#lots of trees too but especially that stretch is concrete heavy

[david-watts]

I swear to god the weather is evil atm

[rachaellawrites]

7 Snippets and 7 People

Thanks to @saintedseraph for the tag!

I'm nibpressure tagging @human-still-developing @moondust-bard @authorlaurawinter and whoever else wants to join in!

All these snippets are from Book 4 of A New Age of Magic.

1.

Instead, we reached out to the RCMP in the hopes that they would be able to reunite her body with her family. It took a long time for any of the cops to find us, even after we had moved closer to the edge of the woods. After the massive car accident and the moose Destiny had summoned to demolish several RCMP vehicles, they still had multiple injured officers out of commission and a lot of chaos to unravel even the next morning.

2.

The stretch of silence that followed vibrated with rage at all I had left unspoken for too long. My heart was heavy as a stone and painful as a broken bone. How would she ever forgive me? Did I even deserve her friendship anymore?

3.

By late morning, just as we reached the city limits, it began to rain.The rain was light, thankfully, but it made our brick and concrete surroundings especially dull and dreary after so long walking through woods and fields. The heavy clouds threatened to weep as only autumn skies could, and none of us wanted to linger outside longer than we had to.

4.

“Did you come here to grovel and offer excuses? Because you should have already learned that that won’t help you.” A thunderous crack exploded through the phone, like falling tree or a breaking bone. I jumped, fumbling not to drop my phone, pressing my back against the wall as my shaking legs gave out.

5.

The shattered glass and debris had since been cleared from the road, but there was no hiding what had happened here: Tire marks from cars screeching to a halt, grass burnt black from Gwiber’s flames, and blood stains. So many blood stains. I knew, eventually, even the worst of the damage would grow over or wash away. But when we stopped on the shoulder of the highway to plan our next step, the evidence of our failure seemed loud. Bold. Permanent. How many more roads would look like this if we didn’t stop Arman?

6.

The grass turned verdant in warning a second before it lengthened, hundreds of thin blades wrapping around my wrists and ankles, rapidly winding across my limbs. I tried to yank away, but they grew too quick and too sudden – my vision swam and head pounded from the effort – bile burned my throat again.

7.

The front windows shattered, showering me and Emily in glass as massive dragon claws crushed the roof of the vehicle in their grip. “Bail!” I screamed, grabbing the door handle and bashing my shoulder against the ruined door. It took three tries. We were twenty feet in the air above a smouldering field, but there was nowhere else to go. I jumped.

[ludux]

My first remembered life. 

I don't remember much from my first life - I don't remember who I was, or what. I don't know what I did, if I had family, or friends, or where I lived or what I did in life. I don't even remember my name, there, or know how long ago it was.

I've been trying to get back ever since.

I remember a bed. Slowly waking up from a deep, heavy sleep, so deep and heavy I thought I would drown in it, die in it, never wake up from it. 

But I did.

I tried to remember - I HAD to remember… something. Important - but it was already gone, as such dreams usually are.

I remember it was a poor apartment, the mattress sat on the floor, and the floor wasn't entirely solid. If you've lived in a poor apartment, you know. 

The light was blinding - I'd forgotten to close the curtains the night before. The pain of the light helped wake me up. I remember I had nowhere else to go that day, but I couldn't stay where I was. The air inside was heavy and I had to go, now. I had to leave. I had to get out, now.

The cheap carpet stung my feet and I didn't even eat before I left, a comfortable pair of shoes, a light jacket - I had to leave, now, I had to go, outside, now.

At least the air outside didn't get stuck in my throat.

The world held its breath as my eyes adjusted - it was early. Too early for any cars on the road, too quiet for even birds to be fully awake, still waking up themselves, too early for the sky to remember it's blue.

I can't remember if I had anywhere particular to go that day, I just needed to be… out. I just needed to… go, I needed to go, now, I needed

I walked.

I wasn't going anywhere, just walking.

The old cracked sidewalk was welcome in its familiarity - I knew where to step so I wouldn't twist my ankle on the crumbling concrete, take a bigger step over a rough patch or an abandoned slope to a driveway for a long torn down house. I always wondered what stories happened in houses I'd never see, especially once they were no longer here. How many worlds came and went in families I'd never meet?

I'd never know.

There was an undeveloped woodlot a couple streets away that had its own stories, stories of picnics and skipping school and hearts on trees, stories of decades and centuries and wars unknown to history. I liked to visit here before anyone else was awake, and dream of them.

It wasn't exactly wild anymore this deep into where humans kept growing their habitat and it wasn't a park, but it was quiet, this early in the day, cool, and still in that short time before the people of the day woke up and the people of the night went to bed.

From the signs I knew it would be a gas station soon, or maybe a strip mall with a dollar store and cheap fast food and cheaper liquor, or maybe a cheap business lot that would get abandoned before it made back the investment money, or maybe cheap condos that would just burn down after a few years for the insurance payout. 

But right now it was still alive, a quiet place for anyone who wanted more time with quiet time and peaceful things.

I'd never seen anyone else here.

Not long past stepping off the broken sidewalk and pushing through the neglected underbrush the trees seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky, the outside world muffled to silence behind me in a way that made me feel small again, but safe. A soft, earthy breath cleaned my lungs in a way the dissolving asphalt and exhaust coated street never could.

The under crunch of leaves and twigs set a quiet rhythm as I made my way deeper through the familiar trees. They were thick together, wild, greedy leaves only letting slip small specks of light to the ground. I couldn't remember how many times I'd explored this woodlot since I was a child; every tree was familiar to me, a friend.

I walked with no real direction, every direction was a path I'd already walked so often I could close my eyes and let my feet feel their way over the familiar brush and roots. Sometimes I had to squeeze through thick trunks, other times the trees winded to a small clearing, graveyard marker of fallen trunks.

I enjoyed the small changes in the first I noticed every time I walked through. The way the ferns seemed to lean a bit more towards the light, or how a fallen tree allowed a new ecosystem in its wake. Not for the first time I imagined trying to documenting what I saw here, the stories I knew here, stories of scabbed knees and colder days, getting lost and found - but that felt like so much work for people who'd never cared to be here, who only ever wanted to know the only lives they ever knew. This place would be gone soon and they'd forget it'd ever been here.

I remember my mind wandered as I let my feet lead me through familiar friends, lost in thoughts of the days ahead, what needed to be done, what I was trying to avoid, everything placed on me by people so sure they knew better than I did what my life was and was not allowed to be.

The woodlot had a way of bringing clarity to me of what truly mattered.

And what didn't.

I almost missed the small glint of… something, on the ground, at the base of an old tree almost hidden by old leaves and older roots. 

I remember the way aXQ= caught the light was c3RyYW5nZQ== - it wasn't trash. Here? Nobody came here.

I remember a rush of hot anger that colored my vision as I crouched to clear the leaves away. This place would soon be nothing and even here, someone dared to infect even this place with their trash? 

The rest of the world faded into the background as I examined the b2JqZWN0 closely. It was small, and covered with patterns that - I couldn't care if they were naturally formed or intricately carved. It wasn't like anything I had seen before. 

It wasn't trash, I think, or art, but it definitely wasn't natural either.

I didn't notice the faint light it cast on my fingers until I'd picked it up. It was heavy. Why was it so heavy?

I remember that confused me.

It was strangely warm as I reached down to dig it out of the loose soil, despite the coolness of the early morning. Why was it so warm?

I remember the air around me seeming to vibrate with a low, almost imperceptible hum as I kicked the leaves away before I reached out wanting to bring it up to my eyes so I could see it more clearly. Why couldn't I see it clearly?

I thought about picking it up as I stood, the rest of the world fading away around me as I crouched to pull the bGVhdmVz away. It was embedded in old roots - it had clearly been here for a long, long time. How old was it?

It vibrated strangely as I pulled it out of the sand, like an insect trapped in the hand. I almost dropped it, but I had to see it up close.

Why was something like this here? I couldn't remember seeing anything like this before. I remember the snow had melted around it, as if it had cleared the snow away itself, marking its own small territory of warmth.

I looked around, making sure nobody was nearby as I knelt beside the busy road and fished the b2JqZWN0 from the gutter and held it up to my eyes. How was it so clean?

The water was cold as I stepped into the stream, annoyed that someone had thrown trash into the clear water. Maybe it had washed down from up shore but that was no better. I remember such beautiful colors as I

With my hand as I stood up, I don't think anyone noticed me, felt it move as I

Where was it? I remember feeling so scared that I'd lost it, and then so relieved that it was still

"Found it!" I called out. I'd forgotten it was so large, even these winds couldn't move it. We'd need the 

the quiet drowned me as I was forced to my knees I dared look upwards at

remember falling, why was it taking so long, where were they? It was right here, it was right here, it was right here, it was

the colors kept changing, I didn't know colors could look like that on my skin moved with the colors skin was so nice and

it moved with the sky in the night the sun felt so 

it was so loud in the quiet with the people so alone it was looking for

home was just over there it was so impossibly like that I

water where was any water it needed

there it was heavy in the 

how was it here 

i was

was it

was

YWxpdmU=

[honeymoonjin]

part of the 2020 sapphest fic fest, cross-posted to ao3

pairing: jungkook x hoseok x namjoon

word count: 8.1k  ||  rating: sfw  ||  genre: magical realism

summary: jungkook doesn’t know what she wants in life. but maybe the cottage-dwelling botanist and warlock she moves in with could help. or, perhaps, they might even be the answer.

notes: i apologise if this isn’t up to scratch, i haven’t written an actual oneshot i think since jan/feb (?) so i know i’m rusty. also, this fic contains a trans female jungkook, cis female namjoon and non binary hoseok so i really do hope i’ve done them justice, it’s my first time writing characters with differing gender expressions. please do let me know what you think with a reblog or an ask, it really makes my day and would help a lot as i’m trying to get back into writing. thank you and i love you xxx

------

Jungkook feels the gripping pressure around her heart ease with every step she takes down the street, fading into phantom pangs once the tall apartment building falls out of view.

She had never quite gotten used to it; the relief in a lack of something, the bliss of less. Her family’s worries seeped into her bones, soured her tongue when she was home. At high school, and especially at university, the stress of other students buffeted her like gales of wind. The brief moments of respite when she’d walk to the bus stop always felt so fleeting, like a gasp of air that didn’t quite fill her lungs enough.

Now, though, she didn’t stop there. She walked further, sucking in deeper breaths.

The train station lay close to the centre of town, but it was never that busy in the late morning, something she’d known fully well before going.

Her phone buzzes in her front pocket, no doubt her mother wishing her safe travels again. She doesn’t answer it, though. Happiness is a sweet tang behind her teeth, and her respite from obligation is a welcome one.

Her train is already pulling into the station when she steps up to the platform, and she wastes no time in scanning her card and finding a seat, tucked in the least occupied corner.

It doesn’t take long for the cramped blocks of Seoul to open up into countryside, and with it comes an openness in Jungkook’s chest that she only remembers feeling once before, a family vacation to an island that felt so blurry in her childhood memory.

Her gift wasn’t so strong then, but still Jungkook finds herself, over a decade later, seeking out nature as a balm for the mood pollution of city life.

When she’s as far south as the train allows, she disembarks. Not a single other soul steps foot off into the station, and it seems nobody is around.

It’s more a bus stop with rails than a train station, really. A roughly squareish pad of thick concrete sits beside the old tracks, a steel park bench and signpost the only things adorning it.

Around the lonely station is an open plain with few trees. On the opposite side, vast untended fields sprout daisies and dandelions, rising gracefully to low hills in the distance. On Jungkook’s side, a single narrow path of sun bleached dirt cuts through the wild grass, leading her to civilisation.

It’s a quiet walk. Not that she minds, of course; on the contrary, the remoteness of this place settles her and allows her to appreciate the finer sounds that normally get drowned out. The grass and scattered trees rustle gently in the wind. A few birds that roost in the shade of the branches chirp to each other, and the melodic noise brings a smile to Jungkook’s face.

When the small path she wanders along finally leads her to a series of small, traditionally-built houses, she’s unsurprised to find them seemingly abandoned. There’s no signs of life outside, and no evidence of human mood anywhere in her body. Even more than the rundown appearance of the outpost, Jungkook trusts her natural gift.

So when a tug in her chest leads her past the small crop of houses, she doesn’t hesitate. There is something for her here, something she may not yet have the words to explain, but for the first time she’s letting herself follow the currents that run through her veins, instead of trying to live around them.

The path lifts.

