#and slowing down means less dangerous collisions

[yardsards]

love slowing down when people tailgate me. bitch i will make us both late idgaf

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Less Talk | Part V

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: swearing, pining, unresolved sexual tension, slow af burn

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Masterlist

Jake is watching you shift your weight back and forth in your heels with a mixture apprehension and exhilaration. You’ve got your arms crossed over your chest as though you’re severely irritated, but you haven’t left yet. Which is a good sign. He’s barely looking at your legs; smooth and shiny and perfectly illuminated by the string lights adorning the patio of the Hard Deck.

He’s still wrapping his head around the fact that you are, as of five or so minutes ago, unattached. You’re single. Jake could kiss you right now. You’d probably punch him but he almost thinks it might be worth it.

He shuts his eyes briefly, trying to clear his mind of your pouting lips, and your pretty hair, and your goddamn legs. “So,” he says finally. “You want a ride?”

You look up at him sharply. “From you?” you ask in mild disgust.

Jake takes comfort in the fact that your aversion seems relatively minimal considering he just sucker punched your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He gives you a flat look. “No, from the Tooth Fairy,” he retorts sarcastically. “Yes, from me.”

Your mouth parts as though you’re about to say something but, instead, you graze your teeth over your bottom lip. Jake, in turn, sort of forgets how to exhale for a moment. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thanks.”

It takes him a moment before he realizes that you’ve somehow, miraculously agreed to his offer but, when he does, he springs into action. “Let’s go,” he says, hoping the casual words are enough to offset the tension in his tone. He extends an arm to point you in the direction of his truck.

You make your way to the passenger door and he follows you, pulling on the handle and holding his hand out to help you climb inside.

“It’s a bit of a step,” he says as you lift your foot into the cab.

You give him a cryptic look before placing your hand in his, a faint smile materializing on your face in response to the gesture. Jake cautiously returns your smile, not quite ready to let his guard down.

You lean your weight into him as you lift yourself off the ground and Jake manages to keep you steady despite his attention being almost entirely usurped by your ass which hovers invitingly in front of his face before you land gently on the seat.

“Thanks,” you say.

Jake breathes out wearily, resting one arm over the open door and the other on top of the roof as he peers into the vehicle. “You okay?” he asks.

You eye him suspiciously. “Yeah, why?”

Jake squints slightly, running his tongue across his teeth in thought. “You haven’t insulted my ride yet,” he says. “You know this thing is a gas guzzler, right?” He pats the roof of the truck.

You smile at him. “Well, give me a minute,” you respond, getting comfortable in the seat. “Let me get situated.”

Jake chuckles, pulling on the seatbelt behind your head and placing it in your hand. “Take all the time you need,” he says, briefly meeting your gaze.

You glance around the cab which, to Jake’s relief, he just recently cleaned. “I mean, if you want my opinion” – you say, but Jake cuts you off with a laugh.

“I think you and I both know,” he says, sliding your seat back to give you more leg room, “that I can’t get enough of your opinions.”

Your smile widens as you glance at him in amusement. “The clearance of your pickup makes it especially dangerous for other vehicles on the road.”

Jake raises his eyebrows. “It makes it especially safe for its passengers in a collision,” he says.

“For you,” you reply pointedly. “Your bed sits so high off the ground, it can go right through somebody’s windshield.”

Jake scoffs. “They should get a truck, then.”

You sigh. “It always comes down to ‘what’s best for Jake?’, doesn’t it?”

He blinks at you. “I don’t like this game anymore.”

You purse your lips and look away, buckling your seatbelt. “You asked for it.”

“I just thought we could talk about fuel economy or the bumpy ride,” he says, feeling slightly deflated. “It certainly ain’t no Mustang.”

You glance at him curiously. “It’s definitely a little rough around the edges,” you say.

Jake takes this as a personal attack and immediately starts defending his truck. “Might be a bit less polished than you’re used to,” he says. “But it’s a hell of a lot tougher.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Mustang’s probably faster.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You like fast?” he asks.

You let out a laugh. “Not typically.”

Jake pauses to ponder over what that might mean. Then, he gives his head a slight shake and continues, “Truck has more power.”

“Mustang is a muscle car.”

Jake stares at you irritably. “Do you even know what that means?”

“It means it’s just as powerful as your truck with less weight to carry.”

“Truck has higher torque,” Jake retorts.

“What the fuck is torque?”

“The truck is bigger,” Jake continues, ignoring your question as he affectionately strokes the roof of the cab.

You press your lips together to hold back a grin. “Are we still talking about the car?”

Jake glances back at you with a smirk. “Truck’s more reliable,” he says.

Your eyes meet his as you consider his words at length. Finally, you look away, settling deeper into the seat. “Won’t know until you give me a ride, will I?”

Jake nods with a soft chuckle and closes your door. He stands for a moment outside the passenger side door, marvelling at the fact that each successive conversation he has with you seems to be his favorite one yet. He walks around the back of the truck, spinning his keys around his index finger as his heart performs a series of well-meaning flips in his chest, to which he doesn’t take too kindly. He climbs into his seat and sticks the key into the ignition, glancing over at you with a mischievous grin. “Mustang probably doesn’t even have a key,” he says.

You snort. “It’s called a key fob.”

“Oh, is that what it’s called?” Jake asks facetiously, turning over the engine.

“Starts the car all the same,” you respond with a shrug.

Jake reaches out to grab the back of your headrest as he looks over his shoulder to reverse. “I prefer the classic key in lock scenario. Guess I’m old school like that.”

You give him a withering look. “You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, turning out of the parking lot.

“I mean, the idea of inserting a phallic object into a fitted slot would entice a simple-minded man such as yourself,” you say smugly. “But, just so you know, there are other ways to get a motor running.”

Jake eyes you with amusement. “Enlighten me.” He would love to see how far you could take this metaphor.

You shrug. “You could hot-wire. Bypass the lock cylinder altogether.”

Jake laughs. “Depends on the car, of course,” he notes.

You shake your head with a chuckle. “I think this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

Jake glances at you with a smirk, his gaze slipping briefly to watch you rest your hands over your bare thighs. He grips the steering wheel tighter to refrain from reaching over and placing a palm over your leg. “Every conversation I have with you is fucking weird, Y/N,” he responds.

You scoff. “You’re blaming me for the weird?”

Jake grins, watching the road ahead. “You’re the weird one.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you cross your arms. “C’mon, you’re not offended, are you? Weird is good,” he says. “Weird is interesting.”

You turn your head to look at him and he grimaces at his slip. “You think I’m interesting?” you ask.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said that I’m weird and that weird is interesting,” you reason. “Ergo –”

“Please don’t say ‘ergo’.” Jake cringes.

You reach across the console to smack his shoulder.

Jake ducks with a laugh. “Don’t hit the driver!”

“Don’t be an ass, then,” you retort.

Jake steals a glance at you with a smirk. You’re shaking your head but you’re smiling, so he forms the split-second decision to make a detour, turning toward the beach.

“Where are you going?” you ask, noticing the change in course.

“It’s a surprise,” Jake responds, eyeing you cautiously.

You lean forward and squint into the darkness. “Are you heading for the beach?”

“What part of ‘it’s a surprise’ don’t you understand?”

You slump back into your seat with a resigned sigh. “Fine, I’ll be patient.”

“Sure, you will,” Jake replies skeptically, turning into a parking lot.

You peek out of your window at the stairs in the distance leading down toward the water. “Are you planning on going for a swim, Seresin?”

Jake pulls on the handbrake and takes the key out of the ignition. He looks over at you with a grin. “Not without you,” he says.

You start laughing. “No way.”

He shrugs. “Another time, then.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Well, I feel kind of bad for ruining your night,” he says. “Thought maybe I could make it up to you.” He pulls on his doorhandle and hops out of the cab. Walking around, he finds that you’ve already got your door open and your leg out of the truck, a heeled foot dangling about fifteen inches off the pavement. He reaches in to take your hand.

“Thanks,” you say, wrapping your fingers around his and stepping out.

Jake pulls a blanket out from the backseat before shutting the door while you watch him with furrowed brows. “Come,” he says, ushering you toward the back of the truck. He walks around back and lowers the tailgate, then he throws the blanket down onto the bed. “Hop on,” he says.

You look at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“To play duck, duck, goose, what do you think?” he responds flatly.

You stare at him, unamused. “I don’t know what to think,” you say pointedly, but you turn around and place your hands on the tailgate.

Jake grabs your waist as you hop and helps you land your bottom onto the blanket. Then, he jumps onto the bed and sits himself down beside you.

“Now what?” you ask, a note of cynicism in your voice.

“Now, we count the stars.” Jake lets out a sigh and lays his back down onto the truck bed, resting his hands over his chest.

You glance down at him in disbelief. “You’re not fucking serious.”

“Well, not about the counting part.”

You lift your eyebrows and lower yourself backward onto your elbows, still watching Jake. “This is absurd,” you say.

Jake glances at you with a serious expression. “Well, don’t watch me. The show’s up there.”

You look up to see a meteor cut across the inky sky and gasp. “Oh my god! Did you see that?” you squeal, pointing upward.

Jake laughs. “I saw about five while you were sulking.”

“Wow,” you breathe, staring at the night sky as the meteor shower continues overhead. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Get comfortable,” Jake says, nudging your elbow with his shoulder. “This only happens a few times a year.”

You rest your back on the blanket and Jake glances at you furtively as you blink up in awe. “You cold?” he asks. “Want to wrap the blanket around yourself?” he offers.

“Yeah, sure,” you respond absently.

Jake lifts himself onto his forearm and leans over you to grab the edge of the blanket. You glance up at him as he reaches and Jake, thrown completely off his game by the proximity of your face, freezes and stares at you like an idiot. There are about a dozen things he could say or do that might persuade you to dismiss the meteor shower in favor of less dignified pursuits. But Jake is convinced that, even if you were to temporarily let your guard down, you’re not the type of girl he can just get out of his system. And, truthfully, at this point, he probably wouldn’t want to.

You look away first, your gaze focusing instead on his arm, still stretched over your head, mid-reach. Jake fumbles with the corner of the blanket, suddenly aware that he’s been perched over your body for a solid thirty seconds, and pulls it over you as he moves away. “Thanks,” you mutter.

Jake squints up at the sky with a partially suppressed sigh and brings his hands behind his head. “We won’t stay for long if you’re uncomfortable,” he says. “Let me know if it gets too cold.”

You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his gaze squarely on the heavens. A moment later, however, you’re shifting yourself closer and Jake, without a second thought, extends his arm out so that you could rest your head on his shoulder. He nearly jumps out of his skin when you drape an icy leg over his, cozying up to the warmth of his body. “I’m comfortable,” you say quietly, tucking your frozen hands under his back.

Jake winces.

“Sorry!” You laugh.

He takes his hand out from under his head and holds it out for you. “Here,” he says, reaching for your hands. Tentatively, you put your balled up fists into his palm and he closes his fingers around them. “Better?” he asks, resting your cold hands over his chest.

“Mm-hmm,” you respond softly, and Jake all but melts.

After a short while of watching meteors streak across the sky without really seeing them, Jake brings his arm up around your shoulder, gently pulling you closer. “You warming up?” he asks.

He feels your body shift further into his side. “Yeah,” you say.

Jake swallows nervously and clears his throat. “Sorry I punched your… Mustang.”

You snort. “Sure, you are.”

He smiles. “Well, I am sorry that it upset you.”

“That’s funny,” you mutter. “You usually go out of your way to upset me.”

Jake cringes. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”

 “Hate to break it to you, Seresin,” you respond with a chuckle.

Jake purses his lips. “I guess I deserve that.”

You stir and then sit up slowly, looking down at him. “I accept your apology,” you say.

He nods and lifts himself up. “You ready to get going?”

“Probably should.” You look down at the clock on your phone. “It’s getting pretty late.”

Jake hops off the bed of the truck and then helps you get down, perhaps holding your waist a little tighter than necessary in the process. He walks you toward the passenger door.

“One time I asked Mustang,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at Jake with a playful grin, “if we could drive out into the middle of nowhere and lounge on the hood of his car and just, I don’t know, see if we can make out any constellations.” Jake watches you purse your lips and lower your head. You let out a bitter laugh and Jake furrows his eyebrows. “He said there’s no way in hell we could sit on his car because we could scratch the paint or leave a dent or –”

But before you could finish your thought, Jake bends down to hook his arm under your knees and you yelp in alarm as he lifts you off the ground and sets you down on the hood of his truck. You hold your arms out to balance yourself when he lets go and turn to look at him in shock, hanging your legs off the side. Jake leans into the hood, his arms on either side of your legs. “He didn’t let you sit on his car?” he asks in disgust.

You chuckle lightly and shake your head. “He wouldn’t even let me lean on it.”

Jake stares at you, bewildered. “You are really making me want to key that damn Mustang.”

Your eyes widen but your smile remains. “Are you kidding? That would be so much worse than beating him up. That car is his most prized possession.”

Jake glances over your face with a mixture of pity and disbelief. “And he had you.”

You scoff. “I’m not a possession.”

Jake patiently holds your gaze, confident that Mustang saw you as exactly that, and, prompted by a flicker of courage – or perhaps weakness – he lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your outer thigh. He studies you carefully, preparing himself for a wide range of possible reactions, but you don’t move a muscle. Your eyes bore into his, effectively disrupting every thought process in his head while simultaneously setting fire to his insides. He wants you so badly, he’s probably never wanted anything more in his life. And yet, even within his reach, you continue to be unattainable.

He exhales, finally looking away. Jake isn’t the kind of guy who cares terribly about right and wrong. In fact, a state of obvious vulnerability would be something he might have previously taken advantage of. But not tonight. And not with you.

Jake backs away from the hood, leaving you sitting solo. “Go ahead and scratch it up,” he says nonchalantly, as though the paint job is still the only topic of conversation. “You ain’t gonna hurt it.” He glances up to see you smiling at him and grins back. “I could put you on the roof if you like. You could dance on it. Just don’t fall off.”

You laugh. “Is this all part of your ploy to prove that the truck is superior?”

Jake smirks. “Have I convinced you?”

“I mean, it’s not without its flaws,” you say, tapping on the hood with your palm while you swing your feet.

Jake raises his eyebrows. “Well, completely flawless would be boring.”

You nod. “Let’s just say I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll take it.”

Read Part 6

A/N: Wooh hope you guys liked this one!! Someone requested stargazing and Hangman for my 3k celebration last week and it was so hard for me to not be like just wait for the next chapter of Less Talk! XD Love you guys!!

Muah!

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[mynamesaplant]

Lost in Transit and Translation (part 3)

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to be willing to try new things. Boy, it took me a hot second to post this. Hopefully those links aren't broken!

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Plot synopsis: Subway Boss Ingo finds some lone Pokéballs and decides to hold on to them until the owner can be found. The Pokémon, however, aren’t too keen to stick around some stranger who they can’t understand, and decide to find their trainer on their own.

Characters: Subway Boss Ingo (Pokémon), Subway Boss Emmet (Pokémon), Olivia Kame (OC)

Just for clarification, my OC's Pokémon speech is italicized, Ingo's Pokémon speech is in bold, and Emmet's Pokémon speech will be in bold and italicized. I tried to make it clear who was speaking without signifiers, but just in case!

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Ingo witnessed all this go down with a vague sense of horror. Not only did he have three Pokémon running around trainer-less, but they were escaping onto a busy platform. The potential for danger was quite high for the confused Pokémon, but the chance of collateral damage was even higher. He needed to stop them and, hopefully, Emmet was on his way to intercept them from the street level. His brother had insisted getting off the Doubles lines after he had radioed in that trouble seemed to be brewing, saying he would meet them at 49th and Rockwell, probably running all the way from 51st and Everton just so he could help Ingo out with these troublesome Pokémon.

Ingo almost passed out when he saw the Golurk start flying, the Infernape screeching under their arm as they blazed well over the heads of commuters. At least they were smart enough to not get near other people, but they were still his responsibility. This was just turning out disastrously. If he had just recognized their nervousness sooner-

“Ingo!”

He could see Emmet tearing down the stairs at full speed, eyes already fixed on odd trio moving down the platform.

“Emmet, we have a few runaway trains!”

Ingo said at full volume. Already, commuters were getting out of the way, knowing something unusual was happening and just knowing better that to be in the way of the two Subway Bosses. The commuters needed to be directed to somewhere safe in the meantime, so, with his Pokémon quite aware of the situation and his sibling blocking their means of escape, Ingo started directing people away from the mayhem. Emmet grabbed two Pokéballs from his belt and threw them in the direction of the runaways.

Stop! We are going so fast!

My apologies, but we must get away.

Golurk replied, trying to keep Infernape still, but not doing a good job since they were solely focused on getting away. Raichu’s ears flicked, one twitching in the direction one loud voice in front of him and the other behind him, towards the impossibly louder voice.

We have trouble!

He could see a man coming down the stairs, white coat flaring out behind him as two Pokéballs sailed through the air. A large, colorful Pokémon erupted from one ball, right on a collision course with Golurk and Infernape, but Raichu had his own problems.

He narrowly dodged the large, furry yellow thing that came from the other Pokéball, but immediately got yanked out of the air even as it missed him, a thin gossamer strand connecting him to whatever sailed past him. He toppled to the ground and came face to face with the other Pokémon, it was a Galvantula who was very intent on holding him fast.

Well, well, well! What do we have here? A pesky, little troublemaker?

No, no, no! Let me go!

Infernape saw the Pokémon that came hurtling toward them and, squirming out from under Golurk’s arm, clambered onto their shoulders, holding on with every muscle in his lithe body. He could hear Raichu freaking out behind him, screaming that he needed help, and he intended to get there, but one threat at a time.

Slow down. When I jump, go help Raichu, got it?

Excuse me, did you say jump?

Golurk asked, doing what they were told as their legs reappeared, coming to an abrupt halt on the platform, but momentum was not as kind to the Fire type. Infernape did not have time to explain as he was launched, a fist crackling with electricity as he delivered a swift uppercut to the oncoming Pokémon.

The resounding boom knocked Archeops out of the air as Infernape toppled toward the other man, reaching out his arms and using his shoulders as a springboard to perform a somersault. He ended up behind the man in white, who had been knocked to the ground with the force of his landing. Infernape leaned over him and knocked the hat on his head over his eyes, just for good measure.

“Hey!”

Emmet shrieked when the Pokémon did that. Infernape jumped over the human and tore back down the stairs where Golurk was extricating Raichu from a Galvantula. They tossed the Bug Pokémon away from them but looked worriedly at the Electric type.

Are you okay?

Infernape breathed, sliding to a stop beside them. Raichu looked dizzy, swaying in the air with a pinched face, like he was about to be sick.

I don’t know what she did to me.

Infernape could see the purple X across his stomach, it was not hard to guess that Raichu was suffering from poisoning.

All passengers must return their seats at this time. All violators will be handled accordingly!

Haxorus was on top of them, about to tackle into Infernape at full speed when he suddenly was picked up and thrown aside. Raichu wincing with the exertion of throwing the very heavy Dragon type away from them as Chandelure and Excadrill bore down on them.

Chandelure was going after Infernape, sensing that he was the little ringleader and knowing if she could stop him, the other two would give in quietly. She also saw that the small one was poisoned thanks to Galvantula, he weaved sluggishly in the air, and she directed Excadrill to focus on him.

On it.

He replied, heading straight for the injured Pokémon before Golurk stepped right in his path and snatched him up with one hand.

Refrain from touching my sibling.

Golurk repeated, an edge of warning in their tone as they pitched Excadrill away one handed. It was their best tactic since they did not want to hurt anyone unnecessarily.

Infernape was having a hard time with Chandelure, she was quite agile, and his eyes kept getting unfocused as she moved, her purple flames dancing before his eyes. When he tried to land a hit on her, he kept finding his fists were being blocked by an invisible barrier, she was trying to stall him as she waited on backup.

We must insist that you stop this. This is not a part of standard safety procedures!

I don’t know what that means! Just leave us alone!

He sensed before he saw the Bug Pokémon scuttling toward him, he could sense the electricity crackling in the air right as Galventula lunged. She was intercepted by Golurk, who seamlessly inserted themself in the way and absorbed the shock the Fire type was about to receive harmlessly.

The Ghost Pokémon had Raichu tucked protectively into one arm. At least one good sign was the Pokéballs were still floating around him, so he must at least still be conscious. Golurk grabbed Infernape again immediately after they had batted Chandelure and Galvantula away, he groaned a little. He was expecting the flying routine again and already feeling his stomach clench in anticipation.

Not again. Please not again.

My apologies… This might feel unpleasant to the living.

Come again?

Infernape asked suddenly shrill before all three vanished into thin air.

<<Previous--Next>>

||First||

[steph4buz]

How to Safely Navigate End Road Work Signs on the Road

Are you tired of being stuck in traffic due to road work and construction? Well, the good news is that once you see the End Road Work sign, you know that your commute is about to get much smoother. However, it's important to stay vigilant and cautious while navigating through the end of the road work zone. Here's what you need to know to safely navigate End Road Work signs on the road.

Why is it Important to Pay Attention to End Road Work Signs?

End Road Work signs usually indicate that the construction crew is finished with their work and the road is finally open to traffic. However, just because the road is open doesn't mean you should let your guard down. Oftentimes, the end of the road work zone means that there will still be workers on the side of the road finishing up some final touches. These workers may be removing cones, signs, or equipment as you pass by. If you're not careful, you could end up colliding with one of these workers or their equipment, putting yourself and others in danger.

What to Look Out for When Navigating End Road Work Zones?

The End Road Work sign does not guarantee that the road is completely back to normal. Here are a few things you should keep an eye out for:

Construction equipment and materials still on the side of the road

Workers who are still in the process of cleaning up the work zone

Uneven pavement and changes in lane markings or patterns

Temporary speed limit signs, as some road work may still be happening further down the road.

Remember to reduce your speed when you see any of these hazards. It's better to take your time and be safe rather than rushing and risking a collision.

What are the Key Takeaways When Navigating End Road Work Zones?

Here are some tips to remember when you see an End Road Work sign:

Be aware of your surroundings: look out for any workers, equipment, or debris

Reduce your speed: take your foot off the gas and slow down

Watch for changes in lane markings or patterns

Stay focused: avoid using your phone or any other distractions

Obey temporary traffic signs: they are there to keep you safe

Additionally, be sure to leave ample space between your car and the vehicle in front of you, and keep a cool head. An accident does not benefit any driver, so remember to drive defensively.

What are the Advantages of Safe Navigation through End Road Work Zones?

The advantages of safe navigation are clear: you'll be able to avoid collisions, roadblocks, and traffic jams. Moreover, if you drive with care and caution, you'll be doing your part to keep not only yourself but also your fellow drivers and nearby workers out of harm's way. By following these tips, you'll be ensuring a safer and less stressful commute for yourself and those around you.

