged his fingers along the grips of a step. In each groove of the wood, he imagined blood flowing like obscene rivulets, staining everything in its wake. He imagined what his hands had felt like, choking the life from the faceless victim in his nightmares, and he slumped against the ladder, rubbing his eyes to erase the remnants that felt like something much akin to a real memory.

           “In your dreams, death is a release. You’ve honed in on your talents, so much so that your heart no longer betrays adrenaline and gives way to mistakes.”

           “Do you have dreams like that?” Will asked, looking up. Poised in his chair as he was, Dr. Lecter tilted his head slightly to the side.

           “Are you seeking the feeling of normalization through familiarity?”

           “I’m wondering if I should check myself into a psychiatric ward,” Will retorted sharply.

           Dr. Lecter stood, and he crossed the distance between them at a leisurely pace. Will tracked his movements, hands lowering to his sides, and when Dr. Lecter dipped down to meet his eyes, he cringed back into the ladder, the closeness stifling and mildly off-putting.

           Dr. Lecter didn’t move back to give him space. He remained close, crowding him as he tilted his head one way, then the other; His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed down. That close, Will could smell his cologne that blended nicely with his aftershave, and he gulped a breath of it down before his shoulders relaxed slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Silence sat muffled around them, and just outside of the window, the screech of a weed-whacker grated.

           “Apart from your general aversion to eyes, I see no glazed expression or feverish stare,” Dr. Lecter noted lightly. “Your pulse is strong in your neck, and your knees aren’t weak. You aren’t running a temperature that I can see, and you haven’t mentioned lapses of time.”

           “Wh-Why?” Will asked. Dr. Lecter didn’t step back to give him air. Will gulped down another mouthful of his cologne, and his eyes flickered up to meet a mildly amused gaze. After a shaky exhale, he looked away.

           “You wondered if you should check yourself into a psychiatric ward,” he murmured. That close, Will could track the beat of his pulse at his throat. He stared at it, the even timing of it having a mildly calming effect on his nerves. “You give no indications of a split personality, nor any illness that would cause loss of memory or lapses in time.”

           “I haven’t lost time.”

           “Have you woken in any location other than your bed?”

           “…No?”

           Hannibal smiled briefly, a faint flash of canines. “Then you’re fine, Will. Dreams reflect some aspect of ourselves, but all that this tells me is that you’re particularly stressed, and it’s manifesting in your dreams. You’ve thought often of your father recently, and the only form of control over death one can have is if they are the one to cause it, therefore; it seems to me that your fantasies of a calm, stillness to your killing is that this is the only thing your mind feels that it can control. Life, with all of inability to be predicted, is made safe and normalized with your ability to still your heart when taking a life. Better to take than to have taken.”

           Will looked up to his eyes once more, and he nodded curtly, once. Relief was a slow trickle, but it was warm, and Dr. Lecter’s answering smile as he finally backed away and let Will breathe stayed sweet in the back of his throat.

           “…That’s a relief,” he said after a beat, straightening. The ladder shifted behind him, and he pushed away from it to continue his previous pacing. “I don’t know how I’d fare in court.”

           “If it turned out that you’d killed someone?”

           “Yeah. I don’t know the statistics for a solid defense in regards to someone claiming an alternate personality, but I’d assume that the jury wouldn’t buy that so easily.”

           Hannibal laughed, a warm and low sound. “You know the statistics for soulmates in court, though.”

           Will let out a derisive snort.

           “You scoff at it?”

           “Someone…claiming that because of their soulmate, they were driven to violence is about the shittiest excuse I can think of,” Will explained. “Soulmates aren’t the end-all. They may prompt, they may entice, and they may twist your thoughts and chemicals up a bit, but you don’t lose your mind. To say that a soulmate was the cause of any actions done by a person would be like saying that they’d put a gun to your head.”

           “You’d be especially critical of a person with a half-connection, then,” Hannibal observed.

           “There is no chemical compulsion at that point. The justice system is especially skewed in regards to soulmates, but I don’t buy it. At all.”

           ‘Woe be to the fool that stands before you in trial.”

           Will sat down across from him once more, and the smile given was crooked at best. “I’m no judge…nor am I the jury or the executioner. If I’m lucky, I’ll never even have to walk into a court room so long as I live.”

A wonderful thanks to all of my patrons: @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @frostyleegraham @sylarana @frostylicker Duhaunt6 and Superlurk!

#Hannibal #Where the Wicked Walk #LiaS scribbles #hannigram #slowburn hannigram #soulmate au #hannibal soulmate au #someone help will graham #Jack Crawford #coming to the rescue

[ladycumberbunny]

Keep Me Warm

Sherlock Holmes was freezing. Wondering around a small backwater town in Eastern Europe, in the middle of January, in a homeless mans disguise wasn’t the best of ideas; even if it was necessary.

Sherlock shivered in the helicopter as it made its way to the secret government hanger where a small plane would transfer him back to London for the night. Mycroft arranged a briefing in the morning to let him know where he was to go next. After ten months of undercover work, Sherlock was satisfied with the way Moriarty’s network was starting to crumble.