Like the train station was the base of a funnel, the land rises into hills on this side too, the extra exertion heating her calves with each step. Eventually, the narrow spine of dirt becomes overgrown with grass, and she’s forced to trample over it, ducking around low-hanging branches and stumbling over roots as the trees cluster around her, welcoming her into the cool shade of the hillside.

The crest of the hill has a jagged notch missing like a chipped tooth, providing a shortcut to the other side. The sun peeks through worn walls of ancient stone. It glares in Jungkook’s eyes, but even that brightness is overwhelmed by something stronger that radiates from the very ground itself. Euphoria.

Though her gift was still sometimes a mystery to her, Jungkook had learnt to distinguish most moods. In her cramped suburbia, she’d generally just been exposed to human feelings and the occasional animal, but she could still recognise the specific energy that plants give off.

Stronger with every step she takes, her soles practically vibrate with the flow of plant life singing out in joy - the joy of thriving, of being taken care of. Her own excitement wells up inside her, and her feet pick up their pace until the thud of grass changes into the slap of heavy soles on rock. She slips through the narrow crevasse of stone at the peak of the hill, breath catching at what greets her on the other side.

Like some kind of paradise, lush colours and fragrances mingle in the fresh air. The slope is much gentler here, and instead of uneven undergrowth and stubborn shrubbery, graceful rows of trees fill the open plains in front of her.

An orchard of plum trees with their pink blossoms rests to her left, rich purple fruits beginning to grow from them. Beside, a thicket of orange trees brighten the landscape with the bold citrus, only a few white flowers remaining on the branches. The green apple trees in front of her are laden with fruit, the branches hanging low. To her right, she even spots the brilliant pink spheres of pomegranate, though surely her eyes deceive her.

There’s no clear path through the foliage, though each row kindly provides enough space for a person or two to wander through, so Jungkook takes one such gap at random. There looks to be a fairly old though well-tended cottage beyond the trees, and even as the ecstasy of the healthy orchards envelops her in warmth, she feels the tug in her chest still guiding her forward.

Her body adjusts to the strong flow of positivity. It clears her mind, opens her lungs; like breathing pure mountain air. She has no idea what she’s really doing - trespassing and approaching a stranger’s house like this - but already the thought of having to leave here and find a place to stay makes her stomach curl.

Between the line of trees she can make out the front-facing wall of the cottage. Made up of wide planks of wood, slightly uneven with all the knots and flecks left on the surface, green creeping ivy runs lines across the edges of the plants like earthy seams. That’s all she can see, though, and the first sign of human life doesn’t come from what she sees but rather what she hears.

Reaching her ears even around the happy murmur of greenery, a bright voice hums a meandering but cheery tune, interspersed with chirped phrases that Jungkook can’t quite make out yet.

She approaches slowly, but impatiently peeks around the trunks of trees for a glimpse at the individual. The movement, the colour, the tint of energy that she feels off of them is unlike anything she’s felt before. Pure light, just as brilliant as it is tender.

She steps forward again, foot snapping a fallen twig. Suddenly, that stranger’s energy wobbles, the freezes in the air altogether. Jungkook pauses, knows she’s caught.

“A visitor?” the new voice exclaims incredulously, almost as if talking to themselves. “Are you human, visitor?”

Jungkook swallows. Whoever it was must not have been able to see her. “Mostly,” she replies hesitantly.

As if that’s the right answer, a joyous hoot rings out through the orchard, and light thumps skip closer. A smile stretches across Jungkook’s face entirely unconsciously, her eyes widening when the person finally darts into sight, hand hooked on an orange tree at the very end of the row.

“A friend, then!” the apparent owner of the house declares. They’re dressed for gardening, though dressed is perhaps overly generous. With bare feet and cropped, slightly curly hair, the only thing the person is even wearing is a pair of overalls, dirt on the knees, the leg cuffs rolled up to their calves and the front only just covering their otherwise naked chest. Every inch of skin revealed down to the elfish slope of their nose is a warm, rich bronze, like the sun itself has sunk below the surface and is instead shining outwards. It matches the high energy that Jungkook feels off of them, making her heart race.

Used to modest - even prudish - city fashion, Jungkook swallows at the delicate shoulders and collarbones that contrast enticingly with the swell of their biceps. Averting her eyes, she clears her throat and introduces herself. “And sorry for, uh, intruding,” she offers up with a grimace.

But the stranger waves it off, the movement exposing a flash of something gold on their palm. “Don’t be,” they respond easily, “we haven’t had a guest in years. Name’s Hoseok, by the way.”

“Jungkook,” Jungkook replies without thinking, making the other’s eyes light up even more. “I don’t even… I don’t really know why I’m here.”

Hoseok seems to be expecting this answer. “You should come inside, Jungkook. I built up wards against humans about three years ago when we moved in - it’s not even on any maps now! - so if you’re here, you’re here for a reason. Just because you don’t know it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t important.” They state this all like it’s a matter of fact, and Jungkook herself feels instinctively swayed by the logic. Or, perhaps, swayed by the way Hoseok’s back flexes behind the straps of the overalls as they turn towards the house, leading her there.

Jungkook swallows, trying to distract herself from the beautiful being in front of her. “Are you a, um-” but even her first question isn’t so clear. Unsure what to choose, she goes with the statistically more common option. “-are you a witch like me?”

Hoseok cranes their head back with an easy grin, boyish waves framing their face like a dark halo. “That’s up for debate. Technically, sure, but I don’t really like using the term witch or wizard. Lots of non-binary folk just use warlock, mostly. But yes, I have magic. Come see.”

They hold out their palm, then, and Jungkook jogs forward a few steps to catch up, just breaking out of the shade of the orchard as Hoseok tilts their hand towards her.

Like the rest of Hoseok’s skin, their palm is a warm golden shade, though it positively glows, an ethereal brightness resting below the skin, centred in their palm but reaching as far as their fingertips like five tiny lamps. “Sunhands,” Hoseok explains simply, their hands radiating a delicate warmth. “Had them since I was born. Helps me grow things year-round,” they finish, gesturing loosely in front of them.

Finally breaking her gaze from Hoseok’s beautiful gift, Jungkook looks ahead, unable to stop herself from gasping in a breath. “It’s gorgeous,” she offers up, but the compliment feels lame in comparison to the haven she’s met with.

Hoseok hums proudly nonetheless, and gives Jungkook time to take it in.

The house is every bit the rustic, homely cottage Jungkook had envisaged from the glimpse she got, but her heart is taken by the details. The wooden face she’s met with is clearly the side of it, hosting a small woodshed complete with an axe half-embedded in a tree stump and a tiny freestanding barbecue grill. The house itself is two-storied, although the second floor looks much smaller than the first. A round glass window peeks out from the top. Jungkook thinks she sees something move behind it, but her attention is quickly pulled by the glint of glass in the sun off to her right.

Behind the house, taking up almost the same ground space as the other building itself, a glasshouse blooms with vibrant green. Lush ivy trails up the frame on either side of the rounded top like a set of ribs bracketing the plant life inside. Unlike the neat rows of fruit trees, it looked like a dense forest within those crystal clear walls; the only signs of human intervention were the rows of metal shelves housing smaller plants, and irrigation pipes fitted inside.

“Our little sanctuary,” Hoseok sighs happily, seeing where Jungkook’s gaze has wandered. “My wife’s a botanist by trade, her specialty is in endangered species. Most of these only bloom very rarely, or don’t survive well in regular soils. We’ve spent a long time cultivating them. I use my gift to grow them; she uses her gift to study them.”

Jungkook tries to tamp down the ebb of disappointment that arises. “Your wife?”

“In all ways but legal,” Hoseok confirms with a dreamy grin. “She’ll just love you, I know it already. Come on; let’s get out of the heat.”

There’s a swing bench on the porch outside the front door with a lone novel resting atop it, open page-down as if the reader had to leave it there without a bookmark to keep their spot. Hoseok skirts past it, wiggling their feet briefly on a worn mat before stepping inside.

Feeling so out of her depth, Jungkook doesn’t protest, but instead pauses just inside the door, unsure if she should take off her boots.

Hoseok notices and winces. “We don’t, uh, we don’t have any spare house slippers. If you wanna keep them on, you can.”

Jungkook bends down to toggle the zips down anyway, letting her socked feet enjoy the respite of the cool hardwood floor. “You have a really nice place,” she offers up, though it’s quite the understatement.

To the right is a narrow set of stairs leading up to a mezzanine. There’s only one closed door up there that Jungkook can see, no doubt leading to the second-floor window she’d seen earlier.

The other side is a short hallway lined with what looks like homemade artworks and photographs. Down at the far end, the sun shines into a kitchen, but Jungkook doesn’t get a good look before she’s ferried up the stairs, the third step creaking under her socked foot.

“Knock knock,” Hoseok sings out instead of actually rapping on the closed door, squishing their cheek against the frame. A murmur comes from inside, and they open the door immediately, flocking inside. “A new friend, Joon-ah!”

When Jungkook slips inside shyly, her breath is immediately taken away by the beauty of the person inside. Not just their looks, though she’s never seen hair as glossy and graceful as theirs, and eyes as bright. But being near them feels like standing on the bank of a still, clear lake. Deep with wisdom but still teeming with life and curiosity. With a set of tortoiseshell reading glasses almost tipping off their nose, the person seated at the chair feels like the heart of the house, the heart of the whole region.

“Does this new friend of ours have a name? Preferred pronouns?”

Jungkook can’t do much more than blink. She’s dreamt about this, obsessed over this for years, but it may just be the first time anyone’s ever actually asked her in real life. “Sh- uh- Jungkook, she/her. Th-thank you for asking.”

The beauty in front of her smiles, and Jungkook’s knees threaten to give out at the serene warmth and endearing dimple. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Joon, by the way. I use she/her too. I’m sure Hoseok forgot entirely, but they use they/them. Always best to check, don’t you agree?”

Jungkook’s nodding immediately in response before she even processes it. “Yeah, I- that’s helpful, thank you.” Her mind feels hazy. People in the city never felt this vibrant, mixed with the blissful hum on the soles of her feet from the plantlife outside. She fights to wrangle her mind back into something coherent “Um… Hoseok said you had a gift too?”

Joon’s brows furrow delicately, swiveling her chair back to face them fully. She’d been seated at a busy-looking desk when they entered, writing notes into the margin of a yellowed textbook. Now, Jungkook can appreciate her simple choice of outfit: just a loose t-shirt and some thin fabric sweats, she nevertheless exudes pure grace, even as she quirks a brow towards Hoseok.

The latter coughs lightly, scratching their bare shoulder under one of the overall straps. “I mean… I would call you gifted, love,” they state in an imploring tone.

Joon just lets out a breathy chuckle and turns back to their newcomer. “I’m fully human, actually. My history is academic rather than magical.”

“I am curious, though,” Hoseok chirps, hooking one of their legs on the arm of Joon’s chair and draping themself half onto her, “what’s your gift, Jungkook? You’ve seen mine. Elemental,” Hoseok states, patting their bronzed palms on Joon’s thighs.

If Jungkook pauses to process the public display of queer affection in front of her - as well as the unfurling of mutual fondness emanating off the couple - she might just pass out, so she clears her throat and directs her gaze a few inches above their heads. “Sensory,” she explains. “I feel moods from other beings. I think the trees and stuff outside brought me here, actually.”

Hoseok blinks, eyes wide. One of their overall straps has slipped down, exposing one side of their chest, making Joon tut and tuck it back up again, but the gifted one takes no note. “The trees? You can feel the trees?”

Jungkook shrugs, but her insides glow at the impressed tone to their voice. “Yeah, I, uh, I can’t really do much with it, so I studied house magic at university. I rented out house witch services for some extra money, so that helps.”

Joon’s smile warms even further at the mention of study, her eyes crinkled with some bemusing inside joke. “We might just have to keep you, then,” she quirks, “as amazing as Hoseok is, their skills don’t really extend to the indoors. Mind you, I’m even worse myself.”

Hoseok hums, unflapped by the comment. “I never had a knack for fiddly stuff. I much prefer getting my clothes dirty than cleaning them.” Seeing how worn and discoloured the knees of Hoseok’s overalls are, Jungkook doesn’t doubt that for a second.

But her mind can’t really focus on that. Her own nerves rattle through her body, metallic on the insides of her cheeks. “I, um… I could help? If you wanted?”

The tentative flicker of interest reaches Jungkook from both parties, allowing her to get her hopes up. Nevertheless, she bites her tongue and braces herself for rejection. Did she even have enough money on her card for the train ride home? Stupid, she was-

Joon beams warmly, though with a touch of hesitation. “We’d love that, really we would. We just… We don’t have much human currency, Jungkook.”

