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missingartist · 3 years

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The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 24

Merry Christmas!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry this update has taken so long. Work has been really full-on; my department have either been of isolating or off sick, so it's been really hard to write and juggle everything. Thank you for being so patient, so please enjoy this early Christmas present.

The sensation of being dragged through the water was not one that Geralt would ever get used to, that water smothered him and made it almost impossible to move with any power, but this was the first time he had never wanted to break away and sink his sword into the beast chest. Not with his mate clinging tightly to him. Adva arms were tightly clamped around him, her talons firmly pressed against his skin, not piercing but protecting a warning to those around her. Despite his mutated eyes and his body being pressed against her, he could only make out the pale silver of her skin and the curtain of hair that obscured her from his eyes. The only thing that he could make out was the tail that propelled them through the water. The red from the moment before was now a black that melded into the darkness of the water. Occasionally the sunlight that penetrated the depths shimmered across her tail, making it glisten menacingly.

Just as his lungs began to burn, he felt a flood of oxygen invade his body, and he let an involuntary gulp of air as he was heaved up on a solid slab of stone. Grunting lowly, the Witcher heaved himself up onto his elbows on his back as he blinked the water out of his eyes. The cave was dark, only illuminated by the light pass through the surface of the water. It was just enough light, but even in darkest places, her beauty would shine out as she gentle bobbed in the water.

'Adva….'

Gliding through the water and pulling herself up hard against her 'You are mine.'

'Adva…'

'You are mine….not hers or theirs but mine.' Adva purred angrily as she effortlessly pulled herself onto the bank of stone, tail flourishing behind her before vanishing and two pale legs appeared from somewhere as she crawled her way across to him, boldly saddling the bewildered Witcher.

'Wha…Adva stop…..What are you doing…stop.' Geralt spluttered his rough hands awkwardly posed on the near-naked woman as she pushed forcefully against him.

Golden eyes roamed the body of his mate. The rags that clung to her body obscured the most intimate parts, but it was far more of her body then he had ever seen—all pale and plump, saddling his waist.

'You. Are. Mine.' A growl vibrated against his mouth as she claimed his mouth with a searing kiss.

A moan rumbled through his chest as weeks of longing and suffering ending in that one soft kiss. Awkward hands found a home on the small of her back and tangled in her wet locks. Her own small hands rested against the sides of his face as their lips met in a passionate embrace.

Between his legs, a painful reminder of her need began to stir. The need had built up since 'that' day his touch did nothing in neither satisfied the ache nor filling the want to hold her against him as they lost themselves in each other. The feel Adva's body against him after so long was enough, but her lips on his and the feel of her core on his waist was more then flesh and body could stand.

'Adva' the plea fell deafly in the air as she promptly reclaimed his lips. Her eyes where dark and stormy, not a trace of those soft metallic blue eyes that he adored remained. 'No Adva stop.' The Witcher growled, as his hands found their way to her waist, freeing him from her intoxicating lips' Wait…we. I can't… you'll regret this….please.' A low moan escaped him as if in pain.

'NO. Your mine. Only mine. You aren't hers. You are my mate, my love. I can't be without you anymore.'

Geralt's golden eyes found that exposed blue in her eyes, and the gentleness of the features that exposed that vulnerability look down at him, pleading with him. The strength that struggled within him buckled under the weight of that look, all that want, and desire surged within him as she sat up to capture her lips in a tender release of his feelings.

Moans and groans echoed against the walls of the cave spurring the two lovers. With each moan spurred Geralt on and his aching cock twitched painfully between his leg, which Adva seemed to sense in a surge of want spurring her to clumsily roll her hips against him. Frantic hands pulled at his shirt, sliding it his shoulders before letting her hands explore the broad explains of his chest. Geralt himself let relevant to his need to touch her and let his hands slide down her sides and settle teasingly on her hips fingering patterns into the tender flesh. With another roll of her hip, her core settled against the lace of his breeches coyly grinding against his cock.

A breathy rumble roared from his chest as even through the leather of his pants; he could feel her wetness. Pulling back a predatory smile etched over her hands as she frantically pulled at his tie before exposing his long hard length and sat heavily against his stomach.

'Adva….' The plea turns to a hiss as she seated herself on top of the warm cock, her sleek pussy tentatively ground against him

A primitive growl forced its way from his chest and roared savagely into the air. It felt like pure heaven before it had been a passion-driven dry hump through their clothes and that felt like nothing he had experienced, this was something wholly different, their bare skin touching in the most intimate area and he had no power to stop himself. He knew she would hate him for taking advantage of her in this state, whatever it was, but he could not bring himself to care, it this moment she was his, and he was her and nothing in the world was going to stop them at this moment. He was hungry for her touch, deprived and wanting and as much as he knew he should stop her, he was powerless.

Hands-on hips, Geralt rolled his hip up to meet her thrusts, causing her head to full back in a loud moan. 'Oh, Geralt.'

With a growl he did it, again and again, his eyes never leaving the picture of ecstasy that moved above him. Pushing him down, Geralt watch in awe as she settles herself down against him and with a frenzied need began to move at a frantic pace, Geralt hands pushing and pulling her hips with every thrust there lips meeting in a hungry lips

'Geralt….gods….so good.' She cried out as he pulled her head back to let out a soft cry of pleasure.

'Come for me….Come….for me.' Geralt grunted out through clenched teeth as his lips found her once against.

In a sudden act of defiance, Adva pulled away; hips stilled as she sat up and readjusted herself to rest her hands on his chest before feverishly grinding her pussy against his cock. Her wet pussy rolling over his head, again and again, hitting her clit with every movement causing a shiver to run over her body with her thrust. The feeling was pure torture, it felt like hours since they had started the sounds of their cries filling the cave and Geralt felt the last of his resistance fail him, and he collapsed against the cold stone floor and shifting his legs jolted her forwards and sprawl across his chest. Letting him wrap his arms around her and work his hips hurriedly against her hers. The sweat sticky their bodies together.

'Geralt….Gertalt….arghhhh…Mmmmm' the power of her orgasm ripped through her, and the feel of her wetness surging onto his cock sent the Witcher over the edge in a howling mess of grunts and growls as thick ropes of white cum painted his chest.

Geralt's gazed up at her in awe; her wet hair clung to her face as she rode out her orgasm as gentle tremors still shook against her body. She looked like a goddess, water dripping from her hair and trailing down her body before sliding out of view behind the tatter rags that were once her clothes. Her pale skin painted with a dark pink afterglow. As long as he lives, he would never meet anyone as perfect as she was now. The Witcher watched as she blinked away the lust-filled daze that clouded her mind, and she smiled at him. That same loving smile he showed him that day he walked her into town, sweet and warm but her eyes, her eyes were now the metallic blue that he had come to know so well. Panic swelled within him as he felt her body tense up, and the look of embarrassment take over her features. The stunning afterglow turned into a violent blush that spread across her body.

'I….I don't know…How…I am sorry.' A stammered string of words fell from her lips, and she scurried off the Witcher. 'I don't know what came over me.' A whisper chocked out a whisper as the mermaid's eyes fell on the mess that was currently splattered across his chest. 'Ohhhh' a new wave of embarrassment washed over her skin as she curled into herself, hiding her face from his gaze behind a curtain of wet locks.

The white-haired Witcher wanted to say something, anything, an apology, an excuse, reassurance, a plea of devotion but being a man of very few words his speech failed him, instead she received his usually grunting hum.

'hmmmmmmm'

Never letting his eyes fall from her form, Geralt pulled his soaked shirt from the floor and tenderly wrapped it round the shaking woman, their passions no longer keeping her warm from the Cave harsh conditions.

'Come on the little flower.'

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It was not a pleasant walk back she dressed in what remained of her clothes. At some point on their journey back, Geralt had found a horse blanket that he wrapped her shivering form. Geralt was bare-chested, leather trousers hanging loose on his hips. The harshness of the weather did not seem to faze him as he steered her through the grove of trees and up the steep stone steps, in his typical moody, pensive state. It was times like these that she wishes she could understand what went through the Witchers head, did he regret the cave, was he worried about the attack her sudden acquisition of a tail or her throwing herself on top of him and taking advantage of him. A warm feeling spread over her body as she recalled the furious frenzy of the cave. The feeling was different from their first time; this was passionate and animalistic. And this time she was on top and turned Geralt into a grunting mess. That made her feel powerful, and bringing her soulmate to the edge was something that she wanted to do again and again.

'ADVA! Thank god' Jaskiers shrill voice carried across the hall.

Adva couldn't help but wince at the sound. It was too loud. As much as he loves the bard she didn't want to deal with him she just wanted to stay with Geralt and forget about the mermaids, mages and all the stupid messed up stuff that had been her life for the last few months.

'Your concern for my welfare is touching, Jaskier.' Geralt grunted out, and he pushed Adva further into the warmth of the castle.

'Are you hurt? How do you feel, should I get Triss? Jaskier rumbled off much to the annoyance of both mates.

'I am fine. Just want a bath and to get warm' Adva smiled at her friend's overenthusiasm

'Come on, Adva we will run you a bath in the kitchen.' Jaskier cooed adoringly as he wrapped her in his arms, pulling her towards the kitchen.

'You are not taking her anywhere.' Geralt growled through bare teeth.

'Geralt…enough with the possessive caveman thing you have going on. You have more important things to attend to in the library.' Triss butted in appearing from behind the library doors. Her face looked haggard and worn, even in the brief while since she had last seen her. There was a look that past between the mage and the white-haired Witcher. Adva noticed the tension; it was clear to see something, something important. 'both of you.'

Adva frowned at them, more than anything she wanted was to take Jaskier up on the bath, but despite her escapee with Geralt, her attack was at the forefront of her mind. The last six months of her life had been overwhelming, forcible removed from Brightwater, dragged halfway across the land, attacked by jealous mages and mermaid minions all the while dealing with the fact she was an actual Mermaid. A literal mermaid- with a god damn tail. And even if that was not enough, she was a mate to a handsome Witcher. That Witcher being Geralt of fucking Rivera, the most famous and converted of all the Witchers. Staring up at the hulking form of her mate, nostrils flared, and fists clenched as he scented the air and darkness consumed his golden eyes.

'Go with Jaskier.' Geralt grunted as he pushed forward past Triss and into the library.

A still of annoyance surges within as she brushed off Jaskier's hands and followed the Witcher.

'Hello Geralt, I would say I am pleased to see you, but in my current mood. I am really not.'

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Cersei sat at the head of the table sipping tea from a delicate china cup, the scent of lemon and ginger waffled through the air paired with the sweet scent of Jam and scones piled high on a silver platter. Vesemir all the while staring daggers at her from the other side of the table from behind a flagon on bitter smelling ale. She looked as elegant as ever, dressed in a vibrant green dress and looked almost out of place in the grim greyness of the library. She seemed to be unconcerned about the raging tempers that bubbled around her, instead of focusing on the tea in front of her.

'You!' Geralt yelled, accusing as he marched toward the woman, chest heaving as a growl resonated against him.

'Yes, Geralt, me. I think anyone with eyes can see who it is. Don't be some overdramatic.' Cersei snapped as she settled down the teacup on the armrest to look at Geralt with some disdain. 'I leave you to take care of YOUR MATE and look at her; she is practically naked covered in that filthy blanket, covered in cuts. Call yourself a mate, letting her be attacked by a Merperson. I don't call that looking after her.' Cersei quipped, a perfectly plucked eyebrow arching over the brim of her teacup.

'You are hardly one to talk. How could you not tell Adva what she was.' Triss growled out, marking her was to stand shoulder to shoulder with Geralt.

'Adva had to be completely ignorant of her heritage. Advanna was placed in my care for her own safety. It was a precautionary measure needed to protect her from the people who want to bring about her demise. If you haven't noticed Adva here isn't a full mermaid but the first hybrid to be born in the Great Sea. As you can imagine, Queen Azalea was keen to keep her daughter safe knowing one day that she would be strong enough to return and rule, but her mothers' side with her mate.' Cersei retorted, putting down her teacup and standing, carefully smoothing out any wrinkles from her dress as stood.

Adva clutched the blanket closer to her as she glared across at her former guardian. Her tone was so cold and prim it made her fists itch with the want to connect with the blondes face. It was her tone and manner that made her feel an incensed amount of rage. A small part of her felt ashamed of the hatred of her former guardian, but the rest of her just felt angry, angry at her lies and deceit.

'Well, Geralt hasn't bonded with her, yet so you can piss off' Triss gritted out tensely, advancing on the older mage, who remained unbudging from her place.

'Wait, did you just say her mother is Queen Azalea? Her mother is an actual queen?.... That is gonna make a great song.' Jaskier whispered mostly to himself but caused a wave of eyes rolls from around the room.

'Fortunately, with the mess that Geralt has been making of all of this. I come with a solution-' Cersei smiled tightly and from thin air appeared a turquoise vial. In the shape of a heart. Not the symbol but an exact replica of a human heart with all its veins and arteries in a delicate silver shining against the green of the glass.

'It a potion that will disconnect the link between you. All you need do is add a drop of your blood to the potion, and I will give it to Adva to drink and then I will take her to her mother who is very…anxious for her return.' Cersi stated calmly and tossed a fine glass vial to the Witcher.

An enraged roar erupted from Geralt chest as he bared down at the mage.

'That is suicide; breaking the bond would kill Geralt. For one person to sever the link, the other slowly becomes and shell and dies of heartbreak.' Triss gasped.

'Adva is stronger than anticipated. We didn't think that would be able to transform, but now it's clear she is much more powerful than we thought. She may even outpower her mother with training. Its time Adva takes her place right beside her mother.' Cersei soothed, proffering the vessel to the snarling Witcher. 'Geralt you are a good man, but you clearly cannot look after her properly. It clear. You have lived a long life already. This spell would only shorten your life to that of a mortal man. Look at her….. it's for the best.'

Geralt gazed over at his mate, standing against the door, shivering. She looked so small and vulnerable, looking up at him with pleading eyes. It was true; he could not look after her; she was covered in dirt and cuts. He almost lost her to Yennefer hair-brained scheme and that murdering mermaid. He loved her. More than loved her, he adored her. Every fibre of his body needed her more than oxygen more than anything. He would wade into battle with the foulest creatures and endure the severest hardships just to get a glimpse of his smile. She was so pure. Their brief escapades would be forever engraved on his mind; every touch burnt onto his skin that would comfort in the darkest days to come. Slowly he let his hand clamp over the sharp edge of the top, red liquid dipping into the container.

Cersei waited patiently as it filled slowly, the burgundy substance mixing with the other liquid till finally, a soft hum emerged from the small object, and the blonde extends her hand towards her former ward. 'All you need to do little one is to drink this in one, it won't taste nice, but it will sever the connection with Geralt. You won't feel a thing, neither will Geralt.' The soft voice the only sound in the library.

Adva let her gaze focus on the little bottle with all its little ornate decoration, she has never seen an actual heart but is how she would imagine it would look. If she had been given the bottle, she wondered if she would have taken it, swigged it without a second thought, but know the sight of the thing made her feel sick. Without moving, her eyes scanned the rest of the room, all eyes fell upon her, apart from the only pair that mattered. Geralt's back was to her, shoulders slumped, staring straight ahead out of the window into nothingness. Maybe at the start of this, she wouldn't have cared, hell a week ago she probably would have but now, now was different.

'Get out. Now' Adva growled.

'Adva….' Cersei gave a sad smile, but that infuriated her all the more.

'Don't you dare Adva me…you lied to me my whole life? I am not drinking it, and I am not coming with you…I am going to stay here with Geralt.

'You don't need to stay here, Geralt gave his blood to the potion, he has given you the freedom to come home. To where people love you.' Cersei's hand stretched out against offering the bottle.

Snorting in disgust Adva's hand flew out violently, knocking the vessel into the floor with a soft clatter the brown contents seeping into a small puddle onto the floor. 'Geralt loves me…I think, or at least he has never lied to.' Adva hissed. 'You and this so-called mother kept me from my family, my people and placed me with Tradi and in a Brothel. Did you really think that was the best place for a child, do you know how should achingly lonely I was? You left me to figure all this out myself.'

'I did that to protect you…' Cersei tried.

'I don't care. I have made my decision. I am not alone anymore; I have Geralt. I thank you for everything you tried to do for me, but I don't need you. And I certainly don't want anything to do with the Queen of the Mermaids. I am taking charge of my life; I am choosing Geralt. We are going to figure out the whole mate thing, so help me for good or bad it will work. Now I am telling you one last time- leave before I make you.' Adva snapped, and to make her point all the poignant she slammed the heel of her foot down onto the bottle, the glass cracking in a soft, sharp snap, even with the glass slice through her foot she refused to back down.

'Just because you have grown a tail girlie do not for a second think you can talk to me like that….you are coming home with me. You need to be with your family.' Cersei bit out.

'I am with my family.' Adva gritted out.

Cersei narrowed her eyes at the scowling woman

A surge of wind began to bellow outside and batter against the window, golden hand raised in a tense claw, fingers fidgeting in spasms of energy. Geralt was first to react, barrelling towards the blonde mage only to be bounced away and sprawled against the table and deafening clatter sounded as the contents of the tabled flew across the floor. The next was Vesemir, who got further than Geralt, almost grazing her hair before being sent spiralling into the air knocking into the Triss and Jaskier.

'Enough.' Adva growled, dropping the blanket from around her shoulder and throwing her hands forwards, twisting her hand out crippling her blonde women in front of her, contorting the figure into paralysis figure of fear, gasping and wheezing.

'I don't ever want to see you again. I want you to leave us alone, and I never want to hear from my mother. EVER. Triss!'

A groan echoed through the room as Triss pushed Jaskier off her with an almighty push. Scurrying to her feet and summered a shimmering white portal and grabbing the mage by her long blonde hair chucked her through the portal with a triumphant smirk.

A huff of relief fell from her lips as she let her hand fall to her hips, only for her to notice she was only wearing thin strips of fabric. A deep blush covered her body, and her arms wrapped around herself to cover what was left of her modestly.

'Adva…. Who knew what you were hiding such a voluptuous figure?' Jaskier beamed. 'Would make a rather risqué ballad…. I think I could even work in the pretty but psycho mage.' Jaskier jumped up as if he had been sprawled across Vesemir and began to search the wreckage of room quill and parchment.

A primitive growl erupted Geralt as he took Adva in his arms, scooping her up and carrying her out of the room slamming the door behind him.

'Oh, thank god, I don't think I could have taken any more moping' Vesemir gruffly grunted 'Quickly pass me the ale, I don't want to be sober when that bed start squeaking.'

So????? What do you think? Hopefully, this chapter makes up for my absence. Please let me know what you think.

@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png @just-a-sad-donut @alicia-d-o @dreamerwithapen1 @evangeline73aster

#geralt imagine #geralt reader #geralt smut #geralt x oc #geralt x reader #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt x smut #Witcher #thewitcher #witcher 3

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tealin · 4 years

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Temperatures

As always, when you see one of these posts pop up you can head straight over to twirlynoodle.com/blog to see it properly formatted and with pictures. Tumblr didn't even take the crosspost last time so I don't know what's going on!

It’s all well and good to share photos of Antarctica – after all, it is a beautiful place, and we are predominantly a visual species. The photos can give you a sense of what it looks like, but not what it feels like. If people know anything about Antarctica, it’s that it’s cold. But how cold? And what kind of cold?

I cannot speak to the full range of Antarctic weather. I was down for exactly a month, in early summer, and aside from the first week, the weather was unusually calm and mild. To my great disappointment, I didn't see a single blizzard! But I did get enough to compare the feel of Antarctica with other places I have been, and I hope that by making those comparisons here, I will bring you a little closer to understanding quite literally what it feels like to be there.

Temperatures are misleading. A number can only give you an impression of what one might actually feel when one steps out the door. Humidity, sunshine, and wind are external factors that affect the perception of temperature; this can be further influenced by how much sleep or food you've had, BMI, resting metabolism, your accustomed climate, where you've just come from – so, 6°C can feel different from one day to the next, or to two different people standing side by side.