“Coming up on the hangar, Mr. Holmes! The plane is ready for take off as soon as you get there! Should be less than an hours flight until you are back in London!” The pilot said loudly into his mouthpiece, making Sherlock wince at the sudden loudness coming through his own headset.

He nodded to the pilot, clenching his jaw against the cold that was still threatening to creep deep into his bones. A headache was starting to press behind his eyes; the kind of headache that builds in the sinuses and could only be caused by prolonged exposure to the cold air. Sherlock flexed his long musicians fingers against his thighs as the helicopter started its descent towards the helipad.

One thought was on Sherlock’s mind as the pilot expertly landed the helicopter: getting to the only place in England where he could get warm. Because there was only one place in Europe where he knew he would be welcomed with open arms and no questions.

Molly Hooper’s.

Sherlock kept the thought of Molly Hooper's tiny warm flat in his mind as he boarded the small plane and buckled himself in. He thought of a decent hot meal and a whole pot of his favorite tea, thought of sitting on Molly’s small broken down sofa with her, organizing his mind palace while she lost herself in mindless television.

True to the pilots word, the flight only took forty-two minutes to get from the hangar back to London. Nodding to the small planes pilot as he made his way down the short flight of steps to the Tarmac, Sherlock pulled his dingy windbreaker tighter around him and started making his way towards Molly’s street.

Sherlock walked for over an hour, sticking to alleys and side roads to avoid being seen. 8:30 in the evening didn’t leave the main streets empty enough for him to make it to Molly’s as quickly as he would’ve like, especially in the freezing rain that began to pour from the clouds. When he finally walked out of an alley a block from her complex, he threw caution to the wind and hurried down the street, pulling his wool cap down more securely over his ears.

Molly Hopper was sitting on her sofa, in her most comfortable pajamas, glasses perched on her nose, and a bowl of mango sorbet in her lap.

It had been a long day at the morgue; a fire at a retirement home had ensured that. Molly, along with three other morgue technicians, had spent the long sixteen hour shift performing autopsies on over thirty elderly bodies. Every time she would finish with a body, an orderly would wheel another one in.

Molly had just settled on a rerun of her favorite television program when she heard the unmistakable sound of the lock on her door being picked. Glancing at the clock and realizing it was almost ten o'clock at night, Molly started to get worried. Grabbing her mobile and the cricket bat she kept next to the sofa, Molly waited with her thumb hovering over the emergency number on her phone.

As the door swung open, Molly raised her cricket bat just as the raggedy man in the doorway raised his hands.

“A cricket bat? Really, Molly?”

The unmistakable smooth baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes greeted her ears like a favorite song.

“Sherlock!” She exclaimed, dropping the bat and her mobile on the armchair. “I gave you a key! Why didn’t you just use it instead of picking my lock? And when you are wearing a disguise! I could’ve bashed your brains in!”

“Not likely, Molly.” He said, a ghost of a grin quirking up one corner of his mouth. “With your size, plus the size and weight of the cricket bat, in comparison to a person of my size and weight, I say it would’ve been easy enough to overpower you in seconds. Especially since you would’ve been coming straight for me with no element of surprise.”

He was fully grinning now, looking down at her, his eyes twinkling. Molly tried her best scowl at him, but the edge of her mouth betrayed her, fighting to curl into a smile.

“May I come in?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh! Of course! Yes come in!” Molly said, rushing to grab the door and shut it behind him. Sherlock stepped into the short hallway and pulled the damp wool hat off of his dark curls, running his hands through them. Molly noticed his shivering and swept her gaze over him; he was soaked to the bone and shivering.

“How long have you been walking around in the rain?” She asked, frowning as she watched him stuff the wool cap into the pocket of his dingy windbreaker.

“About and hour,” Sherlock replied, wiping at his wet face with the cuff of his jacket.

“Why don’t you go take a hot shower and I’ll make you something to eat. Maybe a spot of tea as well?” She asked gently, smiling at him. He just looked at her curiously for a moment, before he nodded and removed his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a jumper riddled with holes and pair of dark jeans in much the same shape. He kicked off his muddy trainers and handed Molly his sodden jacket.

“Do I still have spare clothes in your bedroom?” He asked, pulling the jumper over his head an handing that to her as well.

Molly nodded and balled up the wet clothes she was handed. “I’ll just pitch these in the bin and start something to eat, then.” She said, gently giving Sherlock a nudge on the arm to get him moving towards the bathroom. He just nodded again and stifled a yawn, heading towards the back hallway.

Molly watched him enter her room and emerge a few moments later with a stack of fresh clothes. Sherlock smiled at her agin as he disappeared in the bathroom. Molly smiled back and then pushed through the swinging door of her kitchen, dropping the wet clothes into the bin on her way to the fridge.

Sherlock stood underneath the hot spray of water, letting the heat work its way into his sore and cold muscles. Seeing Molly Hooper’s face had done more to warm him up than any amount of time spent in the hot shower did.