Jungkook blinks, chest flipping as she rushes to shake her head. “I don’t need it, honest! Do you- If you had a place for me to crash, or…”

Hoseok sucks in a breath through their teeth and jostles Joon playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, love, we could move some of those old boxes up here and she could have the spare room. Don’t you want to keep her?”

Even faced with Hoseok’s all-but-bare back, Jungkook can sense their pleading eyes with the way that Joon melts in her chair. She pats Hoseok on the shoulder. “Up you get, then, sunshine. It’ll need some dusting too.” The curled brunette heaves themself up, peppering a kiss on Joon’s cheek before slinking out the room.

Jungkook isn’t quite sure if the rising ecstasy in her chest is all her or a shared blend of the people around her, but she knows she’s never felt so bright. “Thank you so much, Joon! What jobs do you need help with?” She turns when she feels the tingling, menthol-esque blossom of hope directed at her back. Near the top of the stairs, Hoseok still remains, their cheek squashed against the banister and eyes glistening. “I could always clear out the room for you?”

Hoseok begins to perk up but Joon just tuts. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart, you just put your feet up. We aren’t going to put you to work straight away.”

“We aren’t?” Hoseok murmurs in unbidden disappointment.

Joon tries to hide her smile, but her lips quirk up fondly at her partner nonetheless. “The cleaning spray and broom are in the hallway cupboard downstairs,” she divulges, receiving a dramatic whine in return. “Suffering builds character, dear.”

A sulky, “yeah, yeah… love you,” is heard from the foot of the stairs.

Joon lets out a breathy chuckle and returns the affection, before standing up from her desk and nodding warmly at Jungkook. “Perfect weather for a lunch picnic, don’t you think? I might go down and see what I can prepare. Why don’t you explore a bit, or go rest? The couch in the living room is divine for taking naps.” With that, she departs, leaving Jungkook alone in the attic to process the absurdity of the past hour.

Feeling less like an intruder than before, Jungkook welcomes the opportunity to fully roam the outside of the property, admiring the lush wildlife and vegetation. The open plains go far beyond the opposite side of the house, leading to a sharper cliff face going up. Jungkook even thinks she can spot the thin vein of a waterfall if she squints, but there’s plenty of beauty at her feet for her to discover first.

While the grove of trees flanks the house on one side, the far side boasts rows and rows of garden beds, the dirt a richer brown than the rest. Fat strawberries weigh down their stalks in some plots, leafy greens spill over the sides in others. The vast range of produce is almost unbelievable, with the side of the house itself displaying a maze of herb pots. Most of them were cooking-based, but Jungkook doesn’t miss the orange spots of brewer’s mint, the sharp, wicked-looking leaves of murkroot and even a small terracotta pot of Jupiter sage. She was well-versed in magical ingredients, but had never seen them fresh outside of her university’s greenhouse. She could only imagine there were many more in the tall glass structure behind Joon and Hoseok’s house. Her fingers itch to test them, to wow her new landlords with a pain-reliever salve or the perfect dream-infused tea. It can wait, she tells herself. If they were growing them, perhaps they used them for something else.

A wet huff interrupts her musing, and she jumps when she feels something moving against her leg. Glancing down, she’s relieved to find the new presence is a tubby, short-haired dog with sleepy eyes, back arched as it stretches first its front legs, then its back, before collapsing onto its back, wriggling against Jungkook’s boot.

She lets out a disbelieving laugh, reaching down to gingerly rub the creature’s belly. The dog all but purrs, legs kicking in the air and tail thumping rhythmically against the sun-bleached wooden veranda.

“Where did you come from, huh?” Jungkook crouches, feeling her calf muscles ache but grinning at the way the dog seeks out her attention shamelessly, not hesitant at all about the presence of a stranger.

“Ah, I see you met Cho,” a warm voice comes from above her. Jungkook cranes her neck up, admiring Joon’s tall form. “She’s a rescue.”

A rescue? Paired with the close view of the gorgeous botanist, Jungkook has to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to push her feelings down. She’d fall in love if she wasn’t careful. “Is that so?” she asks, willing her voice to be steady.

Joon nods, kneeling down to gently run her knuckles behind the dog’s ears, tan fur paling to white on the very tips. “I had to go to a nearby town for supplies, and found this wee girl in an alleyway digging in some bins. My heart broke for her, I just couldn’t leave her there.” She lets out a light laugh. “She was so skinny that Hob-ah called her chopstick. Now, though, she’s built like a barrel, so we just call her Cho.”

Cho wiggles her butt against the veranda, paw hooking on Jungkook’s wrist the moment the petting pauses. Continuing to pat the canine, Jungkook sighs. “That’s really sweet of you. She looks really healthy.”

A spontaneous laugh erupts from Joon’s nose. “She just about eats more than us, she better be. Anyways; I better get back to work. I just came out here to grab some mint for the lemonade.”

Jungkook stays hunched on the floor with Cho - whose nose is burrowed wetly into her furled palm - while Joon approaches the trellis of herb pots, gently plucking some soft green leaves off a plant that’s low enough to make her bend at the waist. Biting her lip harshly, Jungkook averts her gaze from the way her pale sweatpants pull taut around her hips with the movement.

Before long, the botanist returns inside, causing Cho to let out an indignant sneeze and scramble up to join her.

Jungkook exhales until her lungs feel concave. Back in a moment of quiet, she runs her fingertips over the texture of the wooden veranda. The energy from Joon’s unhurried focus feels like the echo of strong hands on Jungkook’s shoulders, but past it is the playful jab of Hoseok’s mock frustration. She grins, picturing the warlock fiddling with an old broom or trying to line up the corners of a fitted sheet. The tang of surprise has long since faded from Jungkook’s mouth, and it’s nice to sit in the warmth of both the sun and their welcome.

She breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh smell of clean air and fresh earth, and smiles.

For such a small house, there really is no shortage of work for Jungkook. Some things are easy fixes, like a permanent polish salve for the heavy mahogany bookcase in the main room or the several anti-dust spells she casts around the house. Others take days at a time to chip away at - she’d forgotten just how long it takes to fully steep a digestion aid tea to cure Hoseok’s raging lactose intolerance - but her two new housemates never nag or criticise. In fact, she’s found a warm foundation of purpose inside her that she hadn’t had since she graduated.

Each evening, when her hands begin to ache or the recipes on her phone look fuzzy, she packs up and joins the two lovebirds for dinner. It’s become a domestic ritual to help them cook, chat for a few hours on the porch as the sun slips below the hills, and then turn in for a restful night of sleep. It’s meant to be a full moon tonight - the fourth one since Jungkook arrived - and their routine is no different, gathered on the edge of the porch facing the open fields behind the house. It’s peaceful, Jungkook thinks. She’s more content now than she’s been in a long time.

There’s something...worrying bubbling within her with every shared moment, though. It’s in the way her pulse leaps when Hoseok beams at her, or the stuttered heartbeat in her chest with Joon’s casual touch. She knows they’re together, can feel the resonance of their affections inside her, yet she can’t help pretending those vibrations are directed at her. Lets herself accept the fond shoulder squeezes, blush at Hoseok’s playful winks.

It’s a dangerous fantasy to indulge in, but…

“Jung-ah, did you change your hair? It’s gorgeous.”

She flushes at the compliment, the genuine tone of Joon’s voice. Joon’s own hair is still a sunkissed brown, so long now that she often ties it off with a ribbon into a lazy ponytail. For a while, Jungkook burned with gender envy, knowing it would take years and years for her hair to grow that long. But a quick text to a friend from uni and an obscure millennial cosmetics spell site helped speed that process up. It wasn’t nearly as long as Joon’s, but the feeling of it tickling her bare shoulders each night made something deep inside of her positively glow. “Thank you,” she murmurs shyly. Hearing Joon notice it and respond well to it ignites that euphoric spark again. “Wanted something different.”

Hoseok reaches a hand up to ruffle their own hair; loose coils springing back around their brow. “Don’t you get hot, ladies? I’m tempted to take a razor to mine and it’s not even past my ears!”

Jungkook can’t manage to suppress a snicker in time. “I’d pay to see that.”

Hoseok grins, but sends a wink Joon’s way. “Hmm... wifey doesn’t seem so convinced, huh? Don’t you think I’d suit the skinhead look?”

Joon tilts her head back to catch the last few rays of orange sun, shadows cast below her jaw. “It wouldn’t be my first choice. But confidence looks better on you than any hairstyle, sunshine.”

Hoseok beams at that, letting the conversation drop as if they never were that interested in shaving anyway. “I think I’m making progress with the vanilla, love.”

That gets a strong reaction from Joon, her dark brows arching gracefully. Jungkook’s interest is peaked, leaning forward so that she’s sitting right on the edge of the porch. “The vanilla?”

Like a proud mother, Joon puffs her chest. “It’s mostly grown in Madagascar these days, and it’s a notoriously fickle plant. The flower only blooms one day a year, and is fertile for only 12 hours. And often, they require human intervention to actually pollinate. Seok-ah here thinks they can get it blooming more often. Have you gotten it, sunshine?”

Hoseok shrugs away the attention humbly, though their eyes glitter with barely-restrained excitement, turning to them both. “For a while I thought my sunhands were my only gift, but I think I must have some type of connection with plants too. I’m really not sure, but I’ve gotten my vanilla crop to bloom three times this month alone! Only two of them produced decent pods, but it’s definitely progress.” Their eyes drop, mouth twisting in thought. “I wonder if I could speed up the fermentation process as well. It usually takes months, but I’ve grown whole trees faster than that. Who knows?”

Joon’s reply is interrupted by a low vibration rattling against the porch. Her smile slips in confusion, and drops entirely when she flips the phone and reads the screen. “It’s Tae.”

Hoseok sobers up too, worry and anxiety emanating off them like a cold tide. “Is something wrong?”

Joon doesn’t reply, brows furrowed as she types something back. Barely a moment later - though it feels much longer as Jungkook awkwardly sits, completely out of the loop - a text buzzes through again, and a surprised laugh comes from the back of Joon’s throat, her lips stretched in a smile. “He’s… he got the job in Osaka.”

Hoseok gasps and claps their hands together once, wiggling in their spot. “That’s incredible!” they begin, but before Joon has even replied to the text, a third is coming through. Hoseok basically jumps in the air, demanding for their wife to read the message aloud.

“Oh my goodness, Tae has a boyfriend, Seok-ah! Says he’s a chef at a Korean restaurant in the city centre.” Joon smiles fondly. “He’s doing well, sunshine.”

Hoseok mulls this over with a slightly put-out look. “Dammit, I didn’t even think of dating a chef.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I made that dipping sauce from scratch yesterday.”

Jungkook feels the banter whip back and forth on either side of her, impenetrable without the important context. “Who’s, um, who’s Tae?” she asks hesitantly, bracing for them to scold her prying.

Joon just smiles placidly, reaching back to lazily re-tye the peach ribbon that’s threatening to slip off. “He’s our ex.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Hoseok chides, “you know he doesn’t like to be called that.”

A sigh. “Tae’s our husband once-removed. Happy?”

“You… had a husband? Both of you, or?”

“What’s mine is hers, Jung-ah,” Hoseok coos happily, “we like to share. Tae was my… boyfriend, back in the day. We actually got hitched before I even met Joon. Young marriage, we were pretty dumb kids.” They shrug, the soothing cotton-soft acceptance filling the air around them, not a spike of negativity to be held. “He actually introduced us shortly after our honeymoon, and I fell for Joon straight away. I admitted my feelings to him, but he just started laughing. The two of them had briefly dated in high school. Small world, huh? We sort of fell into a trio after that.”

“It was unspoken, really,” Joon mumbles, her eyes in the far distance as blue twilight dims the sky. “It felt as natural as flowing water to us.”

“And then-” Hoseok breaks off roughly, and the air tightens. “Tae went through some personal changes. Identity changes. We all tried making it work, we loved being three, being together, but it wasn’t right for him anymore. He ended up winning a scholarship to a very prestigious photography school in Tokyo, and we all knew that was what was best for him.” They fall silent for such a long time that Jungkook would almost think they were finished talking. But then, only just audible, they whisper. “I’m glad he’s doing well.”

Joon leans over to Jungkook, her sweet scent filling the narrow space between them. “Some of the art in the hallway is his if you want to look.”