There are roughly two types of cold: dry and damp. The influential factor is water, because it takes a tremendous amount of energy to make water change temperature – this is why it takes so much power to boil a kettle, and why we bring hot water bottles to bed instead of hot gravel bottles. In dry environments, there is less water vapour in the air to suck up the heat coming off your body, so you get to keep more of it for yourself. It may be well below freezing, but you will feel the cold merely as a sensation on your skin, where it meets the air, and not something that goes right through you. Damp cold, because of the energy-hungry water in the air, feels a lot colder. It’s not enough merely to cover your skin, you need layers of fabrics that have moisture-repelling properties (wool is key; cotton is useless). Your precious body heat will leak out through any weak point in your clothing. Because of their different properties, dry air can be much colder than damp air and yet feel more comfortable. In my experience, damp cold is the worst when it’s above freezing, because below freezing the air can’t hold so much water. Damp climates, however, tend not to get much below freezing, so when people from damp climates imagine very cold temperatures, they imagine the insidious cold they know, only much much worse. It’s not necessarily like that.

Even the objective numerical value of a temperature presents a problem: my historical sources, and the United States of America, report temperatures in Fahrenheit, while the rest of the world operates in Celsius. Scientists prefer the metric system, but McMurdo is an American base, so it's functionally bilingual. I tend to think in Celsius, but as the historical record was in °F and I wanted to be able to compare what I was experiencing with what my guys experienced, I paid more attention to °F while I was down there. In this post, I will report actual temperatures in both, so you can look at whichever one you understand best.

When I left Britain in mid-October, we had been having a very mild autumn, after a hot summer. My hopes for hardening up a little on the way to Antarctica were dashed when Vancouver, though objectively colder, felt merely fresh and delightful, I assume because it was unseasonably dry. LA is always dry in the autumn and usually hot, so that was no surprise; Christchurch however was much warmer than expected, and because it wasn't as dry as LA, felt even hotter. After several days' delay there, I feared my blood was much too thin to be hurtled into ice and snow.

It is regulation to wear one's Extreme Cold Weather gear on the plane to McMurdo. Aware that I'd just had a fortnight of heat to thin my blood, and that they were just coming out of a cold snap down there, I was only too happy to take this precaution. When the plane landed, everyone piled on their balaclavas and tuques, and when the door opened, an icy-looking fog formed as our pent-up breaths met the cold air from outside. Here we go, I thought. As I approached the gangway I braced myself for the smart of cold air on exposed skin and the stiletto keenness as I inhaled, but . . .

. . . it was fine.

In fact, it was so fine that when I was allowed to change out of my ECW, I put on my street shoes, not even my cold-weather hiking boots. I knew dry cold from Utah and Alberta, but I was coming to understand that in an Antarctic context, “well it was -20, but it was a dry cold” isn't a joke, it's just a statement of fact. +6°C(42°F) would be miserable in damp Cambridge, but -6°C(21°F) was quite comfortable at McMurdo – if it wasn't windy, one could happily go about without a coat.

One always had a coat to hand, though, because the wind could turn up at any time, and it made a big difference. The first time I went to Cape Evans it was so mild as to be balmy – I was in snow pants because they were required for the snowmobile, but on top I stripped down to just my base layer and a medium-weight sweater, and was even a bit warm in that. It was -1°C/30°F, but I could happily have sat down to a picnic.

Before we left, I wanted to make a quick trip up Wind Vane Hill. I got hot climbing it, but while on top, a breeze kicked up, and before long I was wishing I hadn't left my jacket at the bottom. The reason I have my hands tucked in my snow pants bib in the above photo is because they were beginning to feel quite nippy. I always had a jacket with me after that, even if I cursed its dead weight the whole time. (It was usually my trenchcoat, not the big red parka, for this reason. I will go into more depth on clothing in a future post.)

A similar thing happened on my Basler flight. I'm afraid I don't know the actual temperatures where and when we landed – we were at the inland extremity of the Barrier, though, so everything I'd read told me it ought to be noticeably colder than McMurdo. It might well have been. But the only clue that it wasn't a perfectly warm summer day was that the slightest stir in the air breathed ice on my hands. It felt much the same at the much higher altitude site of CTAM. The interior of the continent is even drier than the coast: apparently, in the absence of wind and on a bright sunny day, this makes temperature barely perceptible at all.

A windless day is a vast exception in the case of Antarctic weather, though, and besides chilling a human body, the direction of the wind makes a big difference to the objective air temperature. A north wind, arriving from over the open sea, was comparatively mild. Most of the time, however, the wind was from the east to south, coming cold off the icy interior. This sends it funnelling through The Gap straight at Hut Point. The Hut Point Wind was infamous in the Heroic Age; even now it can be a pleasant day at the station, but one must remember to kit up just to walk around the corner to the Discovery Hut.

It did make for some great photos, though, because if the conditions were just right – which they were a few times in my month there – the wind would kick up some freshly fallen snow and things would look so very Antarctic. The funny thing was, on the days when it looked quintessentially polar, it was actually comparatively warm. The snow was so powdery that a fairly light wind could lift it, so it didn't have to be brutally windy to look brutally windy. The cold really sets in when a high pressure system stays in place for a while and keeps the air still; if there is turbulence, there is warmth, and if a weather system moves through – such as the kind that delivers snow – the temperature rises considerably. So in order for there to be fresh snow to blow around, there will have been a recent warm spell, whereas if it's starting to get cold again, the new snow will have compacted enough not to blow around. The strongest winds I encountered in Antarctica were at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess it from my photos, which haven't a speck of drift. I am sure there are exceptions to this, but this was a dependable pattern in my time there.

Above: two images of light snow blowing off just after a snowfall, when it was comparatively warm. Below: 30-knot winds at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess.

One of my oddest temperature memories was in one of those balmy drifty situations. I had been asked to give my history lecture over at Scott Base, and I was to wait for the Kiwi truck at a designated pickup point on the road coming over from The Gap. There are three official categories for weather in Antarctica: Condition 3 is when everything can operate as normal: it can be cold, it can be windy, but visibility is fine and the ordinary precautions will see you through. Condition 2 is when things are starting to get serious: drift and/or winds are reaching dangerous levels, extra precaution is necessary, and venturing outside is discouraged. Condition 1 is when everyone is required to stay indoors except on vital business as merely venturing outside is a life-threatening risk. During my month there it was always Condition 3, but within the hour of my pickup a Condition 2 had been declared on the Scott Base side of The Gap. My ride said she would be coming anyway, as she would be overwintering and needed the practice of driving in Condition 2, so I went up to meet her. I was hoping I would finally get a blast of Antarctica, but it gave me a surprise. For one, it was warm. And, yes, it was windy, but not desperately so, and the wind had a damp sweetness that, weirdly, made me think of swelling streams and crocuses. The Condition 2 had been called purely because of the drift, which was obscuring the road and therefore made driving more hazardous than usual. It was surreal to hear my driver checking in with her radio operator as if she were chasing tornadoes when it was really quite pleasant out.

My first few days at McMurdo were by far the coldest of my whole visit. When I first visited the Discovery Hut it was -18°C, or just below 0°F, and rather windy on the way back. That was when I learned that one can be feeling really quite cosy all over but one's outermost extremities can still suffer the cold – I distinctly remember wondering why my fingertips were tingling when I felt so warm, and a little while later my toes went numb and I had to stamp them back to life. The dryness, not sapping your core heat, can lure you into a false sense of security, and nab your digits while you're not looking.

After that, daily highs mostly hovered around the freezing point, and lows rarely dipped as low as -10°C/+14°F. This was really very mild – indeed, the people who'd been down since September could often be seen flitting about in t-shirts – and was an amusing irony for me personally. Twice in the past I'd visited Calgary in search of 'Antarctic' cold and hit, instead, a relatively mild spell; it turned out that in Antarctica I was getting exactly the same weather that I had thought un-Antarctic in Calgary. Not only was it the same weather on paper, but it felt exactly the same as well – the light, fresh kiss of frosty air on one's cheeks, surprising warmth in the sunshine but a breeze to keep you honest, and even the same granular texture to old snow. Altitude can give you the same feeling, as the thinner air cannot hold as much moisture as it can at lower levels, so if you've not been to the Prairies but have been on a ski holiday, you can use that as a reference point as well.

It is much harder to draw parallels with damper climates. At home in Cambridge, I have a sort of 'misery zone' between 4°-10°C (40°-50°F) where it's too cold to be warm, but not cold enough to be crisp, and the damp seems to seep through every layer to reach in and chill. As the thermometer plunges towards freezing and below, it is, ironically, more comfortable weather, because the colder the air is, the less moisture it can hold. In Britain I have sometimes found myself taking off layers as the mercury falls. When imagining Antarctica, people often extrapolate from their own experience of cold temperatures: If your base measure of cold is the 'misery zone' in a damp climate, such as Europe or the Eastern US, then you may think 'If 6°C feels like this, then -6° must feel that much worse' when in fact all the other factors at play can make it preferable. Even the cold days on my arrival at McMurdo were nicer, experientially, than a misty morning in deepest February back home. At one point, Cherry describes Antarctic summer weather as resembling a crisp sunny morning in September, and indeed from a British perspective Antarctica often felt more like a bright and breezy 13°C (55°F) than anything closer to freezing.

This gave me some perspective on the early explorers. If they had spent their lives on this chilly island, and then travelled to Antarctica over a chilly sea, they would be coming at it with all the assumptions one acquires from experience with humid cold. Finding not an amplification of your worst experiences, but instead a wonderland where the thermometer seemed to exist in a different reality – certainly the case when they arrived in midsummer – would encourage some overconfidence that we might consider reckless. Some, like Scott, had been down before and knew how deceptive the weather could be; his journals are full of chiding his team for not taking Antarctica seriously. But there were many who were new to it, and even after an Antarctic winter, sheltered as they were in an insulated hut by the sea, they did not fully grasp how dangerous things could get inland and how narrow the margins were. A breeze may be thrilling when it brings the truth of -10 to exposed skin warmed by the sun; when the truth is -40 it's instant frostbite. While I didn't get temperatures that low, my experience with higher ones can, I hope, help me imagine how that would go.

The dryness that made the cold so bearable granted me a reprieve from an opposing worry. Outside of Britain I generally find buildings overheated in the winter – I have to remind myself to pack light 'inside clothes' or else I suffocate. This is especially the case in the States, and McMurdo being an American base I foresaw having to strip five layers off and put them back on again every time I entered or exited a building. They may have been overheated, but I don't know – dry air saps the potency of heat as well as cold, so it was as comfortable to wear three layers as one, and that saved me a lot of time in the cloakroom. Thanks, Antarctica!

I had got so used to the nip in the air that I thought I'd be inured to cold for the rest of the winter, but once I was back on this cold damp North Atlantic island, the misery zone was as potent as ever. I may not have picked up thermoregulation superpowers in Antarctica, but I did come back with two secret weapons: merino wool base layers, and an utter disregard for my appearance so long as I was warm. I highly recommend both to anyone in a disagreeable climate.

#travel #antarctica #cold #travel blog #weather #mcmurdo station

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birdsaesthetic · 3 years

Text

surprises

A/N: Sorry I’m posting my participation for @holidayblindspot very late, but I was so caught up with homework, which never ends... I simply thought I would make Jane’s first birthday with Kurt fall during Autumn, because it’s just the best timing throughout the year, right? Now this is a wordy fic, but I promise it’s so much fun and sexy! Anyway, ENJOY 🎈🥳🍂.

Song inspiration: Happy Birthday by John Legend. (you may listen to this song while reading. It’s so beautiful!)

They’re lying like two spoons in a drawer, very tight against each other. Kurt’s warm, silent breathing is grazing Jane’s neck in a regular rhythm, to which she flutters her eyes open to bright sunlight shining between white curtains, and to the sounds of birds whistling noisily from outside.

For more or less a minute, she stays perfectly still, only blinking in laziness and yawning as she tries to figure out where exactly she was, and to piece together the events of the previous night.

As she does so, she struggles a little; her memory is patchy and there’re definitely several gaps missing, but the parts she can recall are amazingly vivid.

Last night she celebrated her Birthday with Kurt, she remembers that for sure, but not in details. She also remembers having had so much alcohol, which up until now she can taste its powerful taste in her mouth. And at the feeling of her body retaining traces of having been pulled in, kissed, caressed, and given orgasms, she remembers the mind-blowing sex she had last night and so she sighs.

Kurt’s bare skin against her back has the right amount of warmth that now is engulfing her, tempting to shut her eyes close and go back to sleep. She doesn’t resist the urge and does so, just after having rolled over so she can face him, then snuggles deeper into his embrace, wrapping an arms around his middle. Now, at the new posture, her cheek and ear are squished against his chest and as her eyes maintained close, she listens to his heartbeat, vividly pumping against her ear. And so she decides to stay like this for a while, because the feeling is unmatched...

But it’s not after a couple minutes that she reopens her eyes, changed position by crawling a little up, and looks deeply at his face in rest. He’s silent and still. Peaceful and handsome. Half of his face is tucked against the pillow as he lies down on his stomach. A warm smile of contentment begins to form on her sleepy face for having woken up yet another morning of her life next to him, and for being able to see him and touch him while she brushes a hand against his hair to fix its pattern in one side. Next her fingertips outline his ear, which, last night, she’d kissed it, gave it little bites, blown her breath into it, and inhaled its fragrance, all while he was inside her.

As she continues to touch him softly and randomly, a question crosses her mind. Is it really true what Kurt told me last night, that the most beautiful things in the world aren’t necessarily seen, nor touched, but rather felt with the heart?

Even now she’s still thinking about it, even if last night she herself told him that this wasn’t entirely true and then they changed the subject.

A warm touch of yours must be as fulfilling as the feeling it leaves behind it on your beloved ones. And the feels of anticipation rush through your mind is just as exciting as looking into your beloved ones eyes, the window of the soul. This is simply how Jane concluded last night, although back then, at that particular moment, she was a little drunk and very, very sexually aroused. She’s still embracing her conclusion from last night nonetheless, up until now. And again, she thinks that might differ from one person to another.

What else happened last night? Oh God, a lot.

The two were having dinner, grilled salmon steaks with boiled vegetables nicely put aside, when Kurt gazed at Jane from across the table and asked, “Are you ready for tonight?”

Jane looked up at him in surprise; she’d been pouring her full concentration into cutting her steak, but that question, his husky voice, and the teasing look in his eyes, threw her off gurad. “What is tonight?” She asked in confusion, to which Kurt bursted out laughing.

She frowned, hardly swallowed down the chunk of food she was chewing, and then yelled at him, “Kurt!”

He laughed for one last time, before he fixed his eyes on her and stared silently for a little while—surprised to see her own surprise.

Leaning over the table, he said, “It is your birthday, and you seem to have no idea!”

Her jaw dropped to have just remembered that, and then she ducked down her head in an attempt to hide what she knew were flaming cheeks. But did it even work? Since he was mere feet across her from table, and with that huge chandelier hanged right above them, making every little change happening in her face visible?

It wasn’t until she pondered for a brief moment, doing some math in her head and finding out that tonight would actually meet with her Birthday, that she looked up and spoke. “Oh my God! It just slipped my mind.”

Kurt stared at her for a long moment, a warm look in his eyes. He couldn’t blame her, really, given how everything in their life had been crazy lately. Yet, he never forgot it, and had been waiting for it impatiently like a little child waiting for something.

“It’s okay, I remembered it and I’m so ready for it, are you?”

“Ready?”

“Yeah! You gotta be ready too, tonight, after an hour or so. I have a surprise for you.” He told her, before taking a forkful of mixed vegetables into his mouth. It had been long since Jane had put her fork down after realizing that the butterflies in her stomach wouldn't let her continue eating, and now she was watching him chew his food and cut into it for maybe a minute straight.

Normally after dinner was their bedtime: they’d quickly clean off all the mess in the kitchen and wash off the dishes together. Though this time around Jane was excused to go get ready as Kurt did all of that.

She rushed out of his sight then, and went straight away to grip a shower first, which, with haste, had taken her good ten minutes. When she was done with that, she entered the bedroom to find Kurt lying over their perfectly made bed, facing the ceiling, his eyes shut. He also seemed ready, fully dressed up.

Shutting the door behind her, hair soaking wet, body wrapped in a white towel, Jane smiled the tiniest of smiles at the sight of him lying in rest, before she set the lighting to be more illuminating then walked the few paces toward the wardrobe and opened it in search for something to wear tonight. A minute passed, two, three, but she was yet to decide what or how she should dress for tonight.

Staring at the shelves full of clothes, indecisive, she called Kurt’s name, to which he immediately opened his eyes and reasoned, always anticipating her needs.

“What should I wear for tonight? What kinda place you’re taking me to?” She asked, head turned toward him getting up on his feet.

“Umm, I can’t really tell you much. But I can pick you something, if you feel indecisive.”

“Yes, please.”

By now, Kurt was already at the wardrobe next to her, having a brief look at the items within the wardrobe before deciding. A few seconds later of rummaging through the items hanging in the wardrobe he actually ended up choosing something. A soild black dress with long sleeves. It appeared so tiny that it would definitely accentuate every curve in her body, and it would stop at her mid-thigh, leaving the rest of her legs bare.

Kurt’s face broke into the widest grin as he turned around and held up the hanger of the dress so she could have a good look. Just like him, Jane seemed to have loved it so much by the smile appearing in her face as she reached out and took it from his hand. It was a dress that she’d never had a chance to wear it before, so it was in a perfect condition, had been nicely hanged.

Once Kurt dismissed himself out the bedroom, after having shot her a knowing look, Jane took her sweet time as she put on a nice pair of underwear then slipped into the dress. A tiny eureka moment she experienced when it fitted her just like a glove and she chuckled aloud to that. Maybe it looked a little tight, a little short, but she’d fallen in love with it already and decided to match it with black heels. For makeup she didn’t bother with much: she applied minimal eyeshadow and paired it with matte, deep burgundy lipstick that looked so fierce and brought everything to the next level. As usual, she let her hair air dry as she did all of that.

The final look was the simplest yet hottest set, having both the the burgundy lipstick and the mess of tattoos over her legs contrast with the darkness of the dress...

So beautiful.

And, because it was in midst of Autumn, during which chilly winds blew all the times and the sky might be threatening at any given moment, she gripped a coat with her, a black one. Before getting out, she asked Kurt if she should take anything else with her besides that, but he shook his head with ease, approached her, then pressed his mouth against her ear. Keeping his voice to whispers, he told her, “No, nothing. It’s only you that matters.”

That, the slightest attempt of flirting Kurt managed, made her body secrete adrenaline with anticipation of how this night was going to go.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

They left home exactly at midnight. The weather was incredible outside. A perfect example for a perfect Autumn night. There was a really nice chill in the air. Every gentle touch of wind against the face felt like a caress, and every fierce one felt like a kiss. As they walked the few paces to the car, each one wrapping an arm around the other, the two expressed how much they loved the weather.

During the ride, there was a few exchanged loving looks between them, a silent dialogue and lots of teasing smiles. Jane’s eyes, however, glowing with curiosity, were alert and searching for any clue, any possible way to know where Kurt was driving them, because he was too far stubborn to tell her anything about the surprise and she was just as stubborn to know something.

His stillness suddenly made her realize how very constantly she was sifting, blinking, breathing, and rearranging herself every three seconds, because unlike her he seldom blinked an eye, and every turn of the steering wheel or push of the pedal he made was as small and efficient as possible because he was smartly preserving his energy for later.

Jane gave in and leaned back in her seat then; it was wholly pointless, she then realized. So she resembled her husband posture and let things follow its natural course. Or the way he wanted them to.

It was thirty minutes later when Kurt parked the car at a random spot and pulled out a piece of clothing out from his pocket. Her eyes were drawn to it immediately. With a deep glow in his eyes, he looked up at her. “I’ll have to blindfold you now.” He maintained his eyes fixed on her for a long moment, and awaited her to come close enough so he would do it. Seeming amused, Jane made a faint sound and blinked once, twice in his direction, then she rolled her eyes away, grinning.

He didn’t ask again, he awaited with all smiles. And eventually, she gave in, closed her eyes and leaned her head in his direction. His fingers first pushed all the hair that was framing her face to be tucked behind her ears before he tied the rose-colored, silky blindfold around her skull.

Though blindfolded, and the curiosity sparking in her head, Jane kept still and focused on her remaining senses. There was the same breeze of the other cars from outside as before. The air was just starting to grow tense—or perhaps that was just how she felt alone. She took a deep breath that was almost audible and reminded herself that she was in the safest hands in the world.

The car had already started moving. All it seemed it was moving forward for what felt like a full minute then it took a couple turns before it paused completely. Jane turnd her head toward Kurt. “What’s now?” She asked in a low voice, just a second before she felt unexpected caresses on the base of her chinz

“Can you wait some more?” She heard him say, before which she heard the door open within the car then close. It was suddenly awe without him in the car, but thankfully it didn’t take him long to reach her in the other side of the car and open the door for her.