Realizing his feelings for Molly had been something of a surprise to him. At first, Sherlock put it down to the fact that she was the one person besides Mycroft who knew that he was alive and well when everyone else in the country believed him to be dead. Molly was his one normal connection to his beloved London; so of course he thought of her often. She was forbidden to contact him in any form while he was out of the country, but Sherlock would occasionally send her short texts from a burner phone when he was stuck during the case, using her as a sounding board, or (he was embarrassed to admit) when he was lonely.

The texts soon morphed from the occasional Interesting mould in this motel, I will get a sample so you can analyze it for me. to You would enjoy the morgue I just broke into, they have the most interesting display of diseased organs. to I read the headline about the accident on the M5 as I was passing a news vendor. You should treat yourself to a hot bath tonight. I suggest the lavender bath salts to help you relax.

As always, Molly came up with a clever solution to the problem of the one sided conversation. She started to keep a journal, writing the date she received the text from Sherlock, copying the text itself into the journal, and then writing her response underneath it in a different color of ink. When Sherlock would show up at her door, either freezing, bleeding, or starving, Molly would push him towards the shower, patch him up, or place a plate full of food in front of him. Once he was taken care of, she would hand him the journal, bid him goodnight, and go quietly to bed.

Sherlock looked forward to his brief visits to the pathologist’s small flat, just so he could read her responses to his texts, or (if she didn’t hear from him for a couple of days) the account of her day at work. She would include precise details about interesting autopsies, or make her observations on some experiment he had asked her to preform at the lab.

As the water started to cool, Sherlock scrubbed his hair and body before turning the water off and grabbing a towel. As he rubbed the towel over his hair, the smell of food and the sound of Molly’s quiet singing came seeping under the door. Sherlock smiled and pulled on his fresh clothes, his stomach rumbling and his heart beating fast.

Molly just finished loading a plate with pasta and placing it on the kitchen table when Sherlock walked into the kitchen wearing trousers and a dark green dress shirt.

“You know you could always wear jeans and a jumper when you’re here, you don’t have to dress up just for me.” Molly teased, smiling cheekily at him.

“Your jokes still haven’t gotten any better, I see.” Sherlock commented, rolling his eyes but grinning at her so she knew he was joking.

He sat down and tucked into his pasta, Molly was at the sink washing up the few dishes that had accumulated there throughout the day, humming softly to herself. The whole scene was so domestic that Sherlock almost cringed. Or he would have if he wasn’t so content.

He was content to be back in London, even if it was only for twenty four hours. He was content to be in clean clothes, in a warm flat with a hot meal in his stomach. He was content to be at Molly Hoppers cramped kitchen table, watching her wash dishes in her atrocious flannel pajama pants with hearts all over them. How many times had he wished for this very thing while he was kneeling in a flooded ditch, wearing week-old clothes trying his best to avoid Moriarty’s goons.

Once Sherlock had finished his pasta, he took his plate to the sink, picking up a dish towel and drying the finished dishes, placed them in the correct cupboards. Molly dried her hands and picked up the text journal off the counter.

“I’m off to bed. I made the bed in the guest room up with fresh linens while you were in the shower.” She said, handing Sherlock the journal.

He looked down at the small leather notebook in his hands and thought for a moment.

“Would you be going to bed so early if I wasn’t here?” He asked.

“Well, no. I planned on having some cocoa and reading the new science journal that came out today before I headed to bed.” Molly answered, cocking her head to the side.

“Would you….would you like to sit on the sofa with me while you read?” Sherlock asked, barely meeting her gaze. He held up the journal. “I would like to catch up on some reading myself.”

Molly’s smile could’ve melted the whole of Antarctica. She nodded, grabbing his hand and leading him into the sitting room.

“Give me just a mo to get the cocoa and I’ll be right back!” She said, smiling again. Sherlock couldn’t help but smiling as well, watching her practically skip to the kitchen to get the mugs of hot cocoa.

Two hours later found Molly asleep, curled up next to Sherlock with her head on his chest. Sherlock had finished catching up on Molly’s responses in the text journal around the same time Molly had dozed off. He lay the journal on the coffee table, pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa. Wrapping the blanket around Molly, he draped his arm across her shoulders, content to have spent his time with the warm pathologist. Letting her sunny disposition sink into his bones, Sherlock Holmes smiled, warm and content.

@bluegreyme asked for a cute fluffy sherlolly fic complete with hot cocoa in the winter. Buuuuut….this fic kind of got away from me. It’s still a bit fluffy, and I hope you enjoy it blue :) (This fic has not been beta read, so any and all mistakes are my own)

#Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock fanfiction #sherlolly #Molly hooper #Molly #sherlolly fanfiction #mollock #mollock fanfiction #ladycumberbunny writes fanfiction

[wordweasel]

October Spoop Fest #1

This month I’m trying to write one short horror story each day. I don’t really have a word limit so it can be anywhere from short fiction to (heaven forbid) a 30-pager. I’ll mark each post with the date and the prompt I used. For time, these are all first draft stories. I might revisit and edit them once October is over. Who knows! 