Before Jungkook can reply - though her head is swimming with joonjoonjoon that she probably has no coherent comments anyway - Hoseok makes a strange strangled noise and gets up. “I’m so sorry,” they announce stiffly, “I think I left a light on in the glasshouse.”

Jungkook watches in confused silence as the warlock, still barefoot even in the cooling night air, marches swiftly across the field to the pitch-black glasshouse. Joon lets out a gentle sigh.

“Did I do something wrong?” Jungkook asks, voice almost cracking on the final word. “I shouldn’t have asked-”

“It’s okay,” Joon interrupts kindly, a warm hand placed on Jungkook’s knee. “It’s just… This is the first time we’ve had a third person in the house since Tae. I think Hoseok missed it.”

Jungkook bites on the inside of her cheek, feeling a chill run through her. “I can’t replace him, though. He sounds like a good guy.”

A considering hum resonates from Joon’s throat. “He is a good guy. But neither of us,” she gestures first at herself and then the shadowed silhouette of a head poking above some plants in the greenhouse, “are looking to replace him. In fact,” she admits with a rueful laugh, voice dropping to a low murmur, “I think the two of us are quite enamoured with you, Jung-ah.”

Joon’s hand on her knee burns through the thin cotton of her sundress, the tips just grazing bare skin. Jungkook swallows, feeling every beat of her heart thud at her ribs. “I like-” her voice rasps like sandpaper, throat dry. She clears it, swallowing thickly again. “I like when you say my name like that.”

She isn’t looking directly at Joon, but she still feels the broad smile. “It sounds pretty, don’t you think? It suits you.” Jungkook’s lips twitch; she ducks her head even as Joon leans closer. “You know, my parents wanted a son,” Joon explains softly. “They called me Namjoon. I always hated it. Felt like such a tomboy, the Nam was too mascule to me. So I dropped it. Still me, just… better. I know plenty of people change their names entirely, but you don’t have to. I think Hoseok would love to chat with you about stuff like that. I know I wouldn’t understand those feelings as much as they would.” Joon furrows her brows, looking embarrassed at her monologue. “I just want you to feel comfortable here.”

“I appreciate it,” Jungko- Jung-ah says immediately, glancing up to see Joon’s face light up. “I- I’m, um, enamoured with- with you too. With you two, too.” Coughing lightly to clear the awkward phrase hanging in the air, she drops her gaze again, but a single finger pauses her, hooked gently under her chin.

Slowly, Joon lifts Jung-ah’s jaw until their eyes meet. They’re somehow closer now, their breaths mingling hotly together between them. Jung-ah’s lips part, but no words come out.

This close, she can see the way a sheen of chapstick glints in the moonlight when Joon smiles. “Sweetheart, can I kiss you?”

Her stomach flips. She nods, not trusting her voice, and barely has a chance to flutter her eyes shut before a pressure lays across her lips. Joon kisses her slowly, so softly, like she might shatter in her hold.

The air has a chill to it now, but every point of contact feels hot like a furnace, and the keening, pleased energy that blooms from Joon keeps her warm. She lets it sink into her, wrap around her just as Joon’s soft palm encases her cheek, fingers playing with her hairline.

Joon’s lips taste like strawberry, but the real sweetness is her delicate movements, chaste but sensual, passionate but patient. Her thumb rubs slowly over Jung-ah’s cheekbone, giving her the strange feeling of swaying in the sea, entirely unmoored. She leans into it, diving deeper, feeling their noses bump.

Joon pulls away too soon, leaving Jung-ah with tingling lips and a dizzy mind. Her chapstick has all but rubbed off, but her lips are plumper and pinker than ever, pupils blown wide.

It takes a moment for the cloud to dissipate, but when it does, Jung-ah gasps weakly. “Oh my god, you’re married, what am I-”

“Ah, yes,” Joon remarks with a wry smile, “you’ll have to go and even the score now or I’m afraid Hoseok will be terribly disappointed.”

Jung-ah pauses, caught off-guard. “They won’t be...angry?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joon coos, “Seok-ah quizzed me for hours last night on the meanings of flowers so that they could grow you some. We’re poly, Jung-ah, you don’t have to stress. Besides,” she quips, inclining her head out towards the field, “it looks like they want to speak with you.”

Glancing in that direction, Jung-ah blinks when she sees the glasshouse, still in darkness, but with a warm yellow glow cast inside, the main door cracked open intentionally.

A fond energy smooths the air between them as Joon stands up off the porch and ruffles Jung-ah’s hair, mumbling a soft goodnight.

After listening to the door squeak open and closed again (she’d have to fix that tomorrow) Jung-ah has nothing left to do but make her way across the grassy plain toward the glasshouse.

The warm glow from inside had dimmed as the moonlight cast her surroundings in silver. Still, Jung-ah could see Hoseok’s silhouette clear as day as they paced back and forth amongst the various shadows of the plant life inside.

It doesn’t take long before her hands are brushing on the metal doorway, glancing inside. “Hoseok? Did you- are you-?”

“Come on in,” the warlock replies easily. There’s a pleased glint in their eyes even as their curls hang heavy over their brow. Overdue for a haircut, though Jung-ah couldn’t deny it made them look even more endearing. “Come here often?” they quip.

With a strange pang, Jung-ah realises this is the first time she’s stepping into the enclosed jungle. Hoseok spent time outside, Joon spent her days glued to her computer or a book upstairs, and Jung-ah wandered around the house with an ever-changing list of ‘Ideas’: to-do jobs that the homeowners were too polite to frame as compulsory. She never really ventured beyond the garden beds for the occasional herb to use. “First time,” she admits with an uneven tone.

Hoseok’s eyes wander, widening. “It is too,” they agree easily, unruffled. “Well, I’m very glad you came. I don’t blame you for sticking indoors. Joon’s far more interesting than me and my leaves.” They reach out and flick at a plant lazily, though Jung-ah doesn’t miss the gentle care in the touch.

“I think you’re fascinating,” she rebuts instead, “I just never wanted to bother you. But it’s… These plants, Hoseok, they’re beautiful.”

A proud beam highlights a smear of dirt on Hoseok’s chin, and Jung-ah resists the urge to reach up and dust it off. Instead, she follows riveted as Hoseok leads her around the deceptively large greenhouse.

“This is where I keep the rarer things. Or, I suppose, the more fickle ones,” they begin, trailing a path along a metal-framed shelf to their left with a single fingertip. “The tahina spectabilis here normally only lives until 50 in Madagascar,” Hoseok explains, and Jung-ah cranes her neck to glance up a trunk, looking much like a simple palm tree. Hoseok’s voice is soft, like they’re in a library, or a place to pay respects. “The tree will flower at fifty years old, and the process is so taxing that it actually dies. This one was passed down through my family’s ancestors, all elementals. It’s over two hundred.”

“Oh, wow,” Jung-ah murmurs without thinking, though she can’t help but view the sturdy trunk and flax-like leaves with a new admiration. “Your ancestors were all interested in nature like you?”

“Absolutely,” Hoseok remarks with a mysterious humour clouding their tone. “I bet yours were, too. Magical folk descend from gatherers and healers right back in the prehistoric age. I bet you would’ve been the healer to my gatherer, Jungkook.”

She swallows, watching the lines of Hoseok’s back move gracefully with every careful step through the lush, almost overgrown glasshouse. “Jung-ah,” she corrects lightly. “It’s, um, it’s Jung-ah now.”

When Hoseok turns, it’s like their fantastical surroundings are cast to grey. All Jung-ah can see is their bright eyes, bold heart-shaped smile and puffed cheeks. She wills her heart to stop thudding in her chest so hard, letting the pleased hum of the plants around them settle her internal rhythms.

“Jung-ah,” Hoseok repeats, and the name sounds even lighter on their tongue. “I like that.”

“I like you,” Jung-ah states and immediately curses her loose lips, wincing harshly at the rich dirt beneath her feet.

A surprised chuckle tinkles the air. “How scandalous, when my wife is just next door!” Before Jung-ah can dissolve into a blabbering, apologetic panic, Hoseok’s hand is reaching into her line of vision, a playful tug on the collar of her shirt. “Good thing she feels the same way as I do,” they continue softly, not lowering their hand.

Jung-ah sucks in a breath, feeling their knuckles bump against her collarbone as her chest lifts. “What way?” she asks carefully, daring herself to look up only for Hoseok to be far closer than she remembered, hand warm and glowing slightly between the two of them.

Behind the earnest smile is a slight hesitation that Jung-ah feels more than sees. Hoseok’s voice is barely a whisper, but no other sound penetrates their green paradise. “I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up,” they confess, “and the last thing I see before I go to sleep. I want you to stay with us. I want to be yours, and you mine. That way.”

“Do you want to…” Jung-ah pauses, tongue wetting her lips unconsciously. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Hoseok’s smile grows, and the prodding hesitation disappears. “I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you ask that, hon.”

Their lips connect with no time for a reply. Jung-ah doesn’t mind though, letting herself melt into the kiss like there’s nothing else in the world. She feels Hoseok’s hands like twin suns, warmth running over her upper arms, her shoulders, catching gently on her jaw. And further, on a level so deep only she can feel it, those bright rays envelop her, Hoseok’s energy like pure joy. Jung-ah feels them smile into the kiss, lips slanting against hers and teeth bumping as they fail to suppress a grin.

When she finally has to pull away to suck in a breath, chest heaving, Hoseok is still beaming, their eyes dazed and hair rumpled. A strange light illuminates their chin and tip of their nose from below, and Jung-ah blinks in surprise as she sees Hoseok’s hands, completely alight up to their wrists with sunlight.

Catching Jung-ah’s gaze, Hoseok flushes, burying them in their overall pockets even as the light penetrates the heavy jean. “I know it’s bright, it’ll… it’ll settle down soon,” they promise, a sheepish smile puffing their cheeks. “I’m just really happy, Jung-ah.”

Jung-ah can’t help but return the smile. “Me too.”

~

Hoseok exhales dreamily as the sweet smell of strawberries fill the air. Not one for alcohol, they’d gotten Jung-ah to help make them some pink lemonade just the night before. Their wife hovers over the coffee table with the glass carafe, gripping it tight like it might wriggle out of her fingers at any moment.

One arm cradling several packets of snacks and the other holding a plate of slightly misshapen gimbap, Jung-ah makes her way between the two, settling the goods on the coffee table before slipping under Hoseok’s outstretched arm. The two curl up on the couch, Joon’s attempt at pouring the bubbly drink keeping them both amused.

“So nobody is going to help me?” she questions incredulously, grimacing as some of the lemonade doesn’t make it into the mugs she’s attempting to pour it into.

Hoseok’s fingers slip unconsciously under the hem of Jung-ah’s shirt sleeve, rubbing lightly at the skin there. “You’re doing splendid, love,” they assure earnestly. “The table was looking a little dehydrated.”

Joon lifts her jaw with a hard stare, but her lip quirks before she can help it. “I can’t believe this is my celebration party and I’m still the one doing this. I’ll remember this for your birthdays; just you wait.”

“Don’t worry,” Hoseok murmurs into Jung-ah’s ear with a lilting tone, “she always says that but I get breakfast in bed on my birthday every year. I love you, Joonie,” they call out in a singsong voice, reaching out to grab an outstretched mug with the hand not wrapped around Jung-ah’s shoulders.

Taking the other mug and watching the bubbles pop on the surface of the rosy liquid, Jung-ah sends Joon a warm smile. “I’m really proud of you, Joon,” she praises softly. “You worked hard, and the book is amazing.”

Joon raises a brow, taking a swig from the final mug and squeezing up on Jung-ah’s free side, neglecting the second empty couch in exchange for some closeness. “Have you read it?”

Jung-ah pauses, avoiding her gaze. “Seokie and I looked at all the pictures.”

Joon nods somberly, even as her eyes glint in bemusement. “The one thing I didn’t do.”

Hoseok’s hand reaches far enough past Jung-ah to just slightly brush at Joon’s cheek, the human pressing into the contact. “You’re far smarter than us, love. There were lots of very big words that we couldn’t quite understand but we’re proud of you nonetheless.”

Joon lets herself smile then, a warm one that crinkles her eyes and deepens her dimple. “I love you both too.”

Jung-ah flushes, feeling her toes curl at the sentiment, professing her own love for the two on either side of her before dipping her chin to sip at the lemonade. The sparkling water tickles the roof of her mouth, the lemon giving a bright tang, even as the strawberry infusion leaves a sweetness on her tongue long after she’s swallowed. It’s familiar to her, somehow.