Conclusion:

End Road Work signs are a relief for drivers who have been dealing with road work and construction. However, safety should always remain a top priority when navigating end road work zones. By paying attention to your surroundings, reducing your speed, watching out for changes in lane markings, and obeying temporary traffic signs, you can safely navigate through the end of a road work zone. Remember to stay alert and cautious, and always prioritize safety on the road.

If you want additional information, follow this link.

[mirsinnovate]

UAV tank inspection in Singapore

UAV means Unmanned Aerial Vehicle which is also known as a drone. With the use of these UAVs, we can do many things from them, from aerial photography, and aerial videography using it for UAV tank inspections, to scanning landscapes and many other uses. We would be discussing more about drones being used for inspecting confined tank spaces.

The traditional way of inspection

Inspection in confined tank areas is usually done by inspecting officers in the past. These officers would either have to climb down or just go into these areas to perform an inspection of the machinery and equipment that is in the tank. These can be dangerous as they can be prone to risks like slipping and falling from any loose debris or equipment on the ground or being exposed to harmful gases or chemicals as they access hazardous places.

To access these dangerous places, they may be equipped with the necessary safety equipment and uniform to protect themselves, however, the threat will still be prevalent, and anything can happen.

Besides the safety risk associated with these inspections, the process will be very slow. The facility or the area that needs to be inspected has to be prepared firsthand before the officers can enter the place to do the inspection. After which the officers have to go all the way into the tank first, and then perform the inspection carefully. The whole process can be time-consuming by the time they inspect the facility, they may not have time for other operations as the whole day may be dedicated to the inspection activities.

UAV tank inspection services in Singapore

To mitigate and prevent these issues associated with inspection, MIRS Innovate a drone company in Singapore offers UAV tank inspection services. By using drones, we can mitigate the dangers and issues from inspection, while also providing accurate details on the status of the facility or area.

UAV tank inspection also decreases the tasks needed for inspection, thus also reducing the time needed for the whole inspection process. Just letting the drone into the area requires very less preparation compared to officers doing the inspection.

MIRS Innovate’s UAVs will be equipped with advanced and highly accurate cameras that can show clear visuals of the facility. Their drones are collision tolerant, thus will not collide with any compartments in the facility. It also allows you to install unique sensors that can detect more information about the status of the machinery or equipment in the facility. These can help the inspection officers to perform an inspection from a safer place while also doing a thorough one with more insights into the condition of the area. This helps them to determine more accurately if the facility requires immediate attention for maintenance or needs one in the future.

Visit MIRS Innovate’s website for more information about their UAV tank inspection services and other drone services they provide.

[mangher-a]

Overall

Misha was born in small village, in the middle of nowhere, in a large country with a corrupt leadership.

His village and upbringing was rather conservative, in their life styles, beliefs and behaviour. Everyone in the families have a certain role, with the men providing and women taking care of the household. 

Due to his blood, his kind was seen as guards and warriors in his country. If ordered by the state, him, his father and his brothers would be called to the frontlines of conflict. If you refused or didn’t show up, you’d be either forcefully taken to the area, or you’d be tossed into confinement which could mean that you wouldn’t get out with all your sanity intact anymore, due to torture and neglect. 

It wasn’t too rare for families to break from the inside due to large amounts of stress. However, it often led to the one being left behind hunting their family down and hurting them, possibly even killing them, before disappearing somewhere. Misha had witnessed this a few times among the people of his village. Obsession was a dangerous thing, especially when breaking a bond was added to the mix.

The state could also threaten one’s family, and thus force your hand in taking part in conflicts. 

Family

Mikhail is the second oldest of seven. He has an older sister, four brothers and one baby sister. His older sibling was married off once she was old enough, her thus moving over to her husband’s family, making Mikhail the oldest and the one in charge of keeping an eye on his younger siblings as well as helping out his father on the fields and during hunts.

The family lived in a small house, consisting of just enough space to house paternal grandparents, his own parents, himself and his siblings.

Growing up wasn’t easy. Unruly behaviour was corrected with a heavy hand by either his father or grandparents. His mother would, if able to in time, lock the misbehaving kid in a room or in a shed, so they wouldn’t be harmed by the patriarch of the family. Once he calmed down, the kid in question was allowed out again.

This has numbed Mikhail to physical altercations, given that it was more or less explained away --- all his childhood --- as a sign of caring. He also dislikes to stay in one place for too long, especially in a confined room or small spaces.

Men weren’t supposed to show emotions, given that they are the ones keeping the family safe. Showing weaknesses would just make them vulnerable. Closeness, skinship, anything the like was rare. If you were upset, you were either isolated from the group or you got confronted by the father of the family which could turn ugly fast.

Bloodline stuff

Dire wolf blood. Making his kin grow big and sturdy. Also partially resistent to wolfsbane, making it more tolerable to deal with, though painful. He will be sick for a long time and even after his body has worked out the poison, there will be moments when he seems like he just got poisoned all over again due to his body still trying to fix itself. During this time a new dosage would definitely kill him.

There is talk that in his family there’s been a few individuals who have been born immune to wolfsbane, though this mutation skips generations on the regular. In Misha’s close family there were none. (inspired by this babey here)

He’s built incredibly sturdy. He can be in a head on collision with a truck and walk it off with a light limp. 

Having dire wolf blood in him makes him tolerate silver to a certain degree. If it is pure silver it will affect him more and also kill him if you get a good shot in, though it would require to hit a vital point. If a silver bullet scrapes him, it will cause a decaying wound if not taken care of. This results in a death through silver poisoning. Very slow, very agonising. (Great torture method.) 

Something or the Other

Like with many of the children in the village, even Mikhail had a mate picked out for him. They were engaged, she moved in with him and his family. The small cramped house was now more so cramped but everyone made do. Mikhail wasn’t too interested in the whole relationship, thus didn’t really rush forth with bonding or anything. Instead, he kept avoiding the whole topic. 

However, he did end up growing close to her and there was a chance they would have bonded at some point, had shit not hit the fan. 

As stated earlier, Mikhail was often called to the frontlines of conflict, though one time he was accused of treason. The state officers took him away to confinement, while also punishing his family for housing a traitor. The time spent in isolation did a number on his mental state and when he returned, he was not the same any more. He isolated himself further, barely interacting with others though seeking comfort from his mother. Showing weakness such as that was frowned upon in his family so he was punished and belittled by his grandmother and also his father. 

Eventually the stress from the situation was starting to get the best of him. He snapped at his siblings, once hurting his youngest sister by accident, which had his father enraged. This lead to a fight between him and his father. An ugly outdrawn fight which at somepoint turned to one of survival.

The whole fight ended up with Misha blacking out, having turned to a wolf that worked on pure instinct. 

He eventually snapped back to reality, while holding one of his younger siblings in his maw, blood soaking his fur and painting the snow covered ground. He was shaking, blood rushing in his ears in a way that he couldn’t hear anything going on around him. Eyes wild he looked around, the corpse of his sibling still clutched tight. 

The village woke up to the carnage, and to the prints of a large beast having fled to the forest. One more of their kind had lost his mind and was now but a feral beast. Silently they buried the remains of the family, though wondered what happened to one of the younglings.

Misha had carried them with him, occassionally stopping to put his sister down, nudging them and whining. Licking at the wounds in hopes of easing the pain that they couldn’t feel anymore. Misha carried them for three days, until he eventually just left her somewhere, and started to wander off on his own. 

He was reliving the events over and over, especially when trying to rest. His hunts for game were sloppy, violent. He was out of his mind, though slowly healing, rebuilding himself. 

He would become a provider, just like those before him. But he would do it better, he would make it work. This is an obsession he is harbouring, resulting in almost desperate approaches when it comes to relationships. He has to make it work, or he fails, and his mind most likely can’t handle it. Once he tried dating a girl casually, but that ended with her disappearing and him skipping town soon after. 

He left his country, roaming more freely around the world in order to find himself and get his mind back on track, to find structure and a solid ground to stand on, which --- hopefully --- wouldn’t have himself lose his mind again, and hurt those he care about.

His fears of hurting those close to him is also resulting to the way he treats people; being rude, giving crude remarks, being obnoxious. Unconsciously he pushes people away with the way he acts, so that there wouldn’t be any harm to them once he snaps again, because he is quite sure, he would do it again.

However, having left his home, he is labled as a traitor, with a bounty on his head and a target painted on his back.

[novelconcepts]

The night Dani sees Peter Quint, a blackout happens during the storm. The officers say that it's not safe to stay there in the middle of a storm and without a way to talk to the police if necessary. Hannah and the kids go to Owen's house. Jamie offers a ride, her little flat, clothes and a bath (since crazy Dani decided to run after Peter during the storm).

There's just one bed prompt. Maybe a small couch or chair.

They listen, which is frankly more than Dani expected when Hannah insisted on calling the police. She suspects it has less to do with the Peter Quint of it all, and more to do with the lightning strike, the cataclysm of rain, an old house plunged into deep black. No phone lines, the officers point out with weary expressions that say they are not certain Peter Quint is truly a danger--but Lord Wingrave is not without a certain amount of authority around these parts, and if any further tragedy should befall his niece and nephew, these men would find themselves overloaded on unpleasant paperwork and worse press. 

Bad reasons, Dani thinks with a scowl. They ought to have gone into this field to help people, not scoff at Hannah’s fear and Dani’s unease. They ought to be doing something, not simply waving them off the property for the night. It’s listening, sort of, but it isn’t hearing. 

She glances at Jamie as the officers speak--directly, she notes, to Owen, as though as the only man among them, he has defaulted to de facto lord of the manor. He looks uncomfortable, rubbing a hand through wet hair; Dani remembers him saying, I was born in Bly, wonders if he went to school with either of the men in slick uniform. 

Jamie doesn’t look uncomfortable. Jamie looks angry. There’s a fire burning in her Dani suspects never entirely went out after this afternoon’s rose debacle, one that might have been tempered if they’d been able to track Quint down outside. But he’s in the wind, the product of long legs and a better awareness of the terrain. Dani, giving chase into a fresh downpour before she could think better of her choices, is still itching at the memory of his long coat vanishing into the dark. 

She’d run into Jamie, instead--full-force, a bone-rattling collision that had sent them both tumbling into the sopping grass. It might have been funny, if not for the echo of Quint’s footfalls dying away.

“If he’s here?” Jamie asks now. “Quint. If he’s still here? What then?”

The officer in charge gives her a brief look, barely long enough to register detail. “If he’s here,” he says boredly, “all the better that you aren’t.”

Jamie grinds her jaw. She seems barely to be containing herself, resisting the impulse to explain in no uncertain terms that this is their home, this place Quint is intruding upon. Their home--Hannah and the kids and Dani, at least--where Quint would be trailing slimy fingers. The idea of that smirking face going through the bedrooms makes Dani shudder. It seems to press Jamie toward an unwise argument. 

Without thinking, Dani reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. Jamie’s hair is still dripping, her jacket sodden. Her eyes, catching on Dani’s face, widen a little, her teeth unclenching. 

“You have somewhere to go?” the head officer reiterates, glancing back toward the door as though dreaming of a warm car, a comfortable house far from the manor. Owen nods in Hannah’s direction. 

“Mum won’t mind. Can have a little sleepover.”

“Yes!” Flora perks up. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against Miles’ side, but her whole face switches on like a lantern now. “A sleepover!”

“How’s about it, Miles?” Hannah taps him lightly on the head. “A little evening adventure.”

He looks uncertain, but when she ruffles his hair, a slow smile creeps across his face. Dani’s relieved to see it--she’s started to believe Miles is thirty-five in a ten-year-old frame, the weight of so much loss bearing him down like an anchor. He deserves a little fun. 

“And you,” Hannah adds, looking to Dani as if reading her mind. “What do you say to a night off?”

Dani blinks. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necess--”

“Chased a man into the storm,” Hannah interrupts. “Not a decision I’d approve of twice, but it was quite brave. And, forgive me dear, but you look like you could use a proper rest in the aftermath.”

That might be, Dani thinks absently, the nicest way of saying you look like shit I’ve ever heard. 

“I’ll just get cleaned up real quick,” she says, “and then I’ll be perfectly fine to--”

Hannah raises a hand. “I insist. Let Owen and I handle them for the evening.”

Dani opens and closes her mouth several times. What’s the alternative? Is Hannah expecting her to stay here? Here, in a house they’re all carefully not admitting feels much bigger in the dark, huddled around the glow of policeman flashlights? 

“Can crash at my place,” Jamie says, almost gruffly. “If you don't mind the company.”

Hannah looks unsurprised by this offer. Dani feels a little light-headed at the idea. 

“I--I’m all muddy.”

Jamie makes a show of looking down at her own clothes, caked in wet clods of grass, soaked nearly to the skin. She raises her eyebrows in Dani’s direction as if to say, Any more sterling arguments?

Dani has none.

Jamie doesn’t say a word as they load into her truck, Dani trying her best to shrink down to inhabit as limited a space as possible. Her legs ache with the effort of holding her feet aloft, her thighs pressed together to prevent staining the whole seat with grime. Jamie glances in her direction, pulling carefully out onto the road, and Dani could swear she’s trying not to smile.

“Know what I do for a living, don’t you?”

Dani nods. Jamie clears her throat.

“Then should go without saying you’re not the first to track mud into the truck. Relax.”

Embarrassed, Dani does as she’s bid. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jamie’s mouth twitch again--sees Jamie’s hands resting comfortably at ten and two, Jamie’s shoulders slightly rounded as though by holding her posture firm, she can punch a hole through the sheeting rain. She doesn’t seem nervous in the least to be driving through this mess with Dani huddled beside her. 

Jamie, Dani is starting to think, doesn’t get nervous.

Well, that makes one of us. 

She has nothing to be nervous about, is the thing. Chasing a strange man into a storm, racing after him with nothing but a fire poker and a hot protective impulse--that should have made her nervous. Should have scared the shit out of her. And it hadn’t. She’d felt bizarrely well-equipped for the decisions she was making, at the time. Peter Quint, she’d been certain, should have been the nervous one.

But now, sitting with wet hair and mussed clothes beside a woman she’s held barely three conversations with, Dani feels distinctly out of her element. No kids. No easy warmth of a carefully-sewn-together family opening its arms to let her in. Just a truck, rattling along a slick road on its way to a tiny town she’s never set foot in before.

And a woman with wet curls plastered to her forehead, stealing tiny glances at Dani like she’s not quite sure what to do with her.

“Flat’s small,” Jamie says, as if apologizing, as she parks outside a pub that looks older than any establishment in Dani’s hometown. “Don’t need much. But there are no screamin’ kids.”

Flora and Miles aren’t much for screaming without reason, but Dani thinks she takes Jamie’s point all the same. Quiet, Jamie is trying to say. Dani can properly rest here, Jamie is trying to say. Jamie doesn’t mind offering up her space.

“Ready?” The rain is still coming down in a torrent. Jamie’s hand is positioned at the doorhandle, Jamie’s posture strung tight. “Make a break for it on three. One--two--”

They run, damp clothes made soggy all over again, and Dani is surprised to hear herself make a whooping sound of joy as she splashes through puddles. Jamie, she thinks, could move faster--Jamie’s got a runner’s stamina when she puts her mind to it--but she’s jogging along at an easy pace, refusing to leave Dani behind. Her hand catches once on Dani’s sleeve, pulling her to the stairs behind the pub, guiding her up to a door at the top.

“Storms like these,” Jamie says when they’ve tumbled breathlessly into her home, “remind me of bein’ a kid. Sitting in school, hoping the power’d go so they’d send us home early.”

“Did it ever happen?” Dani wraps her arms around herself, trying not to shiver, trying not to drip too expansively across the scored floorboards. Jamie grins.

“Once. I was seven. Spent the whole day out in it anyway, caught the worst cold of my life. Best goddamn day a kid could want.” 

She looks so at home here, as Dani watches her pull off her boots, drape her jacket lazily over a chair, stride around turning on lights. At the manor, Jamie is casual enough, rarely inclined to rush or worry, but here, it’s instantly clear she knows every creak in the floor, every stubborn lightswitch, every inch of a domain that is entirely Jamie. 

A domain she has, for no reason at all, opened up to Dani tonight. The reality of it crashes home all at once, landing hard. Jamie barely knows her, and still is willing to give Dani a place to stay. Jamie barely knows her, and still is holding out a gray towel and a bundle of clothes, her smile crooked.

“Thought you might like to get out of those.”

A spike of warmth makes its way up Dani’s spine, settling somewhere around her ears. She crushes it down, forcing herself to accept the sweats and t-shirt with a grateful smile of her own.

“Thank you. Honestly, you didn’t have to do any of this--”

“The rain,” Jamie says easily, “is the fun part. The cold, not so much. Bath’s this way.”

Bathroom, Dani assumes she means--until Jamie gestures at the little tub, barely big enough for a woman her size. She looks marginally embarrassed for the first time, but it’s a resolute sort of embarrassment, as though Jamie has little patience for it. 

“Not much,” she says. “But still better than catching ill. Take however long you like.”

Dani watches her back out of the room, a tumble of unfamiliar emotions in her chest. Someone offering up everything--home, clothes, bathtub--without asking for something in return is strange. Someone doing that much and then leaving, peaceable as the turn of a new day, is unheard of. She hesitates, waiting at the closed door for signs that Jamie will change her mind--or knock, having thought of something else Dani might need--and nothing comes. This room has become, so long as Dani wants it, her space. Jamie will take it back only when Dani’s finished. 

Unwelcomely, she tries to imagine Eddie doing this very thing. Eddie, who only refrains from haunting her European adventures with postcard and phone call because he has no idea how to find her. Eddie, who would think the offer of clothes and a hot bath automatically come with other perks, and who would smile as he stepped in to collect like he couldn’t imagine her wanting to be left alone. 

She shakes her head. Eddie is gone, and she is here, and Jamie isn’t him. Is so unlike him, in fact, it’s hard to imagine them standing in the same room.

And why, some little part of her pipes slyly up, are you comparing them in the first place? 

She shivers, turning on the water, letting it run as hot as possible before sinking in. She leans her head back against a wadded-up washcloth, surveying the simplicity of the bathroom--single toothbrush, single cup for water, a minute assortment of hairbrush, hair ties, sunscreen. There is a dried rose framed beside the door, a small bunch of purple-and-white flowers she can’t name in a tiny windowsill vase. 

It’s all very discreet, all very Jamie. To look at it with this much freedom, to be trusted alone in a space that has belonged to no one else, makes her heart pound.

She’s only being nice. And so what? What does it matter? 

It matters. Even if she never says so, even if she never lets it out of her heart, Dani can’t deny that it matters. Like it mattered watching Jamie walk into the kitchen earlier this week, glancing at her with an easy raise of brows like she was thinking, Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

Jamie, calling her Poppins, telling her she’s doing great, offering her flat without a second’s pause. None of it warranted. None of it asked for. All of it so incredibly welcome.

She stays in the bath until the shivers ease out, carefully soaping her hair with the little bottle of shampoo on the windowsill. A different scent and brand than her own, and as she’s rinsing clean, she realizes she will smell like Jamie now. If for only a night, her hair--and the clothes Jamie gently pressed into her hands--will hold just a little bit of the gardener’s influence. 

The warmth she’s beginning to attribute to Jamie sweeps through her again at the idea. That, and the awareness that these are Jamie’s things hugging her body. Jamie’s belongings, offered up like she feels not the least bit possessive about her living space. Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

“Warm?” Jamie asks when she finally steps back out of the bathroom. Her hair is still wet, though she’s changed into a clean white shirt and sweatpants of her own. Dani nods, confused when Jamie grins. 

“What?”

“I think,” Jamie says placidly, “this is the first time I’ve seen you out of pastels. Suits you.”

Dani glances down. The threadbare black t-shirt bears a jagged white London Calling in peeling letters. She can’t help smiling.

“Maybe I’m a secret punk fan.”

“Are you?” Jamie sounds interested. Dani shakes her head.

“Sorry, no. Always open to learning, though.”

Here it is again: that funny, twisting feeling in her stomach that says she is at home with Jamie. That Jamie is easy and warm, despite the anger simmering somewhere deep down and a tendency toward cropping her sentences with swear words. That Jamie has opened her home to Dani only because Jamie has opened to her, on some level neither of them is entirely sure how to approach. 

“Thank you,” she says, because it’s easier than putting this feeling into words. “For all of this. You didn’t have to.”

Jamie shrugs. “Wanted to. You haven’t had an easy couple of days. Sometimes, a little quiet goes a long way.”

She’s seated on the arm of the couch, bare feet dangling an inch off the floor. Looking at her, Dani can’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea that she’s only known this woman for a couple of days. That she doesn’t, in fact, know much of anything about her at all. 

And still, when Jamie rises and begins arranging pillow and blanket on the couch, Dani’s stomach performs a backflip she’d never come close to feeling with Eddie.

“That’s really kind of you,” she says, the words a blind effort to distract from her trembling hands. “I really don’t need much, you don’t have to go to any trouble--”

Jamie glances over her shoulder. “No trouble. Bed’s just that way.”

Dani turns to look. Sure enough, behind a pulled-back curtain, she can just make out Jamie’s mattress and frame. “I--I mean, I won’t be bothering you, if that’s what you--”

“What?” Straightening, Jamie frowns. “No, I mean, it’s yours. Take it. I sleep on the couch half the goddamn time anyway, it’s no--”

“I am not,” Dani interrupts, “taking your bed, Jamie.”

Not since her last argument with Miles has she been engaged in such a standoff. Jamie, still holding a pillow, looks ready to chain herself to the couch. Dani, heady with the inescapable awareness of Jamie’s shampoo rinsed out of her own hair, can’t have that. It’s too much. Clothes and space and ride--all of that, she can accept. But foisting Jamie from her own bed?

“I’m not doing it,” she says. Her arms are folded, her mouth pulling into a smile she can’t for her life shake. “I’m told I'm very stubborn, so you might as well just let me have that couch now.”

“I--” For the first time all night, Jamie seems to be at a loss. “I’m--aiming for chivalry, here, Poppins.”

“You’ve been nothing less,” Dani assures her. “A white knight, really. But I’m afraid this is where I have to draw the line.”

“I sleep on it all the time.”

“So, it’s my turn.”

Jamie’s whole face seems on edge of some kind of collapse--though into laughter or upset, Dani can’t begin to guess. She has a brief flash of possibility, the two of them standing on either side of the couch all night, arguing well into daylight over who ought to take the proper night’s sleep.

“You’ve got kids to handle in the morning,” Jamie says reasonably, proving her point.

“You spent all day working in the sun,” Dani volleys in return. She thinks for a moment, then adds, “Also, I knocked you into a puddle earlier, and you didn’t get a nice warm bath.”