October 1st: Nostalgia The plastic wheels slide easily over Eve’s thumb. She wonders, briefly, if it would be worth anything on ebay--there’s no scratches and the paint still shines. But she flips the train around to examine its smiling face, and there’s an irony there she didn’t recognize when she was younger, which tarnishes the whole enterprise.

She drops the train back in the box marked “Eve’s things: toys” and moves to the window. The work makes her hot, and to keep it propped open she’s shoved another box (“Taxes: 1985-1992”) into the gap. Outside, the night beyond the window is unreachable, a black distance that stretches on and on, until it hits the lit upstairs window of the house at the far end of the street. A matchbox worth of light strikes her with a hiss.

When Eve was eleven, her mother took that job down at the gas station, working nights out on the freeway. There’d been a phone number scotch-taped to the kitchen wall, for emergencies, but the summer heat quickly curled the edges so it could only be read with fingers splayed to hold it flat. Eve never called it but she often imagined the situation that would precede such a thing--played at the horror of it, imagined some terrible fate that might befall her, and pictured her mother’s reaction when she came home, too late. But that was only an early evening game, and the nights were long despite the season. 

Eve rescued cardboard before it could go limp and gouged out train tracks using a closed pair of scissors until they were deep enough to catch the wheels. She built tunnels and covered bridges out of empty toilet paper rolls and cereal boxes. Slowly her entire bedroom turned into a kind of town, not like one she’d ever seen in real life but a kind of cookie tin town, with little streets lined with foil windows, and popsicle stick people leading busy lives. The train wound all the way around the town, with two switches that only took it to a second, larger loop that ran around the first. Concentric circles.

The train had two stops: Central Station, and the Mountains, so all the little popsicle stick people ever had to worry about was picnics. Sometimes bad things would happen but only a little--just enough to keep them on their toes.

Eve would stay up late, past her ten o’clock curfew, past midnight, until her eyes were blister-dry and it hurt to yawn, sometimes even until her mother’s car crackled over the gravel drive at five in the morning. The two of them would sleep until the afternoon and eat cereal at two, eggs at five, and bologna sandwiches right before her mother left for work again. Their tired faces were matching, their cutlery wasn’t.

One night Eve was lying on the floor next to her little town, her face pressed into the rough carpet, when she heard a sound. A glance at the clock told her it was only three and, besides, wasn’t the sound something different than her mother’s car? Yes, didn’t it sound like a song? 

The novelty was enough to pique her interest, even through the glaze of her insomnia, and she bit her lip and sat very still. Before long the sound came again: a mournful note, like an owl, coming through her bedroom window. The window was open but the curtains were pulled tight, so she crawled over to her nightstand to switch off the lamp, dousing the room in darkness. She fumbled her way to the window and drew back the curtains, just a little.

Outside the moon was yellow like a peach slice, and it dimly lit the edges of her yard, all the way to the bent oak tree with its broken swing. Beyond that the countryside was vague and shadowy, made up of ideas more than actuals. She listened again for the noise, and far away, in the house at the end of the street, a light in the upstairs window turned on. 

After she finishes sorting through the last of her mother’s paperwork, she piles the box on top of the others in the corner of her room. She likes grouping things like that, in little piles, where she can eyeball the entire domain of her accomplishment. There’s a final stack waiting in her mother’s closet, and the shed is sure to be another headache--but little by little, she finds herself making progress.

Eve’s mother could only take a few things with her to the residence, and since she wasn’t a sentimental person it was easy enough to pack. Eve thinks dryly that she never expected her mother to get out of this house before she did, but here we are, and anyway, she wouldn’t be far behind. 

She flicks off the old lamp on her nightstand and crawls into the twin-size bed. The mattress creaks under her weight. Maybe she’ll get a new one. She’s had a place picked out in town for a while now, with yellow-white cupboards just like the ones she has now, and a window that looks out onto an oak tree. Money is tight, but she has that job at the gas station, and she’s been working enough overtime to give her a little bit to spend on decor. Or maybe she’ll keep saving and even take a vacation. 

Lying down, a bubble of gas pops up her esophagus, bringing a bit of bile with it. She swallows it down and considers getting up to brush her teeth again--but she doesn’t struggle with sleep like she used to, and even as she’s thinking it, she’s already half asleep under the covers.

She wakes up what feels like moments later to a bright light shining through her bedroom window, and her heart pounding in her chest. Without moving her head she peeks, through her lashes, to the window at the foot of her bed, and that pinpoint of light widens into a funnel. It’s a burglar, she thinks, or a murderer. Someone checking to see if you’re awake. If you don’t move, if you stay still--But that’s silly, she thinks. I’m in my own house. 

With a dream-like confidence she slowly reaches beneath her bed for the baseball bat and, dragging it lightly across the carpet, she steps towards the window to look outside. It takes her a moment to realize that patch of bright light is the window in the house at the end of the street. Its glare is almost blinding, and she can feel the heat of it as if it were a spotlight. 

Annoyed, now, she pulls the curtains tight--but the light shines through, bright enough to light up her whole room, hot enough to bake her in it, too. A glance at the clock tells her it’s four, but she remembers that bout of insomnia that plagued her when she was young, and with a flash of anger she wonders if that distant window might have been to blame, then. 