As Joon leans onto Jung-ah’s side, beginning to explain to them the elaborate process of getting her third book published, Jung-ah takes another sip, swilling it in her mouth a little longer this time. It’s not until Hoseok’s getting up to pour them all a second glass, making the other two cackle as their hand is even shakier than Joon’s, that Jung-ah finally realises where she remembers that taste from.

It’s not a taste at all, but a feeling, an energy. Most of the senses her gift gave her were from other people, from plants, from wildlife. Very rarely were her own emotions strong enough to come back to her like mic feedback. But she recognised this one. Jung-ah was content.

[amostimprobabledream]

And He Walks With Flames (Dabi x Reader) - Part One

They say humans, in a strange, ironic twist of fate, owe their magic to demons. A thousand years ago, they walked the earth, wreaking destruction and chaos wherever they tread. Humans were no more than meat for the slaughter, or glorified playthings for their amusement. The first generation of humans to fight back against their monstrous oppressors did so by a peculiar, ancient magic. A power that could repel demons and bring hope to all humanity. A terrible war raged for the fate of the world and the humans managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. The demons were banished to their land of origin, sealed away in defeat. But seals don't last forever. While historians argue on how literal these legends may be, there is no denying that ancient creature have begun to stir, appearing in our world again with growing frequency. And soon there might- The last paragraph was torn away. "Oh, for god's sake," you tsk. Sunlight pours through the large, high window of your lecture room, dust motes dancing in the golden rays. Though you were engrossed in your book, once you look up, the spell is broken, and the clear sky outside once again has your eyes wandering to it. It seems that you are not the only one getting distracted, either - even the professor keeps tapering off at the promise of an afternoon outside in the gorgeous spring weather. "Well," the professor says, shuffling the papers in front of her. "That's all for today. Please revise over the material and we'll discuss it in further detail next time. You are all free to go." You're only too happy to comply, putting your things away and scrambling to your feet. Everyone else is hurrying to get outside, pouring down the stairs to the doors, chattering to one another as they go. Normally you love going to lectures, but it's just too nice outside to be cooped up indoors. You push open the doors and step outside, a muted sigh of pleasure leaving your mouth. Your university, the Royal Academy of Magic, has the reputation for being tough, but so far, you've been enjoying the work. Learning about the different faces of magic, its uses, and the history of it, it's all so very fascinating to you. You've been able to use magic since you were young, but it's studying it here that will really help you unlock your true potential, and hopefully give you a concrete idea of what to aim for with your career. So far there are so many options a magic-user might do that it's been a little overwhelming trying to decide. As you cross the lawns, grass crunching beneath your feet, you decide to swing by your dorm first to drop off your books - they may contain a lot of knowledge, but damn if they're not heavy - your mother pointed out that you've developed something of a slouch since you started studying here. "I'm back!" you call as you push open the door of your dormitory. "Huh?" Kendou looks up from her bed, where she has a couple of books sprawled out next to her head, notes scribbled in the margins of her notebook as she looks over her textbook. Her red hair spills down her shoulder, coming loose from its signature ponytail. "You're back early!" "Yeah, they let us out sooner than I expected," you reply with a shrug and a small laugh, dropping your bag on your own bed and stretching, wincing as a kink in your shoulder pops. "Oh, well, that's good timing, someone came by earlier with a message for you," Kendou says, pushing herself up into a sitting position, apparently deciding your arrival is a good a reason as any to take a break from studying. "Your mother wants you to go down to the Imperial Research Centre to get your father." "Did she come by here?" you ask in surprise. Normally your mother arranges to meet you after lectures or seminars if she wants to see you during the week, and she's a rather busy woman besides. "No, she left a message at the front desk and someone passed it along," Kendou shrugs. "But she also said you guys are doing something tonight, right?" "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten all about that!" you say, feeling silly that it could

possibly have slipped your mind - you love it when you get to go out for a meal with your parents and often it means one of them has some exciting news to share. "Thanks, Kendou, I'll head over there now." She grins and gives a little wave. “No problem!” You suppose it's fortunate that the Imperial Research Centre is only a short walk from the campus and that you're very familiar with the place, since your father's been working there for so long. Anyway, it's a pleasant walk, the way there is lined with rows of trees that are only a week or two away from growing from dark to light pink and shedding their blossoms. When the street is in full bloom, it's like there's been a wedding. You even find yourself humming as you walk, breathing in the subtle smell of flowers on the breeze, wondering to yourself if the blossom trees were planted before or after the buildings were founded, but either way, whoever was responsible for them made a good call. The Imperial Research Centre is a peculiar building, made of blue stone and with a roof that boasts four conical points, one in each corner, making it resemble a castle from bygone days just plopped in the middle of the city. There's an aura of mystery to it, too, hinting at the all-important, life-changing work that’s always going on inside. If ever cutting-edge technology is released to the public, odds were that the Centre had a hand in making it. The building is cooler on the inside than it is outdoors, powered by a system designed to spread cool or warm air throughout the entire building, depending on the system. You approach the front desk, wishing that you'd thought to bring a jacket, because it’s always cold in here during the warm seasons, and the receptionist glances up on you with a slightly dismissive expression on her face. It's probably because she thinks you're an overeager student or some hapless intern, it's very rare a researcher your age would be able to work here. "May I help you?" the receptionist asks in a cool, professional tone. "Yes, I'm here to see my father," you reply. "He's one of the vice executives here." You give his surname, and the woman pauses. Is that a trace of nervousness you can see? "He's downstairs in Containment Room 1A," she says, checking a sheet of paper on the desk, which is littered with various papers, random pieces of stationary and one of those magitech intercom systems that they use. They have something similar at the Academy too, though of course, the Centre get the most high-tech version of everything. "All right, thanks," you say, turning to head for the elevator. "Wait!" the woman cries out and you glance back, confused. "I'm sorry, but you can't just walk through here, especially to the lower levels! You don't have the clearance and it can be dangerous." You scoff in disbelief. You have visited your father here before, many times, and this has never been a problem for you before. You always just tell them who you are and then get a visitor's pass. You even know some of the codes to the doors, thanks to waiting around for your father to finish work so often. "Well, please can you have someone go fetch him for me?" you ask, going to reluctantly perching on one of the chairs in the waiting area. "Can't it wait?" the receptionist asks impatiently, and maybe it can, but her attitude is starting to piss you off, so you shoot her a frosty smile you've perfected after watching your mother pull a similar face at people who don't meet her standards. "No, it can't." The woman sighs but she dutifully presses a button on the intercom system and speaks quietly into it for a moment or two, while you idly pick at a loose thread on the chair you're sitting on. She then glances back at you, eyebrows raised. "A messenger has been sent down to speak to him. Hopefully he should be upstairs shortly." "Thank you so much." you reply sweetly, the last words with heavy emphasis. After that, the two of you sit in a mutually frosty silence, with the woman sorting through paperwork on her desk and occasionally

directing people who approach her desk to the correct floor (which seems redundant to you - why can't people just read the clearly printed sign on the wall next to her desk ?), while you flick through some glossy magazines without actually taking in a single word. But you're not leaving until you've spoken to your father. Minutes tick by and you start drumming your heel lightly on the floor, leg jiggling with impatience. You wonder if the woman just lied about sending a messenger down to the Containment Room in an effort to pacify you, in the hopes you'll just get bored and leave. You grit your jaw at the thought, ignoring how cold you're getting, sitting here doing nothing. After maybe ten minutes, a man in a lab coat approaches the front desk, leaning over to speak to the woman. "Kino, could you come with me a moment? Hannah can start her shift." "Oh, I'll be right there!" Kino says, flustered, getting out from behind the desk and following the man as he walks briskly down the corridor, without a backwards glance at you. No doubt her replacement will be along any moment - perhaps she's running late? But you don't plan on sticking around. As soon as the receptionist rounds the corner, out of sight, you spring up and walk briskly across the room to the elevators, stabbing the button and stepping through the doors. You don't bother to fight the smile that spreads across your face as the doors slide shut. ~ "Father?" There's always something slightly creepy about the lower floors. The orbs lining the walls that are designed to keep the machinery running in case of a power shortage cast an eerie glow in the corridors, washing everything with a pale blue light that makes it seem far colder than it actually is. It reminds you a bit of walking through a tunnel of ice. Your boots click on the stone floor as you follow the lights to Containment Room A1. Finally, you reach the double doors leading inside, flanked by two windows each side. You can see your father inside, his back to you, so you rap on the windows. Nothing. You try again with more force, hurting your knuckles, but he still doesn't turn around. Perhaps it's soundproofed, so whatever's out here can't disturb whatever's going on in there? You glance at the keypad next to the doors, but you've never been to this particular room before so the code for the doors on the upper level is unlikely to be the same one for down here. Then you see movement, shadows beneath the crack between door and floor, and the doors slide open with a mechanical swish and two scientists in lab coats come out, comparing notes and murmuring together excitedly. You slip inside before they can slam shut again, unwilling to stand outside in the chilly corridor for any longer than necessary. "Father!" you call out as you enter. But then you stop dead in your tracks. Ahead of you, trapped behind some kind of containment field...is a monster. "What-?!" you hear your father say in surprise at his daughter suddenly marching through the doors. "What are you doing in here?!" But you don't answer. You can't look away from what's in front of you, even if you wanted to. You know without being told that this is a demon, but it's certainly not what they looked like in any of your history books. A tall, humanoid being that is undoubtedly male and you can tell from where you’re standing that he’s tall. The demon's huge, black wings arch out from behind him, reminding you of a bat. Two horns jut out from a crown of spiky black hair, but aside from that, you're surprised by how… human he looks. Your cheeks warm up as you notice he is shirtless, peculiar burn marks covering over half of his body and seemingly crudely stitched together like a patchwork doll. Despite that, he's impressively sculpted, sinewy muscles on full display and you know that demons were said to be uncommonly strong. Your eyes drift further down, and you spot a whiplike tail wrapped around one leg, topped with a pointed barb at the end, like a club in a game of cards. His arms are in restraints and so are his

ankles, yet he doesn't seem stressed in any way, leaning against the back wall of his holding cell as though he's waiting for something. "What...is this?" you breathe out, finally turning to your father. "This is our latest research subject," your father replies beside you, also staring at the demon, though his expression is surprisingly somber, considering just how amazing it is that they have been able to capture and contain a demon. You've never seen a live demon before, and something tells you that the one before you certainly isn't any garden variety one. "Director Fuji is very excited about this. It's not every day you see a demon this high ranking." Slowly, the demon stirs, raising his head a little. You're perfectly safe outside the containment field, as well was the multiple other safety measures both inside the cell and out of it, yet the sensation of being watched makes your flesh break out in goosebumps. From beneath spiky fronds of hair, the demon's eyes - so blue they almost don't look real - stare right at you, his gaze alone rooting you to the spot, laying all your defenses bare and leaving you feeling bizarrely naked before that look. Watching you without once blinking or breaking his gaze, his lips part in a sneer to reveal two rows of teeth, the fangs sharp and white as an icicle. You find yourself holding your breath as your father speaks again. "Sweetheart, meet Dabi."

[thealwriteytrashdump]

Coincidence (a Jeff the killer short story)

The feeling of waking up in the middle of the night is a strange one. The heaviness in your limbs and in your soul. It seems like time has stopped and the world has gone still. Until you hear the faintest wail of a siren in the distance and suddenly the nightly sounds of your city arise. The sudden hum of the AC kicks in and every so often, a helicopter flies to the nearby hospital. Someone speeds by on a motorcycle, revving to their heart’s content as they drive. You looked at the clock, 3 am; not yet time for you to begin your morning but ultimately too late to go back to sleep. The old apartment building creaks with age, and you hear the faint jingle of your recently acquired kitten. She has decided to keep you company as you both lay in a comfortable pile in your sheets. Truth be told, you’ve adopted out of sheer loneliness, the empty silence of your small apartment has driven you slowly mad over the months.

Sure, you had friends and loved ones, but you’ve since isolated yourself in an attempt to be independent. Before you had moved out, you lived with your sister, and while the company was nice, she had bullied you into doing household chores on top of paying a fairly decent size of the rent. Your parents assumed she paid for everything herself and you were living scot-free but that wasn’t the case. Both you and your sister worked very hard to keep your respective lives afloat, she worked hard for her children and was rarely home, hoping you’d be there for her kids when they needed it.. You, however, worked full time as well as went to the local community college to build up credits. After a couple of years of constantly fighting and losing, you had enough and moved away to a different part of town, burning the closest bridge you had for support. Now living in a smaller rundown apartment, working several jobs, and trying to make it through the semester, you lived paycheck to paycheck; making ends meet but not by much. At first, you’ve felt free, you’ve been living like how you wanted to and no one could stop you. For several months, it was your dream come true, you did whatever you want when you wanted. However, slowly but surely, you felt the loneliness creep in; working hard no longer filled you with a sense of purpose, and college work drained you of your motivation. Living the bare minimum began to take its toll on your mental health and your sheer iron will, or perhaps stubbornness, began to tire out.

