5.b) Summertime Madness Part Two

Hehe so it’s been over a year . . . 

I apologize. Here’s the link to part one, in case you missed it.

Jake’s lips part and then my tongue is rubbing against my best friend’s like it’s the most natural thing to do. He kisses me like he’s drowning, so, so eager that I can’t help but be infected, giving into his pace without a fight. I grab onto his thighs, hitch him up and feel his legs wrap around me. He makes this soft little noise in the back of his throat as he rises up against me, and I have to fight the urge to turn around and get him on the bed, to get him under me and pinned down. Utterly unaware, he smiles into our kiss and rubs his stiff dick on my straining cock.

And I just snap.

I spin and practically throw him onto the bed, watching him bounce up, eyes going wide, before I’m on him. I push his hair off his face and meld my lips to his, my leg sliding in between his, not stopping until I can feel his erection on my thigh. His lips open so willingly for me, his hands clutching at the front of my shirt, popping open a few buttons. I tangle my tongue with his, lose myself in the pleasure of kissing him. Jacob arches his back, presses his soft stomach against my hard cock, and smiles mischievously against me.

“You want me,” he whispers and then I’m on my back with my stiffy once again dangerously close to his ass. He grinds on me, rubs our erections together and makes this soft little moan of a noise.

I reach for him without thought, propping myself up on an elbow and going for his thick, wavy hair with the other hand. He does a slow little rolling motion with his hips and pushes me down by my shoulders. His hands drift across my arms, sliding over my long sleeves and settling on my wrists. I let him hold me down, let him hover those sweet lips above mine, and revel in the way he rests himself on me, feeling secure in the fact that I won’t try to overcome him.

Finally, his mouth makes contact with mine and it’s all I can do to keep still and not give into the light touch. He moves his lips against me slowly, teasingly, like he knows I have no intention of kissing back. Then they break apart and enwrap my bottom lip, his tongue sliding out to wet me. I feel it snake back and forth, my eyes slipping closed as my head fills with uninvited ideas for where else Jacob could lick me. When he pulls away I almost sigh my relief, my cock pulsing madly for his attention.

His hair tickles my chin, makes me tilt my head away, and then a pair of soft, moist lips press against my throat. I groan, hands curling into fists as he sucks at my skin, not hard enough to make a mark, but enough so that I know he wants to.

“Jacob,” I warn him, but make no move to break free of his grasp.

Instead, I just lay there as he drifts towards my collar bone, nudging aside my shirt’s collar with his face. His breath bursts across my exposed chest and I realize that maybe, possibly, him opening my shirt wasn’t really an accident. I curse under my breath, my eyes lifting to the headboard as he gives the dip between my pecs a long, slow lick. His lips settle just above my heart and starts sucking hard, trying to pull my skin into his mouth. Yet again, my mind fills with pictures of him on his knees, head tipped back and mouth open for my cock. My hips buck without thought, effectively dislodging him from my chest.

I pull my hands out of his and grab onto the full swells of his ass, hitching him up my front and slamming my lips on his. I push his ass down, make him feel my steely shaft twitching for his attention. He sways down on me, lips parting on a breathy pant for air. I dip my tongue in between them, suck his tongue into my mouth and nip it with my teeth, massaging him after for all I’m worth. I roll over, get him back underneath me and grind up hard against him. He moans for me, his fingers weaving into my hair, yanking viciously as I do it again.

It’s official. I want to fuck him, want to get my hands in his pants and hear him scream my name when I make him come. My gut tightens, head tipping back on a throaty groan of frustration. He peppers my jaw and throat with kisses, hips lifting into the pressure of mine. I reach down between us, cup his engorged dick through his pants, and listen to him gasp when I massage him with little rolls of my fingers. I rub him up and down the best I can through his jeans, feeling absolutely starved when I see him writhe.

His hands fist my shirt above the swells of my biceps, his eyes fluttering closed as he swivels his hips, tries his hardest to get himself off. “Seth,” he practically whimpers. My lower half throbs.

I shut my eyes and bury my face against the side of his neck, hands fusing to his hips and pulling up as I thrust forward. He cries out, barely muffling himself with his hands as I suck on his neck, kiss him over and over as we slide against each other, rubbing and humping and colliding together in a desperate mutual need to come. I can feel the heat rising, my movements becoming erratic, my balls pulling taut. But before I can come, Jacob sucks in a sharp breath, his body faltering. I quickly push his hands aside, my mouth closing over his just in time. His cry vibrates my teeth and sounds so incredibly sweet to my ears as the heat flows right out of me, my cum shooting free.

I rest my forehead on his and chuckle to myself, my breath ragged. “I haven’t done that since high school.”

He smiles, his arms coming up around my neck as his head tips back, slightly letting our lips brush together. “I haven’t done that ever.”

My lips curl around a smirk. I nudge his nose with mine and tease, “So I’m your first, then?” I meant it as a joke; everyone in our group knows that Jake is a virgin.

But then I feel his fingers fidget at the base of my neck.

“What?” I push up off of him, my voice full of disbelief, “You had sex? When? Where? With who?!”

He looks at me almost apologetically. And he must sense just how much emphasis I put on the last question because all he says is: “Raf.”

Rafael. Fucking Raf of all fucking people? He’s not even gay! He’s like the poster child of heterosexual assholiness! “You’re lying,” my voice comes out flat, emotionless, “tell me you’re lying.” I know he’s not. He’s not avoiding eye contact or chewing on his bottom lip. He’s telling the truth.

Rafael fucked my best friend.

I’m off the bed in seconds, popping my shirt’s buttons back in place, and heading towards the door. I don’t even know what I plan to do, I just know I want air. I want to be outside where the air is freshest and breathe it all in so deep my lungs might pop. I take all of two steps before Jake is at my shoulder, clinging to my arm.

“Seth! I didn’t know what to do back then. You had gotten your first girlfriend that lasted more than two weeks and you told me you’d had sex and I was just so confused!”

Turn towards him. Comfort him. You have no right to be this angry. Don’t take it out on him. I open my mouth to tell him it’s alright and that I’m just being unreasonable, but all that comes out is: “You fucked Raf of all people.”

And as if that isn’t bad enough, at that moment the door swings open and in steps Rafael, my bags in his hands.

He just kind of stands there, looking between me and Jacob, kneeling at the foot of our bed, for a while. Without thinking, I step between them, arms crossing over my chest.

He nods in understanding. “So you know, then. Sorry, man, it only went on for like three months tops.”

I haven’t played football in a while, but I recall most of it when I rush my friend, slam him back against the door across the hall. My body works on autopilot, holding him in place with one forearm across his shoulders. And then my fist is plowing into his ribcage and I’m hearing the most satisfying grunt of my life. Somewhere in the distance, there are feet pounding up the stairs, voices shouting at me from all directions, but all I can really hear is the absolute silence within my head.

Someone pulls me back and I willingly go with them, slumping against the opposite wall and watching on as the girls and Jacob flounder around a slightly hunched over Rafael. Matt’s hands clap against my cheeks, shaking my head slightly back and forth.

“Hey!” He practically shouts, “You in there? The dead fish eyes thing is creeping me the fuck out, man.”

I blink hard, my ears ringing, and when I open them I can hear everything clearly again. There’s no longer a slightly muffled quality to life. I shake off Matt’s hands and nod once. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Andrea asks incredulously, “Fine?! You just attacked Raf for no reason! Apologize or something, Seth.”