She opens her window, as if to lean out and shout the light down--but when she does, all she hears is a low, mournful whistle.

The night is cool but not too cold, so she only slips on a cardigan and her loafers as she heads out the door. At the end of her gravel drive she could turn left to head to the road, which eventually would lead her to another road, and then that road into town--or she could turn right, towards the end of the street. She turns right. 

Even the crickets are asleep, so she walks up the lonely gravel with only the sounds of her own footsteps for company. Come to think of it, she’s never met the people in the house at the end of the street. Never seen them, except maybe--surely--as they drove by on their way to town. Eventually she gets to their house and sees a brown pick-up truck in the drive and, yes, that does look familiar. Yes, she must’ve seen them before. But neither Eve nor her mother were very good neighbors.This thought makes her climb the front steps with shaken confidence. Because it’s easy to be inconsiderate to neighbors you don’t know, and now that she’s on their porch it feels like they might know each other, after all, if only through distant lit windows.

The door cracks open before her. Her feet step off the shaggy welcome mat, and into the front dark hall. A stairwell immediately ahead of her is crowned at the top with a veil of light, so it seems that’s the obvious place to go. Besides, the whistling is coming from upstairs, as well--only now it’s loud, and instead of mournful it’s forceful. She has to hurry towards it or she’ll surely miss what she came for. She leaves the door open behind her because it will take care of itself, and sure enough, with a pneumatic hiss, it closes shut as she steps further inside. 

She feels the house begin to grind under her feet, and movement tugs her forward, up the stairs, curling around the banister until she reaches the top landing and there, before her, is that brightly lit room. The one that kept her up at night, the one that made her lose sleep, lose daylight, lose more than one summer, more than one year. She steps inside this room. There are four benches, each facing towards the door--it, too, swings shut behind her. The benches are wooden with ornate metal frames, painted red. The light is everywhere, but has no source. 

Outside, the house moves. Its wheels turn, slowly at first, with a little bit of a lurch at the end of each rotation. Eve realizes, too late, that in coming here she’s allowed herself to be taken away.But that door was shut behind her. It’s sealed with mechanical certainty--no latch or lever or handle can make it give way. Around her, the house issues a sharp, shrill whistle. It cuts through her head and cuts through the darkness of the countryside. 

She pries open the window, even with the heat of the light searing her back, and leans out--the landscape around her is contorted by the house’s speed, but that’s not what makes it unfamiliar. Finally she recoils from the window, the heat of the light is too much, and she stumbles back against the far corner of the room. 

She knows that most trains don’t only travel in a loop. She knows that most trains have a destination that’s different from its departure. She crouches in the corner, her eyes wide, as the engine churns beneath her. 

#inktober shortstories

[rebeccahpedersen]

Does Drastically Under-Pricing Still Work?

TorontoRealtyBlog

Does anybody still read the newspaper?

And no, I don’t mean online.  I mean does anybody get up in the morning, head to the front door, bend down while holding a cup of coffee, and pick up that beautiful roll of newsprint, curled inside a blue plastic bag?

I’ll admit, I stopped subscribing a while ago.  There are always those moments when you think you don’t need a subscription, and yet you still don’t cancel, for some reason.

When I got back from my Honeymoon in 2013, our front door had fourteen newspapers laying on the footstep.  Oops, I guess I forgot to pause the subscription?

But the real kicker came when I switched gyms.

For years, I read the newspaper on the stairmaster – the one with the upright handles and the curled plastic edge that made it easy to fold the paper into quarters, place it over the screen, and read even while hitting the top of the “hill” in the workout.

You know every gym has its cast of characters?  The guy that screams with every rep on the bench press, the woman that makes a “shoosh” noise with every step on the treadmill, or the guy that never touches a piece of equipment and is always talking?  Well, I was “the guy that throws newspapers.”

A 40-minute workout on “fat-burner plus,” and a full copy of the Globe & Mail meant that I was feverishly shuffling papers, and when finished, my attempt to gently place the paper on the ground often resulted in a sweat-covered newspaper being flung three machines to the left.

But I read every word, every section, every day (except for Wheels; I have no interest in cars), five days per week.

When I left Goodlife, and started CrossFit, my newspaper subscription was no longer needed.

And yet I still long for that first whiff of a fresh newspaper on a Saturday morning.

A friend of mine still reads the paper, every day (and does the crossword like he’s twice his age…), and will often say, “Hey did you read the article in the paper today about…,” and go on as though I also wake at 6:15am every day to check yesterday’s news.

My response is usually, “No, but I did read that article last night, on my phone, before bed.”

This past weekend, the article that was the subject of our back-and-forth was about under-pricing in the Toronto market.  Although it wasn’t really about under-pricing, but rather a simple “snapshot” of the market that introduced the topic of under-pricing, but didn’t really offer any analysis, or take-aways.

The article?