You hear the soft jingle again and feel the comforting hum of your kitten’s purr. The madness you experienced in the past months drove you to make a rash decision on your part to adopt a kitten from your brother and his spouse. As rash as it was, it was also a decision you’ve yet to regret. As this tiny grey tabby proved, just a small amount of company did wonders for your sanity. Your kitten took some time to adjust to you but has come to love you as her caretaker and companion, and you’ve come to love her as your baby and loved one. Her eyes were a bit bulgy and her head just a tad too small but she was a beautiful kitten with a feisty spirit. Her name was a bit strange, and your family didn’t hesitate to let you know, but she was yours and you had thought her name was perfect. Now that little kitten slept soundly near your inner thigh, purring loudly and kneading your left calf.

You laid very still, looking up at the ceiling and listening to the world around you. The silence simultaneously existed with the noise. The quiet hum of the AC, the excitement of the world beyond but also the barely audible sound of your breathing and your heartbeat. The soft noises of your kitten and the settling of the walls. Noisy and yet not so.

Eventually, the sharp call of your alarm tells you four am has rolled around, and it is time for you to begin the day. You get up slowly so as to not disturb your cat, stretching, and yawning. You walked through the bathroom to the kitchen to turn on the lights and to boil some water for coffee. As the water began to heat and the kettle slowly whistled to life, you decided to take a quick shower. Your first job starts in two hours, with plenty of time to get ready and have a quick bite of breakfast, however, you preferred to be early rather than late. As the sun starts to peek out, you brew yourself a cup of caffeine and gather your backpack. It’s time to set out for the day, you leave extra food out for your little babe, and make your way to the bus.

The day usually passed by uneventfully, the coffee shop you worked at opened at six in the morning and stayed busy until 11 am. You stayed until noon, then caught the metro to your classes. It was just a couple of hours before heading back home to your little kitten to check up and prepare for your second job. As you walked onto the large campus, fellow students came and went as you headed up towards your classes. You heard bits of chatter and gossip,

“Did you hear-”

“-vered with blood-”

“That’s party was si-”

“There were so-”

“-arely slept las-”

“So what-”

Unable to hear full conversations or even full sentences, you passed by absentmindedly. There was something going on about a string of break-ins and robberies, but you paid no mind to it. Of course, you always needed to be careful, even in the safer neighborhoods. Gunshots were always heard every now and then, and there were lots of police around but nothing really happened in your immediate vicinity so you didn’t feel the need to keep your guard up. Still, you were very careful to keep to yourself and to check for any suspicious behavior regarding your person. You head to your first class as the crowds thicken, walking up the stairs to the central courtyard. As you approached the large area, you see in the distance a rather tall building with very large windows. These classrooms were for the English and History classes with some other misc. classes and a fairly large library. Unfortunately, the building was across campus from the Metro station, and mostly out of the way. The large courtyard is filled with hundreds if not thousands of students, you opted to take a roundabout through the large parking garage, most likely full of cars and other modes of transportation. As you round the corner, you bump into someone moving fast and land heavily on the concrete. You yelped in surprise and almost immediately excused yourself. Instead of a response, you hear the sounds of skates or rather a skateboard and look up just in time to see the man, with a dingy white jacket, already on his way without a second thought. Picking yourself up, you huff in annoyance and begin rushing away, muttering obscenities under your breath.

Jogging away, you dusted yourself off and started gathering your homework to turn in as you entered the building, you spotted off in the distance, your professor speaking to some of your classmates. She was delightfully wonderful to students, especially the younger ones who just started college for the very first time. The older woman was tall and very beautiful, she had a powerful presence that intimidated most. She was not afraid to speak her mind, and she was very much sassy to both students and professors alike. Her class was still boring and most of the troubled students disliked her for a number of reasons. While she was kind to the students, she didn’t believe that excused them for slacking off or failing her class. She was open and willing to help those who were failing but there were no favorites in her class. Slipping into the classroom, you sit in an empty spot around the middle area where there were a couple of seats open. Everyone liked to sit up front or near the back, and usually, you’re able to snag a glorious three seats of space in the middle area. Today wasn’t that spacious, but you aren’t complaining as you are seated next to the large nearly spotless window that looked out onto the small park nearby. The very last of the class files in and you begin your first lesson of the day, taking out your notes and doodling little figures.

As the class began, your professor walked in and greeted the class. The first order of business was to remind the class that assignments were due tomorrow and if the paperwork wasn’t in her inbox by the end of the day, she was giving out failing grades and speaking to the offenders personally. You continued doodling little figures and half-listening for important information. Fortunately, you had finished your assignments for your classes a few days ago. You were currently working on assignments due in a week’s time. It was better to be ahead to buffer workload and make it easier for yourself in the long run. Luckily, most of your professors allow you to be proactive in your learning so long as you still took notes and listened to the lectures. It was a great opportunity for you to keep yourself and some of your professors sane for the most part.

Some other students groaned quietly, but you continued to sketch out a face in the corner of your notebook. Your professor finished her speech and turned to start the lesson for the day. An hour dragged by, and a yawn escaped your lips involuntarily. You stare out the window, bored, the trees sway silently as clouds pass overhead. You tap your pencil against your notebook, you have already written down notes and important timestamps and pages for your books. You were confident you would pass the open notes exam next week, and you’ve made it so you had a light schedule that day as well. The day was almost perfect, you thought about getting takeout and treating yourself to some video games. Your jobs had you take a day off so you could focus on your schoolwork, and you were grateful for it. You smiled to yourself and yawned again; it would be a nice time to catch up on sleep as well. Another hour passed by uneventfully, and as class ended, you half jogged to the professor’s desk to turn in some work and to ask for the homework for the week after next week. She squinted at you and sharply said, she only had a rough idea of what the week entailed but she was more than happy to email you some copies when she wrote out the assignments. You nodded and thanked her, wishing her a good day and heading out to the hallway.

The two other classes you have for that day go by slowly as you fight to keep your eyes open. After the last hour of history was over, the plan was to head home for your “second job,” as you call it to your parents. In truth, it was a glorified online data entry job you did for a friend who started a business a while back. It was steady tedious work, but as a friend, you were called into action. It was your first job and the only reason why you were able to move out and start college. The pay was good and your buddy gave you great “benefits” as they were. He just needed some paperwork and bookkeeping done for his clients. While it looked legitimate for tax purposes, he mostly dealt with some particulars who preferred to keep their business and their lives private. It was a decent job, and most of the time, you never dealt with the clients themselves thankfully. It was just simple work done in the safety and privacy of your apartment. As a lower-tier worker bee, you were relatively safe, however, you never really knew if it was ever a guarantee. You never minded, you hadn’t died yet, right?

As the day ended, you spent the five-hour shift working and listening to the news. A tiny cat jingled around at the speed of light; she’d nipped at your toes before speeding off to tackle a chew toy. Working until you hit a wall in terms of motivation, you get up to make some tea, watching some of the news that you played for background noise.

“-Tonight at 11; In other news, a horrific breaking and entering at McCorrick and Washing Dr tonight as security cameras catch the nightmare unfolding. Police say two adults: one male, and one female, were found with three stab wounds in the chest and fatal cuts on their faces and throats. They were pronounced dead on arrival. One survivor, a young girl, escaped with heavy injuries and extreme loss of blood. EMTs rushed her to the hospital where she remains in critical condition. The footage shows the brave girl jumping from her second-story balcony and making her way to the local gas station where the cameras were located. The suspect seems to be a man in his late 20s, wearing what seems to be a white jacket and a face mask; although later eyewitnesses account that he, himself, was brutally mutilated.

This seems to be another case in a string of homicides by who authorities call the Glasgow killer, named so because of what he does to his victims and what he has apparently done to himself. Although, there’s nothing connecting the murders in terms of age, gender, or race, and there is no apparent pattern to each home hit, the suspect does cut a Cheshire smile cut into each unfortunate victim. If spotted-”

The whistling of the kettle catches your attention and you finish making hot tea with milk and honey. You had a light supper of leftovers and now you were drinking some tea to wake up a bit, You still had a few hours left before you could clock out and get some sleep. Sipping and holding your mug close to your body, you sit back down and stare at your computer screen. You knew what the underbelly of your city was capable of, the things people were uncomfortable talking about. Your city wasn’t the safest nor was it the place to go start a long and prosperous life, but it was a city of opportunity for those willing to cross that line. It was a hellscape sanctuary in the desert where the old and the rich come to vacation for the winter, only to leave when the summer heat arrives to cook the denizens unfortunate to live here. Only people with nowhere else to go were desperate enough to live in this scorching concrete jungle. Your city, the city of hope and of ruined pasts, was also the city of new beginnings for the rotten. Rated one of the highest for crime and deaths by murder. The land of opportunity was often paved in blood and sacrifice. You were no different, you came here for the promise of a better life just like the rest of the people. You turn back to the tv where the news showed a picture of the survivor and what looked to be a professionally drawn picture of a zombie with an unnaturally large smile. His sunken eyes seemed to be too large for his thin face and his nose seemed to have rotted away. Eyewitnesses described him as a moderately tall man with a sturdy build, wearing a tattered dirty white hoodie. His drawn picture bored into your soul and you were grateful when they decided to go into more detail about the victim instead, as you stretched again and continued working.

A young woman in her late teens, not much younger than yourself but definitely still a minor by law. You watch as the newscaster shows a picture of her from her social media, happy and smiling in a sea of blurry faces. She was very pretty and had a nice smile. You take a sip of tea, ready to get back to work when the stoic newsman claims police say they have security footage from a store nearby the incident. Pausing once more when you hear the name of said store, you focus on the tv as it cuts to the grainy video. It showed the gas station lot but in the background, there seemed to be something else going on. You see the distant apartments’ second-story homes. A small figure jumped from one of the balconies onto a brick wall and frantically crawled over: the young survivor barely covered and clutching her shoulder, struggling to make it over the brick wall. She landed heavily but crawled to her feet and limps to the gas station. A larger figure, suspected to be the killer, emerges from the balcony and follows her albeit with more grace akin to a cat. He leaped onto the balcony railing and used the brick wall as a stepping stone. He landed running and looked to be ready to grab the poor girl, but she was fortunate enough to make it inside the gas station and out of his reach. He skidded to a stop, looking through the glass before making his way away from the building and into the darkness.

Something is knocked into the camera and it abruptly ends cutting back to the newsman explaining the poor girl’s fate. She was carted away to the nearby hospital but as she had lost a lot of blood, she was still unconscious. She had stab wounds on her right shoulder, right thigh, and both in her hands. She was beaten to near death with bruises on her throat and face. Her family wasn’t so fortunate, having similar stab wounds, but a fatal cut on their throats and mutilated faces. Whoever has done this likes to cut joker smiles into his victims, leaving them to bleed out to steal anything of value from the residents. The news cuts to another story but not before showing the professional drawing of the killer again and cautioning viewers to be safe.

You let out a shallow breath you didn’t know you were holding, your hands trembled slightly. Closing your eyes, you knew that this was the very same gas station you visited the night prior. You had recognized the hospital to be the very same hospital you lived near. According to the timestamps, this seemed to take place right before you woke up. You had heard the very ambulance that took her. Small world. You steadied your breath and continued working, feeling much more alone and vulnerable than ever. The jingle of tiny bells rings out and your little kitten runs into the bedroom, chasing invisible prey into the night.

[amyscascadingtabs]

look at where we are, look at where we started

He’s seen Amy sleep before, but never quite this close. She’s never slept on him, and he wonders if they’ve ever been this physically near each other for longer than a few seconds at a time. Her head is a warm weight on his shoulder, heavy without being uncomfortable, and he could probably smell her hair if he just leaned down slightly and it didn’t feel like a creepy thing to do on purpose.

Five times Amy fell asleep on Jake, and one time someone else did.

a.k.a. happy (two days late) birthday @johnny-and-dora​! 💛

read on ao3

2014, april.