Before I can tell her that there’s no way in Hell that I’d say sorry, the so-called victim himself speaks up. “No, no, it’s fine. I probably deserve it for all the things I did to–”

“Mother fucker.” I step forward, ready to nail him in the head this time, but Matty and Kelsy cement themselves to my front, making all sorts of calming noises in an effort to appease me. It might’ve worked, but over their heads I can just barely make out Raf smiling down at a very familiar brunet. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“You can’t kill Rafael!” The twins squeal together, pushing hard against my chest, trying to pin me to the wall.

I frown down at them. “Not Raf, you idiots, Jacob.”

The entire group stops what they’re doing, not daring to even breathe it seems. Slowly, cautiously, Kelsy opens her mouth, “What did you just say?” I glare down at her, not feeling inclined in the slightest to play her little game.

“Jacob?” Andrea says the word slowly, acting like she’s never heard it before.

“Not Jake?” Matt slowly steps away from me, looking towards the smaller boy with a raised brow. “What did you do?”

Jacob’s hands go behind his back.

He’s uncomfortable.

Without thinking, I step forward, effectively drawing back everyone’s attention. “As far as I can tell, this isn’t any–”

“I slept with Jake.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Andrea sighs deeply, resting her forehead in her palm.

“Woah!” Kelsy breathes under her breath, looking unsurely between all three of us, her eyes lingering on me.

“Seth just seemed to find out when I entered the room.”

Matty shakes his head, his hand clapping down on my shoulder. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I shrug him off, “nice little reminiscing session we’ve got going on here, but I’d much rather do it over some drinks.” My mouth automatically pulls back into the smile I usually save for way too pushy girls. It seems to do the trick, letting the atmosphere loosen up as everyone else smiles back, wholeheartedly agreeing.

“We have jello shots in the cooler! We were just in the process of getting them all out,” Kelsy says excitedly, looking to me as if she needs my approval.

I stretch the smile a little wider and use a hand on her back to nudge her forward. “What’re you waiting for, then?” The group starts excitedly talking amongst themselves about all the different drinks we can use to get drunk, and only stops when they realize I’m not following them downstairs. “Ah, sorry, guys, I have to shower first.”

They nod and tell me to hurry down, disappearing down the creaky steps. Sighing, I turn and head into my room, quickly undoing all the buttons of my shirt, and dropping it onto the floor. I keep my eyes away from the bed and my back to the person lingering in the doorway as I pick up my fallen duffle bag and set it down on the dresser beside the door to the bathroom.

When I have a new outfit picked out, I press my palms into the edge of the wood, and call out, “How long do you plan on silently watching me?”

“That depends,” Jacob says, the floorboards squeaking when he steps deeper into the room, “how long before you’ll look at me?”

I sigh, eyes slipping closed in defeat. Determinedly, I turn around, park my ass on the dresser and force the edges of my lips upwards. “Happy?”

His eyes blink rapidly, his hands curling at his sides. I’m upsetting him. He might cry. My stomach knots in on itself. “Not like that,” he cries pitifully, “don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?”

He shakes his head, bottom lip quivering.

I turn my back to him, listen to him sniffle as I yank back closed the zippers to my bag. I shouldn’t feel bad or angry. He didn’t do anything wrong. I did. I am. I rub at my forehead, feeling infinitely frustrated with myself, and try again. This time when I turn around, I don’t smile, I just keep my eyes on his, not allowing myself to look anywhere else. I don’t want to read him. I don’t want to know exactly how he’s feeling.

“You lied to me. You still don’t trust me enough to tell me anything about your personal life. And even though I’ve never kept a secret from you, never tried to hide what I’m doing or who I’m seeing,” I look towards the ceiling, smiling ruefully, “everything I find out about you is either through your overly honest body or somebody else. You confuse me and toy with me and turn me on and piss me off to no end.” I take a deep breath and try to quell the nauseous feeling of hurting him, of listening to him quietly crying to himself.

He hiccups when I look back down at him, his face bright pink and irritated from his tears. He doesn’t meet my gaze. He stares at the ground and seems to wither away beneath it.

I cuss under my breath and snag my clothes off the dresser. “Today, I figured out I liked you, and not in that younger brother kind of way I thought I did.”

His watery eyes fill with hope, and he takes a hesitant step my way, “Seth, I–”

“But now, now I can’t help but wonder about so many things. You were best friends with Raf first, you two were inseparable, and then seemingly overnight, I took his place. Is this how you get people to sleep with you? Am I just some sort of stepping stone in a long line of others? Was this your plan the whole time?” I rub my temples with my free hand but the aching between my ears won’t go away. “Just . . . be out of my room by the time I’m done in the bathroom.”

He calls out for me, but I cut him off with a hard slam of the door. I don’t want to hear his voice right now. It seems like everything that comes out of his mouth when I can’t see him is a lie.

“Fuck,” I grind my teeth together and turn on the water, more than ready to be rid of any evidence that I fell for his tricks.

~|~|~

I jog down the stairs, feeling pretty refreshed after my shower. I can hear the ruckus of the group throughout the whole cabin, and follow it down the long central hallway to the den. There, surrounded in the furs of Andrea’s great grandfather’s prey, my five friends sit on the wooden floor, a plethora of shots and glass bottles displayed in the center of their circle. I take a seat between Kelsy and the couch, leaning against it as I reach into the center.

“Seth baby!” Kelsy squeals into my ear as my fingers curl around the neck of a tall bottle of Jack Daniels. She sways into me, resting her back on my chest, and points unsteadily across the circle at Jacob. “You’re a bad boy! You made him cry.”

I spare him a glance, but he’s looking anywhere but at me. “He’s a big boy, Kels. He’s fine.”

“More importantly!” Andrea exclaims, one arm slung around Raf’s and Matt’s shoulders, “you’re just in time to play my favorite game.”

“Oh, no,” I playfully groan, taking a quick gulp of my drink. It burns nicely, warming me up well enough considering I usually go for something stronger.

“Oh, yes,” she wiggles her eyebrows my way, “it’s time for . . .  naked Twister!” The whole room explodes in protests, to which Andrea cackles like the maniacal witch she is. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding!”

“Why don’t we skip the games tonight,” Matthew suggests, quickly looking my way and then pretending he didn’t, “our teams are gonna be all screwy otherwise.”

The witch makes a soft oo-ing noise, apparently having forgotten the earlier debacle in her fun. “No teams, then?”

“We could play that king game again. I liked that one!” Kelsy says, reaching her hand out and stealing my drink. She takes a sip of it and then grimaces, looking up at me from her spot slumped against my chest. “Since when do you like Jack?”

I roll my eyes and look towards Matty. “When are you going to build up her tolerance to alcohol? It feels like I’m babysitting over here.”

He smirks. “No one told you to sit next to her. Would you rather have Andrea trying to cuddle you?”

“True, true,” I nod and wrap my arms around his sister, pulling her up into my lap. “What drink do you want next, sis?”

She does this weird little giggle-snort mix and halfheartedly tries to get away. “It’s so weird! Somebody help! Andreaa!”

“No shouting in the den!”

“Andreaa, I want to play king!”

I look towards the mama hen, making my best attempt at puppy eyes for her. She huffs and shuffles around, looking over the sea of empty bottles behind her. Finally, she turns back towards the group with a triumphant grin and a deck of cards. She pulls out numbers two through six and the king card, and while she’s shuffling, I ask Kelsy to fill me in.

“So,” she begins, her gaze intent, “this is like a game of dare but without being able to know who you’re daring. The king gives out dares and then calls out the numbers that have to do it, so whoever’s king is in charge, but they can only give out three dares.”