“Your hands, please.”

She gave him both hands and clenched his own so hard her knuckles turned red as he helped her out of the car. It’d gotten much colder by now than when they first left their apartment, but weather it had or not, she clung impossibly close to him, who wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her forward in the streets then into a place that Jane assumed was a huge building, and possibly bright.

The most significant sound Jane could hear now was her heels knocks choing against tiles, besides that there were dull and mixed sounds that could be others moving around.

“Are there people around?” Jane wondered in whispers, before which she felt Kurt warm breathing tickling her ear as he replied, “A few.” She could tell he was grinning as he did so then he asked, “Why are you intense though?”

When she turned her face to him—so she could whisper to him that she wasn’t necessarily intense, but rather feeling ridiculous walking around people while being blindfolded—her lips brushed against his, and that unexpected sensation just made her want to steal a kiss, or two from him so damn badly. But she swallowed that instant urge and put on a smiley face, because she knew it, deep down, that tonight they’d do way more than just ‘stealing a kiss’. She could picture it in her head now, as she continued to walk with him, her back against his front. She could imagine how it would possibly go and to what extent. How it’d possibly feel, before, during and afterward. Because she was more than certain that, whatever kurt had arranged for tonight must have a convenient time, place where they could do all of that.

Together, they’d been moving forward rather slowly, but at some point they paused completely and Kurt happened to be pressed against her from the front. It also got silent. Oddly silent. Jane’s lips were a tight line as she slid her hands up his chest, over the ridge of his collarbone, close to where his heart was beating underneath the clothes. In comparison to her elevated heartbeat, his maintained a normal rhythm. She felt him lift his hands to her cheeks, cupping them. He was so close now, his warmth engulfing her entire being, which resulted in a warm smile to start appearing on her lips.

“Can you tell where are we now?” He asked softly.

“Umm, at the elevator?” She guessed, her smile growing wider.

“Right! Can you tell if we’re alone or not?”

Jane chuckled. “Definitely alone.”

She was still smiling when she felt his fingers lift her chin then him capture and kiss her lips in earnest. Even with a cloth already against her eyelids, she squeezed her eyes hard, the same way she would even if she wasn’t blindfolded, and kept on kissing him back deeper and pulling him closer.

Too soon, the elevator seemed to have stopped when Kurt gently withdrew after planting his final kiss. Catching her breath, mouth slightly open, a wave of dizziness hit Jane, having experienced that much amount of gravitational forces pull her downward simultaneously while the elevator was pulling her upward. she’d lost all her remaining senses at this point, even breathing was a little hard to manage. And so, she dug her nails into Kurt’s shoulders and held him so close as if to hold on for her life.

They stumbled out of the elevator, half-breathless and already a little disheveled. Kurt held her hand in his and tugged her along with him, through what seemed to feel like a very, very quiet and narrow hallway. Forward they moved. Forward. Turning right. Some more forward. Then turning left.

“Kurt,” Jane called quietly, given how quiet it was so all around her, but all she heard after that was her own voice echoing—and of course the knocking of her heels against the floor as she walked some more forward.

Briefly after that, they finally paused. A sound of door was being opened. She was pulled inside then the door closed behind her. They were certainly alone by now, behind that closed door, Jane thought. Also, it got so warm, almost unbearable, given how she was moved, dragged all the way here. So she just loathed that coat she had on.

“Kurt,” she called again.

“Here,” he assured, as his hand released hers, which she never would’ve allowed it if she hadn’t been sure that he was already stepping closer toward her and then stopped, just like before at the elevator.

He began to unzip her coat and it slid easily when she shrugged it off, impatient for this part to be done since, for her, it was growing hot. The next part, he started to untie the blindfold, and she held her breath as he did so.

“Finally,” she muttered.

Kurt’s smiley face was first thing to see. God, it hadn’t been that long and she already missed that lovely face! He stepped back and began to admire the sight of her surprised as her eyes, wide open, traveled across the place he’d gotten her into.

What must be a hotel room looked so beautifully decorated, pretty huge, and the lighting must be on the dimmest setting it could possibly be without being completely off. On very available surface there were nicely put numerous of candles, each one with a little flame flickering and dancing the way her heart was at this exact moment.

Two meters or three away from where she was standing was oversized bed that dominated a majority of space. A single lamp emitted light from the corner of the room, making it atmospherically feel warm.

When she took a deep breath, a bit overwhelmed, there was this heavy fragrance, which made her slightly turned to the side to see red, velvet roses bouquet. It was so huge. Breathtaking. Beside it there was the cake, and she could smell it too. Finally, there were the shelves filled with so many drinks, huge bottles of them in all brands and colors.

Jane jumped into his space and pressed lips together. It was one kiss but it was long, slow, and it carried so much affection within it. When she pulled back, she told him what that meant to her and thanked him repeatedly, every time came from the bottom of her heart, genuinely meant.

Kurt was quiet, unlike her. He let her express—whether it was in words or by gripping harder onto his neck—how she was feeling, and let her hot breathing tickle his face. He was so appreciative to the sight of her so happy, surprisingly blushed, and carefree. It really suited her, being this much happy. He wished if he could just quickly frim her up in this particular position and take a picture of her, so he could admire it later. But she wouldn’t simply let go of him; she was hugging him in earnest, with fluttering eyes that were framed with wet lashes by now.

“Let’s show you around.” Kurt suggested, after what felt like a full minute. She nodded with a warm smile, intertwined their fingers together, and then they stepped toward the other side of the room, where floor-to-ceiling window took place.

It wasn’t just a huge window, when they got closer to it, it was actually a balcony door. There was an invisible handle at the side and, with a good deal of effort, Kurt pulled it to be opened to the view of the whole city, New York City. From Jane’s point of view, as she stepped in the balcony along with Kurt, there were glimmering lights, bouncing dots of colors that danced and reflected and contrasted with the darkness of the night. The crowd of cars, bustling and honking in desperation to be released, free, she enjoyed watching that part. Not that anyone would ever enjoy being in the crowd itself, but it was quite appealing to her to only watch it from a cozy, high place. And sharing such a place, such a view with Kurt was just... She couldn’t ask for more or less than that. It was the meaning of perfection in her opinion.

The breeze blowing of the wind grew strong by every passing minute, but they stood still and firm, clenching in one another. Eyes sparkling in curiosity, Jane stepped some more forward and, since their hands were still entwined, Kurt stepped along with her to the far side of the balcony. Her free hand clenched on the handrail as she gracefully leaned against the wrought-iron railing and asked thoughtfully, “In which floor are we?”

“The twentieth.” He answered quickly, to which she gasped, turning her head to face him and pretended to look impressed. “Wow!”

Curling her arms around his neck with ease as he pulled her closer by the waist, she narrowed her eyes and wondered aloud, “I wonder how much this costs for one night.”

Kurt seemed to be busy studying the beauty of her features, having her this up close.

“How much?” She repeated, rather louder. This time her eyes were wide; she was seriously asking not like before just wondering.

“I’m not telling you.” He shook his head and, undeniably, there was a laugh in his voice.

“You’re not telling me!” She began, her challenging behavior making him entertained, fail to hide a grin. “You don’t need to know.”

She pretended to pout, then glanced away at the outside scene as her hair gently flow in the wind. But it wasn’t until she felt his mouth patting her ear and whispering, “I just brought you here to enjoy it.” that she looked back at him and, at the close proximity, their foreheads rubbed. “I already am.” She whispered back.

“That’s the only thing that matters.”

They shared a long, loving look, soon followed by a smile then a soft kiss.

As if glued together, they were so close as they headed back into the room and then Kurt turned on the music.

Humming in pleasure, Jane closed her eyes at the beautiful sound of music when it covered the silence with its delightful tunes. She allowed herself to melt against his rigid frame, pressing her forehead against his chest, which just had the right amount of warmth that she was quite addictive to. Voice muffled against his chest, she whispered, “This’s nice.”

The comment made Kurt chuckle softly, not that there was anything funny about it, but it was just a way through which he could express the great pleasure he was experiencing at the moment. And just like him, Jane chuckled softly for the same reason before pulling a little back, only to see his smile creep onto her face.

She tucked that smile into her memory and, smiling back, she tucked her fingers between his own. He squeezed hers in return and possessively slid a hand about the sharp curve of her waist as her free hand rested with a feather-like weight on his shoulder.

Beautiful, beautiful, no other name

I knew from the moment you came

I've seen in your eyes the dawn of a day

Where nothing will ever be the same

And now, they were dancing together, swaying in slow motions as the music spun around them. Everything seemed perfectly going, from the mutual feeling between them to their movements that stayed in sync: when he stepped right, she stepped right. When he stepped forward, she stepped backward. But when he gave her some space and stepped backward and simultaneously lifted their entwined hands, she spun around in an elegant, slow movement, her body resembling the tune to the music. There was a sort of possession, aggressiveness in the way he pulled her back to him after having spun that made her gasp faintly. But then, as a reaction, she bit her lip and looked down at the small space between them, mind recording every fraction of the moment, taking mental images, and most importantly enjoying every emotional sensation.

Feel my heart beating through my chest

I'll get used to just saying "yes"

Yes, I'll love you with all I am

Yes, tonight is where we begin...

His lips were pressed against her forehead for a long moment as they continued to dance in the same way, which was a demonstration to their love for each other. Their real, mutual, simple yet deep love.

Oh, I wanna dance with you

Oh, I'll promise to stand for you

I'll do anything for you

Oh yeah, oh yeah

Tonight, my love all I want

I wanna sing for you

Yeah, I'll sing for you

Happy birthday, baby

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday, baby

Happy birthday to you...

The music lasted for more or less five minutes, and when it was starting to fade away, reaching its end, Kurt improvised and, as though she were the center of the universe, he spun around her just the same.

Both fell into soft laughters afterward, before Jane snuck her hands up to his neck and hugged him tightly, and he returned the hug just as tightly. Silence fell again, that pleasant, comforting kind of silent. And so, they lingered in such a position for a moment, neither willing to break apart.

The next moment, Jane hardly detangled herself from his grip then looked over his shoulder, where the all bottles of drinks were nicely settled, and then back at him with a knowing look. Kurt, with no troubles, took the cue and, from his pocket he pulled out the same rose-colored blindfold, raised his chin in pride, then asked her to turn around first, his voice rich and husky.

Surprised Jane raised a brow in response. “Again!”

“Again.”

She rolled her eyes. “You brought me here, to this beautiful place, so you blindfold me!”

“You know," Kurt gripped her shoulders and turned her around himself, and just like the previous time, he tightened the blindfold around her skull as he explained, “I’ve read a quote, just recently, that says something like, the best and most beautiful things in the world aren’t necessarily seen, nor even touched, but rather felt with the heart.” He then turned her around so she was facing him and he added, “I want you to see if that’s really true or not, okay?”

“But I can’t see.” She joked, to which Kurt grinned widely, and simultaneously she matched him with a very similar grin, although she couldn’t see him by now. She could hear it nonetheless.

“You just have to feel.”

With that being said, Jane nodded in acknowledgment, her shoulders relaxed and jaw unclench. Kurt cupped her face into his hands and brought it impossibly close to his own that their lips were touching. “Now, how about some drinks?”

Jane, having been craving that, gave a frim shake of her head. “Yes please! I’m quite thirsty.” She whispered against his mouth, before stealing a wet kiss then another from him.

kissing her back, harder that her head went back, Kurt slid his both hands down from her face to her back and then her hips. He kept roaming his hands all over there in earnest, which felt so damn good. Every curve in her unyielding body that his hands passed by filled in the depths of his pleasure. Just like that, and he was so turned on at this point.

But no matter how he was kissing her almost violently and nipping at her lips, blindfolded Jane was exploring his mouth, tasting him, and licking up every honey-like drop from his lips. Her arms flew all the way up to be wrapped around his neck when she felt her body being held with ease as if she were weightless, lifted, and then sat upon a table.

Panting, unwittingly chuckling, he asked, “Okay, what shall I get you, birthday girl?”

“Dazzle me,” Jane smirked, with an exhaled chuckle lacing through her spoken words. His finger patted her chin before it drew, and then, there was a sense of more empty space around her. He wasn’t in her hand reach now, which made her take a deep breath and await him and the drinks with impatience.

Kurt wasn’t actually that far away from her as he began to prepare a Daiquiri cocktail that contained rum, freshly squeezed lime juice, and sugar syrup. He shook all that together before pouring it into a nice coupette glass then walked back the few paces toward her in pride.

“Hey,” she welcomed him as he approached, feeling his warmth already with a hand in the air to catch him. And he took it, her hand, and replaced it on the glass instead. "Here. Don't be shy to disappoint me." He warned.

After a short sip, a content hum spoke genuinely even before her words did. “Impressive! Not too sharp, not too light and sugary. I love it! Thanks.” She was grinning as she said it, her voice in the sexiest tone. Feeling his palms widespread over her thighs, she raised the glass then took several small sips, knowing that his eyes were fixed on her.

“Glad you liked it.” He said, his own mouth dry, but he did not care to do anything about, not this moment; he was busy staring at her unblinkingly, admiring her and every movement she made, from sipping to swallowing down. Her eyes would’ve been squinting and looking right into his and admiring him just the same way, Kurt thought, if that was an option right now.

Forcefully swallowing the stinging sensation down, after pouring down the last sip, Jane lifted the now empty glass between them in a gesture for a refill, which had Kurt notice the perfect impression of her hot, red lipstick on the glass and he just... admired that too.

“Is it that good?” He asked, after taking the glass.

“So good, haven’t you tasted it?”

“No.”

A smirk pulled at one side of her mouth. “Come here,” she told him, bringing him closer with an arm around his neck at the same time that she opened her mouth to the fullest and took over his own. Her tasty, wet tongue had entered his mouth in ease by now, where it hungrily intertwined with his like a young snake messing with another young snake.

Tasting all that incredible mixture in her sweet, hot tongue, Kurt was also rewarded when her hand ran through his hair for a bit before she pulled him back. “Umm, so luscious,” he breathed.

“I want some more.” She requested with a smile. And so he went to bring her some more. As she waited, there were sounds of a glass clinking another surface and liquid being poured into into it in generous manner. Lastly, there were his easy footsteps approaching, soon followed by the feeling of his warmth. Welcoming him back, she expanded an arm up in the air and when he finally was close to touch, she gripped him so close.

“Let me,” he whispered, and she allowed, so he lifted the glass to her plush lips for slow sips. She enjoyed every sip was poured into her mouth and he enjoyed every second that passed at the sight of her cheeks go rosier from the booze.

And so, she parted her lips once more, on an assumption that another sweet sip would be in its way inside her mouth, only to feel the iced liquid running all over her neck, her chest, to which she gasped, recoiled back, and heard Kurt rushing to say sorry.

“Kurt,”

She pushed him back and was so close to standing on her feet and taking the damn blindfold off when he held her hands still in place. “It’s okay, nothing happened,” he soothed, “I’m sorry it spilled out. Now we just have to take your dress off; it’s all damp and cold.”

Mouth parted, she shivered a little before nodding. “You did it, didn’t you, Kurt?” She claimed him, at which he mischievously grinned as he helped her stand up on her feet. “What?” He pretended to sound busy, slipping down the zipper of her dress from the back then, with an effort he made, begun to lift it all the way up. She rose her arms without needing to be asked. As soon as the collar was clear of her head she was already ditching her heels out of the way, with a hand upon his shoulder for support.

He was gone after that and Jane, naked only saved for a pair of underwear, stood there in what felt like a vacant space in absolute darkness behind the blindfold, hands empty at her sides. “I know you spilled it over me, Kurt.” She pretended to complain, also aware that her voice had a touch of relief at having been freed from that tight dress. Now the direct contact between her skin and the air felt nice, but what would feel even nicer was his touch against her skin.

“Are you gonna hate me for that?” She heard him say from a decent distance, then heard a breath that might be a laugh. “Not if you you come right here right now.” was her condition.

He was trying to frustrate her, she knew. It wasn’t in him to do such things, but the day was full of surprises. He’d ruined her dress already, spilled the drink all over her when she’d least expected it, and now God only knew what he was doing.

But even though she wasn’t seeing him, she was able to hear his breathing, hard, out of his nose like an animal. She could also feel his gaze hot on her from head to toe, which made her covered in a thin sheen of sweat all over her chest and between her thighs, the sparking center of her desire. That was all because of her insides, being boiled from stress, from arousal, and from anticipation.

She could, of course, end all of that with the tip of her finger either pull the blindfold down to hang around her neck, or up and then toss it in the air. And, having waited long enough, she threatened him to do so, “You know that I can take this off with the tip of my finger, right?” She supported her threatening words by pointing an index finger at the piece of cloth over her eyes.

Just then he finally surfaced. “Don’t. I’m right here.” Said Kurt, finally approaching her from the back then reached out, wrapping his arms around her middle very, very strongly that she really didn’t need to use her feet anymore, and melted against him, her head falling back, when his lips met her ear. She twisted her neck so her lips could kiss wherever she could reach in the given position, while desperately shrinking a hand then snuck it between their bodies. But he gathered her both hands quickly, that were only seconds away from undoing his belt, then lifted them up and kissed and patted them.

“Kurt...” she hissed, and her disapproval was very, very obvious by the tone of her voice. “Enough with the teasing, Kurt.” She begged him, who continued to kiss her hands, which by now were wrestling his grip. He retaliated by hauling her against him in a loving way. “There’s one one thing before that.” He tried to assure.

“What?” She breathed, from both her mouth and nose.

He revealed her eyes, lowering the blindfold so it was hanging around her neck as he clumsily walked her forward, his front to her back. He hooked his chin over her shoulder and, because of how heavy he was leaning against her back, she had to brace her hands against the table they reached that had the cake upon it.

It wasn’t large, the cake, but it really didn’t need to be. After all, it was just the both of them tonight. There would be a larger party for Jane with their friends later this weekend. But today, Jane was booked for him. And only him.

So he started lighting the candles on the cake, one arm doing so while the other still hugging her by the waist so firmly, then he said, his warm breathing tickling her ear, “I got you this cake from the same store we got our wedding cake, remember? and it’s the same exact recipe. You seemed to have loved it so much back then, so I thought I should get you the same.”

He tilted his head then, so he could see her reaction: she was stunned, eyes fluttering and face awash with emotions. Her makeup and hair that had looked gorgeous once, now looked out of place. “Yeah, I loved it.” She mumbled.

“Make a wish,” he encouraged.

“Should it be out loud?” She asked, twisting her neck so she could meet his face.

“Not necessarily,” he smiled, and then she turned both her head and attention back at the cake ahead of her. The thin candles planted at the top with mini flames dancing made her heart warm, and so she made a wish, within the bottom of her heart.

I want this to last.

She’d meant a lot by just saying this. And then, as if she were going to dive into the ocean, she drew in a deep breath then blew it out until all the candles went off, at which she grinned in absolute happiness then was rewarded with a genuine kiss over her cheek.

“Happy birthday, love.”

She closed her eyes, inhaling this moment in particular. “Thank you,” she whispered as she once more twisted her neck and kissed him one, deep, long kiss.

“Now comes the taste test. See if this still tastes like our wedding day or not.” He eased one hand from her waist, replaced it over hers, and both their hands held the knife. Together, they cut the cake into half, their hands steady and their faces awash of happiness.

Kurt gripped a fork and with it he took a forkful of the cake, then straight up to her mouth. He waited just a second before asking, “Is it good? Is it the same?” which made Jane fight between chewing the chunk of cake and laughing at his impatience. But then she brought a hand up to her lips and laughed and chewed and shook her head yes all at once.

Her taste bud felt like it just went to a wonderland. In other words: the cake tasted amazing, so nostalgic, and just the same as their wedding day. When she had just barely swallowed that down, she was rewarded with another forkful of cake that she accepted. “The cream is just so good.” She told him as she turned her face to face him, humming happily and chewing.

“Really?”

She hummed some more, shaking her head yes, to which he brought up a forkful of the vanilla cream to her mouth, only to pull it away from her mouth reach the second she tried to take it in.

He laughed.

She frowned.

He then again offered the same fork up close to her mouth, which she rejected it this time around.

“I thought you loved the the cream!”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“Yes Kurt and you know what I want now.”