 “This stakeout is a bust,” Amy huffs, throwing her binoculars on the moss-green bedspread that covers the twin-size beds in the cheap motel room. Jake begs they won't actually have to sleep in them later. He tried one out for mattress trampoline and it was rock hard, no bounce at all. His knees are still hurting.

“At this point, I bet there isn't even a drug-smuggling ring and Terry sent us out here to mess with us.”

“Woah, woah. Did I just hear this correctly?” Jake grins, turning his armchair towards her. “Amy Santiago, complaining about an order from a superior? This I gotta get on tape.”

“There's a difference between complaining and disobeying,” she remarks. “Come on, you know you agree with me. Nothing's happening over there!”

“Maybe, but now I have the high ground.” Jake stretches out his legs, putting his feet on the wall below the window. One perk of a gross motel room; no one notices if you make it dirtier. “So I’m going to brag forever.”

“Ugh. I thought this stakeout would be better if you talked so I’d have something to listen to, but it's worse.”

“That's hurtful.”

“Shut up, Peralta.”

“Fine.”

  She goes silent. Jake tries to focus on what’s happening through the window they’re watching, but as much as he hates to admit it, Amy’s right. The parking lot they're watching is dead as can be, not as much as a sight of any suspects. He and Amy have spent most of the last hour placing bets on which birds will fly first from the nearby dilapidated tree. Amy won. Jake accused her of cheating, to which she simply responded that there was no possible way she could have been in cahoots with the birds, as he had put it. Jake muttered that he didn't trust her. She rolled her eyes at him. She also gave him a smug smile which, for the record, did not give him butterflies at all. It must have been hunger.

  Amy giggles at something on her phone, and the weird probably-hunger-feeling flutters again in his chest as he watches her type a reply. Someone - he guesses Teddy - is making her laugh, and Jake feels the sting of some other gross and ugly emotion next to the non-butterflies. He wishes he was the one making her laugh, but this shift is too boring and they're both too tired and the closest he's come today is the cute snort she did when he used his worst French accent to narrate the process of a pigeon strutting around on top of a car for several minutes. It's not enough. He thinks of digging out the peanuts from his stakeout bag and suggesting another nut-throwing competition like the one they had on that roof two months ago, but as gross as the motel room is, Amy's definitely going to ask him to clean up if he gets peanuts all over the carpet, and that's just not worth it.

   “How long until the relief’s team here?” He asks her, trying to hold on to the thought of his bed with its good mattress lump and pillows that at least don't smell vaguely of mold.

“Two hours,” Amy groans. “Ugh. That's an eternity.”

“We could sleep for an hour each?” Jake shrugs. “Nothing's happening anyway, and if it does, we just wake each other up.”

“Only if I get the first hour.”

“But it was my idea!”

“I’ll do your paperwork if I get the first hour.”

“Then sold.”

Amy smirks, looking pleased with herself. Jake feels his cheeks heat. The room’s air-conditioning must be busted, he figures, and hurries to pick up the file with information about their suspects before she can see him blushing.

  He keeps his focus on the window, on the view of the desolate parking lot, anywhere that’s not on Amy curling up in the armchair next to his. The streetlights have gone on, lighting up the concrete and old cars and allowing him to see clearly just how depressive a view it is. This stakeout truly couldn’t be over soon enough. Jake turns his head to comment on this to Amy, only to find she’s already asleep.

  She has shrugged off her shoes and curled up in the chair, hugging her legs for warmth in a way that makes her look less like an adult and more like an overgrown child looking for safety. She’s resting her head on her own shoulder, her mouth slightly agape, and Jake is gripped by the sudden urge to take a picture of her. He has been running low on new photos to humiliate Amy Santiago with recently, and an embarrassing shot like that would make for excellent leverage at some point. He reaches for his messenger bag on the bed, grabbing his phone from the outer pocket, and is just about to open the camera when Amy leans slightly to the side in her sleep so that her head falls on Jake’s shoulder.

 Jake freezes. The camera opens to selfie mode, and he sees his own face staring back at him, paralyzed with surprise. He puts his phone back in his pocket instead.

  He’s seen Amy sleep before, but never quite this close. She’s never slept on him, and he wonders if they’ve ever been this physically near each other for longer than a few seconds at a time. Her head is a warm weight on his shoulder, heavy without being uncomfortable, and he could probably smell her hair if he just leaned down slightly and it didn’t feel like a creepy thing to do on purpose.

Amy hums in her sleep, a soft, content noise that shapes the corners of his mouth into a small smile. Part of Jake wants to record this, use it to tease her mercilessly for the rest of their days, but there’s another voice in his head that is quietly whispering about how pleasant it feels. Not just pleasant; it feels natural, somehow, like they’ve done this a hundred times before and have a million more to go. It’s an insane thought, yet it’s persistent.

  He wonders if Amy does this with Teddy. Then he scratches the thought, because he’s not supposed to be jealous of Teddy. He’s not supposed to care, or even like Amy at all. Really, he’s furious with her for falling asleep like this, because she’s way too close and way too cute and it’s making the irrational hope in his chest bubble when it should be dormant. If he turned his head right now, he could reach to kiss her forehead. Jake wonders what would happen if he did. Maybe she’d never find out, and it could stay his own secret, but there’s also the overhanging risk that she’d wake up and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. It’s too big of a risk, especially considering he’s not sure of the answer himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing a lot of the time, and when it comes to Amy Santiago, he never seems to be able to figure it out.

  It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. Amy’s with Teddy. Jake’s alone. It’s not like he’s in love with her or anything, and he should just move so she’ll have to change her position and he can focus on something else than the way her breathing sounds and how her hair is tickling his neck. If something ever happened between them romantic-styles, this could be his ordinary life, but nothing’s happening and he can’t go around waiting for it to. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. He can’t be thinking about it.

  Jake doesn’t know for how long they sit like that, him staring out the window like the firework display of the century was happening outside to keep from glancing back at his sleeping colleague every other second, but it’s both too long and not long enough before Amy yawns and leans to the other side. It’s too long, because he’s hyper-aware of every passing second, and it’s not long enough, because his shoulder feels cold the second her head leaves it.

  “Did I miss something exciting?” She asks when the shrill alarm on her phone goes off, waking her from slumber. “Did anything happen?”

“Nope,” he says, keeping his eyes stuck to the still eventless parking lot to avoid meeting her gaze and trying his best to sound nonchalant. “Nothing at all.”

    ~

   2015, august.

 “So tonight’s a big night for you,” Jake states before tossing his girlfriend the plus-sized bag of sour cream and onion chips and the bag of sour candy he bought just for the occasion. “Tonight’s the night you lose your Die Hard-virginity.”

“Gross.”

“What? It’s true! After this, Amy Santiago, you will be a changed woman, never to see the world the same way again. Virginity’s a social construct, but Die Hard-virginities?” Jake waves his index finger at her. “Those are real. I can't believe you haven't seen it!”

“I already told you, I’ve seen parts of it on TV, and I’ve heard you describe the plot at least once a week for the last six years. Feels like that's virtually the same thing.” Amy opens the chips bag, stuffing two into her mouth. She's already changed into the optimal movie night-outfit - pajama pants, black hoodie, and an old NYPD shirt - and is looking unfairly attractive to him right now. Only Amy Santiago could make pajamas look sexy.

“Oh, Ames.” Jake shakes his head. “You're sweet, but sadly wrong. As excellent as my summaries of Die Hard are, you are soon to be made aware of just how much they pale in comparison to the real thing.”

She rolls her eyes, but there's a certain twinkle of excitement there. “Just play the movie, babe.”

 The usage of the word babe, like most other parts of their relationship, is still brand new. They've been dating for three months now, which is as long as Jake was with Sophia before they broke up, and he finds himself comparing the two relationships in his head sometimes, terrified this one will suffer the same fate. He's more careful this time, more vigilant to not let an accidental I love you slip out in case Amy doesn't feel the same way, more hesitant to randomly invite himself over in fear of intruding on her privacy. Most of the time, he's letting Amy lead the way, enjoying the steady growth of their relationship one day at a time. Because it is growing; every day it feels safer, more natural, much like the word babe has gone from feeling like a daunting and heartfelt declaration of love to a casual pet name that makes him feel all warm inside when he hears it.

  He presses play on the remote and slumps down on the couch next to his girlfriend, grabbing one of his blankets and draping it over both of them. He found out early on in their relationship that Amy refuses to watch TV without a blanket, partly because she gets cold and partly just out of habit, which he finds kind of charming. It's fun to get to learn all these little details about her - he thought he knew so much, but it turns out he’d barely scratched the surface - but it's just as fun to introduce her to his world when she's actually showing enthusiasm about it.

“I'm just watching this movie because you made me,” she mumbles as she moves closer to him under the blanket, throwing an arm around his neck. “And because I'm a great girlfriend.”

“Nah, you're excited,” he grins. “You can try to hide it, but I know the truth.”

“I mean, I am kind of curious to see what it is you've been obsessing over for the last thirty years.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Whatever,” she sighs, but then she pecks his lips and Jake can't hide the blushing that creeps up his cheeks, distracting him from watching John McClane get off the plane and grab his luggage before going to meet Argyle.

  Jake loves Die Hard. He’s loved it since the first time he saw it, at a way younger age than any child should probably have been allowed to, and he can - and often will - quote it by heart. He knows every scene, every line and next to every little mannerism displayed by one of the characters, and yet he’s equally transfixed by it every time. Die Hard, to Jake, is safety. When almost everything else managed to hurt him somehow - when Roger ditched their planned father-and-son days to go have sex with some new woman whose name Jake would never learn, when he and Gina fought over something trivial that would pass in a few days but hurt like a bitch until then, when his mom was forced to work overtime to keep them afloat and he had to make his own dinner for the third time that week - Die Hard never did. Die Hard was Jake’s safety blanket, his escape each time the real world disappointed him, and it remains effective to this day. It cheers him up on a bad day and makes the good ones better. Some would call it hyperfixation; Jake calls it instant life improvement.

  It’s kind of like Amy, he supposes as she snuggles into his side, her thighs resting against his and her head leaning on his shoulder the way it always does when they’re watching a movie together. Amy’s an instant life improvement, making bad days easier and the good ones even better. Even Die Hard seems more awesome when he’s watching it with her, which he frankly didn't think was possible, and he turns his head to tell her so when he realizes she's fallen asleep.

 At first, Jake’s offended. This was an important night, and he had been looking forward to it for the three days it’s been since she promised him it would happen. You can’t discover the magic of Die Hard if you’re asleep while watching it. Plus, if Amy doesn’t watch this movie, she still won’t be able to understand his dope references, and the confused looks she gives him when he tries one are getting seriously repetitive. He considers waking her up, but then she nuzzles her nose against his neck and lets out a little yawn, and nothing in the universe could make him want to bother her.

  Carefully, just because he gets to do those kinds of things now, he turns his head so he can press a kiss to the top of hers. He runs his hand through her hair, silky and smooth against his skin, and smiles as Amy hums in her sleep when he begins to draw hearts with his fingers against her neck.

 He almost loses track of the movie for a while. For once, it doesn't bother him, because Amy Santiago is sleeping on him like he's her own personal safe place and Jake doesn't ever want her to move.

  He can't remember if Sophia ever fell asleep on him when they were watching a movie. If she did, he knows it didn't feel like this. This feeling is intimacy and honor, something tender and vulnerable that's new and familiar all at once, and he's still getting used to it but he already knows he never wants it to end.

  Amy doesn't blink herself awake until the end of the movie. She keeps her eyes open for the last few scenes, watching John and Holly kiss as the limo drives away from a burning Nakatomi Plaza, and doesn’t acknowledge the fact that she’s been out cold for most of the last two hours. Jake decides to have fun with it.

  “So what’d you think of the movie?” He asks as he keeps the credits running, knowing she’ll complain if he turns them off.

“Oh, it was great,” she says, a little too cheery. “Loved it! For sure!”

“Really? What was your favorite scene?”

“When John saves Holly from being shot by Hans Gruber,” she decides, not missing a beat. “I think. I mean, there are lots of great scenes.”

“Mm, right at the end. Classic. So what more scenes did you like?”

“The one where John McClane says Yippee Kiyay, Motherfuckers?”

“Also a classic. Any more scenes?”

“The helicopter explosion?”

“Oh yeah, that one’s dope. But what about the luggage area shoutout?”

“It was great,” Amy says quickly. “Super cool. I get why you love it so much.”

“And when Holly knocks out a reporter’s front teeth?”

“Mm, she’s a total badass.”

“And when it’s revealed that Hans Gruber’s real name is actually Craig?”