I nod. It seems simple enough. Now I just have to hope that none of my friends become king or things are going to get very perverted very fast.

Some of the bottles are cleared away and then the cards are laid down flat in front of everybody. On the count of three, we all reach in and pick up our card, holding it close to see what we got.

I’m number six. I curse under my breath and look around for some smiling shit-eater. Surprisingly, I don’t spot any. Which means one of my worst nightmares has come true. Putting Kelsy in charge of anyone is a bad idea. She has a tendency to go too far very quickly once she gets into anything, making her the worst person to ever compare to higher up royalty.

“Kelsy’s the king!” Andrea declares loudly, looking almost pleased.

“Aw yiss,” Kelsy rubs her hands together evilly and scrambles onto the couch. Everyone quickly places their cards face down so she can’t see them. “Numbers two and three kiss!”

Raf and Matt look around, make eye contact, and turn green. Kelsy screams like a banshee, bouncing up and down as if she’s been electrocuted. I eye the two men with very real pity as they inch towards each other, creeping forward on their hands and knees. Their faces come closer and closer, and at the last second turn, so they’re only kissing each other’s cheeks.

Andrea howls with laughter at their victory, pointing mockingly at a pouting Kelsy. Kelsy glares right back and angrily says, “Numbers four and six,” I tilt my head back to look at her, “are banished to the closet for seven minutes!” Well, that was rather tame. The king looks at Andrea, waiting for her to stand, but the other girl doesn’t.

I almost laugh at Kelsy’s failed attempt at punishing Andrea until it dawns on me that if the mama hen isn’t going in with me, then that can only mean one thing.

The group seems to realize the same thing and suddenly the light atmosphere is evaporating. I take in all the serious, concerned faces of my friends, and sigh, getting to my feet. In an effort to save the mood, I force a lighthearted smile and bow to them, reaching my hand out for Jacob to grab onto.

“What is he, a princess?” Kelsy giggles, making most of the others laugh along with her.

“Oh, please,” I joke, fingers curling around his and tugging him up against me, “one princess is already too much to handle.”

Jacob stays completely silent and tense as the rest of the group starts cracking jokes about how spoiled Matty’s made Kelsy. Not bothering to wait, I make my way to the hallway, towing my unwilling partner behind me. Across the hall is the largest closet on the property, so I drop his hand and step inside. He seems to hesitate on the threshold, his fingers fidgeting at his sides.

“Come on, the sooner we start, the sooner the seven minutes is up.”

He closes the door behind him, effectively sealing us in chest to chest, packed together like a pair of sardines. Thankfully, the space isn’t completely dark since the door jam seems to be a bit too big for the actual door, giving us a good deal of light. The only complaint I have, besides the obvious, are the wooden shelves pressing uncomfortably against my spine, but I bear it, knowing that if I move away from them, I’ll end up giving Jacob the wrong idea.

“I didn’t lie to you,” he says softly.

I scoff and take a glance at my phone’s screen. “Don’t bother, Jacob.”

“Well, when else am I supposed to talk to you?”

“Anytime during the three months you were screwing Rafael, but that’s just common decency between pals, wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it.”

He huffs. “You’re being childish!”

“I know, hence why I don’t want to talk to you!”

“Then, don’t talk. You did all the talking last time, so now it’s my turn!” I bite my tongue and stand there. Not like there’s anything else to do. “I didn’t sleep with him on purpose–”

“Oh, come on! So you just fell onto his dick?”

“Shut up! I might have, but I don’t know. The first time, I was drunk when he found me, and then suddenly it was morning and I was very, very–

“Spare me the details, princess.”

“Fine. After that, I was really unsure of a lot of things, like why I was jealous of your girlfriend in the first place and why I liked you so much and why I did that with Raf. I was a teenager, Seth; my hormones were all over the place, and I was so fucking confused. It was so much easier to just hook up with someone familiar than to tell a straight guy that I would very much like to personally experience all of the stories he told me. Do you know how terrified I was of you finding out? You play football! You’re huge. You fuck anything with a vagina and leave a trail of testosterone anywhere you go! I read so many stories about people like you beating the shit out of people like me for even mentioning the word gay.”

I clench my jaw. “You thought I would hit you?”

“Wouldn’t you? Didn’t you hit Raf today? And you said you wanted to kill me!”

After I came just from rubbing against you,” I have to swallow hard to keep from remembering it, quickly changing the subject to avoid anymore talk about it, “I would never hit you. Rafael is a different story. He’s like the walking Hulk; he can take a few punches and then some.”

“But . . .” he trembles against me, his voice growing softer, “the way you looked at me, Seth! Don’t you hate me? Aren’t you disgusted by what we did?”

I push my fingers through my hair and shake my head. “When the fuck did I say that?”

He finally looks up at me, his face shrouded in shadows. “You don’t have to say it for me to know, idiot. I’m your best friend. I may not be some weird sort of psychic like you, but I can at least read your expressions!”

“You suck at reading me, then.” Even though I know the time isn’t up, I still reach around behind him and grab at the handle. I open the door and squeeze past him.

“Seth,” he calls after me, following behind as I head for the kitchen.

I sigh, scrub my fingers over my face as we pass the den, and turn right into my destination. Surprisingly, all the counters are clean, void of alcohol in any shape or form. How disappointing. Moving around the island in the middle of the room, I head straight for the fridge.

Just as I’m reaching for the handle, Jacob slides in around me, his entire body pressed against the door. I lift an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “You do realize that I’m by far the stronger of the two of us, right?”

His jaw clenches. “You won’t hurt me. You said so yourself.”

Sighing, I look him over once. “You’re trembling. Get out of the way.”

“Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen?” He smiles sheepishly up at me.

I roll my eyes and lean into him, let my face come within an inch of his. “I can handle the heat. You can’t.”

He eyes me determinedly, not backing down. “Can you? Every time I try to talk seriously with you, you either walk away or tell me to.”

I roll my eyes heavenward and push off away from the fridge, settling down against the island instead. “Haven’t I heard everything you have to say? Why are you still pestering me?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking my positioning. “What else am I supposed to do to make you listen to me? Fade away into the night?” I grit my teeth, knowing that if I open my mouth I’ll say something stupid, like yes, and then he’ll do something even dumber, listen to me. “I won’t, even if you tell me to.”

I frown at him. “Why not?”

“I lied,” I fling my hands in the air, mouth opening to say I knew it, when he continues, “I didn’t become friends with you because I thought you were cool . . . or at least not in the way you thought I meant. And I didn’t just suddenly stop being best friends with Rafael, either. I’ve liked you for a long, long time, like before you even knew I existed, because Raf took me to one of your home games. And you were so fast and strong, and then you took off your helmet and your hair looked like the most delicious lion’s mane I have ever seen and–”

“Did you just call my hair delicious?”

“Focus, Seth! And then I kept seeing you in the halls and you had so many fans. And then Andrea invited you and all of us out and I thought I was gonna die I was so happy! And you liked me. You told me that you liked me and wanted to hang out! And then–”

“Okay, okay I get it!” I fight back a smile and shake my head, “I accidentally became friends with a crazy stalker fan.”

He tries to protest but gives up before even saying anything. Instead, he just leans towards me, watching my face, his eyes intense, focused. “I love you, and I,” he falters and takes a deep breath, stepping hesitantly my way, “I think you love me, too.” Another step. “Or maybe I’m just being hopeful,” another, “but you didn’t dislike kissing me or holding me.”