“Okay, I’ll have it then, just after I put this back because you no longer need to see things, right?” He’d covered her eyes again by now, to which she said nothing and stayed still.

The following seconds, she felt a strong contrast sensation between the coolness of the cream over her chest—being applied there—and the warmth of Kurt’s tongue licking it all over there. Moan out loud at the sensation was all she could do, and feel like falling down from pleasure was all she felt before she was caught close to his body, lifted, and laid upon the bed in matters of seconds.

Then he was everywhere. She felt him everywhere all at once. Stroking, kissing. His fingers tugging at the remaining the underwear she still had on until he stripped them off. His mouth wet and sucking over her. Nipping teeth. Hoarsely voiced words of love and praise.

He tore his lips from hers then pulled back for a bit, during which she breathed heavily, still feeling the staying power of his kisses and strokes all over her body. And before long, she felt him lift the blindfold and toss it aside.

Wide-eyed, Jane stared at him in appropriation: he was so charming, fully naked. For all her impatience earlier, though, she didn’t seem to rushe now. She brought him closer that theirs lashes brushed against each other yet their eyes maintained opened to the fullest as she brushed away what she could from the sweat building up all over his back with her palms.

“Have you concluded, if it is true or not? What I have told you earlier.” Kurt only intended to keep his voice quiet, but it emerged so, so soft.

She swallowed, her hand making its very obvious way to the length of him. “I don’t think...I don’t think it’s true.” She managed to say, as she guided him to the inside of her warmth. The two muffed their moans by joining their mouth together before Jane grinned, gasped as it got intense, the sensation, then breathed out. “It might be true, though...for me, touching and...looking at you like this feels so good...So damn good.”

Kurt grinned then kissed her in the neck, allowing her to catch her breath before he settled on the right position to take her in.

“You impressed me a lot today—breathing—come on, impress me some more.” She mumbled in encouragement, and he laced his fingers through hers, pinned them against the pillow, then began doing his magic on her.

Briefly after this round followed by another, the two were bathed in sweat, lying down impossibly close to each other on top of perfectly made bed that had every corner of its blanket still fitted in the right place. But when they gained some strength back, they rose and talked for whatever had reminded of the night, pressing kisses or throwing light punches every now and then.

They talked dirty, lovingly, and everything in between. Among the talking, Jane cupped Kurt’s face with a smirk in her face and threatened him, “When your birthday comes, I’ll whip your back as my gift for you and you won’t say anything about it.”

“Will you remember my Birthday when it comes?”

“I will! Just because mine slipped my mind doesn’t mean yours will.”

“Will see about that.”

Even after two in the morning, they refused to go to sleep. Instead, they poured some more alcohol and drunk it together as though they were opponents in a contest, who would drink more and do it faster.

As for the present time, Jane smiles as these memories of last night start to surface. Next she pulls off the blanket, and just when she’s making progress to get up, she collapses back against the mattress with a groan. Her head is heavy like a rock. Tense. It almost feels like there’s an iron ring tightening around her skull, to which grimaces, realizing what a serious hangover she is going to have for the next few hours.

Bringing her fingers up to her temples and massages it there while inhaling every bit of air her lungs could take in. She wonders what time it is. It must be late-morning or noon, she guessed and continued massaging her temples, and did that for a while, closing her eyes in the process.

When she feels the slightest progress, she wraps herself with a robe, gets out of bed, and goes straight to the far wall, where she draws the curtains and open the door to the balcony.

It’s a refreshing morning, and the room is in desperate need of fresh air. It also is chilly outside, but not what you would call cold. She can smell Fall in the air, and she loves that feeling so much.

The sunlight streams in and the curtains rustle in the breeze. Behind her back, she begins to feel of heat coming—that heat must be coming from another body. She then turns around and, without even looking into his face, she presses her entire being against him in a generous hug.

“Do you feel the same way I feel right now?” He asks with a chuckle, his mouth against the top her head as she shakes it yes. “Yeah, but it’s definitely worth it for me. How about you?”

He only chuckles some more.

#blindspot #jeller #holidayblindspot #blindspot fanfic

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lilac-city-skylines · 4 years

Text

Flower Crowns Pt. 1

It was warm, the perfect kind of warm. The kind of warm that kissed the skin and soaked into the bones. For Rian, it was the perfect weather for taking a well-deserved nap. He and Deet had managed to sneak away from Stone-In-The-Wood to a nearby field, one with soft and tall grass and what felt like millions of wild forest flowers. He noticed Deet staring at a particularly beautiful blue flower with a kind of determination that surprised him.

“Love?” Rian tilted his head as he sat down in the grass. “What’s going on with you? You look like you’re going to burn a hole in that flower with your eyes.”

Deet quickly plopped down next to him, a little blush coming to the surface of her ears and cheeks. “It’s nothing! Don’t worry about it!” Her eyes seemed to flick between the flower and his hair.

“Tell me anyway?” Rian shifted to lay down and put his head on Deet’s lap. Perfection. “I like hearing what you think. Even if you think it’s nothing.”

She was really blushing now, avoiding his eyes and staring off towards the woods. “It’s just that I’ve noticed other Stonewoods wearing flowers in their hair. But it’s different. They don’t just tuck it in their braids or anything. It’s all knotted up and - and different.”

Rian had to physically hold back his cringe. “You mean the flower crowns?” Now, he’d never been opposed to seeing other gelfling in flower crowns. At best it made them more beautiful, he’d imagined Deet wearing one on many occasions. He’d toyed with the idea of making one for her constantly. At worst though, it was humiliating. Flashes of his eighteenth birthday bubbled into his mind, wearing that gaudy flower crown all day. Oh, how Mira and Gurjin teased him endlessly. It was hard to maintain the image of a hardened soldier when petunias, daisies, and snowdrop flowers were practically sprouting from your head. Ordon told him that it was tradition, that all the Stonewoods wore something like this when they came of age. That didn’t make it any less painful to his pride. He’d avoided wearing any kind of flower in his hair every since.

“Yes! Those! Oh, they’re so pretty! They look so complicated and pretty!” She stared again at the blue flower. Rian sighed. He’d really hoped to surprise her with one. He still could, but his mind reeled with all the ways he’d have to up the anty to make it even more special for her. It couldn’t just be any old crown.

He was sad to leave his place in her lap, he loved looking up at her face. It’s gentle features all angled out, almost blinding in their own way. He loved looking at her eyes the most. They were so expressive, even if she didn’t want them to be. She was so bad at hiding her emotions. Rian could read her like a book written in the largest and boldest font. She wanted to make him a flower crown. He sat up and stretched his arms over his head. “I guess I’ll have to teach you how then.”

“You know how!?”

“Every Stonewood does. It’s a clan thing. You can show me how the Grottan braid thair hair later.” He playfully nudged her shoulder and caught some stray white hairs between his fingers. It was insane how no amount of taming could keep her hair in place. Brea and Seladon had tried, really tried, to keep it under control one night, with Deet’s permission. It didn’t end well. Grottan hair just needed different treatment it seemed.

Looking around, he decided a simple crown would be best. He plucked a few longer stemmed flowers and a couple bits of grass. “Alright, the grass will act as the sort of base. See?” He turned her to face him as he worked. His hands expertly knotted and twisted the grass strands into the bones of a crown, it looked bare and a little pathetic without the flowers. “Try it,” He swiftly pulled out a few strands of grass new them and handed them over.

Her hands were smaller than his, much less experienced. It was cute to watch her try the new knots with an overly enthusiastic temper. A few of the stands frayed and snapped, but she was determined to make it work. Rian had to stifle a small laugh at her finished product, fraying and very delicate. One wrong poke might result in the whole thing coming apart. “That’s a good first go at it. Here, let me help you.”

It was a devious idea, he knew it, but Rian couldn’t help himself. Deet just looked so cute! Her cheeks puffing out in concentration, the way her eyes stared endlessly at her work. He pulled her into his lap, her back pressing into his chest, and he reached around her. “Just fix these knots here.” Rian rested his chin on top of her head, smiling a little. It felt a little too perfect. How warm the weather was, not a cloud in the sky, the gentle breeze keeping them both cool. Then there was Deet, fitting perfectly with him, so eager to learn. And she did. Her next try was much more stable.

Next, he showed her how to place the flowers. It was a bit of a delicate process, “You don’t want to crush the petals, see?” He worked a few white and pink flowers into his crown and finished it up quickly. It was a simple thing, but somehow he felt that it suited Deet more than some gaudy thing. He kept it on the side, for now, watching how Deet cautiously knotted the flower stems into her crown. She was so slow, so methodical, her tongue poked out of her lips as so focussed on her work. Rian hoped she’d finish soon. If this kept up his heart would surely explode. The concentration in her face was almost as cute as the kind she had when making bombs.

She leaned forward and gently plucked the blue flower she’d been staring at intently and worked it into her crown’s pattern. Which was close to no pattern at all the more Rian looked at it. No color scheme, no connectivity, no real aesthetic flow. It was perfect. Even though Rian hated wearing the things, when Deet shuffled up an all but shoved the thing on his head, he relented. Her eyes were sparkling. She was a generally happy gelfling, but this kind of happiness? The kind that made her jump in place just a little bit, her ears wiggling, her wings threatening to stretch to full length, and that smile that could melt even a Skeksis heart? Rian had to leave the crown on.

“Here,” He gently placed the one he’d made on her brow and had to chuckle. He’d made it too big. It wasn’t large enough to slip and fall too far, but it did find a home on her forehead instead of on top of her head like usual.

“I love it!” She launched herself into his arms, knocking his crown askew and tackling him to the dirt. “Thank you so much! I’m never taking it off!”

He huffed a little and pulled her closer to him, letting her nuzzle at his chest as he squeezed her in a cuddle hug. “I can just make you another one Deet, that’s the appeal.”

“This one’s special though. It’s the first one!” Rian gazed up into the sky, trying not to burn his eyes by avoiding staring directly into the three suns. He kissed the top of her head and let his thumbs rub small circles into her back and shoulders.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to make the next one even better.”

The weather was perfect. Deet was perfect. For just a moment, everything was perfect. He closed his eyes, maybe it was okay to breathe and sleep like this, even if all perfect moments had to end.

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talesofpanem · 5 years

Text

Waves

Author: @xerxia31

Rating: M

Summary: A visit to District 4 provides the perfect setting for Katniss and Peeta.

___________

It takes years to convince them. Katniss always has an excuse; her confinement to District 12 hasn’t been lifted, she’s worried how Peeta might react to the long train ride, they can’t leave Haymitch alone for so long. But Annie wears them down with her letters and phone calls and not-so-subtle guilt trips about how fast little Finny is growing.

So in the fall, when District Four’s oppressive heat tempers into something a little more tolerable, Katniss and Peeta find themselves boarding a train far less comfortable than the old tribute trains had been, for a three-day ride.

And Katniss’s concerns were for nothing because Peeta finds he loves the train, the scenery that rushes by, familiar and untainted by the Capitol. He loves the narrow bunk they squeeze into, the way they’re forced to sleep spooned together, his cock nestled against the firm swell of her ass. And he especially loves how the constant clack-clack-clack of the rails muffles the sounds of Katniss’s pleasure as they make use of that tiny bed, the sway of the train only enhancing their lovemaking every night and each morning too. He’s almost sad when the train finally arrives at their destination.

But only until he actually sees the district. Only until they’re standing outside Annie’s weather-beaten little shack just steps from the beach.

They’d stopped in District Four during the victory tour, had danced at the justice building there, seen a glimpse of blue water stretching to the horizon from a car window. But being here by choice is completely different.

He loves it.

They’ve barely dropped their bags in Annie’s spare bedroom when little Finny is dragging Peeta to the beach. Katniss and Annie laughingly tell him they’ll follow, once they’ve changed themselves.

Peeta is awestruck by the beach in District Four. He loves the crash of the waves and the screams of the seabirds. He loves the wide blue sky that reaches down to kiss the equally blue water, a thousand different shades melding together. He loves chasing Finnick and Annie’s young son up and down the white sand, stopping to collect seashells and coloured bits of glass along the shore, tucking each treasure safely into a bucket.

When Finny coaxes him into the water, he finds he loves floating in the undulating sea while the youngster swims laps around him, loves the warm, clear water so different from the lake back home. He even loves the salty sting of it against his sunburnt lips.

And he really loves the swimsuit that Katniss is wearing when finally she emerges from Annie’s place. He’s seen her in less, it’s true. Five years married, he’s seen every inch of her olive skin, kissed the firm swells and mottled scars, catalogued every freckle and dimple. But strutting down the boardwalk in two tiny pieces of sunshine yellow fabric moulded to her curves like a second skin, she’s a goddess.

They spend the day in the sun, swimming and sunbathing, flirting and stealing kisses. As evening falls, they sit on a blanket, eating their fill of briny shellfish and spicy dipping sauce. Katniss traces the new freckles that dot his shoulders and nose, smiling contentedly.

Finny’s chatter wanes, his eyes glassy and hooded. Annie takes her tired boy back to the cottage, leaving Katniss and Peeta alone on the blanket, to watch the last of the sunset paint the waves in muted orange and gold. Their part of the beach is deserted, sheltered from the more public areas by a wharf that paints shadow patterns against the darkening sand. “It’s so beautiful here,” Peeta almost sighs.

“It is,” she agrees, but there is something guarded in her voice, and he turns to face her, his brows lifted curiously.

“You sound less sure,” he says, a smile in his voice but worry in his heart. He knows that the largest part of the reason they’re here is because he wanted it, that Katniss would have been happy staying in District 12.

She shakes her head, not quite meeting his eyes. “I guess I’m just tired,” she deflects.

Peeta gazes at his wife, bathed in the sunset. Her hair is loose, the breeze blowing saltwater-waved tendrils around her face. The dying sun gilds her, sets her hair and eyes alight. She’s more radiant than the sun. “Not too tired, I hope,” he teases. She’s still in that nearly indecent scrap of swimsuit, and he’s been hard all day.

At her coquettish smile, he advances. He loves kissing Katniss, the way her lips soften and part beneath his own, the low sounds she makes in her throat. It’s gentle and loving, at first. But then her hands twist in his hair, tugging the way she knows is his undoing and he groans.

Without breaking the kiss he pulls her into his lap, straddling him, freeing his hands to rove over her bare skin, to trace the goosebumps that erupt under his fingers, to palm the twin swells of her ass, perfect fistfuls. He thrusts his hips upward, grinding his hard cock against her, only two thin bits of fabric separating him from her heat. She gasps, her head tipping back, the elegant column of her throat an irresistible temptation. His mouth waters, and he wastes no time, her skin salty under his tongue.

She shivers. “Let’s go back,” she murmurs, but he shakes his head, speaking into her throat.

“Too far.” Plus Annie will want to chat, and the walls in her cottage are paper thin. “I need you.”

She tenses in his lap. “Here?” There’s something in her voice that catches Peeta’s attention, cuts through his lust-haze. He expected her to demur, to object half-heartedly. It’s what she always does when they make love by the lake or in the woods around 12, protests that someone might see them. But that’s not what’s happening now. This is something beyond her typical inhibitions.

“Katniss?” he whispers, heart stuttering, doubt creeping in, the dark part of his brain arising.

The memory hits him so hard and fast he can’t brace for it. Another time, another moonlit beach, wet sand beneath him, Katniss in his lap. Lulling him into a false sense of security with kisses, before she can rip his throat out. The mutt. The murdering, stinking mutt.

“Not real,” the mutt is saying, holding his face. “Not real, not real.”

It’s over nearly as fast as it started, the distorted vision fading away like mist until he’s back on the beach in Four, shaking and panting. Katniss is still on his lap, cradling his head against her chest, singing softly under her breath. He wraps his arms around her waist, squeezing her tight, inhaling her natural soothing scent under the chemical sweetness of sun lotion.

“Were you on the beach in the arena?” she asks gently, and he realizes that’s why she was so reluctant to make out here. She knew it was too much like the games, was afraid it would trigger a flashback. And she was right.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I’m sorry.” Katniss shakes her head, and he knows she doesn’t need his apology. They’re past blaming each other for the things that happened to them during the games and the war.

In the safety of her arms, Peeta tentatively unpacks the old memory, tries to work past the shiny edges to the truth beneath. Over the past five years, he’s gotten pretty good at it. He’s seen videos from the games, over and over in therapy sessions, trying to rewrite the distorted versions that the Capitol had fed to him in his hijacked state. But his own memories, those are more tenuous, more difficult to see clearly. He can see her in his mind’s eye, younger but just as beautiful. Silver eyes shining in the moonlight, burning with passion. “You wanted me then,” he murmurs. “Real or not real?” He doesn’t ask very often anymore, doesn’t need to, but it’s a safety net, a warning that they’re looking back on things he’s unsure about or things she might still carry guilt for. But she smiles at him, one slender finger tracing his bottom lip.

“So real,” she says, her eyes shining just like in his memory, the one he knows is true. “Kissing you on that beach stirred up feelings I’d never experienced.” She sighs, her body relaxing, fingers twining in his curls. “If the lightning hadn’t hit the tree…” she trails off on a groan, lost in the memory. He can’t resist kissing her, and the passion with which she responds surprises him, so soon after he’d lost it and she’d had to talk him down. She starts to rock above him again, grinding against his erection which had deflated a little in his fear and confusion, but which rages back to aching hardness at the feeling of her body moving against his own.

“Let me take you back to the cottage,” he says, barely getting the words out around her insistent mouth. He shifts, intending to stand with her in his arms, but she shakes her head, catching his face in her hands, holding his gaze with heavy lidded eyes that burn with passion.

“No,” she says. “Here. Now. I want to replace that old memory with a new one. A better one.” He searches her face, looking for any sign that she’s kidding, or worse, that she’s only saying it out of pity. But her expression is open and eager, her cheeks and chest flushed with arousal, her nipples hard and straining against the tiny triangles that hold her breasts aloft.

He’s helpless to deny her.

Katniss kisses him again, and he slides a hand between them, teasing the edge of her bottoms for just a moment before plunging in to cup her. “You’re already so wet,” he moans.

She laughs breathlessly. “You’ve been half naked all day, running down the beach like one of those guys from Plutarch’s show.” She gasps when his thick fingers delve deeper. “It was torture.”

Katniss is seldom the aggressor in their lovemaking, he’d called her pure once, long ago, but shy is perhaps a better description. Not today.

Today she pushes aside one of the cups of her swim top, and guides Peeta to feast on her small breast, moaning just a little too loudly as he suckles hard on the turgid peak, steadily fingering her all the while. She rides his hand and whimpers his name, he smiles against her breast. There are few things Peeta loves as much as his wife calling out his name in pleasure. Nothing so solidly convinces him that she wants him, and no one else.

She slides a hand between them, gripping him over his trunks and he nearly chokes. But the angle is awkward with their arms pinned between them. He moves to lay her back on the blanket, but she shakes her head. “Stay where you are,” she whispers, pushing his arms to his sides..

He’s amused, but does as she asks, leaning back a bit on his palms. She shimmies his trunks down just enough to pull his cock free, throbbing and aching, a pearly drop of precum already beading at the tip. Her thumb spreading the wetness down his shaft makes him shudder, arching in helpless ecstasy.

She strokes him steadily, knows exactly what he likes. Her hand, her soft noises of pleasure and the visual of Katniss rumpled and flushed, squirming on his lap with her tits swaying slightly is nearly enough to push him over the edge. He groans her name in warning, then groans again when she stops.

The look of pure mischief she flashes makes his dick jump. Then she’s taking him in hand again and shifting aside her tiny bottoms. Her wetness envelopes him, scalds him with pleasure as she sinks onto his shaft, and he howls.

She’s so tight in this position that she has to wiggle and shift to work the whole length of his cock inside, he gasps and grunts with each slick slide.

Once her body is finally flush with his she pauses just long enough to kiss him hard. Then she’s riding him, strong thighs flexing, her pussy gripping every inch, her head flung back.

It’s so hot and so unexpected that he barely hangs on. They are technically in a public place, though he hasn’t seen any sign of another person in hours. He’s even not shielding her body with his own. The knowledge that they could get caught, that someone might see his gorgeous Katniss riding his cock with wild abandon, it’s a fantasy come to life.

“Peeta, Peeta,” she begs, and he can feel the first flutters of her impending orgasm. He brings his thumb to his mouth, moistening it and making sure it’s sand free. Then he slips it between their bodies, strumming her clit.

She comes like a lightning bolt, wailing her release. Her pussy grips him like a velvet fist and that’s all it takes to make him lose control. He levers his hips up, fucking her with several hard thrusts, then stills and erupts.