“Didn’t need one.” Jamie looks exasperated. “Poppins, come on. This doesn’t have to be a big bloody deal.”

It doesn’t, Dani agrees. It really doesn’t. All Jamie has to do is step out of the way, step behind that curtain, put herself to bed where she belongs.

Or, alternatively--

It’s coming out of her mouth before she can stop it. Before she can run through all the reasons not to suggest this very thing. Before she can pin down the butterflies having a dogfight in her stomach and make a decision based in good judgment. 

“Look, if you’re that committed to making me sleep in the bed, come join me.”

Jamie nearly drops the pillow. Her calm has utterly vacated the flat, leaving behind a woman who looks--if Dani isn’t much mistaken--much nearer to frantic than she’s ever seen Jamie before. Much nearer to the kind of nervous Dani had been on the ride over. 

“I,” she says. “That--I shouldn’t--”

“It’s the best compromise,” Dani says, trying to sound reasonable. Trying to sound as though the invitation to share Jamie’s bed isn’t making her entire body run with sudden electricity. “Neither of us is very big, I’m sure we can fit.”

“I’m--sure we can.” Jamie is grimacing. Jamie looks pained. If she had an elegant way out, Dani would take it back simply to erase that look from Jamie’s face, a look that says Jamie would rather sleep in her tiny bathtub than wherever Dani is. 

Elegant way out, she can’t find, and she’s tired. Tired, and buzzing with nerves, and somehow, the au pair wins out over all possible variants of Dani Clayton. “It isn’t that bad an idea,” she says, her voice steady. “I don’t even snore.”

This breaks something open between them. She can’t put her finger on just what it is, or why, but suddenly Jamie is laughing, and Dani is grinning, and she knows the stalemate is at its end. It’s been too long a night. There’s just no point.

“Here,” she adds, settling at the edge of the bed, watching Jamie switch off the lights and creep closer as though trying not to startle a skittish animal. “I’ll lay right on the edge, you won’t even have to know I’m here--”

“Don’t be silly,” Jamie says. She hesitates; Dani wonders if she’s giving a final chance for Dani to shoo her away, to choose a night spent alone after all. She thumps the bedspread with a flat palm, staring meaningfully at Jamie until the mattress sinks beneath the weight of au pair and gardener alike. 

“See?” she can’t stop herself saying. “We fit.”

Jamie stares at her, a lingering gaze Dani couldn’t decipher on her best day. She opts to ignore it, stretching out under the rumpled covers. Beside her, Jamie slides a hand beneath her head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Not so bad,” Dani says, wishing she could shut up, wishing she could stop thinking--about Jamie’s head on the pillow beside her, about Jamie’s scent sunk into this pillow, about the indent of Jamie’s body in this old mattress where maybe no one else has ever lain. Jamie makes a low sound in her chest. 

“Long day.”

“So long.” Was it only this morning Dani was having a small panic attack, the strain of a new job on top of familiar guilt too heavy to bear? Was it only this afternoon she’d grabbed Jamie’s shoulder, pulled her back from storming off to skin Miles alive?

Was it really only this evening she’d stalked out after Peter Quint, crashed headlong into Jamie, listened to police officers warn them all away from the manor in a blackout?

Jamie clears her throat. Dani’s starting to think it’s a nervous habit--Jamie seems to do it only around her. Why on earth would I make her nervous? “Comfortable?” she asks the ceiling. Dani nods. 

In the dark, the bed seems smaller. The pillows are touching, the blankets bridging the brief gap between Jamie’s right leg and Dani’s left. In the dark, Jamie’s breath is audible, the smell of rain and shampoo and clean clothes twisting together into a single knot. 

In the dark, Dani thinks, they could be anyone. Not gardener and au pair, but anyone, bound by a single unpredictable night. 

She wonders if they should talk--about Peter Quint, about the tension of the evening, about the kids, or the roses, or any number of little odd moments around the manor. She wonders if Jamie expects her to ask questions--who Quint is, what he was to Rebecca Jessel, what he might be doing skulking around the house. 

She can’t quite find it in her. It’s too warm, too soft, the silence as inviting as the rustle of Jamie’s borrowed clothes against her skin. Laying in the dark, Jamie’s foot nearly touching her own, listening to the storm pound the windowpanes, Dani is breathing easier than she has in months. 

“I’m glad,” she says quietly, “you’re here.”

Jamie’s head rustles the pillowcase, turning to look at her. “Yeah?”

Dani smiles. “Yeah. I can’t explain it, but I feel...safer.” Something sharpens behind her ribcage, something that begs her to add, With Hannah, with Owen, with the kids, too. She doesn’t. It’s true, but it’s also not really what she means. 

“He doesn’t know where to find you,” Jamie says, and for a moment, Dani wonders how she could possibly be talking about Eddie. Then Jamie adds, “I hate that fucker. So does Owen. Everyone is safe tonight.”

Right. Peter Quint. Of course. “I’m glad,” Dani repeats. She feels the mattress shift as Jamie carefully settles in. “Jamie?”

“Mm?”

Too many things to say. Too many questions to ask. Too many of those butterflies winging around as Jamie’s elbow bumps her, as Jamie’s breath brushes her cheek. She shuts her eyes, the simple image of Jamie’s gaze inches away too much to handle. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Poppins,” Jamie murmurs. And though Dani’s heart is racing, though her skin is hot, though the storm outside is brutal and Jamie’s bed is much smaller than she’d thought--she finds herself relaxing. Finds herself thoughtlessly shifting to a more comfortable position on her side. Finds herself, even, leaning in toward Jamie’s warmth as the sound of her breathing shallows. 

For the first time in what feels like years, Dani Clayton sleeps.

[twstoric]

take a leap with me

𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅: Hello! First off your writing is simply amazing and I’m wishing the best for your blog! Is it alright if I can request scenarios of Jamil, Trey, and Leona and their first time having sex with their s/o?

𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: jamil viper x gn!reader, trey clover x gn!reader, leona kingscholar x gn!reader

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: fall deeper in a world that’s only filled with the two of you

𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘(𝕤): none! fluffness and teasing remarks

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 1.6k (total)

𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: thank you so much!! i’ll try my best ;; i hope you’ll like it!

Jamil Viper

“I don’t know what I should…” You trail, brows furrowed in concentration. Figuring out how to navigate NRC can’t possibly be compared to how much more complex your current situation is—well more or less..

Jamil’s lips pull in an awkward smile; not sure what to say to reassure you. He’s laying on his bed, head propped by soft pillows as you straddle his legs—or at least that’s what the plan was. You’re still standing on your knees, looking down at Jamil’s legs like a complex puzzle.

“I’m sure it’s not something you should think too hard about,” he tries, tentatively placing his hands on your thigh and he moves to hold your hips when you don’t pry his hands away. “Just do what makes you feel good.”

A small pout settles on your lips as you let Jamil press you down against his crotch; blushing at the hardness already rubbing against you. He looks so composed despite being hard.. Amazing or unbelievable, you’re not sure…

Your nails rake over the exposed skin of his hip, the sexy dip of his v-line leading to a treasure worth more than the world’s riches. You hook your fingers on his pants, tugging lightly. “I want to make you feel good, though..” 

Not receiving a reply, you look up at Jamil’s face looking back at you impassively. You give him a small smile, “Too much?”

He shakes his head, sighing lightly and suddenly his hips buck into yours. Your breath hitches in surprise, heat spreading all over your body as Jamil trails his hands up your sides. “No.. too sexy, actually,” he explains and you feel awfully embarrassed by the matter-of-fact tone he used. 

Jamil smiles soon after his comment, nudging you up on your knees and you watch—as if under his spell—as the long-haired male slowly pushes down his pants. A smirk blooms on his face, dangerously handsome, and his hands settle back on your waist. It makes sense why he insisted you take your undergarments off first… 

You don’t need anymore promptings, impossibly turned on and body aching to feel Jamil’s everything. Your breath hitches when his cock easily breaches your insides, sliding in smoothly like he belongs there- like he belongs in you—joined together body and soul.

His fingers take hold of yours, lacing your fingers together as he allows you to adjust yourself on his cock. “Y- you’re a lot bigger than I thought,” you murmur, a blissed sigh leaving your lips when you’re fully seated on his cock.

A breathless laugh leaves Jamil’s lips in reply, fingers squeezing yours in comfort as his face flushes. “You’re also a lot tighter than I thought,” he teases, rolling his hips and a violent shiver rakes through your body. 

“Now relax,” he whispers, pulling your joined hands closer to his lips. The breath in your lungs disperses and you clench down on the cock inside you on instinct as Jamil, eyes watching you like a snake, takes your fingers in his mouth. He kisses your fingers like a favored jewel, mouth hot on your skin. The corner of his lips tugs upwards;

“Let me take care of you.”

Trey Clover

“Do you want me to take the lead this time?” Trey questions, an easy smile on his face as he hovers over you. His shirt is already unbuttoned; revealing lean figure and firm muscles. His belt is discarded somewhere in the roomーthrown away in your haste after finally deciding to share this moment together.

You can feel your face flushing; fingers tangled in the bedsheets under you because you’re not sure what to do with your hands. “What should I say to that..?” You reply instead, giving him a small smile and Trey chuckles softly.

He inches closer to you, nudging his nose against yours and your face scrunches in embarrassment but a small laugh leaves your lips. Much better. “You could say things like.. ‘Of course, Trey’ or ‘Yes, Trey anything for you, Trey’ whichever is fine with you.” 

You grin, biting back a laugh and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. With no struggle (not that he wants to move away to begin with), Trey lets you pull him; lips descending on yours like a perfect collision. His kisses are always so sweet, handling you like an absolute rule he’ll follow without question.

“Please take care of me, Trey,” you whisper when pulling away; internally smirking at the flush on his face from your words.

A wry smile spreads on his face as Trey moves to your side. “Well that’s a lot better than what I suggested,” he mumbles, patting your shoulder blade and you turn to your side; facing away from him. “I’ll be sure to follow all your commands.” With a final laugh, the green-haired settles behind you.

“It’ll be better if I could see you, isn't it?” You question but you don’t make any other protest as Trey’s fingers snake around your waist; unlacing your pants. His fingers dip past the waistband of the shorts you’re wearing and pushes the material down along with your undergarments. You kick the soft cotton away and Trey bucks his hips into yours.

The vice leader presses a feather light kiss against your neck, moving to remove his pants that’s become too constricting. “I thought you asked me to take care of you- I’m doing it now, you know?” A small hiss leaves his lips, breathing heavily when the cool air hits his exposed cock; painfully hard because of you. The things you do to him...

“You can always take the lead next time.”

An embarrassed sound leaves your mouth; hands covering your face to hide your embarrassment despite Trey not facing you. “Don’t be a perv,” you scold, holding no real bite and just a way to hide your fluster. But a warm feeling settles in your stomach at the prospect of Trey wanting to do this again with you… 

You let Trey lift one of your legs up, closing your eyes to focus on the way his cock brushes against your ass; already hard. “Relax for me,” his lips are against your ears, kissing down the skin of your neck as Trey positions your bodies. 

His cock stretches your insides perfectlyーyour insides clenching down on the intrusion and Trey breathes a satisfied sigh. Your chest constricts with a sudden pressure but you feel the overwhelming adoration for the man behind you. 

The first thrust is gentle, taking everything slow and building a steady rhythm. As promised, Trey takes care of you thoroughlyーmaking love to you all night.

Leona Kingscholar

“You’re so quiet suddenly,” Leona comments, pulling your pants down the curve of your ass. 

You don’t retort playfully as you normally do, burying your face in the sheets of Leona’s soft bed. Your hips are raised slightly, held up by the pillow under your stomach as your front presses against the bed sheets. 

After a beat of silence, feeling Leona dribble something cool against your skin, you speak up; “What should I say in this situation?” You gulp, a small moan leaving your lips when Leona inserts a finger inside your warm hole. “Pl- please be gentle.” You can’t help but warn, thighs quivering when Leona’s fingers curl. You thought his nails would’ve been a hindrance but looks like Leona cut his nails already. 

You moan, the sound embarrassed as you bite the bed sheets. He prepared himself for you, didn’t he? There’s no way he would cut his nails just like that which meansー”O- oh!” You gasp, head thrown back slightly as a second finger spreads you wider.Your eyes struggle to stay opened, mind already clouding with the thoughts of something bigger stretching you. You clear your throat, “When did you cut your nails..?”

Leona blinks, curling his fingers again and smirking at the way you’re softly panting. “Hm.. I wonder. Probably the other week, I guess.” The smirk on his face stretches wider and his fingers inside you brushes a spot that makes you squeal. “You have to always be prepared, don’t you?” He laughs, playing with your insides. Patience, he thinks, is so fucking difficult.

An impossible feat, really, especially when you’re writhing under him, just eager to plunge in this new step with him. But he needs to make sure you’ll be able to take him properly. He can’t fuck upーnot when it comes to you.

Your body burns with a desire to reach ecstasy; hips bucking back onto Leona’s fingers as he preps you thoroughly. Feeling satisfied with his work and growing impatientーfuck patienceーthe dorm head pulls your hips back by grabbing the pillow under you; using the edges to raise your ass higher.

The pillow is rather large and firm so it’s enough to rest your weight on it as Leona places his hands on your hips. The tip of his cock rubs against you; teasing and torturous all the same. He lays on top of you, biting your shoulder playfully as his cock finally catches your opening.

Slowly, with a care only shown to a trusted mate, Leona eases himself into you. His forehead presses against your nape, lips kissing your skin as he stuffs you full. The stretch is excruciating, body unprepared for the large intrusion and small whimpers leaves your throat.

Leona grunts, licking and marking your neck with soft pressureーcomforting his mate. “Relax for me… You’re doing so goodーgh… You can take me. Just relax,” he shushes softly, the way your insides accommodate him feels heavenly. Convincing Leona that you were definitely made for him just as he’s made for you. 

His hands take yours, easing your hold on the bed and lacing your fingers together. The first thrust drawls a moan from the both of you. Pleasure and adoration coursing through your veins as Leona holds on to you tightly; unwilling to let go.

[greenninjagal-blog]

Deja Vu pt 7

Hey guys. Been a hot minute. If it makes you feel any better this was supposed to be a short chapter and it ended up being 25 pages long. :) If you’re new to the story, you can check out the first chapter [here] or if you need a refresher check out the previous chapter [here]!

Summary: Dee takes on The Prince in a fight, and Remus takes on the Prince’s sidekick.

Word Count: 12029

TW: temporary character death, blood, teargas, guns,

Read on Ao3 || Hero Worship Series || My General Writing Masterlist

Remus is twenty-one and he doesn’t think he’s ever been as terrified before in his life as he is the second he sees Dee launch across the stage. 

He’s been scared before though: scared from the moment he saw Roman hit the asphalt at eight years old and there was so much blood outside his body and Mom wouldn’t stop cradling the body even when the EMTs were trying to help; scared from the moment he stood in the gas station bathroom miles and miles from what he’d thought had been his home and trying to tell himself that that was going to be the last time he chose to look at a future where he tossed himself into the jaws of death; scared from the moment when he was laying in Dee’s lap with a million lies stuffed in his throat and still was choosing to tell him the truth about this stupid ability of his that only ever ended with him alone and forgotten and not missed at all. 

Remus has been scared out of his mind, scared in his mind, scared far beyond the way that he thinks that any other living person could understand. He’s been walking with one foot in the grave since he was eight years old and eleven minutes younger than Roman and people still-- since that was still-- since the first time it started mattering to him at all.

He’s been scared.

It’s still nothing compared to the horror that grips his heart in an icy fist as Dee throws himself mindlessly into a fight Remus can’t see the end of.

It’s stupid and Remus doesn’t quite know how it got to this point even though he had been listening so hard to what Dee was saying. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s the type of kid that grew up excelling in everything he touched and he liked touching everything. He does math in his head like the numbers work for him, he speaks French like his tongue had never known another language, he lies and steals and uses people without them ever knowing they were puppets in his show.

Dee is a genius among idiots.

And somehow Remus is still watching him pitch himself into a physical fight with The Prince despite how he spent the previous three days saying that physical fights weren’t his forte and that their best bet was to humiliate and discredit the man on stage instead.

The Prince is smart and fast and most likely expecting the attack, but even he doesn’t have a chance to dodge against the agility of Dee aided by a surplus of invisible animal speed traits. Dee is moving for less than a second and--

--his claws are morphing right there in front of Remus’s eyes, too slow to make out, too fast to miss and Remus is beyond time and space as he stands there feeling more stuck than he’s ever been before. Dee’s nails are sharp with hatred, with protectiveness, with a selfish defense that Remus had only ever seen in spurts before. The Prince’s throat is soft and fleshy and weak.

One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer.--

--One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer?--

--shallow, painful, but not deadly because Dee is not a murderer.--

--Dee is moving for less than a second, but The Prince is expecting an attack and raises his arm in a flash of green light, and rolls to the side. Dee’s fist misses his face by inches, but it’s enough for the superhero to stumble off the stage which is not right, which is not what Remus saw, not what is supposed to be happening. 

His head is screaming so loudly he can’t piece together a single thought. His stomach lurches up his esophagus, leaving him choking on something that might or might nor be real while Dee fights up on that stage. 

The police bodyguards nearest to the shapeshifter swing into action, with guns or tasers or whatever-- it doesn’t matter because Dee’s body turns to a golden jelly like substance and absorbs the bullets and negates the electrical charge with a near maniac grin.

((And god, is it alluring to see Dee go absolutely feral even when Remus thinks that his own body is trying to kill him. He’s always so posh, so sophisticated, so in control. This is the side of Dee that he hides under a pleasant smile, the part that matches the scales and the fangs and the claws, the part that is half animal and doesn’t care about empty words.))

The crowd screams, chaotic and messy and dangerous and it turns the atmosphere into a thick soup of confusion and desperation. Remus feels one of those stupid fucking signs crash into his shoulder blade as someone gets shoved or hit or slammed or run over-- Remus isn’t sure because his focus is only on Dee, only on The Prince, only on the absolute anarchy that is playing out on stage like a theater production.

Remus remembers suddenly that he’s never made it through the intermission of a theater show, never made it to the second act and never made it to see the lead actors take their bows. Remus always left early.

He can’t leave early now. 

He doesn’t even want to, not really, not in any way that matters. Remus’s lungs are burning and his heart is slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out and taste the world for itself. He grips the crowd control fence, so hard he’s not sure anything short of a nuclear bomb can get him off of it-- there’s a cold feeling stroking his spine, a voice in his head that tells him he needs to go and go now or he’s going to end up in one of those futures he promised his seventeen year old self that he’d never go through with. 

He can’t move.

Call him a captive audience but Remus is on the edge of his seat, off his seat, one breath away from joining the actors on stage and ruining everything. 

Dee lunges forward at the police line while The Prince crawls back up to his feet in a stupid daze, too slow, too dumb, too much like someone who couldn’t actually believe this was happening and too thick-headed to keep up with the actions. 

Dee never told Remus that he was an acrobat, that he was as flexible as an Olympic Gymnast, that he could twist in the air and remove his own bones and make use of every breath between him and his enemy. Remus thinks of every time he’d counted the feet, inches, centimeters, between the two of them and for the first time he thinks that Dee might have been counting them too, thinking of every way in which he might be able to use that space as leverage to pin Remus up against the wall--

Dee said he wasn’t good at fighting. But Remus watches him grow claws that slice right through bullet proof armor and then flip in the turbulent air and drive his heel into the soft of someone’s neck. A bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth and Remus catches sight of his fangs dripping with blood or venom or something as he hisses at the unfortunate soul who shot at him, missed, and lost a bullet to the dissonant crowd.

The techie with the bright purple hair stumbles back to the van pressing his hands to his headphones and squeezing his eyes closed like he can make all the bad things go away if he pretends hard enough. Remus wants to laugh at him; can’t he see this is too real to be fake? 

Someone barrels into the side of him, knocking Remus nearly through the crowd barrier. His head rings at the collision, sending sparks of stars shattering over his vision that he thinks match the pattern of tire treads on an eighteen wheeler that once ran him over.

Someone with another ability lets it loose and there’s an explosion from down the street, sending more people running towards the stage and the battle up there. The winds twist unnaturally, ripping the confetti papers into the air again and throwing them straight up into the air along with any loose accessories not pinned down. 

A girl screams right in his ear, an arm jostles into her throat to make her stop and Remus isn’t entirely sure it’s not his arm. Her face is gone in the shifting crowd before Remus can even figure out what she looked like. People shove and jostle and move and tear apart so quickly that Remus can’t keep track of it. 

There’s so much noise Remus can’t think. Gunshots, screams, the screech of metal and whirl of the wind-- it’s so much and Remus is so small against it. He feels the world moving around him, feels the time breathing through his skin, detaching him from reality and yanking him into something else, somewhere else, somewhen else. He’s not breathing, his heart isn’t beating, he’s not moving and his vision is flickering, flashing, fleeting: there and then it’s not and he can’t stop any of it. He can’t figure out what to do, what he needs to do, what’s supposed to be--

There’s a coin in Remus’s hand, pressed in his palm cutting into this numbed skin and he clings to it like a lifeline. There’s a Barney in his hand, the Barney from the night he met Dee, the Barney that means nothing to Dee and everything to Remus, the Barney that represents a decision Remus made when he caught it in the air three days ago.

Who gives a fuck about what’s suppposed to happen? Remus stopped Roman from dying thirteen years ago and the universe is going to have to live with it because Remus is not going to get Dee die, either.

He’s somewhere in the crowd, coming into his body, unsure when he left it, and there’s something thick in his throat he swallows away before he figures out what it tastes like. An arm is in his gut, a body slams into his shoulder. The force of the crowd is tearing him back from the fight, and Remus can’t go against it.

The sky is tinged with a low hanging cloud; something grey green and the screams are largest near it, the people shoving vigorously forward and away as it sweeps over--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. Why are they screaming?

Remus opens his mouth and it’s a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. It smells like vinegar, sharp and pungent and it fights its way down Remus’s throat when he breathes it in. His skin burns and itches and smolders where the smoke touches, where it seeps into his clothes, where it floods over his eyes. He screams as his lungs warp and twist in on themselves, tight, tight, tight and he can’t breathe through it.

He’s dying, he’s dying again, he’s dying and he doesn’t know what he did--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. The gas is everywhere and Remus can’t see where he’s going and if he stops whoever is behind him will run him over.

He shoves forward burying his mouth and nose in his sleeve, but it's not enough. His heart is exploding in his chest splattering across, bursting so hard it shatters his ribs but not enough to break his skin. He claws at his chest certain there’s blood there even though he can’t see it. He dead and dying and he can’t even gasp an apology to Dee he’s sorry Dee please he’s sorrysorrysorry--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. He’s trapped, caught in a gaseous net of tear gas that lives up to its name because he’s sobbing at the burn that he’s sure is the worst death to have survived. He doubles over, and he’s gone and done and dead because he can’t do it a third time. 