I watch him warily, for once not able to read his body language and kind of enjoying it. This Jacob is a new one. His steps are languid, graceful, as if he’s not on land but back in the water, doing all those entrancing different styles of swimming. I can’t help but react, my every muscle tensing, hands sliding back to grab onto the counter. I want to touch him. Fuck, I almost groan when his hand touches down on my chest, sliding up as his body leans into me.

“You like me,” he says in a whisper, his eyes locking with mine. There’s something different there, too. The usual soft brown has turned molten, tempting.

“What,” I clear my throat, trying to rid it of some of its scratchiness, “are you doing?”

He smiles faintly up at me, and I lean in without thought, my eyes stuck on the soft curl of his lips. “I’m showing you what I usually try to hide.”

I hum, my hands slipping away from the counter in favor of grasping his hips. “And that would be?”

“How much I want you.” His head tips back, tongue snaking across his bottom lip.

I pull him closer. “Seduction,” I slide one of my hands’ fingers into his hair and pull backwards, “won’t solve any of our problems.” My lips find his neck, my breath bringing up goosebumps along his skin. It feels so good to touch him again that I willingly forget for a moment that I was mad in the first place.

“I know,” he says, hands drifting back along my waist, “but I don’t care if you only ever want me for sex, so long as you’ll be mine when we’re together.”

The words come out softly, innocently, but they manage to jar me back to reality where that is an incredibly fucked up thing to say. I sigh against him, my arms curling around him and hugging him to my chest. “I’m not that kind of person, Jake, and you know it.”

His hands grab at my shoulders, attempt to push me away, but I won’t budge. This is awful, I finally acknowledge, completely fed up with this festering knot in my stomach. I shouldn’t be jealous. I’m in my senior year of college; I have no right to linger on what happened during my high school days. I didn’t even think of Jake in that way before.

I huff and let him go.

Part Three: Coming Sooner than 1+ year, I promise!

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Hear Ye, I Do, Though Not Often (Oh and an almost face reveal pic)

Or rather, that’s what anyone who follows my pathetically, irratically active blog must think: “Hear ye, I do, though not often.”

Aye, yet again, I poofed.

So~ quick rundown time, shall we?

I met that Daddy Dom I mentioned before (D.D. as I believe I formally dubbed him) and it was horrendous~ :3

Few notes about D. D.: he was creepy, he could not smile without his face twitching up into a sneer, he looked about 30 years older than all his pictures, his eyes were oddly misted over as if he was perpetually in a state of either almost-asleep or almost-dead, and his voice was the epitome of snobby rich dude — think: voice of rich old guy on a show like Fairly Odd Parents, and you’ve got D. D.’s voice.

Needless to say, I have not talked to him since. Namely because, he looked like he may have been 50 as opposed to late 20s as I’d been told and~ we had absolutely fucking nothing to talk about. Oh, and did I mention how he repeatedly said, over coffee and casually as fuck, that I obviously~ liked him because only he could make me feel like a woman.

Gag.

Blegh.

Okay, so yeah, D. D. has been lost to time for me. I met him oh like~ a few days after my post about him, so~ I dunno a while ago.

Then, I went to Florida for two weeks, hung out at Universal Studios, drank some butter beer and got some awesome new pjs. During that time though, I created a Tumblr (no, none of you may add me because my user has part of my real name in it) just to have some fun, non-creepy social media in my life and started talking with some littles and Daddies in the community. One fella, we’ll call him Sleaze, was the typical “call me Daddy” upon saying hello type, and while usually, I’d straight up ignore this type, I thought it’d be fun to see his reaction upon me being straight up bitchy. Oddly enough, he appologized and said he totally understood. So I was like: o.o oh . . . Maybe Sleaze isn’t so bad, afterall.

Foolish but whatever.

Another guy, who I originally didn’t even bother to learn the name of, didn’t bring up DD/lg at all when we first started talking even though his blog is all about it.

Anyways, while I was in Florida those were the two main people I talked to. Surprise surprise, Sleaze always managed to turn the conversation sexual and the other guy — ah, let’s call him J — never became even remotely sexual. Needless to say, I cut off Sleaze by like day 5 because I was just exhausted from constantly reminding him to keep it in his pants.

J turned out great though \o.o/

We talked about food and CT and some hilarious drunk stories from his past (one involving him, completely drenched, and three of his friends, one of which was naked, running away from a wedding party that just so happened to see them) and~ I dunno, just fun things like that, little, natural conversations :3

Anywhoville~ so during my time in Florida, I became pretty close with this J fellow and allowed him to give me small things to do. It wasn’t anything big, ya know? Like I had to put my teddy bear in timeout one night because J had told him to give me a kiss goodnight but my bear didn’t want to. Or~ I had to eat at least one piece of fruit one day because J was worried after I only ate nachos the day before. Small, cute things. I mean, I recognized he was Domming me, but~ I liked it so whatever. Ah though there was one night where I had to touch myself before bed.

But ya know o.o that was nice too so~

Wellp on my way back from Florida, he talked to me about being safe, having a good flight~ and then we made playful little bets about when I would land c:< 

Oh but anyways, this story is probably boring for you guys, so I’ll cut to the chase: J is officially, as of October 7th, when my collars came in, my Daddy Dominant. Now, in some cases a collar means marriage or engagement, but my day collar just means that I am his submissive now and that I fully~ submit to him and whatnot, it’s not marriage. We are not married. I’ve been talking to him for like a month now. It’d be crazy if we just decided to woop off and get married just like that.

So yeah, that’s my journey so far with this whole DDlg thing.

Oh and another thing o.o/ I forgot to mention this before but~ I am also into kitten play, dunno if I ever brought that up, but there it is.

On a side note: I’ve been very busy with work lately, so I haven’t been writing as much, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to push myself to do that more since I have two days off this week (today and Saturday).

Red one = play, it’s lined with gray-black faux fur inside; locked one = day

So, here are the “almost face reveal pics” as promised. They’re of me in my collars. Both of them, my day and play collars, were bought for me by J, by the way, in case you were wondering, and so far at work no one seems to have noticed or cared that I wear my day one. The play collar, of course, is for play time only, though today Daddy wants me to practice kneeling while wearing it. So yay~, exciting c:< 

My day collar with the choker I typically wear :3

Anywho! That is all for this update :3

Ciao for Now,

Amelie J. Hyde

Creating Our Forever

Let’s talk about sunshine on rainy days and the safety of land on stormy seas. Let’s talk about gold in the streets of Hartford and dragons while we sit on a plane.

I want to be silly and weird and have childish conversations, avoiding the things that matter for the irrelevance of 100 years from now. I want to forget the serious things in life and live out a fantasy where tomorrow never comes and forever isn’t a time but a state of being.

Let’s drive away on the winding, ever-changing ripples of time and forget the drab, the dull, all of the mundane. Let it fade away under the mist before our wandering gaze so long as you remain here with me.

I once asked an old boyfriend of mine to tell me a story where we never die and all he could say was: we won’t die, we’ll become stars. But I don’t want to burn billions of miles away from you or sit in an empty vortex without air or sound. I want to listen to the drumming of your heart in the safety of our own forever and lie upon the softest grass, the sun forever shining over us.

So if it rains, talk to me about sunshine. If we’re adrift in a storm, remind me of the land. If we’re in dangerous territory, distract me with fanciful tales. And if we’re ever stuck with no place to go, don’t tell me when we die, we’ll become stars.

I want to associate us with all things positive and beautiful, and when I’m with you, I want forever to become a state of being that we can fall into together.

▪☆ Written Oct. 10th, 2017 ☆▪

Day Eight: Change, She is

Of steel eyes, unyielding brow

The mountain does not move.