“Cricket Club House Gets 13 Bids; Sells $605,000 Over Asking”

First and foremost, we really see how a person that only reads headlines will never truly understand what’s going on out in the world.  This headline offers only absolute numbers, but no relative ones.

But the article goes on to describe how a house that was essentially worth $2,000,000 was priced at $1.4M, and ended up selling for, you guessed it – around $2,000,000.

The agent said, ““I knew we’d probably get $1.9-million to $1.95-million based on a couple of recent comparable sales nearby, but I priced it really low to bring people to its door.

Then added, “I see some homes in the area take multiple offers, but at most you’ll see a handful, so to get 13 is a big deal.”

Perfect.  This leads exactly into what I want to talk about today.

So first and foremost, is this agent suggesting that had the property been priced at fair market value, that it would have sold for $1.9M to $1.95M, and that the “under-pricing” by $600,000 strategy was responsible for the $50,000 – $100,000 premium?

Secondly, is producing 13 offers, on a house that’s under-listed by 40%, an accomplishment?

I’m not knocking the agents here.  These are top dogs, not just in that location, but in the GTA.

What I’m asking is: can you measure the success or failure of a massive under-pricing strategy by the number of resulting offers?

Or to take that a step further, can you actually apply a failure to the strategy if you obtain a certain number of ridiculously unacceptable offers?

I’ve written blogs before about the “strategy” involved with over-pricing, then under-pricing, and how I think it’s so incredibly see-through.  Of course, I’m putting the word strategy in parenthesis, because it’s usually anything but a strategy.  More often than not, the practice stems from inexperience, and even desperation.

Picture this: a house is listed for $1,200,000, with “Offers Any Time,” and it sits on the market for 30 days.

The listing is terminated, and the property comes back out onto the market for $999,000, with “Offers Graciously Reviewed On Thursday, October 25th At 7:00pm.”

Can this strategy really work?

Are buyers that naive?

Show me the buyer that sees the listing and says, “Wow, $999,000?  That’s a great price!”

This buyer doesn’t actually exist, right?

This strategy would never work, would it?

Well, if it didn’t, then this blog post would be going nowhere.

Late in the spring market, a colleague of mine had a listing that was rotting on the market at $1,299,000.  Four weeks, no bids, and the seller was getting anxious.

So what’s the move?  For all you armchair real estate agents, do you reduce to $1,279,000?  Does that reduction move the needle at all?  Probably not.  Wait, that’s being generous; definitely not.  Any buyer who was interested in the home anywhere near that $1,279,000 price would have come in with an offer when the property was listed at $1,299,000.

Would a reduction to $1,249,000 move the needle?

I suppose it depends on value, doesn’t it?

But in the end, my colleague decided to terminate the listing and bring the property back out at $989,900.

It was absolutely, positively, ludicrous.

What kind of buyer in 2018 would be fooled by this?  What kind of agent would bring his or her buyer through the house and allow the buyer to believe that the property was attainable at $989,900, or $1,100,000, or even $1,200,000?

What kind of buyer?  What kind of agent?

All kinds.

This strategy actually worked, and this time, I’m not putting the word strategy in parenthesis, because although it was a Plan-B, and it was borne of desperation, it worked.

It worked, really well.

Because the property didn’t just sell for “around” the original list price, ie. the $1,250,000 that the seller might have accepted, when the property was on the market for a month at $1,299,000.

No, the property sold for $1,310,000.

(gasp)

I know.

And in between being shocked at the stupidity of a buyer who paid more than the previous list price, and far more than what the buyer could have purchased the property for just ten days earlier, you’re also hating the game.

To be fair, you’re probably also hating the player.

But be honest with me for just one moment.  If you’re going to apply “fault” to this situation – that a buyer paid $1,310,000 for a house, listed at $989,900, that was listed for $1,299,000 ten days earlier, which probably could have sold for, say, $1,270,000 with ease, to whom, or what would you apply that fault?

It’s easy to blame the system, or lack thereof.

It’s easy to blame the listing agent for the tactic, er, strategy.

But isn’t it the naive buyer’s fault in the end?

Of course, that situation I just described is rare.

I just came out of a similar circumstance the other night with a very different result.

An east-end property was listed for $1,698,888, again, with no takers.  This property as well was listed for just shy of four weeks.

Low and behold, it was re-listed….wait for it……for $998,888.

Yes.  A $700,000 price reduction, now with an “offer date.”

It was the talk of the industry, for both good reasons and bad.

Cynics were staying “it’s stupid,” without straining for a deeper argument, and yet some were saying, “The agent has balls for trying this!”

Now what do you, the general public, make of this?

Would it work?

Would buyers really line up to bid on a $998,888 list-price, when the house was just listed for close to $1.7M?

No.  Not a chance.

Couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, should never happen.

Except that it did.

This property received thirty offers.

Thirty.

And while I’m not privy to the contents of the two-foot-high stack of offers, I would hazard a guess that there were a whole slew of $1.1’s, $1.2’s, and $1.3’s.

In the end, my buyer clients purchased the property.

That’s right, my clients “out-bid” twenty-nine other people.

Except, did they really?

They bought this house for a paltry $1,562,000.