He doesn’t have enough sense to brace himself before there’s someone else’s panicked foot on the small of his back. Remus curls on himself covering his head in the chaos to protect himself, but the agony over his body is shredding his insides like razor blades that could pass through anything.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His eyes flicker trying to catch an understanding of anything around him, but his tears make it hard to make out anything up close and the smoke obscures the world he knows is past that.

Someone is screaming something, but Remus can’t make out the words.

This is the exact thing Dee did not want to happen, he thinks as his body convulses, as a guy with horns trips over him and several more people without powers descend on him with signs and fists and whatever else they have. Remus’s tears are streaking down his face and he weakly raises an arm towards them like he can help anyone when his own body feels like it’s dying. This is the exact thing they were trying to avoid.

It doesn’t make sense, Remus curses as someone steps on his ankle and he feels the bone do something it probably shouldn’t and his throat cremates the air in his lungs. It doesn’t make sense. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s clever and witty and always seven steps ahead.

Dee was the one who said a fight would cause a riot in the crowd and it would make everything bad. A fight was the opposite of what they wanted. Dee had even said that if he couldn’t get The Prince to agree with him, he’d back off and find another way. 

“It’s not so much for The Prince,” Dee had said. “It’s about getting the message to the people.”

And Remus is twenty one years old and can’t think of what Dee was expecting to happen when he launched across the stage like that when his own head just got kicked again and his lungs are a birthday candle away from engulfing him in flames.

What The Prince was saying was stupid, but it wasn’t something that Dee would have let get on his nerves. Dee was better than that-- Remus had seen him be better than that. Remus had said things that were more annoying, more irksome, more cutthroat than The Pitiful Prince could have thought to say. Dee had been shot half a million times in futures that didn’t happen and Remus had plucked him from the jaws of death every time.

Dee trusted Remus to keep him safe and informed. Even against The Prince.

Dee shouldn’t have been attacking at that point. 

Someone kicks his stomach again, and Remus tastes the dregs of Dee’s latte wander back into his mouth with a burn that reminds him of his worst nights except this is worse than all that. He feels like he’s one open flame away from igniting which doesn’t make sense because fire needs oxygen and he’s not getting any. Something happened to Dee, something wasn’t right-- Dee wouldn’t have attacked unless The Prince did something to him. 

Remus thinks that if he gets up he’s going to put The Prince in the ground, permanently. His earpiece sings with noises from the fight: Dee’s grunts, his huffs, his ha’s. Remus latches on to the sound of them, of Dee being alive, of Dee being completely in the moment rather than his usual twenty steps ahead of it. He’s not sure if the terror is from the shoe that slams into his spine at that moment, the ache of being unable to help, the fear that the teargas is going to kill him, or the idea that whatever The Prince did to Dee is still happening.

He tries to sit up, but someone jumps over him just poorly enough to kick him in the side of the head as they go. Remus feels the sting of wet concrete at 3 AM shock through his body again, stupidly. His brain screams something about windshields and rain and Remus tells it to shut up because Dee was in trouble and Remus had made him a promise to stick around all those lifetimes ago in that Casino where they’d met, on the balcony when he’d been stuck rather than gone, when he was laying in Dee’s lap in their hotel room saying all the words he’d never told anyone else ever before.

There’s wind. Remus blinks hard, choking on a sob that claws through his esophagus far more effectively than glass from a windshield ever did. There’s wind and it’s moving like a storm front, a physical force, direct, and purposefully. The wind is twisting through the crowd and catching the greenish tear gas in its invisible hands; Remus watches in delirious disbelief as it funnels upwards with the remains of confetti and signs, hats and papers, trash and abandoned items, upwards and out of his lungs, upwards and saving his life.

He breathes in a breath that feels like his ribs are going straight through his lungs, and desperately scrubs the memories of things that he swore weren’t going to happen from his mind. Another foot slams down inches from his face, and loose gravel sprays up into this face.

“HEY!” a voice yells. There are hands on him, Remus realizes in the next second, someone helping move him out from under the current of people that are in too much of a panic to help him. “HEY!--

-- “Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out against the tears in his eyes. At first glance Remus thinks he looks like someone important, someone familiar: a teacher he had once, a youth pastor from a church that his family only went to on holidays, someone in the community that all the other kids flocked too, except that they had to be the same age, so Remus’s marks that as his brain spewing nonsense again. He’s got glasses with smudges on the lenses, freckles that dance across his cheeks like a dot-to-dot for adults, and a smile that looks increasingly stupid compared to the background setting.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps right as another round of gunshots go off to their left as the armed guard fires one someone in the crowd and the winds shrivel up and die in response. “We’re going to be okay!”--

 --“Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out as his eyes ache and burn and he can’t scrub them. At second glance Remus thinks he looks like someone inconsequential, someone familiar: a college student who came here to follow the rules and trust his government, a guy who is in over his head, a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Remus hasn’t seen any sign of a power at all. He’s got a blue polo on speckled with dust, and bruises and scratches up his arms, a solid footprint on his abdomen that Remus doesn’t need two guesses to figure out where he got it from.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps, but Remus is busy spinning around just in time to see the armed guard fire at a civilian in the crowd and the winds overhead shrivel up and die because they lose whoever was telling them to move in the first place. “We’re going to be okay!”--

-- “Are you--OOP!” the person says as Remus throws himself up and bonelessly tackles that guard before he can fire his weapon. His throat is ragged and strangled and the noise that comes out of his is not even remotely human. His eyes are flashing with the futures he doesn’t want to see and he thinks for a moment if he stops moving he’ll forget which future is the present.

Dee should not have attacked. But he did, and every death that happens now is going to be pinned on him, on them, on anyone who isn’t the government and every plan Dee made will settle into ashes and fall through his fingertips.

Remus is twenty one and knows all too well that he can’t change the past. But he’s going to save the future, their future. His and Dee’s future.

The gun goes skidding across the ground and under the crowd barrier out of reach and out of touch and Remus’s head spins trying to orientate himself. Blood drips down his chin and spatters on the visor shield of the man under him, the would-be murderer, the all-to-willing homicidal maniac. Remus’s heart pounds in his throat, making its way to his mouth, until he’s not sure if he’s biting down on his tongue or the pulsating mass that keeps him alive and the tang of vinegar won’t leave him alone.

People stumble around the both of them, tripping over Remus’s legs, and someone stomps on his captive police guard's wrist so hard Remus feels it snap more than he hears it. The man lets out a yowl, as his eyes roll back and he gives in to the pain of it. 

The guy who does not look familiar in any way that Remus cares about is just a step behind them, grabbing Remus’s armpit as if to pick him up, but his focus is on the person in the crowd controlling the winds. Confetti screws through the air, a sign slams into the face of someone who gets too close to them and the two kids crouching behind them. They’re making a barrier. It’s for protection. They saved everyone who hadn’t been able to to get away from the teargas.

((They’re beautiful, Remus thinks, almost deliriously. The power and control and the fierceness. It’s like watching dancing, like watching pure strength, like seeing a miracle in first person. Remus never thought about other people with powers before, never thought about powers being a good thing when his ruined his life, but now he’s staring at this stranger with burning eyes and one foot in the grave, this stranger who is half wind and all power, this stranger who makes him think he might understand why Dee is so passionate about mutants like them.))

Remus is twenty one years old when he sees out of the corner of his eye, the man in the blue polo’s face screws up in concentration as he throws an arm out at the person controlling the winds and pale white light flickers from his fingers right next to Remus’s face. 

There’s a moment between Remus’s heartbeats where the sound disappears and Remus doesn’t need to breathe and time doesn’t pass at all. There’s a moment where Remus is frozen in place, half standing, half on the ground with his blood making him want to vomit. There’s a moment where he’s staring at the man right next to him and he thinks don’t you fucking dare--

But then the moment is over and Remus is watching the winds drop everything they’re carrying: the accessories, confetti, all of it that had been between them and the armed guard, falls to the ground and Remus watches the surrounding crowd descend on them like a pack of wild animals. His head rings with words that don’t make sense and he thinks that the smile the man gives him has a cold edge to it when he turns back to Remus like he’s expecting a thank you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Remus jerks the man’s hand down, rasping where the words grate on his sandpaper throat and shoving him away. “What is wrong with you?”

He blinks and tilts his head at Remus like he’s not sure where the question is coming from, why Remus is asking, like he didn’t see what just happened right there at all. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay? I think you might have hit your head a little hard.” He says, “Wait… Do I know you fr--?”

Something soars overhead, and Remus rolls to the side and hunkers down as Dee’s draconic form sweeps over the crowd and nearly decapitates everyone still standing. Piercing screams echo in the crowd so loud Remus doesn’t hear whatever else the man says.

The man who helped him up, the man who looks like no one to remember, the man who just did something to that other person that made them not use their power, that man shoves both his hands into the air toward where--

--Dee is and Remus watches in horror as Dee’s fierce expression flips to a confused one. His glorious golden wings flap, once, twice, and then they vanish without a trace.

He’s been confused before, he’s been terrified before, he’s been scared. He’s seen Dee get shot, get run over, get hit until he bleeds. He’s seen Dee laugh at broken bones, seen him choke on his own body fluids, seen his eyes good dark and empty and lifeless. Remus has been scared, but that’s nothing compared to his feelings when he watches Dee drop like a stone through the air.

Remus knows what that fall feels like, he knows how his stomach swoops at the sudden empty air, how the air feels like daggers, how dreadterrorregret fills his lungs until he can’t even take that last breath. He doesn’t want Dee to know. Please, he can’t know, please Remus needs to stop this, fix it, please pleasepleaseplease--

--Dee is and Remus moves before he even knows what he’s doing. His blood is pumping so hard he thinks it's amazing that all his blood vessels don’t pop on him. He swings his elbow back with everything that he has in him, everything he can spare and then the stuff he can’t, because that was Dee and Remus would do anything for him. The man’s glasses shatter under Remus’s attack and he stumbles backwards several steps in shock. Remus follows him with a kick to his stomach that throws the stranger who can take away the only thing protecting Dee at the moment to the ground.

“DEE!” Remus shouts, glancing up because he has to make sure that he’s still in the air.

“You!” The man chokes on his own breath, looking up at Remus with something that might have been betrayal. “You’re with him!” 

And then--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches there touching his skin. Remus inhales just as he realizes what it could be and then there’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus feels every joint he has lock up, feels pain wrack through his body and ricochet around his bones like the worst game of pingpong, feels the tortured scream carve out of his lungs as he falls forward and his skin bubbles and melts around the prongs of the taser that does not have a safety setting engaged.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Janus is screaming his name in the worst way possible--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches, hooking on his skin, and Remus lunges away, but he’s not fast enough. There’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus hears the crackling of violent arcs break through his skin, hears the way that his scream terrorizes the air far worse than that time he dropped a toaster into the bathtub with himself, hears the way that Dee screams his name and lands on the ground next to them.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Dee wrapping his arms around him in the last embrace he’s going to get--

--from behind him and Remus twists to the side before something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and stick there. He wants to vomit, but he’s more focused on throwing his body forward and tackling the police officer who just killed him twice and will not get the satisfaction of doing it again. Remus snarls as the man tries to bat him away. 

Remus might not have any intensive training, but he spent four years homeless, learning about the world from the streets of it. He spent more than his fair share of nights sleeping in alleys before he realized that he could use his power to find an empty hotel room for the night, a sucker that would give him money, an odd job that would get him off the street. 

He’s been in fights. This is nothing compared to those fights. 

He feels woozy, flighty: like his bones were replaced with helium and lead at the same time. He doesn’t dare let that stop him. He survived a 3 AM that never ended and he’ll survive this too. He didn’t need to see the future for that.

His knuckles hit the bullet proof padding, hard enough to send jolts through both of them. The officer swings an arm out, but Remus ducks under it and kicks his foot around the man’s ankle. There’s blood on his chin, screaming in his ears, the scent of burning flesh in his nose, and Remus grins as he shoves his palm into the officer’s face. Before the guy knows what is happening he’s on the ground again and Remus is slamming his heel into that visor so hard it shatters. 

He thinks he might be laughing, wheezing, as the blood welds up over the man’s nose and his eyes roll back. Remus brings a shaking palm up to his mouth and smears away his blood as much as he can, because it feels like he’s choking on it again. His eyes are searing and he’s almost surprised he’s not bleeding from them too.

Dee uses a brick wall of a building as a launch board to throw himself back at The Prince in the middle of the blocked off area. He flips mid flight, and whips his tail out of nowhere to land a blow that Remus can’t see if it hits or not.

“Motherfuck--” Dee’s shouts through that earpiece Remus forgot he’d been wearing. He hisses, with a stinging edge that matches pitch to the ringing in Remus’s head. “Do you know what this suit cost, you ingrate!”

Remus can’t breathe and is breathing too fast at the same time. He spins around searching through the chaos for something, someone, he doesn’t know-- what does Dee need from him? What is he supposed to do here? The man in the blue polo is gone and Remus can’t find him which means that he can’t see, not that he can see regularly, not that people aren’t still running around, screaming, the water pipes in a building didn’t burst and the metal of a few lamp posts isn’t warping, there aren’t trampled bodies everywhere he looks.

“Dee,” Remus coughs, choking on ragged words. “Hold on a moment. Let me get somewhere…. where I can... fucking see. Fuck!”

“That would be lovely dear,” Dee says although it sounds like he just ate asphalt and didn’t really hear what Remus said. “The Prince is being disagreeable.”

“I can’t...imagine why,” Remus says. “Personally, I love getting my... throat torn out.”

“We’re going to have a lovely conversation about your masochism, darling,” Dee says, and spits out whatever else is in his mouth and then grunts and swears again. There’s the startling sound of metal on asphalt and Remus’s brain tries and fails to configure the scene playing out where they are.

“It might be a pain kink at this point,” Remus says as he dodges between unfamiliar and panicking strangers he can barely see. He’s afraid if he wipes the tears from his eyes he’ll get whatever of the gas that’s in his jacket in them again. He can’t let that happen, not now, not when Dee needs him, and he knows that he can’t stifle the panic if he does. He sends a kick to the back of another armed policeman in the middle of aiming a taser at someone else.

Dee growls something at The Prince. Distantly, Remus hears what sounds like someone or something slamming into a car, and he thinks he sees the roof of the news van jostle along with the new round of screaming. 

“I would love to know all your kinks,” Dee manages after another second. “Fuck-- how is he doing this?”

Remus ducks out of the way of a blue post office mail box sailing through the air, missing him by inches, but taking out a police officer he hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t get to see who threw it, but he thanks them, whoever they are. 

He needs to be closer to the fight again, closer to that eye of the hurricane that’s blocked off with crowd controlling barriers, closer than he is now so that he can do something. He jumps over a body, nearly tripping on an abandoned purse. A large shadow sweeps the area again, and Remus catches sight of Dee in the air, with his arm at a terrible unnatural angle. Remus thinks he feels his blood catch in his body freezing all at once despite the rapid pace of his throat bound heart.

Dee doesn’t seem to see him at all, his gaze is stuck solely on where Remus assumes The Perfect Punchable Prince is. There’s a shattering sound of gunshots from somewhere that echoes off of the walls of the surrounding buildings, but Dee remains in the air alright and fine and holding his shattered arm carefully.

His expression is contorted into something awful, something bad enough that even from the ground Remus can make it out perfectly and hates the sight of it-- the amount of pain he must be in, the pain that he never should have felt, the pain that Remus would take on wholeheartedly without a hesitation if he had the ability to sap it away from Dee. But before he can say anything Dee’s arm warps, twists, snaps back into place, and Dee snarls as he rolls his neck and flexes his fingers again.

“Did you just heal yourself?” Remus asks breathlessly, almost certain that his itching eyes are playing a trick on him. 

“Surely this came up in one of your futures before, darling,” Dee says without taking his gaze off his opponent.

Remus doesn’t say that in all of his futures Dee is too dead to show off, dead before Remus can get to him, dead before there’s even a hope for him to think about healing himself, dead, dead, dead. He doesn’t think it matters. There’s a feeling in his chest that blossoms and blooms and fills him like helium in a balloon threatening to take off with him. Dee’s wings flap powerfully to keep him in the air and Remus wonders how they would feel under his fingertips. Leathery, maybe? Somewhere between vinyl and bare skin maybe-- Remus doesn’t know enough about birds, bats, wings in general to know the answer. 

“Serpent!” The Prince shouts from somewhere on the ground. Remus thinks for a moment he can see the man through the crowd, but it's too much of a blur. There’s smoke in the air now, a fire from a nearby building, and Remus feels it burn acridly in his throat, heavy flumes of it sweeping through the crowd and obscuring the ground around them. Remus can almost hear the sirens in the background.

“I hope you aren’t referring to me, Prince,” Dee says with a bit of a hiss.

“Don’t you see what your actions have caused?” The Prince yells and Remus thinks the sound of his voice is grating. His knuckles crave to jam themselves down the superhero’s throat and rip out his voice box, just to make sure he stops talking forever.

“Me?” Dee says. “You are the one who wanted a crowd and a ceremony and a fight. I shouldn’t be surprised. One can’t pretend to be a hero without making someone else the villain!”

“You started this fight, Wyvern,” The Prince shouts back. “Crashing onto the stage and then attempting to kill me.”

“If you’re going to call names like a child, use my actual name,” Dee says, “Basilisk.”

The name sends shivers down Remus’s spine, and he isn’t sure if it's the good kind or the bad kind. His blood is pumping so heavily he thinks it should have drowned out all the other noise. 

Basilisk. Like the Casino where they had met. Like the mythical animal that could kill with a glance. Like a warning and a threat and a challenge. Remus swells with an emotion that’s so bright he’s not sure he can put a name to it, he just knows that he’s never felt it before: so proud, so happy, so thrilled. Dee chose his name and the rest of the world will know it.

((Part of Remus wonders how long he’s had it picked out, how long had he whispered it under his breath when Remus wasn’t there to hear it, how long Dee had thought about having his name up there in the lights outshining The Prince’s.))

“Basilisk,” The Prince snarls. “What type of person answers to the call of a monster’s name?!”

“The King of Serpents,” Dee shoots back. “The killer of foolish knights, and even stupider princes.”

“Now who’s name-calling like a child?!”  The Prince yells. 

It would have been comedic really, if it weren’t for the smoke and the screams and the gunfire. If it weren’t for Remus’s heart beating out of his chest and his mouth tasting like vinegarcopperasphalt and his ankle crying in a pain he can’t afford to actually think about. He thinks about leaving, about running away, about escaping alone but Dee’s life is on the line and Remus needs to make sure he makes it through this because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dee dies.

((That’s a lie. Remus does know what he’ll do if Dee dies because he’s seen it a million times before, in a million other places, with a million other feelings and still no one there to mourn whoever he was and whatever he could have been. Remus is twenty one and he knows that if Dee dies there will be no more reasons not to break that promise to his seventeen year old self. He knows, he knows, he knows.))

He’s closer to the fight now, back to where he had been before the riot chaos. Most of the crowd is gone, leaving smokey forms that Remus only semi recognizes from his nightmares. The crowd barriers have been shoved, there are bodies on the ground, the news van is jostled and the crew abandoned it in favor of maybe not ending up with their blood all over the place.

All of them except that techie in purple with the headphones and the face mask. 

“Hey,” Remus says, slamming against the van next to him. The techie stares at him like he’s lost his mind-- and to be honest, that’s fair. He’s got more blood outside of him than inside, and he’s pretty sure the imprint of him is plastered on the side of the car now: a red silhouette to go with the station logo. His eyes are red rimmed, his smile twisted and pained, and it’s only his own inertia that was holding him up. “Don’t mind me.”

The guy is holding a phone peaking, around the corner of the van, dutifully filming Dee barely dodging getting shish kabobbed by The Prince’s rapier and he looks very much like he minds  Remus’s presence within 10,000 feet of him, but is too terrified to move.

Remus doesn’t blame him; where would he go anyway? Into the disassembled crowd where the horror movie screams come with real blood and tear gas was just used on hoards of innocent people for no reason with no warning? Into the arena where The Prince and Dee were taking turns causing massive destruction to public property without a care in the world? Remus doesn’t blame him from hunkering down behind the cover of his news van and praying for this hell to end.

He is a bit curious as to who’s watching this video he’s taking, though. 

Dee twists in the air dodging The Prince’s attacks on his wings, by a hair's breadth. Remus swears for a second that the silver shining rapier slices through Dee entirely, but Dee’s back in the air the next moment, fluttering back out of reach and catching his breath for both of them.

“You fight like a coward!” The Prince yells from the ground, swiping his sword in a motion that is illegal in Fencing. His red mask gleams like blood, but Remus can’t see a speck of it anywhere else on him, not even a scuff from where he fell off the stage moments ago.

((Was it moments? Remus’s head rings with the question. Was it moments? An hour? Days? Lifetimes? He died, Dee died, the strangers in the street died-- how long ago was it that none of that ever happened?))

Dee looks scratched and scarred to high hell by comparison: his suit is in tatters, slices through his left side and his right shoulder, tears in both sleeves where he gave up human hands for scaled claws and sharpened talons, and he was missing a pant leg at the knee, as well as both his shoes that he loved so dearly. Despite his apparent healing abilities blood was trailing from scratches not fully closed up around his elbow, his shoulder, one cheek.

The two of them had to have been fighting this whole time but Remus gets the sinking, sickening, drowning feeling that Dee hasn’t landed a single blow at all.

Which considering the bodies of unconscious police officers piled around them all like lifeless dolls, seems incredibly unreal. Remus saw Dee fight. There’s no way. It’s not possible.

“It’s not fighting like a coward to use your own advantages over your enemies,” Dee says, to The Prince. He steadies himself in the air, his wings and scales glowing gold. “Surely you’re familiar with that idea? You have all the marks of her other training.”

The Prince steadies his stance, shifting his weight around on the toes of his feet like he’s considering the pros and cons of launching himself into the air. Remus hopes he does it just to see Dee catch him by the throat and send him hurling back to the ground hard enough to create a crater he can’t dig his mortal bones out of. 

“If you are trying to suggest something,” The Prince says, “your cryptic theatrics are getting in the way, villain.”

“You think you’re the first Hero she ever trained?” Dee asks. “Think your something special? Going to make all the difference in the world? She’s playing you like a fiddle!”

“You’re one to talk, Janus,” a voice says and Remus swears it comes from everywhere around him. His lungs seize so hard he chokes on the air, the shearing pain in his throat tearing at his vocal chords. The voice sounds like thunder, like a foghorn, like a car alarm at 3AM waking everyone who was previously enjoying their evening.