Of titanium roots, all-proof soul

The mountain will not fall.

Insurmountable, it stands.

Weakened ankles, broken spirits

The traveler loses all hope.

Crippled wings, shattered fingers

She touches the ground.

It is not without regrets or scars

That her body flattens grass.

It is not without help and love

That her body, weary, rests.

Broken bones, damaged faith,

A kind muse knows all.

Ruptured heart, burst lungs,

A kind muse heals all.

Songs of joy and sorrows dealt

Crumble for singing seamstress.

Mended wounds and loving scars,

She alters the course of time.

Creative Writing Notebooks: An Addiction?

I confess: I have way more unused notebooks than I know what to do with.

I have a purple spiral-bound one from seventh grade that has all of the Spanish words I’ve ever learned, crammed full of vocab lists I’ve been meaning to get written down. I have two different ruled legal pads – both gifted to me on two different Christmases by my grandmother. I have two moleskin notebooks sitting around with half-baked story ideas and rambling, dreadful, moody-teenager-considering-the-possibilities-of-life poetry. I have three small spiral-bound notebooks each containing a different novel. And a number of other notebooks that have had their contents ripped out and burned away, left empty and ragged in my “box of plenty.”

My point?

I don’t have a single unlined notebook or a leather bound one.

Why do I want an unlined notebook?

Well, I heard – from myself – that blank pages might actually work better for creative writing than lined paper, which can be seen, subconsciously as restrictive. I have noticed that whenever I’m out and about, I tend to scribble down plenty of ideas on blank computer pages and, later, when I look back at them, I love how all over the place my little notes can get.

Which, brings me to my next purchase – after, of course, I buy my sister her late as all Hell birthday present, a few books for my younger sister, and a new mattress pad!

I am going to get an 800 page notebook for (approximately) thirty bucks on Amazon. I know, I know. Why, Amelie, do you feel the need to get eight hundred pages in one convenient notebook package? I don’t know. But doesn’t it just sound adorable?

At first, I was thinking I’d end up forking over $130 for an 800 page leather bound notebook, but I recognized that if I did that, then it would just end up like most of my other ones: dedicated and abandoned to part of a book I’ll most likely never finish. So, my solution: when I run out of pages in my little black notebook (I’m actually about 1/5 through it right now), I’ll start using this behemoth for my writing needs.

Currently, my little black notebook is dedicated to all things random. I have short stories, journal entries, financial plans, lists of things I need to get, bills and when they’re due, the entire plotline to Savage, story ideas, new languages and their core words, poetry, random thoughts, detailed descriptions of people I’ve seen on the bus or at work, and so, so much more. Pretty much it’s my brain. I keep my brain in a little black book that never, ever leaves my side. Seriously, I take that thing with me even to work.

And I’m feeling a little sad since my brain is filling up so quickly. I mean, what will I do when I run out of room some dismal day and have no fresh, already aired out notebook to take its place? A girl simply cannot go without her brain. She can’t.

So, that’s why I need 800 pages. Because my brain must be sustained.

After I buy my new brain – probably going to get it in like a nice, earthy brown color this time – I plan on getting one of those cute, unlined, leather bound notebooks. This one, is purely experimental, as I don’t know how or if writing on blank pages will affect my writing at all, so I’m obviously not going to get 800 pages.

I’m getting 600.

Ha! I kid.

At most, it’ll have like 150-200 pages, but that’s pretty small for my notebooks.

Anyways, there you have it. That’s how I rationalized the impromptu purchase of $70 or so worth of notebooks.

Pray I never am able to work my way around the unreasonably expensive fountain pen that I so desperately want to go with my leather bound notebook. For now, I’ll keep my scheming strictly restricted to things that will cost me less than $100 – so long as it’s not food related.

Ciao for Now,

~ Amelie :3

In a Swing State

Two balls attached to conjoined strings,

We drop from the same height.

On opposite sides of a crater, we fall;

Me, a bit faster, harder than you.

Plummeting, a crash is inevitable.

At the bottom of our swing, we shy away —

Me, out of fear; you, something unknown.

Arcing back up to our original height,

Gravity pulls us back down, reinitiates

The fall that we’re both resisting.

Shyly, weakly, we evade each other;

Over and over, we give up and then in.

Written Sept. 1st, 2017

Day Seven: One Hundred Word Confession

What does it take to gain her attention?

How much must I embarrass myself?

Is it useless? Am I in denial after all?

Probably. I’ve wasted all my efforts.

I’ve struggled to preserve her happiness

At the expense of my bleeding heart

I have dedicated and damaged myself

For a friendship I will never believe in.

And if I were to put my foot down, it,

Inevitably, would expose the phantom

That she has made her life’s foundation.

To end my suffering, I’d destroy her.

And so, without ever taking a step, I

Will always back down for her happiness.

My sister starts her stories with “once upon a time.”

Anne, as previously mentioned, loves me. As her older sister, I dare even say she idolizes me. Why? Because after she found out that I write, she had to write.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not the type of girl to go around screaming because my little sister loves me so much she copies me – I got over that in middle school. What I do go around screaming about is her introduction phrase:

Once upon a time.

I get it, I do. She’s fifteen and just started writing. She’s still learning how to express her ideas. It’s like when a young child is being taught how to write an essay; they’re given a format to use until they develop their own style. I understand, really. On a logical level, I totally get why she’s doing it. On a supportive, sisterly level, I even encourage it by only offering praise.

But on a more primal, writer level, I rage.

Internally, I hear her say those words – she reads her stories to me over the phone – and my soul screaches in agony.

Once upon a time.

When did I grow to hate that phrase so much? Was it when it was turned into a show? Or perhaps before then when I tore up one of my earlier stories that I’d found with a similar intro?

I don’t know when this hate began to grow within me, but it has only served to flourish every time I hear Anne say, “Once upon a time.” That, and suddenly. Oh, how I despise that word. I use it, of course, when I’m too lazy to simply make whatever happened appear sudden in nature. Nonetheless, I hate it.

Once upon a time, I killed the phrase once upon a time and moved on to maul the dickens out of suddenly.

Regardless, in the end, I’m thrilled that we have something in common that I generally love to do.

Ciao for Now,

~ Amelie

P.S.: Sorry not sorry for the rant c:

Savage: Part One, Chapter Two

Yes, this is late. Very late. Like a week and some change late, but I have my reasons — mainly, lack of wifi.

(Link back to chapter one in case you missed it)

~ |Let’s Begin| ~ 

Near the edge of the forest lining the northern kingdom, the Fenza’s half of the basin, sits a cluster of triangular white tents, held up with thick black branches taken from the sturdiest never-green trees, all facing outward from one large central tent. They form a wide, oval-like ring around it, erecting a barrier against any attacks that might come its way. Within each tent, resides a number of warriors ranging from three to seven per dwelling, most are taking quick naps, and the others are waiting for the signal to pack up and set out again. The men are warriors, used to constant motion and battling until the last man falls. Remaining stagnant is not one of their favorite pastimes.

To avoid being in one place for too long, the Fenza warriors travel about in little packs among the tents. The packs seem to be determined by the type of weapon the men carry more than comradery, as the swordsmen stay with the swordsmen and archers with archers. No matter their equipment, though, every man moves carefully, always looking outward from the camp or scanning the trees. One thing appears to remain below their range of sight: the unpainted folk scattered throughout the camp. None of the warriors so much as glance at the unpainted, unarmed folk going about their business in the very center of their irregular circle, some tending to a large, black-encrusted cauldron, others carrying armfuls of weapons or what looks to be armor, each of them in an equally as frenzied hurry.