Peeta collapses back on the blanket, Katniss sprawled across his chest, panting and trembling with aftershocks. He wraps her snugly in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair, loving her. She’s practically purring, and he’s filled with contentment.

Waves lap at the shore, the sound soothing and hypnotic. Peeta would be happy to lie here all night, but Katniss is shivering in the night breeze. He rolls them over, slipping from her body with a groan.

His wife lounges bonelessly, watching him with soft eyes and a languid smile as he rights her bikini, kisses that ticklish spot by her belly button. “That night,” she says, her voice dreamy. “I dreamed of this. Of a world in the future with no Capitol and no games. Where we could be together. Where we could be free.”

He’d hadn’t dreamed it, not then, not like that. On a beach far away, in a different time, he had only wanted to give her a chance at that life. He was certain he’d have no part of it. As if reading his mind, she reaches for him, tugging him back down, his warmth covering her cool skin. She wraps her arms around his back, kisses his jaw. “I only wanted this life with you,” she whispers in his ear.

She’d said something similar on that other beach, and he hadn’t believed it, not really.

He did now.

His memory of that time is steeped in uncertainty and melancholy. But that time is gone. Now he has a life beyond his wildest dreams. A bright and happy home in a peaceful district. Friends old and new. And Katniss, who really does need him, just like he needs her.

Peeta kisses her again, slow and deep. “Let’s make more beach memories,” she says, wrapping her calves around his waist. And he laughs.

A lifetime of new memories to replace the bad.

A lifetime with Katniss.

He can hardly wait.

#tales of panem #talesofpanem #week 7 #waves #xerxia31 #submission

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spamzineglasgow · 4 years

Text

(REVIEW) Tongues by Taylor Le Melle, Rehana Zaman and Those Institutions Should Belong to Us, by Christopher Kirubi

In this review, Rhian Williams takes a look at Tongues, a dazzling zine edited by Taylor Le Melle and Rehana Zaman (PSS, 2018), with* Christopher Kirubi’s pamphlet ‘Those Institutions Should Belong to Us’ (PSS).

*I [Rhian] use ‘with’ here in homage to Fred Moten’s use of that preposition in all that beauty (2019) to ‘denote accompaniment[]’. This pamphlet was interleaved in the review copy of Tongues that I received from PSS.

> Onions, lemons, chilli peppers, fractals, hands, patterns, palms pressing, tears, avocados, pomegranate, mouths, finger clicking, deserts. Screenshots, flyers, placards, transcripts, textures, temporalities. Tongues is an urgent gathering in, a zine-type publication that works as a space where Black and Brown women (bringing both their intersections and the tension of distinction) enact memorial, exchange, jouissance, resistance, collaboration, support, listening. Edited by Taylor Le Melle and filmmaker Rehana Zaman, whose work generates many of the dialogic responses interleaved in this collection, this ‘assembly of voices’ was brought together in this particular format in the wake of Zaman’s exhibition, Speaking Nearby, shown at the CCA in Glasgow in 2018. But, as Ainslie Roddick explains, in ‘an attempt to reckon with the trans-collaborative nature of “practice” itself’, Tongues resists academic mechanisms that fall into reiterating the violence of individualism, moving around the figure of the single author/editor to seek to capture ‘a process of thinking with and through the people we work and resist with, acknowledging and sharing the work of different people as practice’ (p. 3). As such, ‘[Tongues’] structure, design and rhythm reflect the work of all the contributors to this anthology who think with one another through various practical, poetic and pedagogical means’ (ibid.). Designed and published by PSS, this is a tactile, sensory production: its aesthetics are post-internet, collage, digi-analogue, liquid-yet-textural, with shiny paper pages that you have to gently peel apart, gleaming around a central pamphlet of matte, heavier paper in mucous-membrane pink and mauve, which itself protects the centrefold glossy mouth-open lick of ‘I kiss your ass’ between the leaves of Ziba Karbassi’s poem, ‘Writing Cells’, here in both Farsi and English (translated with Stephen Watts). Throughout, Tongues reiterates the sensuous, labouring body as political, as partisan.

> Tongues’ multivalency is capacious, nurturing, dedicated to archiving that which is fugitive yet ineluctable; so, inevitably, its overarching principle is labour, is work. The entire collection of essays, response pieces, email exchanges, WhatsApp messages, poetry, transcripts, journaling, and imaginings are testimony to effort and skill, to the determination to keep spaces open for remembrance and for noticing within the ever-creeping demands of production. It is not surprising that this valuable collection is stalked by perilous attenuation, the damage of exhaustion. It is appallingly prescient of the first week of June 2020. Moving my laptop so that I can write whilst also keeping an eye on what I’m cooking for later, setting up my child to listen to an audiobook so that I can try to open up some headspace for listening and responding, nervous about how to spread my ‘being with’ across multiple platforms (my child, my writing, the news, other voices), I am taken by Chandra Frank’s meditative response piece to Zaman’s Tell me the story Of all these things (2017) and Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s Dictee (1982), which vibrates with ‘the potency and liberatory potential of the kitchen’ (p. 9) and movingly seeks to track and honour ‘what it means to both feel and read through a non-linear understanding of subjectivities’ (p. 10). But I only have to turn the page to realise my white safety. I am at home in my kitchen; my space may feel like it has turned into a laboratory for the reproduction of everyday life under lockdown, but it is manifest, it is seen in signed contracts, my subjectivity is grounded on recognition and citizenship. For Sarah Reed, searingly remembered by Gail Lewis in ‘More Than… Questions of Presence’, subjectivity was experienced as brutalisation, manifested posthumously in hashtags, #sayhername. (Reed was found dead in her cell at Holloway Prison in London in February 2016. In 2012 she had been violently assaulted by Metropolitan Police officer James Kiddie; the assault was captured by CCTV footage.) For the women immigrants engaged in domestic work in British homes, as documented here in Marissa Begonia’s vital journaling piece and Zaman’s discussion with Laura Guy, subjectivity is precarity and threat, their dogged labour forced into shadows. Lewis’s piece pivots around a ‘capacity of concern’ generated by ‘the political, ethical, relationship challenge posed by the presence of “the black woman”’ (p. 18), urging that such concern be of the order of care by walking a line with psychoanalysts D. A. Winnicott and Wilfred Bion in recognising that ‘in naming something we begin a journey in the unknown’ (p. 19). If that ‘unknown’ includes understanding how the British state is inimical to the self-determination and safety of Black and Brown women born within its ‘Commonwealth’ borders (#CherryGroce; #JoyGardner; #CynthiaJarrett; #BellyMujinga), and further, how its ‘hostile environment’ policies – named and pursued as such by the British Home Office under Theresa May – are designed specifically to threaten those born elsewhere, by reiterating Britain’s historical enthusiasm for enslavement of non-white labour (see the 2012 visa legislation, discussed here, that, for domestic workers, effectively put a lock on the 2016 ‘Modern Slavery Act’ review before it had even begun), then consider Tongues a demand to get informed. This is a zine about workers and working. It is imperative that we come to terms with what working life in Britain looks like (see the Public Health England report into disparities in the risk and outcomes of COVID-19 – released June 2 2020, censored to remove sections that highlighted the effect of structural racism, but nevertheless evidencing the staggering inequality in death and suffering that is linked to occupation and to citizen status, and therefore tracks race and poverty lines). It is imperative that we scrutinise how ‘popular [and, I would add, Westminster] culture perpetuates a notion of working class identity as a fantasy’ (p. 52) that literally spirits away the bodies undertaking keywork in the UK. The title of Frank’s piece here, ‘Fragmented Realities’, is exquisitely apt.

> Bookended by Roddick’s and Zaman’s radical re-orientating of the apparatus of academia – the introduction that resists assimilating each of the forthcoming pieces under one stable rubric, instead simply listing anonymously a sentence from each contributor in a process of meditative opening up, and ‘A note, before the notes. The end notes’ that counter-academically reveals weaknesses and vulnerabilities, is open to qualification and reframing, is responsive – Tongues constitutes a politics and aesthetics of ‘shift’. Collated after a staged exhibition, anticipating new bodies of work to come, and ultimately punctuated by a pamphlet that segues from reporting on an inspiring event that took place at the Women’s Art Library, Goldsmith’s University of London to imagining a second one in paper (the ‘original’ having been thwarted by bad weather), the entire collection has a productively stuttering relationship with temporality and with presence. As Shama Khanna writes about working groups and reading groups, workshops and pleasure-seeking in gallery spaces, this is the moving ground of the undercommons. It is testament to its intellectual lodestars – Sara Ahmed, Fred Moten, Stefano Harney, and, especially, the eroto-power of Audre Lorde. Along with Christopher Kirubi’s pamphlet, ‘Those Institutions Should Belong to Us’, which comprises a series of seven short ‘prose poems’ documenting the anguish of writing a dissertation from a marginalised perspective, the entire project of Tongues with Those Institutions is to upend academic practice, to recognise the ideological thrust of academic method, to stage fugitive enquiry. Kirubi’s plain sans-serif black font on white pages rehearses the anxious dialectics of interpellation and liberation (‘there is a need to see ourselves reflected in position of agency power and self determination in a world which does not really wish to see us thrive at all’ (part 3)) afforded by their academic obligations, but inarticulacy is a higher form of eloquence:

Even though I know at some point I am going to have to yield to these demands I feel I have to say now that I want to take in this dissertation a position of defending the inarticulate, defending the subjective and defending the incoherent, without having to arrive at a point of defence through theoretically determined foundations, but to feel them.

> Since its structuring principles are those of women’s work, and of Black and Brown experience, nurturing and shielding within the exhaustingly cyclical nature of toiling for recognition, respect, and protection, Tongues dances in the poetics of circles, of loops and feedback, of reciprocity and exchange. Recognising, however, that circularity is also the shape of repetitive strain, Zaman leaves us with a spiralling gesture, in homage to the Haitian spiral, ‘born out of the work of the Spiralist poets’ (p. 61). This ‘dynamic and non-linear’ form insists on the mutuality of the past and contemporary circumstances, is ‘a movement of multiplied or fractured beings, back and forth in time and space demanding accumulation, tumult, and repetition, adamant irresolution and open endedness…’. We are in that spiral now. Such demands must be heard, power must be relinquished, established forms of control – enacted in the streets and on our pages – must be terminated. Writing in early June 2020, this feels precarious; no one is exempt from giving of their strength.

Please pursue further information here. If you are able, these organisations thrive (given the paucity of state support) on donation:

Voice of Domestic Workers: https://www.thevoiceofdomesticworkers.com/

Cherry Groce foundation: https://www.cherrygroce.org/

BBZBLACKBOOK (a digital archive of emerging & established black queer artists): https://bbzblkbk.com/

Reclaim Holloway: http://reclaimholloway.mystrikingly.com/

Text: Rhian Williams

Published: 16/6/20

#review #writing #poetry #reviews #Tongues #Taylor Le Melle #Rehana Zaman #Rhian Williams

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weaverlings · 5 years

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18 for cecilos??

"things you said when you were scared"

hope you’re still around, anon. sorry this took like. over a week oops.

"mini" is relative, right? also this is maybe more anxious/overwhelmed than scared, as such. but it's soft. follow for more soft Cecilos etc

anyway I feel like I do… relatively a lot of "Carlos helps ground Cecil with science" but given the nature of Night Vale, and the two of them, I think there's a lot Cecil can do to help ground Carlos when he needs it. here's one example.

Something was wrong with the sky. No one could say what it was. No one could think what it was. But something was wrong with the sky.

Carlos had spent most of his day looking up at the sky, thinking about it. Thinking, something is wrong with this, over and over. They had brought the tallest ladder out of the lab to see if they could reach it, but it hadn't worked. There was no way for them to get up there to attach any sensors to it, to see if an objective scientific machine could give them the data their minds could not grasp.

But all they knew was what Cecil had reported, what they could all see, anyway. The sky had something wrong with it.

There were other things wrong. Carlos was waiting on news about a grant he had applied for, to get the lab some new Erlenmeyer flasks with matching cozies. There was some minor drama at the lab; Stan had cooked one of Luisa's potatoes, and Carlos had to play mediator, but he was not a mediator, he was a scientist. Also, he had dropped the toothpaste cap into the drain that morning, which just meant that they would need to get new toothpaste. It was a scientific fact that the toothpaste would soon become unmanageably gunky, a waste of an almost new tube.

Carlos wasn't thinking about any of these things. Carlos was spending his evening still thinking about the sky, which had started out as an intriguing distraction, and become a literally inescapable source of frustration. It was just up there. It was always up there, and he couldn't do anything about it. It was like he could feel it against his skin, cold and wet and denying him safe levels of oxygen.

Of course, he knew it wasn't really the sky. He knew exactly what it was, and he wrote out half-strings of numbers, or three-fourths. He got through it once, but just. Just, he needed to figure this out.

Something was wrong with the sky, but what? And what did this mean for those underneath it, for all of Night Vale, who had no place to live but beneath the sky? Cecil had been so calm about it, earlier, but even over the course of the weather, Carlos had not found the problem, much less its source or solution. They could have been in terrible danger. They were in terrible danger. He knew the world was dangerous. He was a scientist. But maybe now that danger was from a specific source that he could not identify.

Carlos did not hear the office door open.

"Hi, hunbun!" Cecil dropped a plastic bag onto the desk. He hadn't stopped to put it down before coming to find Carlos in his office.

"Hey."

Carlos nudged the bag aside, and did not say anything. He was happy that Cecil was there, but this happiness did not exist on its own, and each thing he felt tried to push its way through his throat at once - there was so much he wanted to say that none of it had the space to get out. And then, he was happy Cecil was there, but less happy about the thing in his workspace suddenly, which Cecil had put there and so he was also a tiny bit annoyed with Cecil now.

Working this out did not make him feel better. He should have been more grateful for the - he glanced down at the bag. Blocky, red packaging was outlined through the thin plastic. He should have been grateful for the toothpaste.

Cecil rested a hand on Carlos' head. Carlos experienced touch; for a moment, just touch, divorced from context, and he flinched and ducked away. Then context caught up with him, and he remembered who had touched him, and he mumbled, "Sorry," into his thumb, with his hand wrapped over his chin.

"It's okay. Well," Cecil took the bag off the desk, and hung it around his wrist. "Is it okay?"

Carlos did not need a reason to not want to be touched. He had figured this out on his own, contrary to what most people had told him. Cecil was one of the few people who independently supported that conclusion. Carlos could be okay, and also not want to be touched. Cecil knew that, and so Carlos could be honest with his boyfriend.

"Mmm."

"So, that's a 'no.' Got it."

"Mhm."

"Do you need me to get you something to eat?"

"Mm-mm."

"Want to go lie down?"

Carlos looked down at his desk, and the rest of his notes. The word 'atmosphere' with a heart around it. And then, just 'atmosphere?' Detailed sketches of cirrostratus, nimbostratus, and altostratus that he had drawn under his own hunched form and scribbled over so none of the cameras would see. He hadn't quite been able to leave his work at the lab today. He flipped the notebook shut, and nodded.

Cecil dropped the toothpaste off in the bathroom. Carlos had stretched out in an almost platonic ideal of lying down, on his back with his fingers threaded over his chest and his hair waving over the pillow. Cecil sat down on the edge of his side, twisting to face Carlos, but with his hand plucking at the covers.

"Okay, so. What's up?"

"The sky."

Cecil laughed, bemused, but Carlos shook his head.

"No, it wasn't a scientifically accurate joke. That's what's bothering me."

"Oh. Oh! Sorry." Cecil laughed again, nervously, wincing as he did. "So… what about the sky?"

"I don't know! I couldn't figure it out today. It doesn't make any kind of scientific sense."

"Ah. Hm." Cecil examined the ceiling as a substitute. "Does the sky ever make sense?"

Carlos bit his lip. "Sometimes, it does. And, it's true, other times it does not. That is science. But usually, it is also science to be able to explain why it doesn't make sense. That's what science is about - explaining things. So I should at least be able to say, oh, right, it doesn't make sense today because it is a clear, plain expanse of blue when the shades of the sky report said it would be goldenrod."

"But today, it looks right, except…" Cecil lowered his voice. "We all know it isn't."

Cecil spoke with finality, and although Carlos could not see the sky, he felt it above them. "It doesn't make sense, Cecil! It does not, and I tried all day to make sense from it, but… but I just… I don't know. I can't explain it, and explaining things is what a scientist does. I'm supposed to be able to explain it, and I can't. And I hate that - feeling unable. I hate feeling unable. I hate it. No one likes it, so maybe harping about it is selfish. I'm sorry if it's selfish. But."

Cecil waited for Carlos to go on, and when he didn't, said, "Hey. It's okay."

"No! No, it's not! There is no scientific way for this to be okay! It isn't- I mean, it just doesn't-"

"I know," Cecil said softly. "You explained the science behind it very well, so… even a layperson like me can understand. But I was thinking. Wondering. Maybe there can be other ways?"

"Like what?"

"Personal ways? Like… we don't have to look at the sky right now. Or think about it. I won't bring it up again, and we can keep the curtains closed for tonight."

"It isn't going to stop… being there."

"No, but neither are we going to stop being here. We can stay here. Wait it out."

"Mmm. I guess. I guess there isn't much else we can do."

"I guess not." Cecil swung his legs onto the bed. "Hey, you. C'mere?"

Carlos rolled over onto his side. Cecil did not try to hold him, only took his hand and twined their fingers together. Carlos squeezed back.

"I don't know what the science of it would be, or if there's science to it at all. I don't know what will happen, what will come next. But I know this now. I know you, and I love you. I love you even when you are unable. You're right, everyone feels that way sometimes, so of course, of course you aren't selfish to be upset by that. And I love you even when you are upset. There is not one thing I would change about you, Carlos, and that is what makes you perfect to me. And… no, I mean. I'm not an expert, but I don't think that's very scientific. But it's true, anyway. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

"So… maybe there are other things that are true in different ways? Like: it's okay. Right now, it's okay."

Carlos reclaimed his hand, but it was so he could roll over and line his back up against Cecil's chest. Now, Cecil put an arm around him, and then took Carlos' hand again palm-to-knuckles.

"Ceec?"

"Yes?"

"Keep talking. Please. Keep talking."

"Okay."

Cecil spoke quietly, abstractly, words about but not quite forming images. Hypothetical patterns that wove into a story, and in that story everyone was safe and everything was calm. It was beautiful and impossible and Carlos knew that, knew that it was just a story. But when Cecil told it, Carlos felt it in his chest, unfolding from the spot just under his ribs where their joined hands rested. Safety like blood in his veins and calm like air in his lungs.

Cecil's words went straight from mind to body. It was - not something Carlos had been missing his whole life, not really; it was something he could have lived without. But he didn't have to. Maybe not everything could be scientifically explained, and maybe they could not be safe. But Carlos had this, these words and the love in them, and the love he felt for this mindful speaker.

So, maybe Cecil was right. It was okay.

#welcome to night vale #cecilos #my fanfic #Anonymous

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glassbangtan · 6 years

Text

Handwritten Notes {Kim Seokjin}

Words: 8k

Summary: The mysterious notes being left in your locker had been appearing for a year now. You once thought that you had no interest in finding out who it was writing them, but as time passes, you grow more and more curious.

Genre: fluff

Warning: nothing

Notes: masterlist – yeehaw

---

The letters started appearing some time the previous year.

You weren't entirely sure what they meant when you first started reading them, and whenever you told people this, they often called you oblivious. Because it was written in brilliant, black cursive what the letters meant – you just couldn't quite believe they had been sent to you in the first place.

The first time you had opened your locker to see the foreign blue card stuck in the vents, you had truly believed there had been some mistake. There was no way in hell anybody would be sending you secret cards of admiration – that kind of thing was only ever seen in the movies, and your life was far from movie-worthy.

You had crumpled up the piece of paper, tossed it in the bin and hoped that the secret admirer would eventually realise their mistake and put their next note in the right locker.

But it was every other week after that, and soon, it was clear that the person was making no mistake.

Some people asked you if you were creeped out by the secret admirer – you weren't. In fact, a part of you, a sad part of you that you often tried to ignore, was downright flattered with the attention. You had always seen yourself as a pretty independent person, which was why you never bothered to mope around whenever you didn't get asked to prom, or whenever you had your first kiss a little later than everyone else. But you had to admit to yourself, now that you had a taste of what being admired actually felt like, it was fairly pleasant.