But Dee doesn’t shift like he heard it at all, and the The Prince doesn’t even look around. Remus’s heart hammers in his chest, stretching his skin, his muscles, his insides as far as they’ll go and the only thing he gets from it is the techie twisting glance at him with a semi raised eyebrow, before he turns back to the standoff in front of them.

Janus. Remus knows that name, doesn’t he? It’s on the tip of his tongue, the edges of his mind, the fog of futures he’s seen and hasn’t seen. He knows that name, he knows who that is, he knows--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he had blinked he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next his heel is slamming into The Prince’s sword arm shoulder, and from the way that the superhero’s body crumples Remus can bet that his whole foot had shifted into something that was probably lethal. 

The Prince hits the ground with a satisfying smack, letting Dee bounce off him and land another five feet away with a self satisfied, deeply relieved smirk. The Prince cradles his arm, his white outfit soaking with red, his face gnarled with painangerfear as Dee turns around methodically. The hero fruitlessly claws the ground for his rapier but Dee snaps his tail and knocks it out of reach. 

“Give up, Prince,” Dee tells him. “Unlike you, I don’t want a fight. That shoulder needs medical attention and there are people other there that need you.”

“A hero never gives up!” The Prince says and Remus swears that he’s heard that voice before, that tone before, those words before in a way that’s beyond time. They ring in his head, hollow and cold and empty: ghosts made of memories that Remus hated and couldn’t get rid of and that taste like a brother whom Remus once killed.

“She is using you,” Dee says stepping forward until he’s towering over the hero. “Don’t you see that, my prince? You’re worth more than being her puppet.”

“She saved me when I was at my lowest,” The Prince spits back.

“She probably put you there, too,” Dee says, clinically. “Dragana Witchall is not your friend. She’s not a savoir. She’s not a good person, no matter what she’s told you. She doesn’t want what's best for anyone other than herself and the moment you realize that she will do everything in her power to silence you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

There’s a twisted look on The Prince’s face, and Remus’s heart thumps in his chest, near to bursting, his tongue tastes like blood, and his eyes burn with the need to close them and never open them again, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

“She…” 

Dee shakes his head. “Come with us, my Prince,” Dee says oh-so-softly, offering a hand to the Prince. “Shake off her lies and let us save the world before anyone gets hurt anymore. We can do it… together.”

The Prince stares at the hand and Remus, for all that he wants to punch the guy in his teeth, wants to rip out his vocal chords, wants to bury him alive, exhales giddily with Dee when the superhero takes Dee’s hand.--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he hadn’t known it would happen he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next there’s a flicker of green light and Dee’s fist is--

What the fuck.

Remus hits the side of the news van, choking on blood that’s pouring from his nose and puddling in his throat where oxygen should be. His vision dances with static, buzzing in and out of focus, but he knows what’s going on: Dee’s fist came down on The Prince swinging with a velocity that might have killed a lesser man, but there was a flash of green, a slight side step, and suddenly Dee was on the ground grunting through the pain of a broken hand.

The Prince raises his rapier to Dee’s neck, millimeters from his skin, and Remus’s breathing shallows so sharply it gets clotted up with the blood as well. The Techie inches forward, his hands shaking as he tries to catch every moment of this nightmare. 

“Surrender, villain,” He says. “You cannot continue to heal yourself at this rate.”

Remus feels the scream trapped in his lungs, crushing against his ribs until he’s certain it will shatter outwards. He doesn’t… this isn’t… He didn’t see this. Why didn’t he see this? Why did Dee attack with his fist? How did the Prince know to side step? 

He can’t… It doesn’t make any sense. His palms tingle with the memories of futures that didn’t happen four years ago: shoving a body down the stairs, shattering a snowglobe against a temple, wrapping around a neck and squeezing for so long that his hand print follows Roman to the afterlife. Futures that didn’t happen based on a conversation that had but shouldn’t have. 

Remus’s head pounds, shooting pain from right behind his eyes, that mixes in with the ache from the tear gas. What happened? Why did it… why didn’t it...

“She is using you,” Dee spits up at the hero. “Don’t you see that?”

“You are blinded by your hatred and jealousy--”

“Oh please,” Dee hisses out. “As if I would deign myself to a motivation so cliché.”

“Snake,” The Prince says, but whatever else is drowned out by a strangled yelp when Dee shoves his injured hand up and catches the blade of the sword with enough force to knock it away from his neck. There’s a clattering of scales against metal that Remus thinks he heard once in a movie about slaying a dragon and Dee hisses out in pain as he vaults away to put distance between the two of them again, getting rid of his wings in favor of sharper claws.

“Darling,” Dee says, and it takes Remus a moment to realize he’s the one being addressed. “Enjoying the show?”

“If you aren’t careful... MARVEL is going to be stealing rights for this action sequence from under us,” Remus says, bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest and wondering for a second if it would make sense to tear open his ribcage so that his lungs would have better access to oxygen.

“Disney is a greed based cooperation that’s next on my list to take down, right after the FBE,” Dee says.

The Prince inhales sharply, angrily, offendly. “You would destroy Disney, you monster? I was going to have mercy on you but that’s too far!”

Dee spreads a hand towards the streets around them. “There are people in trouble, possibly dying out there and the thing that makes you upset is Disney?”

The Prince, at least, looks uncomfortable about that. 

“Re,” Dee says, “Lead me.”

The Prince steadies his blade, “I don’t know who you’re talking to but--”

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and, god, does Remus never get tired of that. Of Dee trusting him, of Dee not hesitating, of Dee believing in Remus. Dee soars across the road, taking The Prince in a razor sharp slice: Dee’s left arm laid out and sweeping under The Prince’s sword to take out his feet. 

The Prince slams forward and hits the ground so hard that Remus thinks his face imprints on the asphalt.

Dee picks up the rapier and lowers it at the hero’s neck just as he rolls over bleeding from every orifice on his face. “It’s over, my Prince. Give up.”--

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and Remus is so caught up in the jubilee of being heard that he almost misses the flash of green that flickers around The Prince.

“WAIT--!” Remus yells, but The Prince is jumping in the air doing a perfect flip over Dee’s attack that he shouldn’t have ever seen coming and definitely shouldn’t have been able to dodge.

Dee lands with a roll that brings him back to his feet. “Re, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Remus says, spitting blood from his mouth. “Shit.”

The techie swivels to look at him again, at the blood trailing down Remus’s chin, at the unsteadiness of Remus’s stance. If it weren’t for the headphones the guy would have been able to hear everything already, and Remus isn’t sure if he’d run away screaming, or drop into a dead faint. He wasn’t even thinking about what the guy’s recording was picking up.

That’s a problem for another day. Assuming they make it through this one.

Dee lunges backwards out of the way of The Prince’s next attack, avoiding it without Remus’s help, and part of Remus is grateful for that. He can’t tell which is the terror of Dee being in a fight with The Prince still or the panic of not being able to see what’s happening anymore but he knows he’s drowning in both in a way that’s unhelpful.

Dee rolls under--

--The Prince’s swipe, millimeters away from an unwanted haircut. Remus can hear the heavy huffing of his breath, of the ache of Dee’s bones, the shake in his limbs from exertion. He kicks a foot to force the hero back, but the reprieve is short. The Prince’s charismatic stupid smile is gone replaced with a determination that makes Remus’s teeth grind together.

The Prince lunges forward, blocking Dee from escaping with a motion that swings upwards and across and reminds Remus of how he drew 7’s before his kindergarten teacher verbally humiliated it out of him. Dee’s face snaps to the side glistening with a new cut that digs through his scales and leaves him hissing in pain.--

--The Prince’s swipe and Remus’s mouth is moving as fast as he can: “He’s leaving his right side wide open. If you duck you can get the back of his calf and decrease his range of motion.”

Dee makes a noise that Remus thinks is grateful, hopes is grateful, prays-to-gods-he-doesn’t-believe-in is grateful. Dee is slower than Remus would have wanted him to be, but when The Prince drags his rapier through the air, it sails over Dee’s head and Dee’s claws slice through his calf muscle as Dee slips away.

“Mother of Pearls!” The Prince shouts, stumbling. “How did you…?”

Dee heaves several breaths, flexing his claws dripping with patches of scarlet. “Finally.”

“Villain!” The Prince snarls.

“We’ve been over this, honey. It’s Basilisk,” Dee shows off his fangs. Remus thinks the relief is hysterical, a gulp of fresh air after he’s been underwater for so long. 

The Prince snarls, something animalistic and Remus wishes he could show the whole world it: this is your Prince, this is your fake hero, this is the idiot in charge of everything and look how angry he is over a little cut. Remus has had worse than him and he’s never complained about it!

“ZEAL!” The Prince yells to the open air, “A hand, please!”

“Just one?” A voice responds from across the area, and Remus feels his blood go cold, his knees go weak, his mind go silent in a way it’s definitely not supposed to.

Remus doesn’t know how the man in the blue cardigan who looks like no one at all got all the way over there, but there he is crouching next to a fallen police guard checking for a pulse. He stands up at the call, looking vastly out of place in the scenery.

“Well, if my prince requests it!” He says with his voice drifting like a dream in the chaos. “I’ll give you both of them!”

“Dee, move. Move, NOW!” Remus yells just as the character raises their hands and white lights begin to flicker on the fingertips. They look like stars, like spheres of sunlight, like little harmless rays that probably would feel nice, but Remus can still hear the sound of Dee’s body hitting the ground in a future that he stopped, a future he prevented, a future he does not ever want to see happen again. 

Dee throws himself into a back handspring and twists himself over the beams of light, and Remus can’t catch his breath anyway. 

“Do I want to know what those did, dearest?” Dee puffs out. 

“Bad,” Remus says.

“Delightful,” Dee says, taking another step back, except that he’s sandwiched between the Prince and that guy-- god the partner. Remus can’t believe they forgot about them, the mysterious person only alluded to, and never seen, except that now Remus is seeing him and can’t look away. Of course it would be someone who can take away powers. Of course it would. 

Remus is going to vomit.

 If Dee turns his back to the Prince he won’t see the sword, if he turns his back to the partner, he won’t see the angle of the rays; Remus has a sinking feeling in his… everything all of a sudden.

“I’m running out of patience, Dragon,” The Prince says.

“How hard is it to remember the term Basilisk?” Dee prods.

The Prince sets himself for another attack. “You’re trapped. There’s no way out. Come quietly and we can get you medical attention and discuss whatever it is that you deemed necessary to harm hundreds for.”

“Will that be before or after Dragana Witchall has my head removed from my body?” Dee asks. 

“If you just talk to her--”

“Heh.”

Remus feels the inside of his ears pop from pressure he didn’t know he was experiencing. That voice-- coming from everywhere and nowhere and why doesn’t anyone else hear it? 

“--most of my life actually,” Janus is… no that’s Dee. Remus knows that’s Dee talking. Who is Janus? The pain in his head is sharp, like a nail driving directly into his cranium, like brain surgery without putting him under, like dying but without the death part. He doesn’t know Janus.

Does he?

“She’s not who she says she is,” Dee finishes. “She’s--”

“I’m growing tired of your stubbornness,” The Prince says in an astounding moment of pure irony that twists Remus’s intestines into knots and loops them around his neck like a noose. “Surrender with dignity, snake.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the partner, Zeal, adds.

Dee doesn’t say anything to them. Remus focuses on the sound of his breaths, on the movement of his chest, on the phantom feel of Dee’s lips on his own from so long ago. Remus’s brain whispers about rain on a balcony, about fire in a mall, about gunshots in a casino, but he reaches past that, past everything, past the past itself.

His domain is the future. 

“Are you at your limit?” Dee asks him. “I can do this by myself if I must.”

“What’s a limit?” Remus says. “How much blood is a human supposed to have again?” 

“More than that, dumbass,” that voice says, and Remus blinks because Dee’s head tilts and he looks like he heard it too.

“Virgil,” Dee says in a tone Remus can’t describe. “Come to play?”

Remus is vaguely aware of the techie in purple shifting forward, leaning towards the fight, still shaking from every limb. For a moment, he thinks that maybe this mysterious voice is coming from him, but it’s too clear, too loud, too calm to be from someone wearing a face mask and shaking the way this guy is so far away from where Dee is having his standoff.

“You made a friend,” Virgil, whoever he is, from wherever he is, says. 

“I got lonely,” Dee says. “And bored.”

“Bored enough to become public enemy number one?”

“Enough, Basilisk!” The Prince yells, “Give yourself up! You’re surrounded and you have all of this carnage to take responsibility for! Your partner may continue to hide in the shadows, but you can tell him we will find him and bring him to justice as well!”

“Or her! Or them!” Zeal tacks on. “Or xem-- we’re all inclusive here.” 

“Right!” The Prince says, self righteously. He looks a lot like he does on TV and Remus’s fists itch to punch the screen all over again. “Surrender and end this.”

“You know what will happen if you do,” Virgil’s voice says.

“If the peanut gallery could please keep out of this,” Dee hisses. “That would be nice. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking just like you were when you leapt across that stage?” Remus asks. “Or actually thinking this time?”

Dee makes a face that’s vaguely affronted, a dusting of pink over his ears that Remus might have thought was from exertion if he didn’t know better.

“Do you want an apology?” He asks and Remus is only semi thinking about saying yes you motherfucker, when we get out of this I’m going to strangle you myself because somehow you don’t know what you mean to me at all and you just keep dying and cannot handle watching that again, how did I ever do it the first several billion times? 

“I think an apology is a good start,” The Prince says.

“I was not talking to you,” Dee snaps. 

“I’m giving you fifteen more seconds, snake,” The Prince says, anyway. “Put your hands up and get on the ground or I will put you on the ground myself.”--

-- Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it. The hero shifts as the seconds tick, inaudible and yet unmissable. Then The Prince sighs in disappointment and levels his rapier. 

“You leave me no choice,” he says. “Zeal.”

The man in the blue polo grins again at the call and flicks his hands towards Dee, with balls of white light dancing on his fingertips. Dee launches into the air with his wings flicking out, but the Prince is behind him in the next instant jumping and plunging his blade through the thin skin layers between the bones. 

Dee lets out a scream as the blade tears down and out of the wing, like a knife through a sail, like scissors through fabric, like an earring being ripped out of an ear. He flings downwards and hits the ground again and before he can think of moving a soft beam of white light hits him. 

Dee convulses, he yelps, he tries to get up, but the Prince’s boot is on his chest pinning him down again and Dee’s out of tricks.--

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing.” Remus says.

Dee nods, and then without giving anyone any warning he launches towards Zeal, who doesn’t loose his stupid smile at all. He raises a hand like he’s going to high five Dee, and those white lights come out and suck away Dee’s transformation immediately. He lands on the ground at Zeal’s feet, with the asphalt tearing through his human flesh like it’s butter. --

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and thinks he hates it even more now. If he ever has to see another theater he’s going to set it on fire.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing. Don’t fucking get near Zeal, dumbass.”

Dee nods and then without any sort of warning he lunges at The Prince, who parries him with his blade. The scales meet metal again and Dee hisses like he might spit venom, but the superhero grunts and forces him back with brute strength and not even Remus screaming give him enough time to prevent The Prince from shifting them around so that Zeal’s white beams of light hit Dee’s back.--

-- Dee doesn’t answer the hero.

“Can’t you turn into a beetle or something? Fly out of this,” Remus says. “Please.”

“That hopeless?” Dee asks him. “Okay.” And then he takes a deep breath and his form ripples and waves and pulls in on himself, like the reverse magic trick of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. 

“ZEAL!” The Prince shouts, and the white lights are flying towards him, even as Dee turns into a beetle and takes to the air. Remus screams as Dee is hit, even in such a small form, even at such a far distance, even against those impossible odds.--

--Dee doesn’t answer and Remus feels like throwing up. They need to win this, they need to get out of this, they need to escape, but Dee can’t and Remus can’t make him and… and... 

And there’s a glint of metal in the corner of his vision.

“You leave me no choice,” The Prince says, and Remus barely hears him because he’s staring at a glock of some police guard long lost and long forgotten and long waiting with the safety off already. 

This is a bad idea. Remus knows this is a bad idea. Its a bad idea, bad idea, bad ide--

-- Dee doesn’t answer and Remus is twenty-one years old with nothing to lose if Dee dies.

“Take The Prince, he’ll parry, but you’re stronger.” Remus says lunging for the gun on the ground because he’s insane and courting Death as much as he’s courting Dee. He's never held a gun before. It feels bad in his hands, feels weird, and strange and not at all like what he thought it was going to feel like.

Dee nods and lunges towards The Prince and Remus points his new glock at Zeal. The trigger practically pulls itself. Isn't that crazy?

The kickback is a shockwave that flies through Remus’s arm making it numb and the sound explodes just like his heart does in his chest. The shot goes wide, but it’s close enough to Zeal that he lets out a scream and his little rays of white light sail over both Dee and the Prince. Remus slams back into the side of the van out of sight of the heroes while his body shakes and his face pulls into a grin for a reason he can't explain. The techie is on the ground, covering the muffs of his headphones to press them tighter to his head.

“PAT!” The Prince shouts. 

“Was that you?” Dee asks. “What the fuck, Re!”

Remus shoves his hands over his nose, stifling the blood flow as much as he can, teargas be damned. His head is thrumping with pain, and Remus wants to scream. His vision is blotchy and patchy like the world’s worst video game. He can barely breathe between the metallic taste in his mouth and the liquid flowing out his nostrils . It’s like throwing himself at a brick wall and expecting a different outcome; he’s at his limit, that limit that Dee told him not to cross, that limit that he’ll gladly ignore if it means that Dee will get out of this safe and sound and--

And he can see a flicker of green light and Dee gasps right before The Prince manages to get under his distracted guard and haul him up in the air. Then there’s green light flickering, dancing, flashing and fading and Dee’s body hits the ground so hard it forms a crater around him and--

-- The Prince steps forward gracefully, gallantly. He walks like he’s standing on the air, filled with an energy that Remus thought only came from drinking five Five Hour Energies and besting Death at hand to hand combat even with that torn up leg. His rapier sways through the air pointing down at Dee’s body.

“Tell your partner to surrender,” the hero commands. “Now.” 

“I didn’t... expect him to do it either!” Dee says and it’s funny, Remus almost thinks that Dee is mad at him. That can’t be right! 

“Give up, Basilisk.” The Prince says again, “Before someone gets hurt.” 

Dee spits a mouthful of blood on the hero’s shoes. “People are already hurt! You are leading them to be hurt more, Prince! The FBE won’t help anyone!”

The Prince hesitates, maybe even uses that rusty brain in his head. “I…You truly believe that? Why can't you just trust me at my word?”

“What is the worth of your word?” Dee shoots back, scales glittering on the side of his face. “Anyone can go back on their words!”

Remus clings to the side of the van with white knuckles, tasting blood on his tongue and in the back of his mouth and on his lips. The hero is thinking, he’s thinking, and Remus thinks that maybe he can cross the distance quick enough to tackle the hero away from Dee and he’ll have a chance to escape.

“That is true,” the hero says. “Perhaps a sign of trust is then in order, then.”

Remus freezes.

The Prince reaches up slowly, plucking at the mask.

He should look away. Remus can’t look away.

Because he knows…he knows that face. He recognizes it. He’s seen that face a hundred million times before. He knows those lips, those brown eyes, that crinkle between his eyebrows and those unruly curls. He knows those cheekbones, and that jawline and the way that head tilts back when he laughs, and curls forward when he cries. Remus knows that face because he’s seen it every time he’s looked in a mirror, he’s been haunted by it for years now, been terrorized in the nights by that face. He’d seen that face covered in blood, that face gasping for air, that face crying and begging and anything to get him to stop, that face staring at him with a hateful vengeful ugly expression and saying “You can’t see the fut--”--

Remus leaves a bloody handprint on the hood of the news van as he vaults it and the techie in purple. His lungs scream in agony, but Remus can’t hear it at all. His heartbeat is thunderous, yet even that is nothing compared to the bloodlust washing over his mind.

Dee’s head whips up, his mouth moving in some type of exclamation, but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters other than the rage in his head, in his body, in his veins that floods his limbs with the need to move.

The Prince hears him coming and his rapier comes up in an offensive attack, that Remus blocks with his left forearm. The blade sinks into his flesh and blood pours down Remus’s elbow and on the asphalt and the only thing he can think is that falling off the balcony, that getting run over on highways, that falling asleep in a motel bathtub with bloody keys in his hands, all hurt a hundred times worse than this itty, bitty little scratch.

He laughs.

"Hey Roman!" Remus says in a parody of a delighted tone, and The Prince stumbles back. "It’s been a while!"

[Chapter Eight]

[avayarising]

So I’ve been thinking about Sozin’s comet

Sozin’s comet comes round once every hundred years. There is a specific Day of Sozin’s Comet, when firebenders’ power is massively increased. 

In real life, comets generally hang around in the sky for weeks or months, but are generally small even when easily visible to the naked eye (like Halley’s or Hale-Bopp, both of which I’ve seen). 

Sozin’s comet is huge, flaming, and turns the entire sky red. 

[Image from Avatar: The Last Airbender episode 3:19 Sozin’s Comet, Part 2: The Old Masters, watermarked in the bottom left with ‘AvatarSpirit.net’. The top of Aang’s head, facing towards the viewer, is shown in the bottom half of the image. Behind him, Sozin’s Comet is rising like a sun above the mountains. The sky is red and the whole scene is bathed in red light.]

It’s actually entering the atmosphere.

[Image from Avatar: The Last Airbender episode 3:19 Sozin’s Comet, Part 2: The Old Masters, watermarked in the bottom left with ‘AvatarSpirit.net’. A segment of the planet is shown from above the atmosphere, taking up the bottom left half of the image; the edge of the planet, visibly curved, divides the image more or less along the diagonal. In the centre of the image, Sozin’s comet is shown striking the atmosphere, releasing large plumes of orange flame and billows of what could be smoke or clouds from the disrupted air.]

This means it’s coming dangerously close to an actual collision with the planet surface. Clipping the planet’s atmosphere like that is bound to slow it down slightly and being so close to the planet’s gravity will affect its orbit, so a collision becomes more likely with each pass. So it can’t have been passing this close for long. One hopes the Fire Sages and astronomers are keeping track of this and are prepared to warn the Avatar of the time well in advance of the actual projected collision.

If the comet’s only been clipping the atmosphere for the past couple of passes, that explains why no great disasters have been associated with the comet previous to Sozin. Perhaps one pass pre-Sozin where it happened for the first time and no-one was expecting it, where there were some accidents; then Sozin and Ozai in his turn were expecting it and planned to use it. Or possibly the Fire Sages were able to predict the power boost as well as the path, and the last pass, when Sozin used it, was the first time it actually entered the atmosphere.