However, no matter what the men hold or where they’re supposed to be looking, they all gradually slow and stare at the blonde female standing at the entrance of the tiny tent hidden in the shadows of their captain’s – the one that’s supposed to contain the blessings of the sky and the king and nothing else.

Sophia stares out at the bizarre camp she’s found herself in, one hand lifted to keep the flap of thin white fabric out of her face, the other clutched to her chest. There are men everywhere. And almost each and every one of them is carrying a weapon. There isn’t a single woman to be seen, not a hint of femininity in the hulking, muscled natives marching back and forth, pacing the little space there is between the tent she’s in and the ones surrounding it.

Am I on lockdown? She wonders, her eyes trying to pick out any specific men sent to guard her, but it’s impossible. Every person she sees looks like they’re on duty, too tense to possibly be off the clock. In fact, the men look so strung out that she’s almost led to believe that she’s been placed in the middle of an army on their way to battle, but that would be ridiculous. There’s no way she could be so unlucky.

She remembers the woman she’d seen with the long blade still wet with blood.

Or, she thinks to herself, I’m indeed that unlucky.

There’s a swift, whoosh of air from the tent beside hers. She steps a little further from her own. One hesitant foot settles upon the bare soil beyond the wooden bottom of her maybe-prison as her eyes turn curiously towards the source of the sound. Almost immediately, she’s being pushed back.

The stranger wraps their arms around her. Over their pale shoulder, she sees many a person beyond the tent to grind to an absolute halt. Sophia attempts to wedge her arms up between them, only to feel something drape itself around her from behind, her forearms meeting with air as the person leans slightly out of her personal space. A warm, thick fabric is yanked against her hips, sliding up higher towards her ribs as the bottom end of it brushes against her ankles. Her attacker steps back. With nimble fingers, the savage woman from the black forest knots the ends of a beige blanket at Sophia’s hips, effectively giving her some sort of makeshift skirt.

Without missing a beat, the woman starts singing again, her voice almost lulling the girl into not noticing how she’s being steadily backed into her tent. She looks down, taking in the assertive, short strides forward of the warrior, and forcibly remains in place. Before they can be brought chest to chest by the woman’s stubborn pace, the native draws back, one brow raised at the smaller girl as if to goad her into continuing to move on her own. Agitated, Sophia snatches up the ends of the blanket and starts undoing it, tossing it to the side while the woman’s singing gets faster and faster. As soon as the thing falls to the ground, though, the painted lady takes note of what she’s done and cuts off, leaving a chill silence in the air. The calm, placid expression she’d had on evaporates.

Her yellow eyes spark like flint, spitting up flames so hot that Sophia’s almost surprised the skin surrounding them doesn’t burn off. Before the royally ticked off stranger can start speaking a language she doesn’t understand, she decides to speak up. If she hasn’t been gutted by the many swords strapped onto the person before her, then she can at least assume that no one here is interested in killing her, right? Right, she assures herself and sucks in a deep breath.

“Thank you for the, um, blanket?” She hesitates, her gaze straying towards the fallen fabric. What if that was some symbol of kindness and I shouldn’t have let it touch the ground? Do those things happen? Too late either way, I guess. With a shake of her head, she turns her attention back to the completely still woman before her. “I’m not cold, though. I’m actually pretty used to the cold, so if I could just—”

Before she can take so much as a step, the lady’s heaving a deep sigh of defeat and rubbing the heel of her palm into her forehead. The native inhales dramatically, drops the hand back to her hip, and rubs her lips together. Her brows furrow in concentration and then she’s lifting one finger out, the tip directed at Sophia.

“Speck Engrish?”

“Speck?” The woman releases a long, strained breath, and motions with her other hand, moving it up from the base of her throat to the end of her chin. She presses her fingers to her lips and then tilts them outward like a flap. “Oh!” Sophia almost laughs when she realizes what the other female is saying, a pleased smile curling at her lips. They can talk now. “Yes, yes, I speak English!”

Despite her own joy at finding out that the native recognizes the words she’s saying, the woman herself looks the complete opposite, her expression contorted as if she’s stepped on a beehive and can’t free her foot from it. Her arms fold across her chest, her gaze straying down towards the ground. Sophia watches on curiously as her lips curl, compress together. The girl looks down with her, and tilts her sneakers out to the side, wondering if she might have stepped in something, but finds nothing to suggest as much.

Shrugging it off, she returns to looking at the upset person. “So, as I was saying, can I go outside? Or maybe to somewhere with running water? Do you have that yet? What time is it? Have you learned of Henry Ford? Or . . .” she trails off at the rapid blinking of the other woman’s eyelids. They both stare at one another for a moment, the red painted woman looking rather annoyed.

Then, as if she’s heard all that she needs to, the native spins about, and rips back open the material covering the front of the tent. Sophia hurries after her, watching the woman march straight across the open center of the camp and grab a man by the shoulder. When he attempts to peer over the woman to Sophia’s tent, she can just barely make out the swift, light sound of the native’s familiar singing. It’s more effective than she’d thought it would be. The man snaps to attention, listens intently to what his superior has to say, and then rushes in the opposite direction, disappearing in the surrounding teepee-shaped tents. That settled, the woman turns about face sharply, heading directly for Sophia.

Stepping back quickly, she instinctively lets the entryway fall closed and immediately feels ridiculous for doing so. She’s already been seen. Almost as soon as she turns away, the sound of the flap being yanked up, draws her back around. There, standing just within the triangular gap, the female scowls and directs one sharp finger her way. “No to move,” she says and then the fabric is falling, sealing her captive back into the dimly lit tent.

Arms wrapping about her waist, Sophia pivots where she stands, taking in the tiny, cramped quarters she’s found herself stuck in. In this place, she doesn’t have to be freaked out first to feel like the walls are caving in around her. They already are. At a sharp tilt, they connect right above her head, leaving her about two feet to walk around in any direction, minus the far wall where she would bump into all the black and gold boxes piled up against it.

Squatting down, she scoops up the dense, fuzzy blanket the woman had tried to attach to her, and looks towards the rolled up cot she’d woken up on. It wasn’t the most uncomfortable experience of her life – minus the whole not knowing where she was, being about two inches off the wooden floor, and scurrying outside only to see a small army of armed men. Yeah, other than that, she’d had a rather restful sleep, one of the best of her life, in fact. Before she’d remembered being forced to travel through time, she’d actually thought that she’d managed to leave behind all her nightmares of her mother. Instead, it turned out that she’d simply replaced them with a new one known as reality outside of her father’s compound.

Shivering, she draws the blanket around her shoulders and glances back at the closed entrance to her tent. Who knew she’d go from being his prisoner to someone else’s?

“Two months,” she whispers softly to herself.

She’d been telling herself that since the summer had begun. Two more months and she’d be eighteen. She’d be a legal adult, and he wouldn’t be able to keep her locked up behind the estate’s gates, wouldn’t have a reason to keep his wife’s murderer under constant supervision. She could’ve been free. Instead, she’s rid of the gates and the grown-ups constantly treating her like she’s porcelain, and has replaced them with strangers who walk around ready and willing to kill at any time.

If the sponsors had waited two months to try to threaten her father into working faster, she’d be away, safely tucked away somewhere else, somewhere far from their guns and their misguided ultimatums. Their fault most definitely lied in their choice of bait. They would’ve had better luck trying to convince him if they had chosen the guard dogs as their captive. Looks like she wasn’t the only one who was screwed over that day. If they’d chosen more wisely, perhaps they would have gotten somewhere but now . . .