Almost $140,000 below the original list price.

A cynic might point out that they paid almost 160% of the list price.  But does a list price really matter in this case?  The property was effectively put up for auction at $1, and we won the auction, which, I might add, was well, well below our pre-determined reserve price.

And when I say that my clients “out-bid” twenty-nine other people, and add the cynical and rhetorical question, “Did they really,” what I mean is that we were really only bidding against two other buyers.

Twenty-seven of the thirty offers were never in the game.

And how many of those thirty offers were absolute garbage?

So do you blame the listing agent and the seller for wasting the time of those buyers who submitted “garbage” offers?  Or can we buck the societal trend in 2018 and actually hold people accountable for their actions?

Sorry.  I always bring politics into it…

As far as the “drastically under-list” strategy goes, specifically after the property has already been listed once before, you can see that these situations can go either way.

Sure, I chose to write this blog after I personally represented a buyer when the situation went my way.  But the story is as fresh as your grandmother’s apple pie, so the timing seemed right.

As for the buyers out there, you now (finally!) have access to sold data, but you don’t have access to previous listings.  Make sure you know everything and everything about the property, including the listing history.

I know this is like telling somebody to wear their seat-belt in a car, but as is the case both in real life, and in real estate analogies, not everybody does the smart thing…

The post Does Drastically Under-Pricing Still Work? appeared first on Toronto Realty Blog.

Originated from https://ift.tt/2PFaHqy

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Does Drastically Under-Pricing Still Work?

TorontoRealtyBlog

Does anybody still read the newspaper?

And no, I don’t mean online.  I mean does anybody get up in the morning, head to the front door, bend down while holding a cup of coffee, and pick up that beautiful roll of newsprint, curled inside a blue plastic bag?

I’ll admit, I stopped subscribing a while ago.  There are always those moments when you think you don’t need a subscription, and yet you still don’t cancel, for some reason.

When I got back from my Honeymoon in 2013, our front door had fourteen newspapers laying on the footstep.  Oops, I guess I forgot to pause the subscription?

But the real kicker came when I switched gyms.

For years, I read the newspaper on the stairmaster – the one with the upright handles and the curled plastic edge that made it easy to fold the paper into quarters, place it over the screen, and read even while hitting the top of the “hill” in the workout.

You know every gym has its cast of characters?  The guy that screams with every rep on the bench press, the woman that makes a “shoosh” noise with every step on the treadmill, or the guy that never touches a piece of equipment and is always talking?  Well, I was “the guy that throws newspapers.”

A 40-minute workout on “fat-burner plus,” and a full copy of the Globe & Mail meant that I was feverishly shuffling papers, and when finished, my attempt to gently place the paper on the ground often resulted in a sweat-covered newspaper being flung three machines to the left.

But I read every word, every section, every day (except for Wheels; I have no interest in cars), five days per week.

When I left Goodlife, and started CrossFit, my newspaper subscription was no longer needed.

And yet I still long for that first whiff of a fresh newspaper on a Saturday morning.

A friend of mine still reads the paper, every day (and does the crossword like he’s twice his age…), and will often say, “Hey did you read the article in the paper today about…,” and go on as though I also wake at 6:15am every day to check yesterday’s news.

My response is usually, “No, but I did read that article last night, on my phone, before bed.”

This past weekend, the article that was the subject of our back-and-forth was about under-pricing in the Toronto market.  Although it wasn’t really about under-pricing, but rather a simple “snapshot” of the market that introduced the topic of under-pricing, but didn’t really offer any analysis, or take-aways.

The article?

“Cricket Club House Gets 13 Bids; Sells $605,000 Over Asking”

First and foremost, we really see how a person that only reads headlines will never truly understand what’s going on out in the world.  This headline offers only absolute numbers, but no relative ones.

But the article goes on to describe how a house that was essentially worth $2,000,000 was priced at $1.4M, and ended up selling for, you guessed it – around $2,000,000.

The agent said, ““I knew we’d probably get $1.9-million to $1.95-million based on a couple of recent comparable sales nearby, but I priced it really low to bring people to its door.

Then added, “I see some homes in the area take multiple offers, but at most you’ll see a handful, so to get 13 is a big deal.”

Perfect.  This leads exactly into what I want to talk about today.

So first and foremost, is this agent suggesting that had the property been priced at fair market value, that it would have sold for $1.9M to $1.95M, and that the “under-pricing” by $600,000 strategy was responsible for the $50,000 – $100,000 premium?

Secondly, is producing 13 offers, on a house that’s under-listed by 40%, an accomplishment?

I’m not knocking the agents here.  These are top dogs, not just in that location, but in the GTA.

What I’m asking is: can you measure the success or failure of a massive under-pricing strategy by the number of resulting offers?

Or to take that a step further, can you actually apply a failure to the strategy if you obtain a certain number of ridiculously unacceptable offers?

I’ve written blogs before about the “strategy” involved with over-pricing, then under-pricing, and how I think it’s so incredibly see-through.  Of course, I’m putting the word strategy in parenthesis, because it’s usually anything but a strategy.  More often than not, the practice stems from inexperience, and even desperation.