Sozin’s comet is probably still visible in the night sky as a standard comet for some weeks before and after the conjunction, but during these periods it doesn’t seem to cause any boost to firebending. That probably only takes effect when the comet is burning in the atmosphere, hence why it doesn’t last long. The power comes from this enormous fire in the planet’s atmosphere – less powerful than the sun but a lot closer, and of course it’s in addition to the power they get from the sun. (This also implies that firebenders’ power is also boosted by any large fire, which may be why Senlin forest was burnt down �� obviously it would be nothing like as powerful as the comet’s boost, but it might give troops a slight advantage in a battle.)

I’m also thinking that the firebending power-up must also have a spiritual root underlaying the physical planetary movements. After all, the Moon has an associated Spirit, so why shouldn’t other celestial bodies, including comets? Something has happened to the Spirit of the Comet to make it more fearsome and firey and drawing closer to the spirit of the Earth, and this is reflected/linked/represented in the physical world by the closer approach and burning of the comet.

So what form does the Spirit of the Comet take? Can it be negotiated with, or prayed to? What does it want? And what does it mean, spiritually, for firebenders to be drawing power from a source other than the sun, from Agni?

And what, what, what, will the Avatar and team on whom the task falls do, what can they do, to correct the orbit of the Comet, divert or placate its wrath, and prevent a global disaster?

[theoriginalladya]

50 Types of Kisses #4: An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose. For Rydenko.

from this list

on AO3 here

Okay, so my friend, you get your SECOND Rydenko prompt filled today as well!  Look what you’ve done to me!  

Setting:  Milky Way, roughly sometime in 2184-ish (before Shepard is ‘alive’ again)

Characters: Scott Ryder, Kaidan Alenko, Sara Ryder (sort of...)