Seokjin scowled at you whenever you sat down in front of him. A whole year later and you were still walking up to your usual lunch table, a beaming smile on your face as you held one of the all-famous blue cards between your nimble fingers. As soon as Seokjin saw you approaching him with the monthly-admiration-card, he rolled his eyes and ducked his head down.

“I really wish you wouldn't go parading those around like that,” he said as soon as you were seated in front of him. “It makes you look braggy.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Seokjin,” you chuckled, still reading the note over and over again.

You looked beautiful today.

“How do you not find those cringy as all hell?” asked Seokjin through a mouthful of pizza.

You looked up at him then, stuffing the blue card in the front of your backpack. “You're in a mood today.” You reached over, plucked a chip off of his plate and started eating. “What's wrong? Mr Lee bullying you again?”

Seokjin scoffed. “You say that like it's not a criminal offence for a teacher to bully a student.”

“He gave you a detention once, and it wasn't as if you didn't deserve it. He's not being a bully. He's doing his job.”

“You're my best friend! You're meant to be taking my side!”

“And I'm also meant to be enlightening you on how stupid you are.” You grinned, dipping another chip and popping it in your mouth. “I think I've done a pretty decent job of doing such a thing.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, gently nudged his plate closer to you. This was why you loved him; he cared for you, even whenever you both took the piss out of one other constantly. You had never been comfortable with a person quite like how you were comfortable with Seokjin. Having known each other for a good portion of your lives, you couldn't imagine not having him by your side, couldn't imagine not having someone throw constant teasing comments your way, couldn't imagine having not fallen head over heels in love with him.

But that was a secret, and would have to remain a secret until further notice – perhaps forever. It had happened as an accident – you had just fallen. No warning, no sudden, rising feeling in your chest. You just looked at him one day and realised that you would quite happily spend the rest of your life with him, that you would quite happily cuddle up to him at night, kiss his lips whenever he was sad, let him comfort you whenever it was the other way around.

But again, that was a secret, and a fairly big one at that. Seokjin had every girl in the school hooked on him, and he had gone out with a fair portion of them – all of them except you. From what you could tell, he had never even looked at you in a romantic manner. That was why you stayed silent, why you put up with the line of girlfriends who came in and out of Seokjin's life; he was being a teenager, experiencing heartbreak and love. How could you be mad at him for that?

It wasn't him you were mad at, though. Not really. It was more yourself. You were mad at yourself for settling, for letting friendship go on for so long that now you were shackled to it, never to reach the next stage.

“Oh!” Seokjin suddenly exclaimed, snapping you out of your daze.

Your eyes snapped up. “What? What is it?”

“I meant to ask you something!” he flustered, reaching into his bag. He pulled out a yellow slip of paper and placed it on the table between you. “Mrs Kim set my class this assignment that requires a partner for it – I was gonna ask you ages ago if you wanted to help me, but I kind of got distracted by the cringy note you were holding.”

You looked at the piece of paper, chewing thoughtfully as you did so; it was an explanation sheet, detailing a practical assignment Seokjin's class had been set. Apparently they had to bring in an outside source and teach them how to cook a certain meal, something to test out their ability to teach other people their recipes.

“Do you have plans to become a HE teacher?” you asked, looking up at him.

Seokjin shrugged. “It's a possibility. But I plan on just handing you over the recipe and letting you do it yourself. I'm trusting you to get me a good grade here.”

“You know I can't cook.”

“That's the point!” Seokjin snatched the paper out of your hand, pointed at it dramatically. “I'm supposed to teach you. Which is why you're gonna make the best damn spaghetti bolognese Mrs Kim has ever tasted.”

“Spaghetti bolognese. Perhaps the easiest dish for a person to cook.” Seokjin grinned, proud of himself. “Yep.”

“You're gonna fail.”

He nodded. “Yep.”

---

There were many words in the dictionary that could be used to describe Mr Park Jimin.

Loyal. Friendly. Funny. Cute, just to name a few, but the one you were deciding to label him now was the very simple adjective of: annoying.

Downright annoying.

You two only ever spoke on the bus ride home. With him being three years below you, you hardly ever interacted in school. He was only in his first year of being a senior, and you were far too busy with your more advanced exams to even think about taking time out of your day to speak to someone whose only worry consisted of getting into senior lunch before the juniors stole all of the pizza rolls.

Saying that, Jimin was a good friend of yours. He saved you a space on the bus, had told you that he had once nearly gotten into a physical fight with a third year who wanted to take your seat. He had even fed you on multiple occasions, allowing you into his home whenever you both got off the bus.

You cared for him, and he cared for you, but there were times when you truly wondered if the guaranteed bus seat was worth the chuntering that he always projected into your ear.

Today, the topic of discussion was one that had you rolling your eyes.

“Does your brain ever shut off with these conspiracies?” you asked.

Jimin grinned broadly, revealing a single crooked tooth amongst his row of immaculate teeth. “It's hardly a conspiracy at this point. I think most people who see you and Seokjin together can see that there's something else going on.”

“Then you and them other people are very wrong.” You shot him a sideways glance, sticking a Twizzler in your mouth. “These other people don't happen to consist of Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook, do they?”

Jimin pursed his lips and oh-so-innocently turned his head to the window. Rain was spattering down upon the pane at this point, the winter weather of Korea showing it's ugly face; well, Seokjin always said it was ugly. You adored the rain, adored the pitter-patter of it against the concrete and the way it sent a chill running through your bones. For a moment, you ignored Jimin's suddenly suspicious aura and allowed yourself to simply gaze out of the window, tracing the delicate pattern of rain drops against the pavement.

“Have you been given any new messages lately?” Jimin asked, his head snapping around to look at you with a sense of desperation.

You flinched away at his excitement. “Calm down.”

“But have you? You told me you'd tell me if the notes continued, and it's been over a month-”

“Would you hang on?” you grunted, already bending down to reach into your bag where the note was hidden away carefully. You pulled the blue card out from the front pocket and quickly handed it over to Jimin.

You studied his facial expression. For a moment, he just stared at it – genuinely just stared at it, as it was clear he had done reading. The note was short and to the point, but Jimin seemed to be overanalysing every single little letter printed upon it. His tongue peaked out from behind his lips and his eyebrows were screwed together in the centre.

“It's not written in code or anything,” you said, tilting your head to meet his eyes but he didn't once look up from the blue card. “Earth to Park Jimin? Is everything okay?”

“You looked beautiful today,” he read. “They're sounding a bit like a stalker now, I think.”

You rolled your eyes and snatched the card out of his hand, stuffing it back into your bag. “I think it was cute.”

“And you're not a little bit curious as to who is writing them? It's been a year, Y/N, and you've gotten nowhere.”

“I like the mystery,” you replied, shrugging casually. “Of course I'm curious, but I'm in no rush to find out who it is. At least not until exams are finished.”

Jimin scoffed. “I can tell you're lying. You're just as eager to find out who it is as I am – at least I have a theory.”

“A theory that makes no sense.”

“How does it make no sense?” Jimin gasped, spinning around and slapping your arm as if he couldn't quite believe you would think his well-thought-out conspiracy was something not worth pursuing. “It makes perfect sense! The most sense! You and Seokjin have been friends for years, he knows everything about you, you're basically glued at the hip. How is it so impossible for him to have fallen for you in the past year?”

You stared dead ahead, trying to keep a calm enough expression on your face. You didn't want to give a reaction, didn't want to reveal anything that was already deeply hidden within you – it wouldn't be worth it. You and Jimin may not talk very often, but he could read you like an open book. One twitch of the lips, one not-so-subtle frown and he would unravel the entire story in a heartbeat.

Jimin sighed whenever you refused to elaborate on his theory. He slumped back in his seat, folded his arms over his chest and continued to gaze out at the dripping rain. “Have it your way then. I'll spend the rest of my life gathering proof that it's Seokjin writing you them notes. Just you wait and see.”

---

“Okay, so what do you need me to bring?” you asked, pressing the phone to your cheek as you inspected the contents of your fridge. “I have gone-off cream, half a block of cheese – oh wait, no, that needs thrown out – uh, some yoghurt, a celery stick, some old Pepperami's that I never ate-”

“We're making spaghetti bolognese, you idiot,” said Seokjin. “Look, just leave the ingredients to me, okay? You just need to show up.”

“I wanna feel helpful!”

“You are being helpful!”

You knew he was just flattering you, trying to get you as far away from the fridge as humanly possible. You sighed, shutting the door and wading back into your living room. “Fine. You can sort out the ingredients, but I want absolutely full control whenever we're actually cooking.”

“Why do you care so much? It's my project. I thought you'd be trying to sabotage it or something.”

You scoffed, unable to fight off the grin forming on your face. “You really do underestimate just how good of a friend I am, don't you? I want you to do well! Home Ec is one of your favourite subjects and I know you want good grades-”

“I've been getting perfectly good grades in Home Ec up until this point, thank you very much.”

You rolled your eyes. That was Seokjin for you – forever the one to boast about his achievements. It was one of the reasons you loved him; it wasn't just his own ego he always boosted. If Seokjin liked you, it was close to impossible to think badly of yourself, because he never allowed such a thing.

You remembered the amount of times you had walked into school and complained about how badly your skin was breaking out, or how your hair was a mess, and Seokjin would simply glare at you through the tips of his eyelids, like a mother giving her child a warning look. That was often all it took for you to start giggling, totally forgetting whatever self-conscious thoughts that had once been swirling around in your brain.

“Just show up, okay?” Seokjin continued. “I'm hoping you know all the basic hygiene rules, so I don't have to hold your hand through that part.”

“Wash my hands, hair tied back, apron on, sleeves rolled up, no nail polish-” “Absolutely no nail polish,” Seokjin confirmed, sounding exasperated. “My mum wears nail polish every time she cooks dinner and it makes me squirm.”

“Oh, suck it up,” you chuckled. “I'll be there. 9am. Tomorrow. Outside Home Economics 3.”

“9am sharp, please. I don't want to have to go around looking for you.” “You won't. I'll be there.”

“Good.” It was silent for a moment. You busied yourself with fluffing the pillows on the sofa. Neither of you wanted to say goodbye, it seemed like, and you were perfectly content with sitting in silence for a little while.

But then Seokjin coughed, breaking the silence.

“Well, I better be off,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See you tomorrow, Seokjin,” you replied, before the line went dead. You held the phone to your ear for a moment longer after the tone signalled the end of the call; you nibbled on your bottom lip, fighting off the blush that so desperately wanted to rise to your cheeks.

An entire morning spent cooking with Seokjin, something you had only ever done on weekends and it had always been some kind of half-assed joke. Pancakes on Pancake Tuesday that never turned out right; Seokjin always ending up telling you to just go sit down so you wouldn't mess up whatever dish he was making. But tomorrow, you would be by his side for the entire morning, his grade entirely in your hands.

You hollowed out your cheeks, letting the phone drop to the sofa before you followed after it, unsure as to why the butterflies in your stomach had enhanced ten fold since the phone call shut off.

---

You were extremely quick to conclude that 9am cooking lessons were perhaps your least favourite way to start the morning.

You tugged on the strings of your hoodie, making the hood tighten around your face to hopefully obscure your exhausted features. Three hours of broken sleep was not good for a human being, and you were truly beginning to feel the effects of such a lousy rest.

Seokjin was waiting by his desk when you walked into the kitchen. Plenty of other chipper students were also mingling, waiting for the entire class to arrive. A few of the students even had their aprons on and their hair tied back, sleeves rolled up to their elbows with amazing, dazzling, Listerine infected smiles already plastered onto their faces; you nearly scowled right at them. If it wasn't for the hood currently squishing your cheeks, you were positive they would have seen the disgruntled expression on your face as you made your way over to Seokjin.

He burst into laughter as soon as he saw you.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, nudging him with your shoulder. “Where do I put my bag?”

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Instead of answering your question, Seokjin busied himself with pulling your school bag from your shoulders and tossing it under the bench himself.

“Not enough,” you replied. “But I'm ready for anything.”

“Ready to cook?”

You blanked. “I'm ready for . . . uh . . . most things.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, before taking you by surprise by wrapping his long arms around your middle and resting his head in the crook of your neck. The action was so unexpected that you very nearly yelped at the suddenness of it; you most certainly stiffened, heart hammering against your rib cage at what felt like a thousand miles per hour.

Seokjin didn't seem bothered – of course he wouldn't. This was something normal for him, him never being one to shy away from displays of affection with his best friend. He neatly folded his fingers over your stomach, and you were fairly certain he could feel the butterflies erupting beneath his hands.

You swallowed thickly, tried to play it cool, but you could feel his breath on your neck, could feel his fingers tapping against your shirt, could feel his chest pressing into your back as if it were the most casual thing in the world, and it was driving you insane. How you would ever get through this lesson was a mystery.

You abruptly reminded yourself that Seokjin was your best friend. Of course you could get through this lesson – you would get through this lesson, and you would do it well. Seokjin would get full marks. That was the goal, and for now, you would concentrate purely on that. Not on the fact that he was breathing directly into your ear, not on the warmth that was engulfing your entire body, not on the way his fingers very nearly touched the lick of bare skin between the waistband of your trousers and the ridden up material of your shirt-

His fingers pressed into your hips, making you squeal and lurch away from him. He laughed that squeaky laugh you loved so much. You span around, glaring at him.

He shrugged. “It's karma for not being fully rested.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “I love you, too.”

The lesson started not long after that, and you had finally managed to calm your breathing down. You had taken your hoodie off to reveal a plain grey shirt, which you covered with a plastic yellow apron; you had tied your hair up, rolled your sleeves up to your elbow, had washed your hands perfectly with Seokjin standing over you to make sure you got everything. You were fairly certain he was going to make you wash up to your elbows just to make sure you were extra clean for this practical.

The teacher explained the rules, and then you and Seokjin were released to do your own thing.

It was a disaster at first.

You didn't know what you were doing, and Seokjin was too busy stressing over the nail polish adorning your fingernails to remember that his job in this entire thing was to tell you what to do. So as you struggled to measure out the perfect amount of pasta for two people, Seokjin was shaking his head and trying to grab plastic gloves from the drawer, saying he needed to hide the bright red nail polish.

“Seokjin, come here!” you hissed. His head appeared from the drawer he was searching through, eyebrow arched in questioning. You cautiously tilted the pan towards him, showing the pasta you had measured out so far. “What do you think?”

He waved a hand in your direction. “I didn't have breakfast this morning. Add as much as you want.”

You gritted your teeth. “Can you just stop looking for gloves? The teacher doesn't care about the bloody nail polish!”

“But I do!” Seokjin hissed, though he closed the cupboard door anyway and reappeared at your side. He was hovering over you, one hand on either side of you as he watched you measure out a few more strands of pasta. “Have you put the water on to boil yet?”

You turned around, suddenly flushed. “What? No. You didn't tell me to.”

“I didn't tell you to measure out pasta, either.”

“It's spaghetti bolognese!”

“And how do you think you're supposed to make pasta without boiled water?”

You groaned, tossing the pan of pasta down onto the counter. You pushed past Seokjin, grabbed a second pan and filled it up with water. “Fine. Fine, I'll boil water. I'll boil fucking water.”

“Hey, calm down.” Seokjin's voice had simmered to a whisper now, though there was a hint of amusement in his words when he spoke. “It's not that big of a deal. It's not that tough of a task, either.”

“I've never made this kind of thing before,” you said, placing the water to boil. “I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Making pasta is common sense.”

“For you.”

“For most people.”

You rolled your eyes and slumped against the counter, brushing your hand through your hair slowly. You hadn't been expecting to feel so stressed – it was spaghetti bolognese, for crying out loud. It was hardly difficult to make. Seokjin was right – making pasta was common sense, because you barely had to do anything. Boil the water, add the pasta and stir until it was soft enough to eat. That was literally all you had to do, and yet you felt like the world was crumbling around you with the stress it brought along with it.

Seokjin watched you. You caught on to his amusement, never being able to miss such an emotion on his face. Though Seokjin hid his sadness fairly well, his amusement always showed through plain and bright as day; his full lips would be twitching as he struggled to keep a grin from forming on his face, and his eyes would turn into little crescents. Sometimes, his crooked fingers would come up and cover his mouth, just for added affect.

You glared at him. “It's not funny.”

“I never said it was.”

“What? Like you never said to boil the water?”

Seokjin laughed. “You're cute when you're frustrated. That's the only reason I'm laughing.”

And there your heart goes again.

You hid your emotions fairly well once again, folding your arms over your chest and glancing down at your shoes. Seokjin chuckled, stepping closer to you. As always, he was hovering over you, looking down at you with that stupid amused grin plastered across his features that always managed to drive you absolutely insane.

“You've done good so far. Nothings been burned.”

You looked up. “Nothings been cooked, either.”

“But it will be. And it'll be delicious. I have the utmost faith in you, okay?” He grinned down at you, and for some reason, it brought comfort. “Now, lets get the mince on the stove, shall we? Add oil to another pan and we can start on that.”

The hour passed by in a flash.

You had very nearly spilled an entire jar of bolognese sauce, had nearly knocked Seokjin out with a frying pan twice, and your apron had been set on fire once, but the finished product didn't look all that bad.

You and Seokjin stepped away from the counter, looking down at the creation in awe – whether it tasted good or not was completely out of your head in this moment. You simply wanted to gawk at the sight of it first – a real dish. Something edible. Something you had created with your best friends help that made you feel a lot more accomplished than it probably should have done.

Seokjin placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “You did a good job. And my teaching probably helped a little bit.”

You grunted a laugh, shoving his hand off of your shoulder. “It was all my raw skill, I'll have you know.”

“Right,” Seokjin chuckled. He took a step forward, grabbed a pen and paper from his bag and started to write on it.

For just a second, you didn't even pay him that much attention. You were still so in awe with your own creation that you didn't stop to think about what it was he was writing, why he was writing anything in the first place – this was a practical lesson. You weren't even meant to bring pens into a practical lesson, let alone use them.

As soon as you realised what he was doing, you stood on your tippy toes and read over his shoulder.

It wasn't the contents of the writing that caught your eye, though. It wasn't the words themselves that had you freezing, had your heart blazing like a fire in your chest, had your hands suddenly growing sweaty with abrupt realisation.

It was his handwriting.

His handwriting. How had you been friends with this man for so long and never stopped to look at how good his handwriting was? How had you known each other your whole lives, and yet you still couldn't stop to describe what his words looked like written down on paper?

But now you could see them. You could see them clearly, because you had been reading this very same handwriting for a year now – this very same handwriting that was sprawled across blue cards and stuffed into the vent of your locker.

You swallowed thickly and stumbled away from him. He didn't seem to notice you standing behind him, as he hadn't once looked up from the sheet of paper that he was scribbling your names onto – Y/N L/N and Kim Seokjin – Spaghetti Bolognese. He smiled down at this piece of paper as he propped it up against the plate of spaghetti and sauce, before he took his place beside you again.

“There. Added the final touches.”

You could barely speak to give him a reply. You swallowed thickly once again, but it wasn't enough. Your throat still felt tight, like it was coated in some kind of gel that was catching the words and stopping you from saying anything at all.

The teacher drifted between tables, inspecting and tasting every dish. Whenever she arrived at your table, she asked questions that Seokjin was forced to answer as you continued to get lost in your own mind – surely something was wrong. Maybe him and the admirer just had very similar handwriting. It wasn't impossible, but it definitely seemed unlikely. How could two sets of handwriting be so similar?

“Very nice, Miss L/N,” Mrs Kim said. You managed to snap out of your shock just long enough to give her a grateful smile, but you were pulled back under whenever Seokjin intertwined his hands with yours and gave your fingers a congratulatory squeeze. “As always, Seokjin impresses me, even with his teaching skills. Was he a good teacher, Y/N?”

You swallowed. “He was great, Mrs Kim.”

She grinned. “As expected. You two can clear away now. Mr Kim, I'll get your grade to you by the end of next class.”

Seokjin bowed and the teacher stowed off.

You grabbed for your bag beneath the desk, very nearly knocking the stool over in the process of trying to pull it out from underneath it. Seokjin looked over at you, startled by the sudden action, but you just needed out. You needed to be away, needed to find Jimin and tell him what you had seen because he was the only person who seemed to be making even a lick of sense at this moment.

“Where are you going? We still have a bunch of pots to clean up,” said Seokjin.