Picture this: a house is listed for $1,200,000, with “Offers Any Time,” and it sits on the market for 30 days.

The listing is terminated, and the property comes back out onto the market for $999,000, with “Offers Graciously Reviewed On Thursday, October 25th At 7:00pm.”

Can this strategy really work?

Are buyers that naive?

Show me the buyer that sees the listing and says, “Wow, $999,000?  That’s a great price!”

This buyer doesn’t actually exist, right?

This strategy would never work, would it?

Well, if it didn’t, then this blog post would be going nowhere.

Late in the spring market, a colleague of mine had a listing that was rotting on the market at $1,299,000.  Four weeks, no bids, and the seller was getting anxious.

So what’s the move?  For all you armchair real estate agents, do you reduce to $1,279,000?  Does that reduction move the needle at all?  Probably not.  Wait, that’s being generous; definitely not.  Any buyer who was interested in the home anywhere near that $1,279,000 price would have come in with an offer when the property was listed at $1,299,000.

Would a reduction to $1,249,000 move the needle?

I suppose it depends on value, doesn’t it?

But in the end, my colleague decided to terminate the listing and bring the property back out at $989,900.

It was absolutely, positively, ludicrous.

What kind of buyer in 2018 would be fooled by this?  What kind of agent would bring his or her buyer through the house and allow the buyer to believe that the property was attainable at $989,900, or $1,100,000, or even $1,200,000?

What kind of buyer?  What kind of agent?

All kinds.

This strategy actually worked, and this time, I’m not putting the word strategy in parenthesis, because although it was a Plan-B, and it was borne of desperation, it worked.

It worked, really well.

Because the property didn’t just sell for “around” the original list price, ie. the $1,250,000 that the seller might have accepted, when the property was on the market for a month at $1,299,000.

No, the property sold for $1,310,000.

(gasp)

I know.

And in between being shocked at the stupidity of a buyer who paid more than the previous list price, and far more than what the buyer could have purchased the property for just ten days earlier, you’re also hating the game.

To be fair, you’re probably also hating the player.

But be honest with me for just one moment.  If you’re going to apply “fault” to this situation – that a buyer paid $1,310,000 for a house, listed at $989,900, that was listed for $1,299,000 ten days earlier, which probably could have sold for, say, $1,270,000 with ease, to whom, or what would you apply that fault?

It’s easy to blame the system, or lack thereof.

It’s easy to blame the listing agent for the tactic, er, strategy.

But isn’t it the naive buyer’s fault in the end?

Of course, that situation I just described is rare.

I just came out of a similar circumstance the other night with a very different result.

An east-end property was listed for $1,698,888, again, with no takers.  This property as well was listed for just shy of four weeks.

Low and behold, it was re-listed….wait for it……for $998,888.

Yes.  A $700,000 price reduction, now with an “offer date.”

It was the talk of the industry, for both good reasons and bad.

Cynics were staying “it’s stupid,” without straining for a deeper argument, and yet some were saying, “The agent has balls for trying this!”

Now what do you, the general public, make of this?

Would it work?

Would buyers really line up to bid on a $998,888 list-price, when the house was just listed for close to $1.7M?

No.  Not a chance.

Couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, should never happen.

Except that it did.

This property received thirty offers.

Thirty.

And while I’m not privy to the contents of the two-foot-high stack of offers, I would hazard a guess that there were a whole slew of $1.1’s, $1.2’s, and $1.3’s.

In the end, my buyer clients purchased the property.

That’s right, my clients “out-bid” twenty-nine other people.

Except, did they really?

They bought this house for a paltry $1,562,000.

Almost $140,000 below the original list price.

A cynic might point out that they paid almost 160% of the list price.  But does a list price really matter in this case?  The property was effectively put up for auction at $1, and we won the auction, which, I might add, was well, well below our pre-determined reserve price.

And when I say that my clients “out-bid” twenty-nine other people, and add the cynical and rhetorical question, “Did they really,” what I mean is that we were really only bidding against two other buyers.

Twenty-seven of the thirty offers were never in the game.

And how many of those thirty offers were absolute garbage?

So do you blame the listing agent and the seller for wasting the time of those buyers who submitted “garbage” offers?  Or can we buck the societal trend in 2018 and actually hold people accountable for their actions?

Sorry.  I always bring politics into it…

As far as the “drastically under-list” strategy goes, specifically after the property has already been listed once before, you can see that these situations can go either way.

Sure, I chose to write this blog after I personally represented a buyer when the situation went my way.  But the story is as fresh as your grandmother’s apple pie, so the timing seemed right.

As for the buyers out there, you now (finally!) have access to sold data, but you don’t have access to previous listings.  Make sure you know everything and everything about the property, including the listing history.

I know this is like telling somebody to wear their seat-belt in a car, but as is the case both in real life, and in real estate analogies, not everybody does the smart thing…

The post Does Drastically Under-Pricing Still Work? appeared first on Toronto Realty Blog.

Originated from https://ift.tt/2PFaHqy