Tags: Blood mention, battle/fighting mention, kissing  ;)

~~~

It’s crazy, Scott thinks, the things that pop into his head at the strangest times, and under the most unpredictable circumstances.

That’s you, Scotty boy!  Mr. Unpredictability!  

Of course, having a snarky response from his twin pop into his head a fraction of a moment after such a thought, while less unpredictable, is just as crazy, if not more so.

A shot from the batarian taking cover on the far side of the room just narrowly misses Scott’s temple at the same time Kaidan shouts out a warning.  Throwing himself to his left, Scott rolls out of the way – too late for it to be effective, but he does it anyway just to prove a point – and when he’s back on his feet once more, his kinetic barriers up and full, he yells back at the batarian, “Oh, no!  You did not just –!”

The batarian fires again; the second shot connecting with his barriers.  The hissing snap as the shot meets and is swallowed by the shields pops and crackles loudly in Scott’s ears.  

Guess he told you, huh?

“Shut up, Sara!”  He shouts it, frustrated and more than just a little irritated with himself because he knows better, he really does!  It’s just been… a hot minute since he was in active combat, that’s all.  All right, any combat, technically speaking.  Anger getting the best of him in the moment, he pulls dark energy to him with enough speed to leave a normal person dizzy and starts running straight ahead toward the bastard.  With a shout, a flick of his wrist, and a release of the appropriate mnemonic, he arrives in front of the batarian, jumps into the air as he forms a second mnemonic, and lands with a solid punch of biotic energy to the ground, sending out an explosive wave of energy.  In the half second before the batarian is tossed backwards where his back connects solidly with the wall, it’s impossible to miss the stunned look in its four eyes. Scott finds it amusing, if not more than a little bit disturbing.  When the body crumples to the ground, he steps over and takes aim at its head with his assault rifle, shooting once into the back of his head.  

Pulse check – just to make sure.

That’ll learn ‘im, Scotty.  

He can picture Sara’s smirk to perfection.  Dammit!  Some things don’t ever change.

Turning around, Scott searches for his next target. The scan he and Kaidan did from outside the room indicated four targets before they entered.  He’s taken down this one plus one other, and he’d seen Kaidan take one down.  Speaking of…

His gaze connects with the commander’s about a hundred fifty feet away from him.  “You okay?” Kaidan asks.

Scott huffs, shrugging just a little too casually while a smirk curls across his lips as he saunters in his companion’s direction. “What can I say?  He was a lousy shot.”  Something about the commander inspires him, gives him a bit more confidence in himself, boosts his self-esteem to previously unattainable levels, and yet, leaves an inexplicable but gentle ache in his chest when their eyes meet.

Kaidan’s dark eyes flare a little as he chuckles; Scott notices.  “That so?”

The response sets loose a thousand butterflies in Scott’s belly.  Or, maybe it’s simply the way his voice drops an octave, warming him from head to toe but centering mostly in his chest, the way a glass of good whiskey does.  “Mmhmm.”

Scott isn’t even a third of the way over when movement out of the corner of his eye, plus the way Kaidan’s head turns sharply in the same direction alerts him to the danger.  Scott reacts without conscious thought, simply grabbing at the dark energy, wrapping it around him, and flicking the mnemonic off his hand in haste as he launches forward the rest of the way.  This time, instead of preparing a second biotic attack, he moves both hands out in front of him with one singular purpose in mind; get Kaidan out of the line of fire.  

Time slows around him and, as fanciful as it sounds, he swears he sees the shot flying right next to him; side-by-side, a race to see who gets there first.  Scott has never really been good at racing before, but this is one he intends to win.

Just before he connects with Kaidan, he dials back his momentum, slowing as he prepares to connect.  Thankfully, his fellow biotic hasn’t had a chance to re-activate his barrier, instead taking his own shot in the direction of the enemy. Barring any last fraction-of-a-second changes, this end result shouldn’t be that bad, all things considered.

Hah!  You always say that!

Go aWAY, Sara!

The collision is jarring, to say the least. Yet as they connect, Scott slides his arms around the other man, enveloping him and twisting their bodies as they fall to minimize the damage.  Colliding at speed, even one that is slower than a full speed Charge, can still hurt if he isn’t careful.  They land with a thud, half on Scott’s right side and half on his back.  He grunts in pain and hears the breath knocked out of Kaidan.  The momentum sends them rolling across the floor together, until they come to a stop another twenty feet away, Scott now fully on top of Kaidan.  It also cannot stop their foreheads from bumping… or their lips brushing together and lingering for just a moment.

Sucking in a deep, quick breath, Scott pushes himself up, eyes wide as he stares down at Kaidan.  Okay, so… yeah, this is what he wants, but this isn’t exactly the scenario he had in mind when playing it out inside his head.  And just because he wants it doesn’t mean… “Um, I can explain…?”

Kaidan says nothing, only staring in Scott’s eyes briefly before drifting slightly lower.

Scott blinks, breath catching at the implication. In the same moment, he notices Kaidan hasn’t let go of him just yet… and his eyes remain locked on Scott’s lips.   He blinks a second time, and has difficulty swallowing.  And still, Kaidan’s gaze doesn’t leave his lips.  

“Oh, to hell with it,” Scott mutters, ignoring nerves and diving back down, this time with purpose, and fusing their lips together.  

If anything, Kaidan’s arms slide further around him.  Scott accepts that as tacit approval to continue and deepens the kiss, savoring it, reveling in it.  His world tilts somewhat awkwardly, but no less dramatically, as they roll over and when the kiss breaks in the next moment, Scott is left looking up at Kaidan as he gasps for air.  

A smug smirk toys at Kaidan’s lips.  “I’m still waiting.”

“Waiting?”  Scott struggles to recall what he could possibly be waiting for.

With a soft chuckle, Kaidan runs a finger down the length of Scott’s nose, tapping it once on the tip.  “I believe you said you could explain?”

Mouth hanging open, Scott nods.  A strangled sound escapes as memories of the attack flash before his eyes in a rush.  He bolts upright, or at least attempts to – it’s rather difficult to sit up when the commander is lying across him, and damned if Scott can think of a better reason to remain where he is at the moment – and looks in the direction the shot had fired from.  Their last batarian opponent lies face down on the floor in a growing pool of blood, motionless.  “H-how…?”

Kaidan glances over his shoulder in that direction. “I knew he was there and took the shot.”

“But, what about the shot aimed at you?”

Lifting himself off of Scott, Kaidan sits cross legged on the floor next to him for a moment, a field of dark energy slowly enveloping him.  “I had my barrier field up.  You?”

“I…”  He has his shields, of course, but they lose their effect for a short time when his biotics are active.  For the most part, Scott accepts it as a fair trade, but Kaidan’s simple question is a reminder of his father’s arguments against him opting for the Vanguard class and his shoulders sag as he shakes his head and glances away.  “Kind of pointless if I’m zipping all over the battlefield. Guess you didn’t need me after all.”

A firm grasp on his chin pulls him back until their eyes meet again.  “I never said that.”  There’s an insistence in Kaidan’s voice that confuses Scott for a moment, but then he forgets about it as Kaidan leans in and initiates a kiss this time; firm yet gentle, more exploratory than lustful.  The kind of kiss that most definitely can lead to other things. Kaidan rises to his feet when the kiss breaks off and offers Scott a hand up.  

The kind of things we don’t have time for right now, Scott realizes, accepting the assistance.  Ah, well. Not meant to be, I guess.  

As he lands on his feet, practically eye to eye with the commander once more, Scott catches a glimpse of Kaidan’s left shoulder. Narrowing his focus onto the area, he sucks in a sharp breath, recognizing what the groove through the metal armor, just deep enough to crease, really means.  Without thinking, he lifts his hand and runs a finger over it.  To the naked eye, it isn’t deep at all, doesn’t even technically ruin the armor, but it does tell Scott one thing and that leaves him chilled to the bone.  His eyes drift back to meet Kaidan’s as the blood drains from his face.  “You…”

Solemn yet smiling gently, Kaidan nods.  “Guess I did need you, after all.”  

[coldwind-shiningstars]

xuexiao + 12?

I asked for these and then INSTANTLY went to zoomclass. whoops. 

12: things said while you thought I was asleep

Xiao Xingchen’s friend is not unobservant. 

His friend is alert to everything going on around them, constantly on edge. His sharp eyes have been helpful more than once on night hunts. Xingchen and A-Qing both stick close to him in crowds, because his friend navigates through masses of people with ease.

He does, however, have a strong case of confirmation bias. He thinks night hunts are dangerous, and so he knows when there is danger. He thinks strangers might bump into Xingchen or A-Qing, so whenever someone looks like they might be on a collision course, he notices right away. 

He thinks Xiao Xingchen is naive and blind, and Xingchen will admit that he is these things -- less of the former than he used to be, and more of the latter. But this means that his friend only notices when Xingchen gets too used to the usual setup of the coffin house and stubs his toe on a bucket when it’s placed a foot to the left of its usual spot and does not notice when Xiao Xingchen is awake, late at night, listening to his friend as he clatters around the coffin house.

“Xiao Xingchen,” says his friend. “Xiao Xingchen.” He mutters something else under his breath, but Xingchen can’t pick out what it is. His friend is doing something -- mixing something? Xiao Xingchen can’t see, of course, but he feels the prickle of spiritual energy being used. He has known for a while that his friend is a cultivator, and one who is just as skilled in demonic cultivation as the sword path. His friend, for reasons unknown, does not wish for Xiao Xingchen to know this. Presumably, he is creating something for use on their night hunts.

Xingchen slows his breathing and empties his mind, readying himself for true sleep, when his friend finishes whatever he’s doing and comes to lay down beside him again. 

“Xiao Xingchen,” he says, again. The name means something when he says it. It feels different in his voice.

He says, “I am never letting you go.”

And Xiao Xingchen, driven off by his sect and his grandmaster, driven off by his former cultivation partner, Xiao Xingchen who has been taught to let everything go -- well, Xingchen doesn’t intend to leave his friend, either.

[alexandriasbox]

The Case For and Against Roundabouts:

By Eliana Z.

“Every accident is a notice that something is wrong with men, methods, or material. Investigate, then act.” - Safety saying, circa early 1900s

The streets you drive on are dangerous. If you’re between the ages of 5 and 29, you’re more likely to die in a road traffic crash than anything else. Working to improve them is a slow and tedious process too! Road designs for mass transportation have countless factors that need to be considered, including fluctuating populations, traffic levels at varying times, road construction, road conditions, budgets, weather, and -- perhaps the most relevant of all -- the accidents that make streets so dangerous in the first place.

In the United States, more than half of the combined total of fatal and injurious car crashes occur at the 300,000 existing signalized intersections. This is not a surprise to engineers. When two two-lane roadways alone intersect, there are thirty-two opportunities for drivers to collide into each other, and the number increases the more complex your roads get. The effective, albeit bizarrely-designed, “diverging diamond interchange” and many other types of intersections have been considered to allow for safer and smoother flows of traffic. The prevailing form of roadway intersection, however, remains the standard signalized one, where traffic signals and painted lines ensure that streams of traffic are directed where they need to go. There is one alternative to traditional intersections already gaining popularity in Europe: the roundabout, otherwise known as the traffic circle, the rotary, or the island, depending on where you live. So why is America so hesitant to embrace it?

The primary type of roundabout is the modern roundabout, designed to accommodate vehicles of all sizes, and this is the form of roundabout that is generating the most attention from both supporters and skeptics. Drivers yield to traffic at entry, travel counterclockwise around a center island, then exit at their desired street. There are no traffic signals involved. The following image is a modern roundabout in Barcelona, Spain, and it might look familiar to you.

The implementation of these roundabouts is built on three key pillars: the maintenance of efficient and satisfactory service, the protection of travelers from potential injury, and the promotion of a prosperous economy. Critics of the modern roundabout say it increases travel time, confuses drivers, and wastes land and money. Defenders, on the other hand, assert that it moves more traffic than your standard four-way intersection, only requires a small adjustment period, and is a good investment to make. Under all this scrutiny, how does the modern roundabout actually fare?

Service:

Because cars must slow down while navigating a roundabout, it may seem like it’ll take longer for cars to get through the intersection. Contrary to this perception, statistics say roundabouts move 50% more traffic than traffic lights. Through the promotion of a continuous flow of traffic, drivers don’t have to wait for a green light to pass, and the intersection can handle more traffic in the same amount of time. Studies by Kansas State University also prove roundabouts provide less congestion for approaching roads: while measuring traffic flow at intersections before and after conversion to roundabouts, researchers found that in each case, the roundabout led to a 20% reduction in delays. Additional studies by the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) determined that roundabouts contributed to an 89% reduction in delays and 56% reduction in vehicle stops. Make no mistake: roundabouts promote efficiency and are a great alternative to signalized intersections. Still, they only work as well as they do when traffic is moderate to light. When traffic is heavy, problems can arise. A document outlining Los Angeles’s roundabout policy from 2007 acknowledges that heavy traffic volume brings an increase in the needed diameter of the roadway, which in turn leads to higher speeds, less safety, and reduced efficiency.

There is one other problem. Engineers must take into account the reactions of individual drivers, and many Americans are not alone in feeling anxious at the thought of driving a roundabout. A survey on drivers’ views of roundabouts conducted by the IIHS showed that only 31% of drivers were in favor of roundabouts, while 41% strongly opposed it. However, while most drivers initially panic at the thought initially, follow-up surveys done after a roundabout was installed demonstrate that after drivers use roundabouts, those who favored roundabouts increased to 63%, while those who strongly opposed them dropped to 15%. The reasoning for this was that drivers preferred traffic signals and stop signs until they realized roundabouts allowed them through the intersection safely without the irritating obstacle of having to stop. Opinions on roundabouts clearly rise after continued use.

Roundabouts can provide efficient service and are a viable replacement for many signalized intersections on that basis. Both sides of the roundabout discussion agree they work well where traffic is reasonably light and drivers are familiar with the concept.

Safety:

Although driving in a roundabout isn’t very difficult when done correctly, many drivers still experience confusion while navigating it, which poses a danger. Some may aggressively brake before entering or fail to yield to the traffic already in the intersection; others stop in the circle thinking that they should yield to those trying to enter. These are all possible collisions waiting to happen, and statistics show they happen often.

Given that vehicles must slow down while entering, though, roundabouts still help reduce the likelihood and severity of collisions. Speeds in a roundabout are typically between 15 and 20 miles per hour, meaning that the few collisions that occur are mostly minor. Furthermore, the roundabout makes all the traffic one-way: roads entering the intersection are gently curved to direct drivers counterclockwise. This all offers no possibility for ninety-degree or head-on collisions and reduces the number of conflict points between road users. According to studies by the IIHS and the Federal Highway Administration (FHA), roundabouts typically reduce overall collisions by 37%, injury collisions by 75%, and fatality collisions by 90%. It is unarguable that roundabouts are less dangerous than signal-light intersections for motorists. When properly designed with sidewalks on the perimeter, they are safer for pedestrians as well.

Roundabouts are not, however, all that safe for cyclists, which is especially relevant in a world with international pressure to bike more and drive less. A literature review conducted by Utah State University considered dozens of papers on how roundabouts affect cyclist safety, and it found that roundabouts may actually increase bicycle crashes, especially those with on-roadway bike lanes or no bicycle facilities at all. In one instance, a 2008 study of 91 roundabouts in Belgium demonstrated that roundabouts led to a 27% increase in “bicyclist injury collisions” and an increase of more than 40% in the number of fatal or serious injury cyclist crashes. Another study made in Denmark found that installations led to a 65% increase in bicycle crashes and 40% increase in injuries. Roundabouts do not always pose a danger to cyclists, though! The review adds that they can be safer for cyclists if they have low-speed traffic at a low volume, fewer lanes, larger and higher central islands, and separated bicycle facilities. This way, cyclists won’t be in danger of entering-circulating crashes, where motorists fail to keep an eye out for cyclists while entering or exiting the roundabout.

The protection that roundabouts provide for streets is not a large debate: everybody agrees that when people know how to navigate it, roundabouts are safer for motorists and pedestrians, but are more dangerous for cyclists in general. Critics contend that even with the safety they bring to motorists, the circular intersections represent the world’s overreliance on cars. Towns that reject the roundabout do not do so out of ignorance over the benefits the design brings to commuters-- the safety they bring to motorists should not be downplayed but the topic of discussion is turning to how the government may change commuting for the sake of the environment.

Economically:

According to the Washington State Department of Transportation, building a roundabout and building a traffic-signal intersection both cost around the same. When long-term costs are considered, roundabouts do not have the hardware, maintenance, and electrical costs that traffic signals require, which means that roundabouts can save cities between $5,000 and $10,000 per year. They can also work during power outages and do not require police to direct traffic. In terms of real estate, while a roundabout needs more property for the actual intersection, due to its efficiency with traffic, the streets approaching it usually require fewer lanes and thus less space.

When it comes to replacing pre-existing junctions, though, altering even a single four-way intersection into a roundabout has unique economical challenges. Because the actual roundabout requires more real estate, obtaining the physical space may prove to be difficult. If creating this area requires altering the landscape, then things like demolition, elevation, and resurfacing increase the cost of installation. Converting a traditional interchange also means moving the entire existing structure and rebuilding everything, which takes time… which in turn, presents the problem of traffic control; if you close down a major intersection, you need to provide drivers with an alternate way to their destination! With an unsatisfactory detour, people will, of course, find a different route, which will lead to cars commuting in areas that were not meant to support a high volume. At the end of it all, this one road closure can create a cascading effect on other traffic spots. Furthermore, there are industrial considerations to the road closures that will result from altering an intersection-- close a road for too long, and people will avoid driving there. Nearby businesses like restaurants and gas stations will take a severe hit.

In the end, the economic consequences of installing a roundabout depends on the unique circumstances of each junction. It can both be cheaper and more expensive than using a signalized intersection, so it must be considered on a case-by-case basis.

--

Given all the stated benefits, just why is America so hesitant to embrace the roundabout?

It is true that many American towns are beginning to utilize these circular intersections, but the prevailing type of junction is, and will most likely continue to be, the traditional signalized one. The facts are that roundabouts are only effective in areas with a moderate amount of traffic, are safer for motorists and pedestrians but more dangerous for cyclists, and are expensive to use as a replacement for pre-existing four-way intersections. But although roundabouts may not be used everywhere, you should expect to see more of these intriguing pathways on the roads you drive on in the near future, so if you ever happen to be in control of a vehicle, I hope you navigate it safely.

Citations:

https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/road-traffic-injuries

https://dpw.lacounty.gov/ldd/lib/fp/Road/Roundabout%20Policy%20and%20Design%20Practices.pdf

https://wsdot.wa.gov/Safety/roundabouts/benefits.htm

http://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/20/business/roundabouts-traffic-circles.html

https://cyclingtips.com/2021/03/roundabouts-suck-for-cyclists-heres-why/

[straightouttatheashes]

Hell Hath No Fury

OOC Note: This happens in a rp between @thalsianiii​ and myself!  -- A cozy campfire flickered in the swamps. A few half drunken bottles of booze littered the site along with various tents and sleeping rolls. But it was far from a peaceful scene. Standing amidst the dancing flames flickered a shadow; a human holding a goblin woman aloft by the throat. Tears streamed down her face in horror as she looked around at her friends and comrades. All dead. A pair of felstalkers consumed the remains with gluttonous indiscretion. "P-Please, let me go," she begged as she stared into the human's alien metal mask. But he didn't answer her. Instead he brought up his free hand to within an inch of her face. Fingers tensed like a talon; he spoke an incantation in a foreign tongue. The green colour from her face began to drain as her eyes glazed over. her plump figure withered away as the warlock ripped the life essence -the soul- from her very person. Either the three villainous entities were very careless, or simply couldn't care less who came upon them. Taking a job to escape from any responsibilities was a smart choice, she had thought. It was easy enough to agree to smuggling some wares into the Swamp of Sorrows. Pheonix wasn't going to be picky on what gave her a means to occupy her mind and just breathe. If she'd stayed in Silvermoon....well. Perhaps she'd be the one behind bars. Breathing became difficult however, as her after-payment walk suddenly became one of the most horrific things she would end up experiencing. She could have helped. In a split second, she could have done something. Instead her body froze as she watched a masked man tear the life away from an innocent. Evil. It was all evil. Necromancy. Demons. Fel magic, whatever the fuck. In an instant, her anger took hold of her body and allowed her to move. Felstalkers usually drained magic, but Pheonix really didn't give a shit. A searing hot fireball had been sent towards them, exploding on impact. Shoot first, ask no fucking questions. Percival had since discarded the last corpse from his grasp when Pheonix launched her attack. The impact of the Fireball caused the hounds to yelp in surprise and pain in the midst of the explosion. Even Percival stumbled forward from the raw force behind him. Singe marks dotted his spiked armaments and garb. But the heat itself, the fire, didn't seem to phase him in the slightest. In fact, he seemed to burn with his own fiery intensity in reaction. "Another soul for the Well of the Damned," he laughed in that reverberating metallic voice. He turned to face Phe with an ostentatious flip of his cloak. His arms crossed under his chest as his eyeless mask stared her down. "Go." he commanded. To which, the pair of hounds shook off the shock of her attack and dashed towards her. Maw's agape as goblin blood stained slobber dripped down from their fangs as they charged. Usually Pheonix would respond with her own taunt. But this time it was different. This wasn't going to be her usual brawl. No. This was going to be something much different, and she was definitely taking it personally, despite not even knowing this man, nor his victims.  She wished she could see his face.  As the hounds launched towards her, Pheonix had already unhooked the clawed weapons from her belt, gripping them tightly as the demons ran forth. She was quick on her feet - tattoos glowing as blades sliced for tendrils, limbs, maws. If one of them latched onto her, she'd slam it into the ground before following through with her blades and a furious yell. No doubt she'd suffer injury. She could worry about that later. It wouldn't stop her yet. In a perfect synchronization the two hounds leaped. One aimed high for an arm, the other low for a leg. The first was dispatched rather quickly. Fangs barely grazing her skin and drawing only a trickle of blood before she put it down. The other went for a leg, a much easier time of getting a solid grip of her thigh muscle with a deep puncture. Her speed alone managed to save her from broken bones. Two demons dispatched and Phe with a few flesh wounds at worst. But Percival was no slouch. While she focused on the hounds, he had conjured a black gate. Once the stalkers were slain, he issued another command in a foreign tongue as a swarm of bilescourge poured out from the portal. A flock of small, flying demons came out with little fangs coated with acid. they spat and nipped at her. Alone, one would be little more than a nuisance. A persistent hornet with a painful sting. But a dozen? That was more dangerous. Adrenaline was already surging through her body. She had no time to rest before the swarm was upon her. She hadn't dealt with Bilescourge before. But they were demons, and she would kill them like the last. A spiked gauntlet came up to block the fangs - though she could only block so many. The stings made her hiss through her teeth, as her tattoos glowed brighter, and her arms ignited in fire. More jabs and slices were directed at the swarm, though she started to move. She needed to make ground and get close to the warlock. With a yell, another fireball would be sent towards him. However it wasn't as big as her first. Her burst of flame incinerated a fair number of the swarm as it flew towards Pheonix. They were weak at best. But served a purpose all the same. Again the flames hit him. He didn't even bother to stop it. The minor force seemed to cause him to stammer but the flames themselves, the heat, did less than nothing. "Not the smartest elf, are you girl," he goaded as he raised his hand up towards the sky. He spoke a word of power and pulled his hand down fast, as if he was trying to pull something from the sky. Which is exactly what he intended. A small meteoric rock came crashing down towards Phoenix's location. If she didn't move, she'd surely be struck. The sound of cackling imps could be heard as the rode the falling star, felfire being lobbed about recklessly by the little demons when they landed. "You're all the fucking same!" She yelled back, her gaze only briefly following his hands, before she threw herself to the side - combat rolling as the rock struck the ground. Another shout, and an insult that most definitely started with p and ended in y. Pheonix didn't let the imps deter her. They could throw their fire all they wanted. Instead she was still coming towards Percival - darting to the side to flank him, flames still engulfing her torso. A very sharp and powerful set of spinning kicks would be aimed towards him and by god she hoped they'd connect. As Phe rushed the warlock, the imps continued to lob felfire in her general direction. Some might hit, some might miss, it was all chaos really. As she closed the distance between herself and Percival, the warlock immediately raised up his forearms to block her. The spiked armaments surely caused her some piercing pain in the first kick, before they were knocked away and the other series of spinning kicks hit true into the warlocks torso. He stumbled backwards, certainly bruised and battered along his chest and stomach from such a barrage. A hand holding his stomach, Percival extended his other arm forward and an open palm directed at her. He spoke a single word of power, "Explode." to which, the imps that danced about all began to glow and fixate on Phe. They charged her as their glow grew brighter and brighter. Leaping forward they all began to pop in a series of small, but volatile, explosions around her. Whether or not the felfire hit, it didn't slow Pheonix in her path. That was a problem future Phe would have to deal with.  She winced as the first kick connected, leaving her with another injury. But the force at least knocked him back. Another barrage of attacks were about to be launched, before she heard the words spoken, and the laughing of the imps. Fuck. Before her combat skills however, Pheonix was a pyromancer with a small amount of knowledge on other spells, first and foremost. Within a split second, an arcane barrier surrounded her - shielding her from the first few pops. But it was weak. And perhaps the only spell she knew. The shield disappeared quite quickly, and it was then she had to put distance with herself and the imps. Any explosion that came too close to her body, she'd tried to absorb into her own fire. Not a good mix. Perhaps her fury controlled her recklessness, but as the flames on her body grew brighter as the mix of power struggled to contain itself - she once again darted towards Percival. He may have been absorbing her magic, but the raw force of power was still affecting him. Despite whatever armor the warlock had, Pheonix would try to find an opening to get close and unleash an explosion of her own. This was going to hurt. Her more so, perhaps. "So you fancy yourself a sorceress?" he growled as she got in close, cloaked in orange flame. "You're out of your league, girl!" As if in direct response to her cloak of flames, Percival too conjured forth blistering heat and fire to wrap around his own figure. But with much more foul sorcery. Felfire poured out of the pores of his plated armor and mask. Concentrated chaos coalesced in the palms of his hands as he rushed forward to meet her. Explosion vs explosion. Fire vs felfire. The climactic clash of concentrated calamity was at hand! "Not at all." Phe prepared herself for the outcome as Percival met her in the middle, so to speak. Fuck. If there was any a time to launch her next attack, it was now. It wasn't just going to be a collision of magic. She braced herself, before a fist would drive forward - and then another spin kick, fluent movements as she tried to circle him and attack from any point she could. Pheonix willed herself to control her fire as long as she could before the imp's magic ultimately caused her own to explode. She wasn't a sorceress, far from it. Pheonix had adapted magic into martial arts. A warlock would be much stronger at magic than she ever would be. But she was volatile in her own right, and she would use her dexterity and strength in her physical attacks to her advantage. Pheonix's speed and dexterity would prove to be an advantage for her. While her fires seemed to do absolutely nothing to Percival, her physical impact was more than enough to frazzle him. Up close and personal he was at a disadvantage. Every time he spun to fire off a bolt of deadly felfire, she was already moved around for a new vantage. Clawed punches and strong kicks were beginning to wear the warlock down and drive him into a corner. In a final show of defiance, Percival shouted out a word of power that sent a wave of Hellfire bursting out in all directions around him. The sole purpose to drive her back so he could make his escape. The further out the hellfire spread,  the more likely it was to ignite the plants and trees, or send swamp gas up in explosive flames. The strain of trying to control her fire as well as the foul magic was becoming too much for her. But Pheonix was giving it her all as she noticed her opponent starting to wear down. Another opportunity would be taken to dart in and deliver a strong kick to his stomach - but suddenly another word of power was spoken. She was barely quick enough to dodge the searing blast of hellfire.  This was her chance. Pheonix remained close, giving one final push as she disarmed herself of her weapons - just so she could reach in and tear that stupid mask from his face. Whether or not she was able to, she had run out of time. The swell of power took its toll, the force and intensity of the explosion sending her flying backwards with a yell. Smoke rose from her body as she hit the ground, gasping for air and curling up in pain.  Her clothes were burnt and torn, but by gods was she going to get back up and finish that warlock off...At least her mind was telling her to. In reality, she lay there with absolute murder in her eyes as she struggled to get up and chase the man down to prevent his escape. And rip the mask off she did! She's get a nice good look at his face. Pale skin, blue eyes, a villainous mustache and beard. Like something right out of a story book, really. All wrapped together with a shit eating grin as she was sent careening back. "If you wanted to know who I was..." he began to speak, coughing up a speckle of blood from her final boot to his stomach.  "...all you had to do, was ask." With that, his attention turned to a near by swamprat. The perfect sized sacrifice. A quick incantation while Pheonix was on the ground was just enough to open up a portal back to his tower of horrors. He hastily limped towards his exit. In the moments before stepping through the portal he turned and extended his hand. The mask in her hand shimmered and vanished, only to materialize in his grasp once again. "The name is Thalsian, Master Thalsian. Remember it. I'll certainly remember you." With that, he was gone. The portal rapidly closing behind him. Pheonix felt the wet and muddy ground against her face, eyes closing as she succumbed to her wounds and exhaustion.  @thalsianiii​ again for mentions! HELLA GOOD ))

[hq-crew]

Senpai Squared

A gift for the @hqrarepairexchange for @jeeejae

Enjoy - posted just in time for everyone’s favourite horned owl’s birthday (20/9)

~ Mod Kenma

 For all of Nishinoya’s exuberance, no one would say he wasn’t an observant guy. In fact, quite the opposite. It was as if his golden eyes were always watching, sizing up everything and everyone he encountered. His gaze haunted that which it passed over, lingering like the echoes of distant thunder long after the storm moves on. Being caught by it directly felt a lot like staring straight into oncoming headlights.

It was dangerous.

It was powerful.

It almost made up for the fact he was barely five feet tall.

And Bokuto Koutarou remembers with vivid clarity the first time that gaze was levelled squarely on him.

  He’d moved out to the quiet neighbourhood, approximately a three-hour train ride from his childhood home in the city, to help out his ageing grandfather. The stubborn old man refused the idea of going into a care facility and no amounts of assurances that Bokuto or his sisters would visit regularly, or that there’d be lots of nice nurses and other old people to bitch with – “Your favourite hobby Gramps!” – would change the man’s mind.

Bokuto, whose physiotherapy qualifications gave him the most chance of being employed in a rural setting out of the family (whilst also lacking stable employment or accommodation in the city), was deigned ‘Gramps Carer #1’ and dutifully packed his stuff for a move out to his grandfather’s home town. The move didn’t bother him nearly as much as it bothered the people around him – his grandfather had always been an interesting dude, and his friends were always bitching about some new problem with city life so now he could invite them out to experience suburbia. In Bokuto’s eyes, it was a win-win.

There was also, of course, the fact that the entire population of the town over the age of thirty seemed to love the idea of having a new Physio (fifty perfect because Thank God I’ve Had Back Problems Since the Winter of ’43, and fifty percent because A New Eligible Bachelor This Is The Most Exciting Thing That’s Happened to This Town Since the Yotsuha Scandal). It was kind of fun for Bokuto, being the centre of attention – it almost felt like being famous. Akaashi – his closest friend – warned him not to let it get to his head. Akaashi’s husband and Bokuto’s long time friend Kenma had helpfully offered “I can bring Mario Kart with us when we visit to bring him down a peg or two”.

 We’re a little bit off course here – where were we going? Ah yes, Nishinoya!

 Right, so Bokuto had moved into town - hunky, compassionate, stable job, and most importantly single - and every mother within striking distance has simultaneously taken on the shot-put world record with how quickly they've flung their offspring in his general direction. Bokuto, for his part, thought it was really nice that the ladies around town were worried he didn't have enough friends his own age when he moved here and were introducing him to their kids. When he told his grandfather this, the old man laughed so hard he nearly hacked up a lung.