The reminder of their failure is pleasing, makes her think for just a moment that she’s not the only one who makes bad decisions.

Slightly comforted despite her predicament, she reaches out and unrolls the thick little rectangle she’d been using as a bed. It extends almost the entire length of the tent, stopping just before it reaches the opposite wall. She gingerly lays down on it, being careful not to irritate her already sore-feeling back, the muscles pulling taut as she wiggles onto her side. Keeping her eyes on the bit of fuzzy, gray-ish brown light illuminating the edges of the tent’s entrance, she slowly, gradually feels the pull of sleep coming over her, creeping up on her from behind now that she’s a bit more content.

~ | ~ | ~

Slédaun stares down at the map of the basin, her shoulders hunched over and her hands tightly wound about the edge of the wooden table. She should be seeing the tiny black flags marking the enemy camps littered throughout the Jinza territory and the white ones spread along the Fenza’s length of woods, but she sees none of it. Instead, there’s a dainty, blonde intruder before her with eyes the color of the sky in all the picture books her scholarly friends used to sneak to her. A sky person, then. She has a sky person in her camp, and she speaks the language of the leaders of old: English.

The warrior pushes away from the tattered, worn map, snorting under her breath. What was it that Emsamni had always told her? She should learn beside him because it might help her out when the outside people finally break through the mountains?

She takes to pacing the length of her tent once more, her wrist grasped tightly behind her back.

“I’m a warrior,” she reminds herself, “what need would a warrior like me have for such a useless, dead language? None!”

No matter how she might repeat the phrase she’d answer her linguist friend with, she cannot shake the facts so clearly set before her. There’s a sky person in her camp. She speaks English, but Slédaun does not because she had always scoffed at the idea of learning it. Emsamni would laugh in her face and hold it over her head forever.

Despite how much she wishes to keep her old friend away, she’d had no choice but to summon him. He’s the most skilled of his teacher’s students. If anyone can translate the girl’s words and manage to keep their mouth closed about what they discuss, it’s him. She has to trust in him since she doesn’t know anyone as well as she knows him. He can keep this secret until His Majesty decides what to do with it.

Shaking her head, she returns to the table, presses her palms to the cool wood and drops her head in defeat. That’s it then, isn’t it? The linguist will never stop talking about how her stubbornness got in the way of being capable of taking care of this on her own, but at least she will deliver onto His Majesty a reason to be happy once again. She will.

Nodding in satisfaction, she turns her attention back to the map, putting the mutant behind her.

“Champion of the People!”

Spinning, she clasps her hands behind her and regards the kneeling warrior before her curiously. She’d made it clear earlier that she did not wish to be disturbed. This man is either very dumb or carries very important information. “Speak your piece,” she tells him coolly.

He presses his fist to his heart and bows his head, gaining her full attention. Such deep regard, important information it is. “The Court’s man sent to observe Your Highness has rushed out of camp,” anger sparks in her chest at not receiving proper farewells, but the next words he utters is more than enough to douse it, “he wants the prostitute you picked up executed in the name of His Majesty.”

She steps forward quickly. “What did you call her?”

The warrior flinches, his chin practically touching his collarbone. “Forgive me. They are his words, not mine!”

The legs! She almost hisses in frustration. She’d tried to get the female to cover them up, but the presumptuous creature had taken off the covering almost as soon as Slédaun had managed to get it on her. Of course that power-seeking mongrel would seek out the fastest way to gain the favors of the Court: don’t talk to His Majesty’s favored captain first, just rush straight to the capital screaming about her dishonoring him.

Gritting her teeth, she tells the man slowly, carefully so as not to let on how offended she is, “Send out the scouts. Tell the surrounding villages that we have with us a sky person wishing to bless His Majesty. Make sure that it spreads fast, and I’ll reward you accordingly. Go now.”

She’s never engaged in scheming before. It’s an odd feeling, especially when mixed with the sting of bitterness lingering in her chest. His Majesty had warned her before that once the officials saw how quickly she’s rising, they would move against her in any way, but she’d never thought they’d go after the king’s reputation as well.

Turning about sharply, she slams her hands down against the table, her jaw gritted against the urge to hiss. It’s an undignified thing to do, a habit she hasn’t fully broken out of since her adolescent years that seems to be growing ever stronger lately. His Majesty, she wonders, how will he react with the two rumors headed his way? She surveys the land left to look over on the edge of the forest and wonders if she should just send out an exploratory branch and head back, move nearer to the capital.

“Champion of the People?”

That’s right. She’s one of the protectors of the nation.

She would let down the citizens if she were to allow a hidden band of Jins to sneak past her. She’ll carry out her duty even if it means giving the Court a chance to convene without her. Breathing in deep, she draws back her shoulders and stands a bit taller, secure in the fact that she can at least do her job and no one can find fault with that.

“Forgive me, but the pros—the guest refuses to eat.”

The voice behind her registers as she lets out the breath. Her eyes lift towards the roof of her tent. Why, she asks silently, why did the sky send down this person of all people? At every turn, she’s causing me problems. Steadying herself with a touch of her palm against the hilt of one of her daggers, she calls out, “You may go now. I’ll handle His Majesty’s guest.”

Looking longingly towards the expanse of land between the two kingdoms, Slédaun finds herself wishing for the chance to go there instead of the tent beside her own. It’s so much easier to go into battle than to deal with as temperamental a person as this sky creature. Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she moves away from the map and down the long fur marking the middle of her tent, heading out into the open air. A few of her newer warriors bow at the sight of her, pressing their fists to their hearts and ducking their chins to their collarbones. She lifts her own hand to her chest and swiftly makes her way to her guest. Being regarded as a leader is odd for her still, but she can only hope that it doesn’t show or the Court will have even more to talk about.

Entering the small home of the sky person, the warrior doesn’t spare a glance for the unmarked servant, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. The scrawny male places the bowl of porridge on the ground beside her feet and scurries out of her sight, bowing deeply to her on his way. A shiver creeps up her shoulder blades but she lets it go. The faster she forgets her days as a servant, the sooner she can get on with her life.

More important, though, is the shivering girl curled up on the ground. The warrior eyes her warily, refusing to kneel even for His Majesty’s soon-to-be property. The blonde creature gives a full body shake that travels through the floorboards and up into the captain’s ankles. Slédaun hisses under her breath and heads back outside, looking around and trying to remember where she’d had the back up supplies stored. When nothing comes to mind, she waves down a passing servant.

“Bring me one . . . two blankets,” she orders, turning away as soon as she’s done passing on her wishes, not bothering to watch the man hurry away to fulfill it. He’ll either do it or his life will be added to a number of men who have fallen to her blade.

Entering the tent once more, she gets to one knee and grabs the bowl of lumpy porridge. She brings herself right next to the small creature, and marvels at how purple its lips have become. Frowning down at the food in her hands, she lifts the spoon to her mouth and takes a small bite. Freezing, she thinks bitterly, they’re trying to feed a frozen person cold gelatin.

“No wonder you won’t eat it,” she mutters, spinning about and standing. She steps back out, expecting to have to wave down a servant, but the one with the blankets is already within reach. Accepting the bulky items, she passes the bowl on into his hands and motions towards the fresh pot on the fire sitting in the middle of her warriors’ tents. “Send in a fresh, hot serving.”

Returning swiftly to the mutant’s side, she drops one cover to the ground and shakes the other out closest to the entrance. Blankets are so rarely used that there are large holes filling the outside of the one in her hands, the exterior looking ripped and ragged. It’s dense, though, and should be noticeably better at holding in heat than the skirt she’d given the girl earlier. Draping it across the knotted ball of shivers on the ground, she immediately picks up the other and attempts to shake off all of the dust on it.