You had already thrown your apron off and was tugging your hoody back on. “I've just remembered I said I'd meet Jimin in the library at quarter past ten. I'm gonna be late if I don't leave now. You don't mind, do you?”

“Park Jimin?” said Seokjin.

“Mhm. A few years below us, lives on my street, gets my bus. You'll know him if you see him.” You were talking too fast. You were making it obvious that you wanted to leave rather than needed to leave, but you didn't care. Not right now. Not whenever you had so many questions.

Seokjin's expression screwed into confusion. You swung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed the piece of paper that was leaning against the plate, waved a final goodbye to Seokjin before you were storming out of the classroom in search of Park Jimin.

---

“I bloody told you.”

You groaned, ducking your head into your hands. You really hadn't been imagining things – even Jimin could see the resemblance between the handwriting, and he was taking his sweet time taking the piss out of you for it.

“I told you!” he repeated, much louder this time. The piece of paper was placed between the two of you, and on top of it was the smaller, blue card that you had received the day before. Looking at the two now, there was no denying that the handwriting was extremely similar.

“Okay, I get it,” you said. “You told me, and I ignored you.”

“Yeah, yeah you did,” Jimin mocked, nudging your arm repeatedly. “So?”

You looked over at him, raised a brow. “So?”

“So what do you think of it!” he persisted, nudging your arm even harsher now. “Your best friend has been head over heels in love with you for a year now! He's been writing you all these cute notes, and you're only just now finding out! It must be – like – a big deal.”

Oh, it was. It definitely was, only you couldn't say that. Not without revealing every single emotion you had been bottling up for years now, not without making yourself out to be some kind of liar for denying you had been feeling the exact same way towards Seokjin for years.

So instead, you shrugged.

Jimin scoffed, slumped back in the plush green seat and folded his arms over his chest. His eyes were boring into the back of your head, willing you to say something, do something, but you couldn't move. You kept your head in your hands, palms pressed into your cheeks, eyes staying firm on the two pieces of paper in front of you.

“I think it's cute,” said Jimin, finally. “Maybe you should tell him that you know it's him writing the notes, though. Put the poor kid out of his misery.”

“How am I meant to do that without completely shattering our friendship?”

Jimin raised a brow. You could feel it – that judgemental look. “Are you kidding me? I may be three years younger than you, but I'm not stupid. It's obvious you like him back.”

You very nearly choked on air, eyes widening. You span around in your chair so fast that the back legs rode up and slammed back down onto the carpet with a bang. The librarian hissed at you, but you ignored her as you stared at Jimin with wide eyes.

“What are you-”

“Don't play stupid!” Jimin exclaimed, totally ignoring the angry librarian now shooting daggers at you both from across the room. “It's obvious! If you tell Seokjin that you know it's him writing the notes, you two can finally get together and it won't be awkward at all – you'll just be two teenagers in love.”

The idea made your stomach flip in the best of ways. Imagining something more than friendship with Seokjin was a thought you had always shoved to the side, because you never thought it was realistic. You truly believed it was more-so your brain just taunting you, conjuring up images of things that could never be.

“Are you gonna tell him?” Jimin continued, leaning forward. “Or I can do it, if you want. I don't-”

“No!” you exclaimed, before wincing whenever the librarian whisper-yelled your name. “No,” you said, a little quieter now. “I'll – I'll figure out some way to do it, okay? You don't need to get involved. It'll be better coming from me than it will coming from you.”

“You're acting like the lad is gonna be mortified,” Jimin chuckled. “He's probably been wanting your oblivious ass to catch on from the first note he slipped into your locker. I honestly can't believe you've spent every day with him for the past year and not had a glimpse at his fucking handwriting.”

“Well it's not the first thing that's on my mind whenever I'm with him,” you said.

Jimin raised a brow suggestively, making you realise just how cringy those words had truly sounded.

You looked down at your folded hands. “You know what I mean.”

Jimin chuckled, placing a warm, comforting hand on the back of your neck. “Oh, I know what you mean.”

---

Seokjin sat with his knees bunched up into his chest, the movie playing innocently in front of you both; why you thought you were in the right state of mind to invite him over to your place was completely beyond you, but it was done now. He was here, eating your popcorn, watching your television, and most likely going to end up staying the night on your sofa.

You chewed nervously at your nail, sitting on the far side of the sofa. He had offered to share the thin, grey blanket with you, even going as far as tossing it over your knees himself, but you had shaken it off of you and let him have the whole thing; feeling his body heat was overwhelming you.

You needed to tell him. You had told Jimin that tonight would be the night, that you would inform him of your knowledge of his notes and that would be it – whatever happened after that would happen, and you would put up with it.

But the movie was nearly over, and the sun had long since gone down, and you two had done nothing but joke about stupid stuff the entire night. Not a single word you had meant to say had come out yet, and now you two were just sat in silence as the movie reached its climax.

Seokjin was engulfed in the screen, chewing away at his popcorn without a care in the world. The shaggy grey blanket was draped over his knees, one side of it thrown over his shoulder and resting against his cheek. He looked tired, ready to doze off at any given moment.

You watched him closely, forming and reforming the same exact sentence in your head over and over again – you just needed to tell him. It shouldn't have been this difficult. You told Seokjin everything else, so what was so weird about this?

He seemed to notice your gaze burning into the side of his head as he slowly turned around to look at you, his mouth full of popcorn. “Have I got something on my face?”

You quickly looked back at the TV. “No. You just looked tired, that's all.” Idiot! You should have said something then

Seokjin grunted and stretched out his arms, his black shirt riding up to reveal a lick of tanned skin. “I am tired, actually. Mind if I crash on your sofa for tonight?”

“No. You always sleep on the sofa anyway.”

“But it's just manners to ask, isn't it?” He didn't wait for you to respond before he was groaning and standing up, acting like an old man getting out of a chair after many hours. You watched him as he waded into the kitchen with the now empty bowl of popcorn hanging limply in his hand – he always acted so at home whenever he was in your house, and it warmed your heart.

No. The situation was too perfect to ruin. You could tell him at another time, whenever things were a little less dreary and your mind was more clear. He was tired now, anyway. What kind of friend would you be if you dropped this kind of news on him whenever all he wanted was to go to sleep?

You would tell him some other time, you promised. Some time soon.

---

Soon.

A month had passed, and you had instead been trying to completely ignore the information you had once wanted to pass on to your best friend. After multiple weeks of trying to find the right words to confess, you had failed miserably and, in the end, decided on just leaving everything as it was. You would continue to receive the monthly-notes, pretend you had no idea who they were from, and continue on with life as usual.

It was Jimin who made it extremely difficult for you to do such a thing.

Every time you slumped down beside him on the bus, he would ask you if you had told him and then give you one of his famous disappointed head shakes whenever you informed him that you had, in fact, not told Seokjin a damn thing.

But a month had passed, and you knew it wouldn't be long before the next note was appearing in your locker.

Even though you knew who the culprit was, the excitement still hadn't worn down. In fact, it was almost enhanced with the idea of it being Seokjin – you would be reading his words and be able to put a face to the person who was feeling such a thing for you. That was crazy to you, and it made you buzz with an unexplained excitement.

You walked down the hallway on this particular morning, hood pulled on up over your head, as per usual, and backpack hauled on over your back. You were exhausted from yet another night of broken sleep, and the hallways were much too loud for your liking. You just wanted to lean your head against a desk and go to sleep – that was why you were relieved to have Mr Lee first period. That man was as blind as a bat, and his lessons were boring and unimportant enough for you to be able to sleep in the back row.

You made your way to your locker, pushing through the crowd-

And you froze whenever you saw Seokjin himself busying himself at the door of your locker.

Your eyes widened, panic flurrying in your chest. You didn't know what to do – had you just caught him? After nearly a year, had you finally caught him putting a note in your locker?

You froze. A few kids hissed at you at the abrupt halt you had taken, but you ignored them and continued to stare. Seokjin was most definitely up to something – he had a Sharpie in his hand, a blue card in the other and was hurriedly scribbling his message onto it. His lip was between his teeth, his hands trembling as he finally put the lid back on the pen and stuffed the blue card into the vents of your locker. He took one, oblivious glance around him before he was scrambling off in the opposite direction.

Your feet were carrying you before you could stop yourself. Adrenaline had punched itself into your chest. You couldn't believe it. You had caught him. Caught him red handed, after an entire year.

Your hand was wrapped around his wrist before you could comprehend what you had done. It was the feeling of his skin beneath your own that finally shook you to the true reality of what you were doing, and as soon as Seokjin whirled around to face you, his eyes widened and his skin grew flaming hot beneath your own.

You were too close to your locker. He knew you had seen. There was no way you hadn't seen him, and now you would have to come out and confess.

“Wait,” was the first thing that came out of his mouth. “You weren't meant to see that.”

The bubble had been burst. The wall that had been built up had been completely knocked down, and you needed to take this chance. You needed to.

“It's been you this entire time?” you asked. “An entire year, Seokjin?”

He shook his hand out of your grip, stuffed it into his pocket. “I don't – I have no idea what you're talking about.”

You grabbed his wrist again, whirled on your heel and stampeded back towards your locker. He swung his head back like a child having a tantrum, groaning out your name as if that would make a difference. You could barely hide the excited smile on your face as you arrived at the door of your locker, pulled it open and caught the blue card between your fingers.

“Are you seriously going to make me stand here whilst you read it?” he asked.

You didn't respond, simply flipped the card over and started reading the beautiful, cursive handwriting printed on it.

I haven't seen you smile in a while. I hope everything's okay. I want you to be happy.

Your chest flourished, cheeks heating up despite yourself.

Seokjin groaned again, tugged his hand out of your grip. “Okay, maybe that was a bit stupid, but-”

“An entire year, Seokjin?” you cut him off. You whirled around to face him, eyebrows raised. You felt at risk of crying for some reason – a heavy weight was on your chest, and it only got heavier whenever you looked up into Seokjin's face and saw him looking awkward for once. The confident aura he always gave off had evaporated, replaced with a man who didn't quite know what to do with himself.

He awkwardly looked down at the ground, his bangs falling in his face. He scratched the back of his neck, uttering incoherent words under his breath.

You leaned forward. “What was that?”

“I said-” He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes. “I'm sorry if this ruins everything for us. I honestly didn't mean for you to find out it was me.”

You nibbled on your bottom lip. Was now a good time? In front of all of these people? You wanted to confess so badly. You wanted to tell him that you had loved him for years, that he was the best person you had ever met in your entire life. You wanted to tell him just how much he meant to you, but you knew you would be at strong risk of bursting into tears, and that wasn't something you wanted to risk at this moment in time.

So instead, you tucked the blue card into the front of your bag to free your hands and gently ran your fingers through Seokjin's hair, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He didn't look up, didn't open his eyes, but you could feel him tilting his head into your grip, chasing the feel of your fingers against his scalp.

You smiled dumbly to yourself, but you didn't care. This was a good moment. A defining moment.

You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek – only a teaser. Nothing special, nothing that would get your feelings across quite as strongly as you wanted them to, but it would have to do for now.

Seokjin stiffened under the graze of your lips, finally opening his dark brown eyes to look at you. Everyone else in the hallway melted away, and it was just you two, and you truly could have jumped on him then and there, burst into tears with how relieved you were to finally have some closure, to know that your feelings were completely reciprocated.

But you held yourself back and instead pressed another kiss just below his ear. He shivered.

You pulled away. “An entire year, Seokjin. It took you long enough.”

---

You clambered onto the bus, heart full and feet dragging.

Jimin stood up as soon as he saw you, waving his hands around frantically, as if he wasn't sat in the same seat he always sat in. You made your way over to him, unable to hide the hop in your step and the smile gleaming your face.

“Somebody looks happy,” Jimin exclaimed as soon as you sat down.

You nodded. “I am happy. I told him.”

Jimin gasped. “Finally! I just want to thank Jesus, and my parents for this-” You swatted him on the shoulder before he could continue his dramatics, and the two of you burst into a fit of tiny giggles.

Although the day had been great with just the knowledge of Seokjin's reciprocated feelings, you hadn't seen Seokjin since the moment you shared at your locker. Your classes had been muddled up, and you had been forced to take junior lunch whilst Seokjin was still stuck on senior lunch, meaning neither of you had seen each other all day.

And now you were heading home with no confirmation as to what it was exactly that had happened today anyway.

Jimin demanded to know all of the details, and you told him. It was easy talking about it, like a fresh weight was being swept off of your shoulders. All day you had been filled to the brim with ecstasy, unable to hide your smile – it had gotten to the point where you had been too excited to sleep in Mr Lee's lesson, which was a very rare occurrence for you. All day, you had just wanted to see Seokjin again, and it was the thought of seeing his face that had kept you smiling.

Jimin listened intently, cutting in only to gasp or say I told you so every now and then. All the while, the bus stayed parked at the edge of the curb, letting in the flood of kids who were all excited to be heading home at long last.

It was only after you had finished retelling your tale that Jimin shook his head, slumped back in his chair with his hand over his heart, looked out of the window and-

“OH MY GOD!”

You jumped, bag falling from your lap with the suddenness of your movements. Your eyes wide, you span around to look at Jimin. He had pressed his palms flat against the window and was gazing out at the school grounds with his jaw wide open.

“Get off this bus right now!” he exclaimed with little to no explanation as to why. You went to ask him what he meant, but he was already spinning in his chair and shoving you off of the bus seat. You stumbled into the aisle, looking back at Jimin in shock.

He groaned, stood up and shoved you forward that little bit more. “He's waiting on you! Don't keep him waiting!”

You didn't get a chance to ask anything else before the bus driver was asking you if you were getting off or staying on.

“She's getting off, ma'am,” replied Jimin, shooting you a warning glare. You had no choice. You were too stunned to question it further as you slowly clambered off the bus, backpack hugged close to your chest.

You turned and watched the bus leave – oh great. How were you supposed to get home now?

Jimin gave you a thumbs up out of the back window before the bus was disappearing completely over the hill. You stood on the curb, watching it go for a moment longer before a pair of hands were winding around your middle and a chin was perching itself in the crook of your neck.

“Seokjin!” you exclaimed before you could stop yourself.

You span around, dropping your bag because the excitement had gotten the better of you. After being eager to see him all day and being unable to, you refused to let your chance slip away now.

Seokjin was startled whenever you broke free of his grip, span around and launched yourself at him. He grunted, catching you as you wound your legs around his waist and engulfed him in the biggest hug you could manage – because you had missed him. Because you loved him.

He chuckled, hugging you back. “Hey. What's got you so excited?”

You pulled away but kept your arms wrapped around his shoulders. “What do you think?”

Seokjin grinned. “I think you promised me something earlier on today.”

“What?”

“Well, you never actually promised it, but I was really hoping there was more to your little speech than what you gave me.” He stared down at you, waiting for you to catch on. Whenever you said nothing, he rolled his eyes. “This is why it took an entire year for me to confess to you. You're oblivious.”

You shook your head. “I just want to hear you say it.”

He blanked, face paling as if you had just revealed his worst secret to a crowd of people. You continued to watch him with a grin, legs still wrapped around his waist and fingers messing idly with the hair at the back of his neck. Although he did a good job of hiding his pleasure, you could feel the goosebumps arising on his skin at the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Well – uh – not to sound needy or anything, but you kissed me on the cheek. Just the cheek,” he said, before flushing. “Of course, if that's all you had in mind, I'm not gonna argue or force you to do something you don't want to-”

“Did you think I would kiss you anywhere else?” you asked.

Seokjin nibbled on his bottom lip. “Well, I was hoping-”

You didn't let him finish before you swooped down and pressed your lips to his.

The moment was surreal to say the least, short-lived but everything you could ever have hoped for. Your lips pressed against his quickly before you were pulling away, and you giggled at the way his lips chased your own, as if he had expected you to linger for a little while longer.

His eyes snapped open, flared wide with shock and a fresh coat of passion you had never seen in him before. His grip on your waist had tightened automatically, and he was staring up at you as if you were the only living being on the planet.

You stared at him in the exact same way.

“Thank you for the lovely messages this past year, Seokjin,” you muttered, still messing with the hairs on the back of his neck. “They really brightened up my day.”

“I know,” Seokjin gravelled. “That's why I kept writing them. You always came down to the lunch table with the biggest smile on your face.”

“And you always pretended to hate them.”

He shrugged. “How else was I supposed to pretend I had no idea who they were from?”

You chuckled, leaned forward and rested your head in the crook of his neck. He hugged you closer to him, letting out a breathy sigh of relief as if this was it – this was the weight removed from his shoulders and he was finally able to just admit to his feelings – that was certainly how you felt. You felt ten times lighter than usual, like you could just do what you wanted at long last. It was a good feeling.

But an even better feeling was Seokjin's lips pressing against the skin just below your ear as he whispered the words, “I love you,” so quietly you barely heard them.

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paleorecipecookbook · 5 years

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Taking My Running Goals to Garden of the Gods

This post is sponsored by Backcountry

Something that has been super cool about partnering with different brands over the years is that they get me out of my comfort zone and trying new things. I’m very much a creature of habit and routine and I also think that I always know what I want and need. But truth is, like all of us out there, I am constantly changing and evolving. And that’s something that has been so cool about partnering with Backcountry. With this partnership, Backcountry has challenged me to get outdoors, explore more of Colorado, and really get back to appreciating the nature that is around every corner of my daily world.

And since this new year has sparked a new challenge of running more for the next 5 months, I’m even more challenged to get outside and get moving, especially since I don’t really love running. For me, I want to spend most of my fitness time in the gym with weights and exercise bands. But there is something that is so soothing and calming about being outdoors. Especially the great outdoors that are just a quick drive away and are absolutely breathtaking. And for me, that spot is the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. Colorado Springs is just about an hour drive for me and I frequently forget how incredibly beautiful it is there, especially in the expansive public park filled with red rock formations and paved paths throughout that are perfect for an afternoon run.

Since it’s February in Colorado and the absolute last thing I want to do is get outside, I gotta wrap up in the warmest running apparel I can find. If my hands and ears are cold at any point, I’ll definitely give up, which isn’t an option. And that’s where Backcountry comes in handy. I’ve talked about it in past posts, but in case you missed it, Backcountry has EVERYTHING you would need for any kind of outdoor adventure. Whether you need to wrap up to stay warm or you need as little clothing as possible for your beach vacation, Backcountry has your back to keep you comfortable and feeling your best, no matter your next adventure.

To keep myself on track with my running goals, I pulled out my Nike Epic React Shoes then found THE BEST Backcountry Sundial Tights for my Saturday morning run in 30 degree weather. These tights are fleece lined but still have a four-way stretch to move with you, no matter which direction you turn. Plus they are quick-drying to help you stay dry and comfortable, no matter how far you go. And one of my favorite parts is that the tights come with pockets on each side so you can keep your keys and phone safe while you run and explore.

But if you like to hold on to your phone while you run so you can easily change the song you’re listening to at any moment, then these North Face Etip Gloves will be your perfect partner. The gloves come in five different colors and have a full conductive palm that allows you to quickly manage anything on your phone while you’re running. Plus it offers a great amount of grip so your phone won’t budge. I know that I get bored pretty quickly with every song I listen to so these gloves came in handy throughout my entire run.

After I found these gloves and tights, I was able to layer the entire look with a comfortable Craft Celo Thermal Jersey and a super warm Patagonia Bivy Vest. But since I don’t want to feel boring while out for a run, I brought in a pop of color with a feminine headband. That headband sold out but here is a similar beanie with the same pattern! It’s safe to say that my Saturday run was comfortable and warm the entire time, which meant I stuck with it and explored even more than I had planned.

If you’re trying to get outside this season or you have some vacations planned in the next couple months, Backcountry is here to help in any way possible. If you’re feeling a little lost with what you need for your trip, Backcountry Gearheads are prepped and ready to use their expertise and experience to help you put together the perfect look and gear for your upcoming trip. You can easily chat, call or email a Backcountry Gearhead to make sure you find exactly what you need and are fully prepared for the adventure you want to take on. Whether it’s a hiking daypack, a surfboard, or even a sleeping bag, they will help you find anything you need! All you have to do is click the Gearheads tab to easily connect with one in minutes.

February has become very much a hibernation month for many, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Even though I pretty much hate February, I also know that it is getting me one month closer to spring and to warmer weather, so I’m trying to enjoy it as much as I can in the meantime. And because of that, I’m exploring new places and staying active in the meantime. And when I explored Garden of the Gods for the first time, my run didn’t even feel like exercise. It felt like a whole new world I had never explored and it’s only been an hour away from me the whole time.