 Two such mothers were Mitsuri and Akane Nishinoya, who had cottoned on to the one thing many of the other mother were either wilfully ignoring or straight up didn’t see – how Very Much Into Men Bokuto was. Or, to quote Kuroo – Bokuto’s other long-time friend – “No straight man on Earth radiates that much He-Man energy, least of all He-Man himself”. This piece of information worked well for the two women, as it gave their son (their pride, joy, and absolute menace) a fighting chance. Now, they had to orchestrate a means to put said son in front of said Hunky Physio without alerting said son to the fact they were rather Unceremoniously Meddling in his love life, again.

If they’d known what was coming, they’d probably have gone to far less effort.

With that in mind, it might do us some good to actually sit with said son for a moment before the Inevitable Collision. If you’d asked Nishinoya Yuu what he’d thought of the new guy in town, he probably wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. Hey – I said he was observant when it was in front of him, never said he was in any way attuned to local knowledge. When the new arrival had become the talk of the neighbourhood women’s association, he’d been able to dismiss it as idle chatter. After all, the younger Tanaka’s wedding (my boy Ryu) was just long enough ago that they needed something new to fuel the gossip chain.

When it reached his aunt, who was delighted to blather on about how handsome and lovely this new physio was when she’d gone in for some dodgy knee pain, sure, he’d been a little bit annoyed – he relished being the Most Important Man in his spinster aunt’s life – but he could brush it off relatively easily. His aunt wasn’t always to be trusted regarding men, she thought the convenience store guy was “charming”, so Nishinoya told himself her opinions weren’t exactly what one would call ‘in Vogue’ (that is, if he knew what a Vogue was).

But when his own mothers warmly told him about how “helpful” this guy had been when he’d stopped by the store to pick up some plants and wound up being roped into moving some of the heavier pots for the displays, oh, now Nishinoya was Fuming™. Who did this mystery guy think he was? Why was everyone so utterly rapt with him? Was he out here to steal Nishinoya’s title as the town’s Third Hottest Eligible Bachelor? Was he – dread the thought – going for No. 1?

And that sunk it – Nishinoya didn’t know this dude, but he Did Not Like Him.

 Now that we know where Nishinoya was at before the Inevitable Collision, it’s time to return to Bokuto and the moment the two finally managed to get a good look at one another. Mind you, by this stage they’d both managed to ‘see’ one another no less than four times either side and had even had an Awkward Urinal Conversation (which we will not dwell long for a few reasons, least of which is the author – lacking the need to use a urinal – shudders to think of what is discussed over them). But the first time the pair actually managed to sustain eye contact – and or have an Actual Not Urinal Conversation – was a warm, spring day. Bokuto stopped in to the Nishinoya Garden and Flower Emporium to see if he could pick up some new seedlings for his grandpa to give him something new to brag about to his neighbours.

Nishinoya (Yuu) was attempting to fill a very small pot using a very large bag of potting mix which – all variables being equal – was almost always a recipe for disaster. That said, I don’t know if you’ve ever worked in a quiet retail store before, but sometimes making an absolute mess can be a blessing in disguise if it’s particularly slow in the store because at least then you have something to do while you clean up your own mess. Nishinoya shared this sentiment so much that he’d already grabbed the broom, dustpan, brush and bin so that when either of his mothers eventually attempted to chide him for making a mess, he could say “But Ma, look, I’m already cleaning it up – I prepped and everything! I am the Plant Guardian, protector of the pots, nothing’ll happen while I’m here!” and they’d all laugh and leave him be.

 Bokuto knew a grand total of None of This, so when he saw the cute flower shop dude (with the sick dye job – he totally had to ask later about it, maybe that would be his ‘In’, Kuroo always said you needed an ‘In’ to talk to hot people) struggling to heave a bag almost the same size as his tiny body while emptying its contents into a pot, naturally Bokuto jogged right over to help.

 I’d love to tell you it was a beautiful wisp of a moment, where as Bokuto’s hands brushed Nishinoya’s the two boys finally made eye contact and it was as dramatic and beautiful as I said in the opening. The fact I’ve had to put that version of events here (not to mention that I’ve been calling it the Inevitable Collision) should probably give you a better hint of what actually went down – namely Bokuto himself, as he tripped on a small overturned pot on the way over.

Now if that were the end of it, if he’d just gone down like the sack of flour Akaashi always joked that he was whenever he tried to ask for piggyback rides, it may not have been so terrible. Awkward, sure, but not terrible.

But this is Bokuto Koutarou, the only person on Earth who must apply 110 percent to everything, even falling over. This manifested in a sequence of events as follows: Bokuto slammed his hand on the closest table to try and steady himself, but his hunky bodyweight and the strange angle of the attempted grapple meant that all he did was cause two of the table’s legs to give out from underneath it and, with it, pots of newly planted geraniums flew straight up (Yuu swears, to this day, that he heard the Ave Maria as these poor flowers sailed through the air) and shattered onto the floor. The seedling pots that were closer to the now-broken legs rapidly slid down the table towards aforementioned beautiful disaster Koutarou, dumping their contents onto his defeated horned-owl hair.

 A beat of absolute, ungodly silence followed.

For those wondering, no, the two were not alone in the store. There was a couple being served by Akane Nishinoya which made Four Witnesses for the Worst Moment of Koutarou’s Life (So Far). I should clarify that he wasn’t actually injured by the fall, except from the fatal blow to his ego and his perceived chances with the cute plant-store employee.

 Currently in the throes of what his best friend Akaashi would call a “low mood” and what Kuroo would call “AGONY” complete with dramatic shirt-ripping,  Bokuto Koutarou looked up from the floor, covered in dirt and broken pottery pieces and the shame of a thousand suns and for the first time he met the dangerous golden gaze of one very baffled Nishinoya Yuu.  

If you asked Bokuto Koutarou, he’d tell you – without flinching – that he knew in that moment that he wanted to spend the rest of his life keeping that gaze centred on him.  

 Because as Nishinoya’s eyes moved along his body, sunlight moved through Bokuto’s whole being – warm pinpricks that left him burning until they arrived back at Bokuto’s owl-like gaze. As their eyes met again, the gold in Nishinoya’s eyes melted into unbridled mirth.

 A chuckle.

 Then another.

 And another.

 And like the building of rain from droplets to a storm, suddenly Nishinoya Yuu was cackling so hard he dropped the large bag of potting mix and had to lean on the counter for support.

Bokuto Koutarou was in love. Nishinoya Yuu was having a hysterical workday.

  “You should have seen it Shouyou! The pots went everywhere, this dude flipped a table and-and–”

“OOOOHHH! What did your moth-hey-wait-WHAT ABOUT NATSU’S SPECIAL POT!!”

“Don’t worry! Ma moved the ‘most prized artwork’ earlier this week to the orchid shelf! But Shouyou-this guy-I swear-”

Hinata Shouyou breathed out his relief – his sister would have been devastated had she discovered the art project pot she’d made and given to the Favourite Senpai Ever was a casualty of this bizarre new arrival into the store.  Nishinoya was a good friend (one of the few people on Earth shorter than him, to his eternal delight) and an even better senpai – he’d made it his personal mission to keep an eye on both Shouyou and Natsu growing up.

As they sat in the bar that Hinata had been meaning to come back to just to stick out his tongue at the bouncer because well now he was old enough (hah!), Nishinoya had regaled his old school friends and anyone close enough to listen with the Tale of his Workday. A lot of Nishinoya’s old friends liked to joke that only Nishinoya possessed the storytelling skill to make a ten second encounter into a fable in four acts, which was best delivered to a rapt audience of underclassmen – it was almost a shame that Kageyama was overseas and Tsukishima and Yamaguchi had major assessments due. That left only Hinata who, don’t tell anyone, was Nishinoya’s favourite audience member because he had the best reactions. Nishinoya’s hiccupping guffaws chorused with Hinata’s excited crow noises and for a moment you’d really believe someone had let a murder of crows into a bar.  

Hinata sat next to his senpai and undertook in perhaps one of his rarest past-times – he thought. Now that he was older and wiser (supposedly) he felt like he should help his senpai out. After all, he’d provided glowing references (didn’t matter for what – Nishinoya, it turns out, could hype Hinata to anyone for any reason at all) and helped him out with his homework (with support, not with content), so now they had managed to progress to being friends without the insurmountable Senpai Wall between them.

Nishinoya was still cackling, dissolving into fits of giggles with each mental replay of the scene, each detail that remained stuck in his mind’s eye. He gripped Hinata’s shirt, struggling to make coherent noises come out of his mouth between the choking gasps of truly chaotic amusement. The back of Nishinoya’s mind registered that wow Hinata had gotten really buff since his holiday in Argentina but was so stuck on this fUCKINGH LUNATIC oH My GoD that the preceding thought sunk back down into the recesses of his consciousness. Even Hinata couldn’t stop giggling at the sight of Nishinoya absolutely losing it and the two remained in a cycle of giggles.

“I almost wanna talk to the guy, y’know? Like what a dude.”

Oooh. The smallest seed of an idea planted itself in Hinata’s brain.

“I mean, I gotta give him a hard time for the table-pfft-and-the-” more giggles, followed by a deep shaking breath as Nishinoya attempted (he really attempted) to compose himself. “-but-anyway-I mean… Maybe he’ll be a bro, y’know, because man, I’m so proud of Ryu, but like, I miss him – am I allowed to miss him while he’s on honeymoon? ‘Cause I fuckinbg miss my bro-”

The seed germinated into a tiny sprout.

“-and if nothing else I need someone to help me find this New Guy – have I told you ‘bout the New Guy – don’t get me started Sho, this guy I don’t even get it who is he where did he come from-”

Now that was like Plant Steroid to Hinata’s growing idea. Unfortunately for Hinata he has the world’s worst poker face, so as the idea bloomed rapidly, the entire bar heard the excited crow screech.

“oooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! Noya-noya-I’ll help you find the plant-guy!!! I’ll do it!!! I know who he is!!!”

“You DO!?! Why didn’t you say so Sho! C’mon! The night is young, let’s find this plant-killer!”

The two tumbled out of the bar with determination, but upon realising Nishinoya had an opening shift (where he was probably going to have to repair the damage done by the Plant-Killer) and Shouyou had training, they resolved to make a plan during the more reasonable daylight hours to find the mystery New Guy and befriend the walking disaster.

As the two parted ways, only one of them knew those were the same person. And so, Hinata’s Great Idea took root.

  Hinata’s Great Idea could be broken down into four steps –

1.      Bring Nishinoya and Bokuto together

2.      Nishinoya and Bokuto bond!

3.      Two Awesome Senpais!!!!!!

4.      ???????????????? …kiss?

Point Four was…contentious. He decided to sort that out another day.

For now, he was focused on Point 1 – bringing them together. He already had Nishinoya on board, which meant he only needed the other half of the Brainless Beefcake Bundle (author’s words, not Hinata’s). Luckily for him, he sort-of-kind-of-had-definitely-spoken-to-maybe-once Bokuto which in Hinata’s books meant they were at least good enough friends to invite him to go for a run. The fizzy-drink bubbling sensation in Hinata’s chest when Bokuto agreed could be chalked up to the excitement of a new running buddy and not to whatever emotions lingered behind the question marks in Point Four.

 Dawn’s soft light filtered through the trees, illuminating the last wisps of a misty morning. As the world was painted in purples, pinks and yellows, Bokuto could only focus on orange.

Bokuto was thrilled, confused, but thrilled, to be out running with the tiny orange blur. He’d encountered the blur in passing so it was nice to actually attempt to get a look at the face. He wasn’t making much headway though, because whenever he got close the orange blur made a frankly adorable little screeching noise and powered off. It was fun, though, the thrill of chasing after someone full tilt. Akaashi and Kuroo were both too busy to race him, and Kenma would honestly rather die than run. This sprinting, this chasing, was freeing. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this.

The blur was getting farther and farther away as Bokuto remained deep in thought. The blur made a confused wail, bobbing in the distance. Right! They were racing! Well if he wanted a race, let’s give him a race! Bokuto threw all his strength into chasing the blur, screaming all the way as he did. The cold air burned into his lungs as his steps pounded into the ground, one after another. He closed the distance between them, grinning ear to ear as he did. The blob wasn’t giving up without a fight and charged onwards, elated. The pair’s joyful screams echoed along the mountains and well into the sunny morning.

If you asked Bokuto what he remembered most from that moment about the blur he’d come to know as Hinata Shouyou, he would have said the instant he raced past him and spotted those wide, hungry brown eyes that watched him like they craved everything he had to give.

  When Hinata had told Noya to just “leave it to me” regarding the Table-Flipping Menace, the expectation had been that the second meeting would occur somewhere neutral like a park or bar or even that boba tea store that Tsukishima had worked at over the summer and they’d all relentlessly teased him for.

Suffice to say Hinata’s apartment was not the expected middle ground. Not that Noya minded – Hinata’s apartment was bright, clean but well-lived in, and had lots of fun mementos from Hinata’s travels abroad. Noya felt a lot of fondness for the place, most recently because he’d been asked to house-sit for a three-month stint so it still registered in the back of his mind as ‘home’. It was all the little details that made it so undeniably Shouyou – posters from their school events together, one of Natsu’s artworks (framed, and signed by the artist herself), a chipped planter that Noya had picked out as a housewarming gift and had somehow managed to survive living here, dozens of foreign knick-knacks on a shelf that seemed to grow more and more strained with each sojourn around the world, and of course the photos. They covered a whole wall (right up to the ceiling too, and you could see which ones Kageyama had helped with and which ones Hinata had done with a ladder and gusto based on how crooked they were). Noya was proud to say he featured in a large portion of them, though the catalogue of his bad hair decisions was a little embarrassing.

When Noya turned up, snacks and drinks in hand, the only thing that looked decidedly out of place in Hinata’s apartment was one very confused Table Flipping Menace. The TFM hovered awkwardly, as if not sure where to sit or what he was allowed to touch – though the way his eyes darted as they tried to soak in the sheer magnitude of personality in Shouyou’s apartment screamed excitement. Noya knew it was the TFM because he’d never forget a haircut that cool – a mental reminder to talk to Sakeo about upping his ante – and because when the TFM’s eyes finally landed on him Noya had to fight the urge to giggle. The Ave Maria played on repeat in his head.

“Oh! Oh! Nishinoya-senpai! You’re here!!” Hinata bounded over, making sure to put Noya’s offerings down before throwing all his weight at him in a hug that was more collision than anything else. Noya crushed him close in return, squeezing Shouyou’s not-actually-scrawny-any-more body and something akin to a memory attempted to wriggle its way to the surface of Noya’s mind. Unfortunately, it took too long to dig itself up, because just after their hug finished, he heard “Bokuto-senpai!”

Nishinoya felt the recoil of that emotional slap to the face for about a week after this moment.

“Bokuto-senpai, this is Nishinoya-senpai! Nishinoya-senpai’s the coolest – he works at the plant store with his mums, you met them, they’re super nice, and he went to school with me and one time he an-”

“Hey hey, let’s not spoil all my good stories at once!” A quick ruffle to Hinata’s hair (despite the mock offense with which the gesture was received) and Noya finally got a good look at the monster of a TFM who was standing there.

Noya was used to tall people – no surprises there – but this guy exuded a completely different presence. Everything about him seemed to be screaming ‘look at me – I’m worth watching’, from the way that he moved (even awkwardly) to the way he spoke. He radiated an energy you couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that ethereal, passive beauty that drew people in either – like Blessed and Holy Kiyoko-no, Tanaka-san, or God’s Gift to Humanity Sugawara Koushi – but it was something different. Something strange. Something Noya decided he’d add to the list of things he was going to work out (like ‘why they teach useless maths in school’ and ‘how on Earth did Daichi manage to outdrink them at every opportunity’).

Well, no time like the present, he figured. “Nice to finally get a name for our plant-killer! I’m Nishinoya Yuu, guardian of the plants, friend to this little loser,” a quick noogie to Hinata’s head, for good measure, “and best senpai ever! So ‘Bokuto’?” The TFM’s – Bokuto? – eyes went wide. “Tell me ‘bout yourself!”

The TFM – who had been eyeing him with one of those expressions Noya could never tell was romantic interest or constipation – jolted to life suddenly. Introductions quickly gave way to apologies, “Please tell your family I’m super sorry again about the table I don’t even know what happened,” then to stories of adventures and misdemeanours as the little group found their own awkward rhythm of chaos and laughter. Hinata’s neighbours did tell them to keep it down at one point when the screaming (from all three parties) got a little intense, but all that did was reduce three grown adults to little children stifling giggles.

By the time night fell, Noya was no closer to working out what it was about Bro-kuto (as he was now saved in his phone) that intrigued him, but honestly, he didn’t really mind.

 “Bro-ku-to!!! Get your ass up this second! Let’s go let’s go!”

Bokuto mumbled a hazy ‘Datekou?’ between snores. Answering Kuroo’s panicked three-am call about which tie he should wear to his big client meeting – whilst not a regret because he loved his friend and wanted to see him do well – was evidently not a smart decision for his sleep schedule.

Bokuto rolled over and snuggled back into his pillow, floating into dreamland. He was receiving a medal, and as they hung it over his neck, he could hear the crowd cheering him on, chanting his name – Bokuto! Bokuto!

“Bokuto! Bokuto!!! Wake up!!!” Noya shook the puddle that called itself Bokuto Koutarou as vigorously as he could to no avail. You may be wondering how it was Nishinoya Yuu managed to make it inside Bokuto senior’s house to start shaking him. The open window provides some clues but raises more questions, especially given that it’s two floors up. The answer was simple: Nishinoya Yuu had performed a stunning homage to Da Bois Night (Summer Edition – The Remix), not that Noya was familiar with the word ‘homage’. If he was able to climb the outside of their concrete school in the rain, then getting into an open window on a sunny morning on a brick house was easy.  

Bokuto was still sleeping like the dead, mouth hanging open and all, and Noya needed a new plan. Noya however was not a ‘plan-man’. He took a couple of steps back, drew all his breath in, and then… “Rrrrrooling THUNDER!!!!”

Flinging himself with all the force he could muster, he attempted to tackle Bokuto off his bed. His shoulder slammed into the small of Bokuto’s back, which succeeded not only in making Bokuto yelp but also moving enough of his body that the mass of limbs and blankets rolled off the bed with a loud thump.

The blanket mass that now contained two useless disasters simultaneously started groaning and laughing from the floor. Bokuto untangled himself from the sheets to find Noya laughing in what had since become characteristic of their friendship, and he couldn’t stop himself from giggling along. Soon both were cackling, and each time one tried to stop the other would make eye contact, or say something, or in one notable case snort ungracefully, and the two would simply start all over again.  

Their laughter echoed down the halls. His grandfather, thankfully, had hearing aids which he took out at night. The man couldn’t hear a thing without them.

 Once they’d managed to calm down (and put most of Bokuto’s sheet’s back on his bed, which Noya had then jumped on and flopped into like some kind of demanding cat), Bokuto decided to at least try and do his normal morning routine. This attempt at normalcy was somewhat thwarted by Noya’s commentary and fashion advice. “Grab the pink shirt!” “Sick I love this– wait, shit, I’ve got work later.” “What about flamingos hula-hooping is unprofessional? They’re hardworking animals!”

“Can you grab me the gel?” “You use the pine one? God, no wonder you always smell like air freshener.” “Hey! I’ll have you know my friends say I smell ‘rugged’ and ‘not overbearing’.” “Dude.”  

“Is that how you get it to stick up?!” “Duh, makes more sense like this!” “Bokuto, my man, I may have seriously underestimated you. You may actually be one of the coolest people I know. And I know plenty of cool people.” “Yeah, your aunt is awesome.” “Not who I meant, but damn straight.”

 As Bokuto flipped back down from the bar in the doorway where he’d been hanging upside down, Noya absently checked his phone. Normally, Bokuto would have found the scrunch of Nishinoya’s nose rather cute, but there was something in the furrow of his brows that filled Bokuto with confusion. He flopped down next to (or more accurately, around) Noya, attempting to peek at his phone. Noya chuckled lightly, swatting him away with a bat of his hand. No luck. Bokuto leaned closer and watched those eyes as they skimmed over messages, gold tarnished with worry the further down the conversation they got. Noya’s dyed tuft (now a bright green thanks to a bet with Shouyou) had started to fall in front of his eyes but he was ignoring it.

What Nishinoya Yuu could not ignore was when a hand that was not his own moved the hair for him.

Their eyes met, and among other flitting thoughts that struck Nishinoya in that moment, one was how Bokuto’s hand was easily bigger than his face. Another was how nice his hair looked down, even though it was still pretty sick gelled up. Another was how much fun this loud dude was. How much he made him laugh, made him stronger, challenged him, excited him. How lucky he was that he’d flipped a goddamn table in his little plant shop.

The last was how sharp and wild and fucking terrified Bokuto’s owl-like eyes were.

He leaned his head softly into the hand that was so close, that was bigger than his face, and turned his eyes once more to Bokuto, who looked every bit as hopeful as he looked amazed.

Nishinoya was an observant guy.

He didn’t see the kiss coming at all.  

  Epilogue – Shouyou

  When the two of them told Hinata the good news, Hinata was elated! The Great Idea had come to fruition! It worked! Two awesome senpais!

 He was so elated, in fact, that the first thing he did was grab Nishinoya and kiss him, before barrelling into Bokuto and jumping into his arms.

 Wait. Shit.

 Well, that explains Point Four.  

 You could hear the echoes of their laughing, of their joy – a flock of loud, excited birds – all the way up the mountainside.

[novelconcepts]

I’m sure I’m not the only one hoping you’ll expand on your earlier post about the greenhouse “flat above the pub” flirt-o-Rama if Flora hadn’t...gone and been possessed and all.

“You know I live above that pub, right? Told you that already. Got a little flat right above the boring little pub.”

She knows what she’s doing, is the thing Jamie can’t quite wrap her head around. She absolutely knows what she’s doing. Where on earth is the woman from five days ago, the one who looked at her with such bruised eyes and swollen lips and tried plaintively to pull at her jacket? Where did she go, and who is this bold version in her place?

Dangerous, probably. Already, she’s lowering whatever meager defenses Jamie had managed to craft over the past week. Already, she’s blowing right past them as though never there at all, and Jamie doesn’t fully understand this. She’s never had trouble blocking someone out before--at least, not someone like Dani, who makes her feel...makes her feel...

Good. Makes her feel like the brightest thing in the room, most days. Makes her feel like no one has ever wanted her there so badly before. 

The woman’s only kissed her once, and already it feels like she’s made a home for Jamie somewhere in her heart. Somewhere under all the bad she’s carrying, under all the flinching she’s done, all the death and loss and fear, there’s a place for Jamie. If she wants it.

She’s looking at Jamie now like she’s proud of how she walked in here this morning. Like she’s proud of how closely she’s standing, how she’s biting her lips now to hold back a grin so enormous, Jamie can’t help but return it. Five days away, and she returns to someone who knows what she’s doing--and what she’s doing is flirting so hard, it’s a wonder the table doesn’t catch fire.

Did that on purpose, she thinks wonderingly. What the fuck is happening. 

***

The coffee, in its own way, worked. Not that she thought Jamie would actually like it, because honestly, it’s bad coffee--and Jamie is just too British for words--but the thing is, it was never meant to be liked. It was only meant to make Jamie smile.

Which it did. Eventually.

Or, she did. Is doing. Right now, as the words tumble out of her--Would you wanna get a drink? Away from the house. Away from all this. That could be kinda boring, right?--a part of her is desperately terrified to realize, she is doing this. She is leaning against this table, clutching a mug of truly toxic coffee, watching Jamie suck in her cheeks like it’s doing a damn thing to erase that smile. She is saying the words she’s been playing over and over in her head for five days running:

“You. And me. Could get a boring old drink. In a boring old pub.” God, her heart is sprinting. It’s entirely possible she won’t get out of this sentence, with all its halting hesitation, alive, much less this greenhouse. “And see where that takes us.”

And this is the part where Jamie will melt, she hopes. Swoon, even. The part the coffee laid road leading to, a glorious red herring approach. Here, where Jamie will see that she means what she says, and she’ll grow faint with whatever affection Dani has earned, and this will all be--

She’s grinning. Jamie, not quite facing her, is grinning. 

“You know I live above that pub, right?” This is not, Dani recognizes, exactly what one might call a swoon. This is the expression of a woman who has done extremely quick math and come up with a calculation Dani had sort of hoped she’d swing right past. When she’d swoon. 

She is not swooning. She is, instead, leaning slightly back, eyebrows raised appraisingly, reminding Dani in one fell swoop that there are people who are eager to flirt and people who are good at the art. And that Jamie, for all her glower and loner tendencies, is very, very good at the art. 

“Told you that already, didn’t I?” Her voice is almost soft, definitely teasing, her expression perfectly arranged to say this is my territory, Poppins, and you had best be careful how you tread in my garden. “Got a little flat. Right above the boring little pub.”

And then she’s...turning back to the work. Turning away, not a blush to be found, not even the hint of a swoon. Dani’s expression, so carefully schooled into neutrality, is breaking into the biggest grin of her life and Jamie has the temerity to not even keep eye contact.

“I mean--you maybe...mentioned it--”

“Only,” Jamie goes on, still focused on the task at hand--which Dani does not in the least understand, though there’s something to be said for Jamie in profile: head bent, eyes attentive, hands working into soil. Jamie never quite looks so alive as when she’s working, as though it is only in garden or greenhouse that she truly allows herself to flourish. 

Would she look that alive, Dani wonders with unbidden curiosity, anywhere else? Maybe in the boring little flat, maybe with me, maybe--

“Only,” Jamie repeats, darting a small glance her way. Dani realizes she’s staring, closes her mouth. “I figure there are plenty of places two people could go on a date. Which is, if I’m not mistaken, what you’re suggesting. Isn’t it?”

“It...I--yes.” No point denying it. No point trying to wash away the simple brazen fact. A boring little date. It’s not a big deal. It doesn’t have to be a big--

“So,” Jamie says, her voice still doing that dangerous thing Dani doesn’t quite understand and can’t quite turn her attention from. That dangerous half-soft, half-amused thing that is all accent, all in control, all turning Dani’s own courage back on her like a firehose. “We could do it anywhere, couldn’t we? Doesn’t have to be the pub.”

“I--” Dani resists the urge to close her eyes. She’s going to make me say it. She really is. This wasn’t the plan, exactly. The plan had been so much simpler. It had not taken into account Jamie, who is going down into this thing with her willingly--but maybe not easily. “I mean, I just--”

“Just curious,” Jamie goes on breezily, drawing her hands from the soil at last and taking a slow step closer. The space between, already limited at best, reduces to nearly nothing in that single motion. Dani swallows.

“About?”

“It’s particular,” Jamie points out. A slight shift of hips, a nearly negligible twist of the waist, and she’s got Dani backed into a corner. Or, more accurately, against a table. “The pub. Bit curious, is all, why you’d want to get me into that pub.”

***

This poor woman is going to burst into flames, Jamie thinks, and maybe they’ll both deserve it. She isn’t upset with Dani anymore--has found in the span of about five minutes that there’s no staying upset with Dani when she turns those huge blue eyes on full-force, stands just so, puts on the bravest face Jamie has seen her wear since stalking Peter Quint through the night. She isn’t upset, exactly.

But Dani seems to think this was going to be easy. A cup of coffee. A slick line. She seems to think Jamie was just going to lean into it. 

Which she is. In her own way.

She’s careful not to touch Dani, not to press in with her body to such a degree that Dani will feel trapped. She’s only standing, a tiny width of space between them, her hands loose at her sides. Only standing, polite, smiling, waiting for an answer.

“Bit curious, is all, why you’d want to get me into that pub.”

“I don’t--I think--I mean--” Dani shakes her head slowly, her eyes wide and imploring. “Do you not...want to get a drink...”

“Didn’t say that.” The last five days haven’t been enjoyable. Burning sick days, pretending to be too ill to check in on the house, had felt cowardly. The shame in her stomach, twisting like acid around the hot desire of the memory, had felt familiar in the worst way--like being seventeen again, not knowing where to put all of these too-fierce feelings. Anger would have been easier. Disappointment, shame, embarrassment--each too heavy to put down on its own--had made for the worst kind of cocktail.

This, though. Dani looking at her--not needing to tip her head back, not needing to peer down, simply looking straight ahead and making perfect eye contact--feels good. Feels better than good. Feels like she’d felt in the moments before the flinch, when Dani had grinned into her mouth and pushed hard against her like she’d been waiting for this moment for days. This, Dani drawing deep breaths, clutching her mug, feels liking picking up right where they’d left off. 

Dangerous, she thinks again. Dangerous, to let Dani in this way. Dangerous, to admit how alive she feels, teasing her this way. 

Dangerous, every time Dani’s eyes flick to her lips and back again. 

“You’re really not going to say it,” she says, shaking her head in a parody of disappointment, reaching in gently to pluck the mug from her hands and set it aside. “Poppins. Really. First rule of flirting.”

“What’s that?” There’s a challenge in Dani’s smile, she thinks. A challenge so light and so free--and so intoxicating in its authenticity--she can’t help but laugh. She makes a show of leaning close, watching Dani’s eyes darken, watching Dani’s breath catch.

“Always be ready to commit.”

***

She’s going to kiss me, Dani thinks. Here. Now. Six in the morning, she’s going to do it. 

But, of course, Jamie doesn’t. Jamie, who thought it had been her Dani was trying to get away from the other night. Jamie, who took it so to heart she hadn’t even come back for nearly a week. 

It’s been so strange, going through the motions without Jamie around. Strange and hollow, and Dani knows--the way you know you can’t keep holding your breath much longer--life will never feel quite as vibrant without Jamie in it. 

Didn’t take long at all, she thinks, remembering the shadow of a young man standing before a dying fire. Didn’t take long at all, but I can’t not know that. 

Jamie’s here now, a crooked little half-smile on her lips, her eyes bright, but there’s something she’s still holding back. Something she’s still not absolutely sure Dani won’t let fall, split upon collision with the ground. 

She isn’t going to kiss Dani. She’s just going to stand here, making her crazy, smiling exactly like that. 

“Always be ready to commit.”

And there are other things Dani could do, it’s true--laugh, push at her shoulder, make another horrific stab at imitating her accent. There is plenty Dani could do.

But just now, with Jamie standing this close, with the air crisp and this single room so different than it had felt days ago, she’s not sure she can be blamed for what she settles on.

Not sure anyone could blame her for sliding a hand around Jamie’s middle, pushing off the table, using the momentum to twist until it’s Jamie backed against the table, Jamie looking at her with genuine surprise on her face.

That, Dani thinks with terrified glee. That’s the look I was going for. 

"Consider me committed,” she says, and though Jamie had been careful not to touch her, she finds herself unable to do the same. Her hips press Jamie backward, one hand clenching at the small of Jamie’s back. The other finds Jamie’s sleeve, less for contact, more a desperate bid for balance.

“Touché,” Jamie says in a low voice--not that easy flirtation tone this time, but something less in control. “My, ah. Hands are dirty.”

“Do you want me to come back later?” 

Jamie laughs, leans forward, shakes her head. “Didn’t say that.”

It wasn’t the plan, to kiss her here. She’d meant only to apologize--or, not apologize, but make clear that she was sorry how it had gone, that there are paths she very badly wants this to take that are the right way, the best way, the way it should have been all along. She’d meant only to make that clear, to land her proposal, to make Jamie feel a fraction as giddy as Jamie makes her every damn day.

And yet, with Jamie kissing back, Jamie making a helpless sound of frustration as her hands tip backward to grip the table behind her instead of ruining Dani’s coat, it feels right. It feels like meaning what she’s said. It feels like commitment. 

“For the record,” she adds, pulling away to breathe. Jamie’s knuckles are stark around the table, her elbows bent, her chest heaving. “This is why I’d like to get you into that pub. Or your boring little flat. More of this.”

“Could’ve just said so,” Jamie says, and maybe it’s not swooning, exactly--but the flush in her face is deeply satisfying all the same, particularly when she tips her head back to allow Dani access to her neck. 

“I thought I’d be polite about my desire to get you into bed, thank you.”

“Polite,” Jamie repeats, her voice sharpening when Dani slips a hand into her hair and kisses just above the collar of her jumpsuit. “Right. Completely slipped my mind.”

“I am,” Dani insists, pushing her harder against the table, “very polite.”

She is alive, here in this greenhouse, choosing Jamie. She is alive, and she is free, and she is all but breathless when Jamie--patience giving at last like the final strand of a snapping rope--slips both hands into her coat and clenches her hips. Jamie, who is so alive with her hands at work, and so much more so now, kissing until Dani is sure they’re both going to give up the idea of a date altogether and just settle for that rumpled little couch.

“Okay,” Jamie says at last, tipping her head away. Her hands are under Dani’s sweater, tracing the warm skin of her back, and Dani finds she couldn't care less about the dirt. “Okay. You’ve made your point, Poppins.”

“I have?”

“Mm.” Jamie leans her head down against Dani’s shoulder, exhales almost shakily. “No scary-bug flinch. Very good. Best save the rest for the boring little pub, yeah?”

Dani doesn’t want her to go. Doesn’t want her to pull free, put those hands back to work with plant and seed and root. Jamie is grinning again, brighter than anything Dani has seen in days, and Dani wants to stay within sight of that smile for the rest of her life. 

“You’ve got kids to wake. And I’ve got...um...things.”

“Things,” Dani repeats. Jamie nods. 

“Important things. With...plants...the work.” She reaches vaguely for a trowel, gestures with it like she’s considering bringing it to war. “Look, it’s early, I was not prepared for any of this, Poppins.”

Dani laughs, extricating herself at last and recovering her mug. Leaving is the last thing she’d like just now, but Jamie isn’t wrong--the kids will be up soon, and the day will fall into its usual register. Except, this time, she’ll know Jamie is out here, thinking about boring pubs and boring dates and the least boring kiss of Dani’s life. 

“Would,” she says, pausing at the door to glance back, “you call what you’re feeling now a swoon, by chance?”

Jamie blinks. “I--um.”

“Never mind.” The answer, Dani decides, is almost certainly yes. 

***

Honestly, thinks Jamie, watching her stroll--stroll! as if Dani Clayton strolls anywhere!--out the door, she did every last bit of that on purpose. 

“Swoon,” she mumbles, shaking her head. “Don’t fuckin’ swoon.”

It would, she thinks as she tries in vain to remember where she’d left off, explain the vague sense she might at any moment pass out--but Dani doesn’t need to know that.

If she gets any more brazen, after all, Jamie is going to be in serious fucking trouble.