Once the girl is covered up to the extent that she looks like a giant ringbug, all long and swollen, the warrior sits, legs crossed before her, tucked in close as she waits. The best way to warm a person is to get something hot inside of them. It’ll trick them into thinking they’re better off than they are. It’s while she’s waiting that she notices just how small the creature is.

Eyebrows coming together, she leans forward, eyes straining against the shadows covering the girl’s face. There, she thinks to herself, her skin is taut, stretched around the outline of her cheekbones. No wonder she’s cold. The mutant has not been eating well. Shaking her head at the foolishness of the sky person before her, it’s while Slédaun is reclining away from her that the entryway to the tent is retracted behind her.

Twisting a bit sideways, she holds one hand out for the steaming bowl and dismisses the servant back to his regular duties, having no need for him now that he’s fulfilled his tasks. Later, she’ll probably seek out the one in charge of them and inquire about his name, but until then she has other things to busy herself with, like the freezing creature before her.

“Come, little alien, time to eat the nastiest thing that will ever pass those purple lips,” she calls, making her voice as soothing as she can manage.

The sound is familiar, one she’d heard herself produce only once before: when the creature had started teetering back and forth in the forest, looking like a newborn that had strayed too far from its home and had lost the way back. It’s hard to coolly dismiss newborns. They’re the most innocent beings on Earth.

The creature stirs, mumbles something in English under its breath and then presents its back to the warrior. Slédaun’s lips twist around a sour taste in her mouth. How odd, she muses as she reaches in under the covers and wraps an arm around the creature’s waist, that I should go from being uncomfortable with being regarded as a superior to being upset at being disregarded. She gives a light chuckle and shifts forward, guiding the girl up against her side.

The blankets slip away from her shoulders, drifting down her torso and the sky girl immediately curls herself closer to the warrior. Fighting the urge to scoff at how dependent the mutant is on her, she hefts her a little higher, sitting her up properly. The giant ringbug doesn’t make a noise of complaint, just wiggles a bit closer as a ringbug does and attempts to slip deeper into the throes of sleep.

“Alright, up with you, mutant, and wake up!” Slédaun hisses, the last bit of her patience slipping through her fingers at the continued ignorance of the girl to how inappropriate her actions are. She bounces the thin little thing on her arm, watches her head bobble back and forth before stilling, guilt nibbling at her gut. Huffing, she places the bowl down to the side and shakes the girl awake with a hand on her shoulder.

Wide, pale blue eyes gaze up at her in shocked wonder.

The warrior stiffens, her body remaining fixed in place. Blue is a color unseen naturally on anyone here. Whether of the Jinza or Fenza, it is something you can get dyed into your skin or you can decorate your home with, but it has never been a part of someone’s natural coloring. Everyone Slédaun has ever met has either had brown or yellow eyes, neither of which are remotely close to the startling aquamarine irises suddenly being directed her way.

“What a combo,” she says aloud, knowing that the girl can’t understand a word she says, and also that it’ll definitely frustrate her to be left out, “golden hair and blue eyes. You could become a queen if you so choose.” The creature protests, her face scrunching up in disapproval of Slédaun speaking in a language she doesn’t know. “The feeling’s mutual,” the warrior tells her offhandedly as she looks over to her side and scoops back up the bowl of porridge.

Curious as to what the little mutant will do when she tastes it, she holds it out to her, inviting her in for a taste by making a pushing motion towards her with it. Hesitantly, the girl reaches out and grabs onto the sides, eyeing the white, goopy surface as if it’s bound to leap up out of the dish and try to bite off her nose. She sniffs at the rim, but it doesn’t have a smell. It’s made mostly out of potatoes from the villages mixed with melted ice from the mountains and fat ringbugs. As a warrior, Slédaun has always relied on this meal to develop and maintain her stamina and strength. It was a distasteful concoction in that it tasted like she was licking the bottom of a muddy rock, but it had proven its worth over the years. The worse it tastes the better it is for one’s health.

The girl sends her one last glance before grasping onto the spoon and bringing it to her lips. She watches on in barely suppressed delight as the metal utensil carries its mostly solid, goopy charge closer and closer. The creature’s entire face cringes, warps into a crinkly, wrinkled shell of itself. The warrior watches her closely, encouraging her to finish the bite with a quick motion of her free hand. This, she assumes, is precisely what her younger self had looked like attempting to fight back the rising bile and choke down the chunky paste that her people call porridge. It’s a wonder what the human race can get used to, from awful food to mutated animals and a constant covering of clouds blocking out the sun.

“What a stubborn race we are,” she muses, reaching out and pulling the blankets up closer to the child’s thin, frail-looking frame.

She doesn’t let it bother her that underneath the covers the girl’s partially naked, instead letting her perspective shift to think of the little creature as nothing more than a very large infant, ignorant to the culture of the rest of world. The description, she thinks, is accurate. The girl knows nothing of the language or customs, and has already shown that she is as opposed to the cuisine as most young children that must be sat down and forced to eat for a minimum of one harvest cycle in order to get used to it.

Does that make me the mother?

The thought is appalling, so she lets it go as soon as it takes place, shoving it out of her head before it can infect her.

Apparently feeding off of her agitation, the child rears its ugly head, throwing up words in her own language and babbling on incessantly. Slédaun forgets for a moment about what could be upsetting her until the girl’s practically shoving the dish back her way. Smiling in a way she hopes is comforting, she tries to think of the few words she knows for sure in English, but again all she can really think of is “no”, “to move,” and “thank you.” The three phrases Emsamni thought would come in handy the most for her. She’ll have to remember to thank him later for mocking her life as a warrior.

Now that she’s higher ranked, it’s probably about time that she looks over that dead language once more.

The creature leaning against her attempts to take another bite and cries out against it.

Perhaps the language can’t be considered dead when one of its native speakers is still alive and kicking. She eyes the colorless face of the girl, lingering on the dark purple of her lips. For how long, she wonders, will this little mutant stay that way, though? As she watches, the spoon dips back into the bowl, the need for food overcoming the disgusting quality, and she’s forced to note how even as a mutant creature-thing from the sky, this girl will still choose life over death just like anyone else in the basin.

Sighing deeply, she stiffens her spine and hefts the light child closer, welcoming her bony elbows and hips in favor of not being charged by Emsamni with freezing the only remnants of his precious dead language. She’d have that dangling over her head even longer than the fact that she has a sudden need to learn English.

“Stupid linguist,” Slédaun mutters to herself.

Day Six: The Dog We’ve Beat to Death

I have thought of leaving you behind

I have wondered of the joys that exist

Outside of feeling love only for you

And I have saddened every time

Because I am your leashed dog

With an utterly oblivious owner.

Without sparing so much as a

Glance, your hand falls, flays me

Open like a gutted, common prey.

I thought of leaving you behind

I wondered of the joys that exist

Outside of aching, pining naively

And I’ve been unwilling each time

Because, for you, I lie shackled

Dog of wilted spirits, hopeful tail.

Without lifting a hand, a finger,

You give hope, faulty wings

As useful as soggy pancakes.

I think of leaving you behind and

I wonder about how you’d react

To losing your last constant:

A leashed, hopeless dog, that’s

Taken to being led by the nose.

I thought of leaving you, of moving

On to someone else, someone new,

But none would be better for me,

None are suitable for an old dog

Of few tricks, little knowledge, I,

A dog that knows nothing better,

Am silently being led to slaughter.