My goal this year is to keep you motivated and excited with your health goals. I want you to continually challenge yourself, try new things, and surprise yourself with how amazing you can feel as the year goes on. And Backcountry will make sure you can try something new, month after month, and they will keep you comfortable and excited throughout. I know they have for me. And if you haven’t tried out Backcountry yet, they are offering 15% off your Backcountry purchase when you use code PALEO15! Plus they offer free 2-day shipping on all orders over $50 across the country! LOVE that part about Backcountry. They also partn with The Nature Conservancy to support its mission of protecting the lands and waters, just like the ones I experienced at Garden of the Gods.Backcountry wants to keep this world as beautiful possible and they want you to experience all of it while you can. So get out there this month, next month, and every month after that! You may be surprised how much you enjoy yourself, no matter what the weather is like that day!

_____________

This post is brought to you by Backcountry. I may be compensated for this post, but all opinions are my own. This compensation helps with expenses to keep this blog up and running! Thank you for all your support!

The post Taking My Running Goals to Garden of the Gods appeared first on PaleOMG - Paleo Recipes.

Sourse of this article: http://paleomg.com/

#paleo #recipe #paleo diet #food #yum #healthy #delicious

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ldlb-grp5-blog · 5 years

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WE THE ENVIRONMENTALIST Ft. the abusive and the abused

Of the Abusive and the Abused

According to the United Nations with the help of Worldometers, there is an estimated 7.7 billion people living on Earth as of November 2018. Imagine that, billions of people living on the same planet, stepping on the same old land that their grandparents’ grandparents had probably walked on. People are trying to live their best life on a planet that is already 4.54 billion years old. It’s amazing, that for 4.54 billion years the planet Earth has never failed all the species—living and non-living, especially humanity, to support them with their basic needs. The land, air, heat and water, it was perfectly given to us ever since day one. But as the years pass by, it’s like we’re slowly forgetting how the Earth has been there for us. She gave all to us and in return majority of us have abused her generosity. Earth has never failed us and now here we are…failing her, destructing her beauty, corrupting her kindness and being the sinful mortals that we truly are. I know a lot of people living here today are aware that nothing in this world is free. We pay, we pay for everything, sometimes we pay in cash and there are times that we pay for the consequences. My dear friends, after all those simple wrong garbage segregation and disposal, the simple littering habit of yours or your laziness to fix your car’s dirty muffler----- behold, mother Earth presents tHE cLiMAtE ChANgE.

The Deathly Exchange,

Humanity’s Cruelty V.S Climate Change

Ever since the day when a person with an intellect was born, the humanity learned to survive life by sustaining the crops and maintaining animal’s population that was originally on Earth before they came. We would not be here if our ancestors have not sustained their foods and materials for their and our generation. Sustainability is the ability to avoid the consumption of natural resources in order to maintain an ecological balance or the balance of nature. The catch is that, the rapid growth of our population makes it hard for us to sustain those what are left for us. And whose fault is it???--- o u r s.

We are well aware how some of us lack basic discipline. Some people tend to get abusive because of the freedom that we have. Money is a factor that possessed a blinding power. Put it in the wrong hand and the next thing you’d know is that the world’s falling apart faster than normal. Hundreds of old trees that produce oxygen are being cut down in order to replace it with new factories that release killer smoke. Destructive mining that would eventually kill people because of its huge risk of landslide. The improper garbage disposal, the stacks of garbage are thrown to the bodies of water choking or killing turtles and the other marine creatures with the plastic and straws. The human’s abuse towards the land, air, heat and water results to Climate Change, which is the general change in the climate pattern, usually characterized by increase atmospheric temperatures, changes in cloud cover, melting of ice caps and glaciers.

According to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration or NASA, our planet is changing now and Earth could change in the future. From rising sea levels to the changing availability of freshwater. World Wild Life also said that the sea levels are rising and the oceans are becoming warmer. They also said that the droughts are getting intense and have a huge threat for the crops, wildlife and freshwater supplies. From polar bears in the Arctic to marine turtles off the coast of Africa, they are aware that our planet’s diversity of life is at risk from the changing climate.

The Wrath of the Climate Change

Climate change is a necessary warning for us humans. It has a huge effect towards the places, species and our livelihood that we rely on in order to live. There are a lot of reasons why we are experiencing climate change.

World Wild Life (WWF) explained that, greenhouses gases, such as carbon dioxide, trap heat in the atmosphere and regulate our climate. These gases exist naturally, but we add more carbon dioxide by burning fossil fuels for energy (coal, oil, and natural gas) and by clearing forests. Greenhouse gases act like a blanket. The thicker the blanket, the warmer our planet becomes. At the same time, the Earth’s oceans are also absorbing some of this extra carbon dioxide, making them more acidic and less hospitable for sea life.

The rapid increase of our global temperature is crucially changing our planet’s climate, resulting in more extreme and unpredictable weather. In our case, heat waves are occurring frequently and many places are experiencing record droughts followed by intense rainfalls.

It is our fault in the very beginning, so here we are paying for the consequences of our actions. Along with the down fall of Earth is the down fall of humanity. Humans and wild animals would be encountering more challenge and struggle in order to survive life because of climate change. We would experience more frequent and intense drought, storms, heat waves, rising sea levels, melting glaciers and warming oceans that could directly harm animals, destroy the places they live, and wreak havoc on people’s livelihoods and communities.

THE YOUTH’S OPINION

TOWARDS CLIMATE CHANGE:

Youth & Platforms

Sheina Gibas

For me the youth do not realize that most of the activities that they do actually cause climate change. Most of them do not understand that economic growth and climate change goes hand in hand. Some youth are not ready to fight climate change or they don’t know to how to prevent it. Maybe some of the kids in our generation do not know what climate change is, and how destructive it could be. In order to raise more awareness about climate change it would be great if more people would step up to create or use their platforms to share their knowledge towards climate change and make the people—especially the youth, because they are the future generation--- aware about the threats of Climate Change.

The Beginning & the End

Jeanne Arlegui

We all know global warming is one of the serious cases that we are facing right now. Climate change and global warming is affecting us not only in our environment but also in our health. I could say that we could consider it as a factor for our health issue. At our present time it is easy for us to feel the sun’s damaging heat, unlike in those past few years where we could stay under the sun until 9am or 10am. But as the years went by, you can only stay outside from 7am to 8am because if you would be out 12 noon, the extreme heat would make you feel nauseous. If all of the nation would be united for the issue of our world’s environmental case we can still have the chance to prevent its rising threats and destructions. We need to be responsible for our actions; we’re not supposed to ignore it because we are the only solution. We are the beginning of this problem; we’re supposed to be the one to give an end, and not the one who would be ended by it.

Not Political Issues

Joed Trimor

I believe that other human activities, such as deforestation, could also lead to the consequences of the climate change to get worst. We have to use our energy wisely, focusing on life's simple pleasure. Sharing, making, fixing, recycling, repurposing and compositing are all good places to start with. It's sad to imagine that we, as individuals cannot resolve the issues about climate change instantly. Healthy planet and stable climate aren't political issues. They are all about families, communities, energy system and humanity's future. Everybody should participate in order to have a better world.

To Be Ignorant Or

To Panic

Mario Moll

In this generation, people don’t really care about the climate change or they didn’t know that climate change is a serious problem for us. People tend to give more attention to social media’s political issues rather than the environment’s health, climate change for example. But even if the social media publicize or broadcast that issue it’s either there would be a few people that would listen to it because the way they deliver it does not reach the majority of the channel’s viewers’ or listeners’ interest. Or they would be overreacting things and panic about the information that they have gathered. If those people chose to ignore or to panic, it’s up to them. The warning about the threats of Climate Change had got to them. They heard it but they did not listen to it. They were threatened yet they refuse to deal with it.

The Helpful Solutions

Climate change is not a murder, it’s our suicide. We’re too caught up with the pros that we did not notice the weight of its cons. Then once we realize it we think it’s too late because of how large the problem was. But the thing is that, it’s never too late to do something worth life changing. Trying then failing is way better than giving up before trying. We need to get it in our heads that it was our fault in the very start. It’s our responsibility to pay and fix the things that we’ve done.

So to successfully deal with this crisis we must urgently reduce carbon pollution and prepare ourselves for the consequences of global warming, which we are already experiencing.

Here are some solutions that would help us to face climate change:

(･ω<)☆

§ Learn to adapt to climate change

- Promote new farming techniques

- Increase resilience of weather monitoring

- Build nest for the turtles, protect marine life at all cost !

- Secure fresh water for the animals during the drought

§ Influencing policy

- Reduce carbon pollution! Avoid worst consequences of climate change >:(

- Provide financial support for developing countries so that their nature could adapt

- Be against forest destruction!

- Promote clean energy sources like wind and solar

§ Protecting forests

- Reduce forest destruction, degradation and protect wild life

- To protect forests, benefit the livelihood of local communities

- Plant more trees!

- Be Eco-friendly, be a creative person who recycles

- Avoid using too much plastic, learn proper segregation and disposal

§ Raise more awareness to Climate Change

- Conduct seminars or events about climate change

- If you are a writer be inspired to do more articles regarding to CC

- If you want to be photographer/ videographer use CC is a theme

- If you enjoy drawing, why not draw something about the Earth dying because of CC ?

WRITTEN BY:

BENAVENTE, Julia May

GIBAS, Sheina Mae

ARLEGUI, Jeanne Clarin

MOLL, Mario

TRIMOR, Joed

ESTEVES, Kyle

#awareness #climate change #inacoolway claims opinions facts values policies

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moodboardinthecloud · 3 years

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Love and Loss in the Mountains

CHRISTOPHER SOLOMON

Christopher Solomon (

@chrisasolomon

) is an Outside contributing editor.

Aug 2, 2021

“You always think you’ll save the ones you love when the moment comes. But he didn’t save her.”

How do you keep going when you’re convinced you can’t?

When the mountains that brought you joy now echo with your grief, how do you return to them?

Adam Campbell thinks about these questions every day. At 42, he has experienced more hurt and loss in high places than most who spend a lifetime there. His body has been smashed. He lost his wife.

He has a story he wants to share, about what life looks like afterward. It does not offer Five Easy Steps to Bury Your Pain. He knows how deeply loss can cleave a person. But he also learned that we need other people to help pull us clear of the wreckage.

Campbell, a lean and chatty Canadian who lives in the mountain town of Canmore, Alberta, was a podium athlete in the outdoor world. If it was sweaty and hard, he excelled at it. He was a member of five Canadian national teams, in sports such as ski mountaineering and trail running, and a national champion in duathlon. In the summer of 2014, he made international news when, on the summit of a fourteener during Colorado’s famously grueling Hardrock 100 trail race, a lightning bolt knocked him and his pacer off their feet and fried Campbell’s headlamp. The duo picked themselves up and scampered over the pass. Campbell finished third.

It was typical of Campbell, who was in many ways puer aeternus, eternally youthful—that species of smiling mountain man endemic to North America’s high lonesome places, most often glimpsed moving fast over big country and more comfortable out there than back here. Out there was simpler, stripped down, hard, and gratifying for its hardness. “Suffering in beautiful places”—that was his mantra.

In 2015, Campbell met Laura Kosakoski. They started dating. She was remarkable, he told me—beautiful, athletic, so smart that she applied to become an astronaut with the Canadian Space Agency and survived the first few elimination rounds. Kosakoski was also deeply empathetic: after years studying to become an anesthetist, she chose a lower paying position with a family practice instead. “She wanted to feel that she was able to help people in their day-to-day life,” Campbell says. Like him, she chose to live in the lap of the mountains.

It took the two men 45 agonizing minutes to uncover her face, which was blue and unresponsive. To keep Campbell focused, Hjertaas lied to him and said that she was still breathing.

One January morning in 2020, Campbell and Kosakoski met up in Banff with friend Kevin Hjertaas for a quick ski tour in nearby Banff National Park. The weather was stormy and grim, but the trio were experienced. Hjertaas is a ski guide and a former avalanche forecaster. Kosakoski and Campbell had both completed numerous avalanche courses and done lots of backcountry skiing; Campbell sits on the board of directors of the Avalanche Canada Foundation. For the day’s final run, the three stood above a small bowl. Kosakoski went first. Hjertaas waited, then followed. Above them, Campbell edged forward onto the ridge, keeping an eye out. Right then, the world cut loose beneath his feet.

The avalanche was enormous. It ran for more than a third of a mile, was deep enough to expose the mountainside, and threw a massive cloud of snow skyward. When the slide ended and the air cleared, Campbell could see Hjertaas, who had avoided the onrush of debris, but Kosakoski was missing. The men immediately started searching with their avalanche beacons. What the devices told them was horrifying: she was buried more than 12 feet below the surface.

This was so deep that they couldn’t dig straight down from their position above her on the steep slope, but had to start shoveling 30 feet away and at an angle.

It took 45 agonizing minutes to uncover her face, which was blue and unresponsive. To keep Campbell focused, Hjertaas lied to him and said she was still breathing. It took another 45 minutes to extract her body completely. Doctors later revived a weak heartbeat, but Kosakoski died the next evening.

There was grief—the staggering sadness of losing a wife and partner. And then, too, there was the deep violence of the moment, having to reckon with that experience. The group had made errors in judgment, the men later agreed. Moreover, Campbell believes he kicked off the avalanche that buried Kosakoski. Which brings us to the guilt—of surviving and of not rescuing her. You always think you’ll save the ones you love when the moment comes, Campbell told me. But he didn’t save her. Whether this judgment of himself is fair doesn’t really matter. He lives with it.

When multiple traumas occur together, they layer atop one another and accrete under pressure. The effect is geologic. Mountains are built of such layers. Continents sink. Experts call it complex PTSD. What does a person do under weight like that?

There is no simple answer to this question, no easy way through.

Campbell would find ways to cope in what might seem like an unexpected place: a moment that nearly killed him three years earlier, another instance that rearranged how he saw the world around him.

In August 2016, he was blazing through the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia with fellow trail-running stars Dakota Jones and Nick Elson. The three were attempting to scramble the multi-day Horseshoe Traverse mountaineering route above Rogers Pass in a single day. As Campbell climbed up a subpeak called Sulzer Tower, a handhold popped off in his palm. He remembers the mountains turning upside down as he tumbled 200 feet. By the time his body stopped falling, he had broken four vertebrae, smashed his ankle, and sheared off the top of his hip bone. A mountain-rescue crew happened to be working not far away and saved his life. At the hospital, his digestive system shut down for three days. Doctors inserted metal rods throughout his body.

Campbell lived, but he was changed. The day before, he was one of the best athletes on the planet. The day after, he says, “I literally couldn’t wipe my own ass. I was relying on strangers.” Nearly dying changed something else about him. The accident erased his perception—his delusion—that he was a strong, self-reliant athlete who didn’t need others. For years, whenever life had gotten complicated, he had run away, headed for the hills.

“The more chaotic my life got, the bigger the goals I would chase,” he says. Some of his biggest accomplishments occurred during times of personal turmoil, when he fled rather than faced his problems, including an early divorce from his first wife, before he met Kosakoski. “I was just numb, like fully numb,” he says of those years. “I could run hard and fast all the time, and it didn’t impact me at all. I didn’t feel tired ever.” He was not happy, though. “I was emotionally dead, and I also didn’t get any real satisfaction from it.” That pattern of running away continued well into his relationship with Kosakoski.

One reason Campbell was on the traverse that day was that he and Kosakoski had hit a rough patch. Instead of facing the challenge and repairing things, Campbell took off. Out there he was independent, and confronted only with entanglements he knew how to deal with. Mountains were easy. People were hard.

Now, as he lay in a hospital bed in the small hours, too battered to sleep, he saw through the long lie that he was totally self-sufficient. The doctors and nurses who had saved his life came in and out of the room. Family members who had flown in from all over the world circled his bedside. Kosakoski was there too, of course; she took a month off work to help him. He had always been propped up by others; he simply chose to ignore it. “It broke that shell that I put around myself,” he says. And then something amazing happened. “The more vulnerable you allow yourself to be, the more vulnerable people are back to you,” he says, “and that allows you to have even deeper, more intimate connections.” He and Kosakoski grew closer than ever. They married a year later.

Don’t misunderstand: no wisdom, however steep its price, can prepare you for losing the person you planned to spend your life with. In the year since her death, the grief has hit Campbell in waves, receding one minute, overwhelming him the next. A few days after the accident, while walking over a railroad trestle, he looked down and thought how easy it would be to tip over the side, the water below it cold and embracing. But he didn’t. He thought about other people. He thought about the pain it would cause them.

If he learned one thing through all this, it’s that friends and family are a gift—their profound grace, and the solace that can be found in them. “The biggest thing for me is allowing myself to be open with others, to share what I’m going through and let them try to help,” he says. They call. They check in. People want to be there if you’ll let them. Campbell calls now, too, which he never would have done before. He leans on those he loves. He’s honest.

The changes Campbell underwent while dealing with his grief represent a shift in awareness that’s growing in the outdoor world. Mountain towns, and the risk-takers who populate them, long responded to loss with a hardman approach—stoically, on their own, perhaps with a whiskey or three while seated at the end of the bar. Survivors of deadly events would often feel isolated. And even the caring communities where they lived didn’t know how to reach them. Hjertaas says he knows longtime ski patrollers who have seen so much tragedy that they can no longer even respond to accidents.

But that reaction is changing. Maria Coffey’s 2003 book Where the Mountain Casts Its Shadow is about people left behind after such deaths, and it helped open the conversation. So, too, has acceptance of the truth that grief is not weakness, nor is it necessarily a plea for help. Tim Tate, a psychotherapist in Bozeman, Montana, began seeing mountain athletes in 2018 and now works with members of the North Face team, who sometimes visit him in person for intensive four-day sessions. Last year the American Alpine Club started the Climbing Grief Fund, which includes small grants for climbers in need of counseling services. The fund had ten applications in its first 24 hours.

Now, as he lay in a hospital bed in the small hours, too battered to sleep, he saw through the long lie that he was totally self-sufficient. “It broke that shell that I put around myself,” he says.

Late last year, Campbell began helping out with a new group called Mountain Musk Ox, the brainchild of a few Canmore residents, including Janet McLeod, a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma treatment, and mountaineer Barry Blanchard, who has lost several friends and clients in the mountains over his storied career. (The group’s name refers to the tough-as-nails musk ox and its instinct to encircle vulnerable members of the group when threatened.)

The program is a series of group sessions for men and women who have experienced gutting loss in hard circumstances—it’s a chance to talk openly about their trials and to work through them. Hjertaas is involved, too; he told me that people keep contacting him, saying they wish the program existed when they went through hell. In time, organizers hope to expand to other mountain communities.

There is no road map to a quick exit from grief, though. Others can help—can be there to hold up a lantern in the limitless dark—but in the end, each must find their own way out. “You have to be really, really gentle on yourself,” Campbell says. “Ultimately, the person you were before the accident kind of dies along with your partner, because you’re just so deeply changed by it. And you have to accept that and learn what your new life is like.

“You have to be reborn.”

Campbell isn’t angry at the mountains. He doesn’t hold them responsible. He quotes Reinhold Messner: “Mountains are not fair or unfair, they are just dangerous.”

Last summer, Campbell returned to the site of the accident. When he located his wife’s ski in a creek, he fell to his knees. But the mountainside was not windswept and cold. It was alive with bouquets of wildflowers and the thrum of running water. “I ultimately find my comfort and joy in nature,” he says. He has been among high peaks, skiing or climbing, almost every day since. His priorities have changed, though. Time outdoors is no longer about big goals. In part, this is because his body is no longer the same. But neither is his mind. He simply relishes being outside with others in a way he didn’t fully appreciate before. “The conversations I have with people out in nature are some of the best conversations I have. They’re the most honest and raw,” he says. “I find that that is where people are their genuine selves.”

One day over the winter, Campbell shared a story online about kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art in which cherished items that have been chipped or broken, such as a vase or a teakettle, are mended with a lacquer that includes gold dust. The result highlights the fissures that have been repaired. The analogy appealed to him.

“It treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object,” he wrote, “something to celebrate.” Those breaks help define us, and they give us a hard-won beauty. When we show them, and the ways we’ve healed and grown stronger, he says, we know where one another are coming from, what we’ve all been through. And our community is healthier for it.

https://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/exploration-survival/avalanche-tragedy-adam-campbell-laura-kosakoski/

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