“Oh, yeah - no, wait, that doesn’t seem right.” Amy pulls away from him so she can stare him in the eyes. “Jake, are you trying to trick me?”

“Hah! I am trying to trick you! The luggage area shoutout and the front teeth are from Die Hard 2! The second movie! And get this - the Craig thing wasn’t even real!”

“I got that, thanks.” Amy groans. “Sorry for falling asleep. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I’m a little offended you think I’m that boring company, but it’s okay.”

“I don’t think you’re boring company,” she tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I promise. It’s just been a long week, and I was tired, but I didn’t want to cancel on you because I know how much you looked forward to this. It’s not Die Hard’s fault.”

“Ames, it’s okay.” Jake gives her a reassuring smile. “I promise. But you get what this means, right?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means we’re rewatching it again tomorrow. I’m not giving up until you’ve seen the entire movie without falling asleep, and that’s a Peralta guarantee. I’m not letting you remain a Die Hard-virgin.”

 She throws a pillow in his face for that comment, but then she laughs, and it’s melodic and contagious and making him even more certain that dating Amy Santiago is the best thing in his life, even when she falls asleep during Die Hard.

   ~

   2016, october.

 Jake’s been on airplanes before, but he doubts he’s ever been this excited about it. Not even the dull pain in his leg that never quite leaves bothers him right now, nor the old lady in front of him talking way too loud about orchids. Even the fact that a kid has the seat behind him and is kicking him repeatedly in the back is okay this flight, because every single thing that could possibly annoy him pales in importance next to the beautiful woman in the seat next to him.

Jake is leaving Florida to go back to New York today, and Amy Santiago is right by his side. It's a wearier, maybe a little skinnier in a bad way, Amy than he's used to, one that's reading the flight security information with her stress-eyes while chewing nervously on her lip, but it's Amy. She insisted on staying by his side for every day he spent recovering at the hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable foldout couch if not on the chair next to him, and he wonders quietly to himself when she last had a full night's sleep in a bed. The bags under her eyes and the built-up grease in her hair tells him she desperately needs it. He’s tried to tell her so - every night she stayed, he encouraged her to take in on a hotel to get some proper rest - but every night, she refused and said she wouldn't be able to sleep without him there anyway.

(“God, you're cheesy,” he’d told her once, but she had just shrugged.

“I shot you in the leg not even a week ago. Just let me have this.”)

  His protests had been half-hearted anyway. Without her there, the pain was all he had to focus on, but as long as she made him company, nothing else mattered. They’d spent a week just talking, her telling him all about life at the precinct and cases she’d worked in the last six months while he tried to share the odd entertaining story from his Florida exile. When they got tired from talking, they snuggled in his hospital bed while trading soft kisses, and despite the pain from his bullet wound, the week had quickly soared to the top of the list of Jake's best weeks in the last six months.

 He's had a good week alright, but now he's finally, finally going home with his girlfriend, and he's never been happier. The moment the airplane lifts, Jake's leaving Florida behind, and in just a few hours, he will be back to breathing regular, non-humid Brooklyn air again. He will be back to his tiny, worn-down but charming one-bedroom apartment, to dinners consisting of proper New York pizza instead of Florida’s crappy excuse for it, to real detective work, and, most importantly, to spending every free moment he has with Amy.

“I love you so much,” he whispers to her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and watching her smile as she looks up from the safety instructions.

“I love you so much too. Are you sure your leg is okay?”

“It's fine, Ames.” He’s trying not to think about it. It's easy as long as she's there.

“It's just an hour until you can take more painkillers. Hang in there,” she says, gently patting his non-injured thigh as the aircraft starts moving. “You ready to say goodbye to Florida?”

“I was ready to say goodbye to Florida the second I landed,” Jake says, a little too loud. A blond, middle-aged woman on the aisle across from gives him an angry look. He ignores it.

“I'm ready, too.” Amy takes his hand. “Let's go home, babe.”

  They hold hands as they lift, watching through the airplane window as the ground gets farther and farther away, Coral Palms shrinking to a tiny speck. Jake vows to never go back. Everything and everyone he needs is in New York, and he can’t wait to sit at his desk again or see his mom or have a bro’s night with Charles. He’s missed it all, even the overpriced coffee and the crowded subway trains, but he’s already starting to feel like himself again, because the thing he missed most is currently leaning her head on his shoulder as she watches them rise above the clouds.

  He presses a kiss to her forehead. She smiles, reaching up to kiss his cheek, and then she closes her eyes as the plane keeps rising. It’s only a minute or two before Jake can hear her breathing slow, and not much longer before she’s fast asleep with her head on his shoulder.

  She sleeps for the rest of their three-hour flight, snoozing even through the alarm about his painkillers and every pilot announcement. His shoulder goes numb after a while, and he wonders if she’ll have a crick in her neck tomorrow from the awkward angle, but it’s the most peaceful he’s seen her in days, so he lets her be. He’s missed her falling asleep on him, missed being able to breathe in the scent of her hair and hold her so close while she rests. He’s forever grateful to have gained it back.

 Amy flinches awake when the plane hits the tarmac, and Jake thinks to himself that it doesn’t matter how excited he is to be back in New York. In truth, he’s already home. He’s been home since the moment he first laid eyes on her again and she accidentally punched him in the throat, and if he has anything to say about it, he plans on never leaving.

    ~

    2017, october.

 Jake hates the nightmares.

He hates how realistic they are, how even though he should recognize them by now, they make his blood freeze to ice and his heart pound each time they return. He hates how often they appear, that his record without them isn't more than three nights in a row since he came home, and that not even the sleeping medication prescribed to him by the psychiatrist he was forced to visit can seem to prevent them. He hates how vulnerable they make him feel, waking up in a cold sweat trying to catch his breath, feeling like he's having an asthma attack and a bad fever all at once.

He hates every single thing about them, but most of all, he hates how they always seem to wake Amy up.

  He just can't seem to learn how to suffer through them silently, or maybe Amy spends the nights guarding him, because he swears she's there every time he wakes up from one. Every time, she's there to stroke his hair and whisper to him that it's all okay; that he's safe, he's home, and he's not going anywhere. He loves her for it, whispers it to her when he calms down enough to speak, but he's ridden with guilt. He can handle his own sleep being ruined - he lost that fight long ago - but he draws the line at Amy having to suffer for it.

 This night is no different. The dream seems new at first, hurtling him into a green landscape where he's sitting on a bench waiting to meet up with Charles, but when Charles appears, Melanie Hawkins is with him. Jake tries to protest, tell Charles he dreamed of never seeing Hawkins’ face again and could he please make her leave, only to find Charles has turned into Romero and is angling a sharpened shiv at Jake's neck. He tries to take a step backward, hoping to run away, but he falls and lands on his back in the wet grass. Hawkins and Romero are leaning over him, Romero still holding the weapon. Jake feels Melanie’s hair tickle his cheek, flinching as she seems to hover uncomfortably close to him, and it's first when she speaks that he realizes it's not Melanie, it's Amy.

  “Jake? Jake, are you okay?”

The wet grass isn't grass - it's his sheets, damp from sweat and tangled around him. Romero is nowhere to be seen, and the figure he thought was Hawkins is really his girlfriend, leaning over him and repeating his name in an attempt to make contact.

It takes more self-control than he knew he had in him, but he manages a nod.

“Another nightmare?” He manages another, reaching for her hand and squeezing it tight.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, pressing it back. “I’m here. You’re safe. Can you take deep breaths? In for four, out for four,” she coaches him, and he follows her instructions, breathing along with her as he’s pulled back to reality.

  “It’s warm,” he mumbles when he thinks his voice won’t falter, but Amy shakes her head.

“I think that’s just the panic making you sweat, babe. I can get you a new shirt -”

“No, it’s… I think I’m going to take a shower,” he decides. He’s been taking a lot of nighttime showers lately, trying to wash away the fear and panic that seems to cling to his skin like a physical sensation after each nightmare. “You can go back to sleep, Ames.”

She nods, but he can see her turning on the nightlight as he leaves for the bathroom.

  He stands in the shower for a while, letting the warm water run over him and counting the ways in his head that it’s different from prison. One, he doesn’t have to share this shower with a bunch of strangers staring at him. Two, the water pressure’s good and the temperature doesn’t randomly shift from icy to burning. Three, he’s free to steal Amy’s shower gel that smells like pink grapefruit and doesn’t contain as much as a trace of meth. Four, someone’s laid out a towel and a new t-shirt on the floor for him when he gets out. Five, Amy’s waiting for him in the next room. It’s the fifth point that makes him dry off quickly and throw on the shirt before returning to the bedroom.

  He finds her sitting up against the headboard, a book open in her lap that she may or may not actually be reading, and the guilt washes over him another time as he notices her trying to stifle a yawn.

“I told you to go to sleep,” he says, and she gives him a half-hearted smile.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to guard me, Ames. It’s fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not guarding you. I’m being your partner and making sure you’re okay, and I’m doing it because I love you and I want to.”

“I love you, too.” He sits down on the bed, putting his part of the comforter over his legs and his pillow against the headboard. “And I’m okay. I might be awake for a while, but please, babe - you can go back to sleep.”

Amy watches him closely, giving him the worried look he’s become used to in the last few weeks, but then she nods.

“I’ll try.”

  She turns off the nightlight, and Jake settles for playing a mindless game on his phone, letting the repetition of matching colorful figures distract him. Amy rests her head on his shoulder, and it’s almost reflexive when he turns on the yellow light-setting on his phone so it won’t disturb her. The weight of her head grows heavier, and two rounds of Candy Crush Saga later, he can tell she’s asleep.

  He helps her lay down, adjusting the pillows so he knows she’ll be comfortable. Then he tries to sit up again, but she reaches out for him in her sleep and frowns, so he puts his phone away and lays down next to her, wrapping his arms around her and smiling as she squishes her nose in the crook of his neck.

  They sleep like that for the rest of the night.

   ~

    2020, april.

 There's been a lot of changes in routine in the Santiago-Peralta home since they first found out they were having a baby. Some have been unintentional, such as Amy sleeping in every morning she can and napping at least once per day because pregnancy is exhausting. Some have been planned out in advance, like one night per week being designated to going through a topic from Amy's detailed list of things they need to discuss before they become parents - a list which ranges from nursery themes and sleep training to family holidays and babysitters. Some have been a mix of both, single events becoming patterns, like Jake rubbing the fancy stretchmark-preventing oil on Amy's stomach near every evening or them spending weeknights on the couch drinking tea and reading parenting books together. Their lives are transforming before their kid is even born, after-work drinks at Shaw’s switched for researching the best cribs and strollers online, and Jake is finding that it doesn’t upset him in the slightest. Rather, it’s exciting, and it feels right.

  With Amy just having entered her thirteenth week of pregnancy, the arrival of their baby seems far away still, but it’s starting to feel all the more real. Last week’s framed sonogram now takes pride of place on the dresser in their bedroom, put there so they’ll have time to hide it in case Charles decides to stop by on one of his many unannounced visits, and each morning when Jake grabs a new t-shirt he stops and looks at the monochrome picture for a moment.

That’s their child right there, no more than a few centimeters long and only just having gotten all their important organs in place, but somehow already holding so much of his heart.

  He’s still nervous about fatherhood. The list of things that could go wrong, unlucky mistakes and faulty decisions he could make, seems endless. He’s scared of not knowing what to do, scared his kid will hate him, and scared he won’t be able to protect them from everything he’s supposed to. He’s scared he won’t feel the instant and overwhelming love that everyone seems to speak of upon seeing their baby for the first time and he’s scared he’ll feel too much of it. The more real it becomes, the more terrifying it gets, and it’s only the excitement that’s stronger. For every tiny onesie he buys, every suggestion they add to the growing list of possible baby names, and every new weekly size comparison to a fruit or vegetable, Jake looks even more forward to meeting this child. He wants to see them, feel them, hold them, and learn everything there is to know about them. He knows they’re the size of a lime this week, that they’re healthy with a nice and strong heartbeat and that they’re wriggling around like crazy inside Amy even though she claims she can’t feel anything yet, but he wants to know more. The 194 days left until their due date seem like an eternity, and at the same time, it’s surreal to think he can count the days until they could be sitting on this couch with their baby.

 Tonight, though, it’s still just the two of them. Amy’s parked herself in one corner of the couch and is reading a book on hypnobirthing, while Jake’s at the other end flipping through Bruce Willis’ book on parenthood. He’s not sure if all the advice in it is sound - or in some cases, fully legal - but he figures the more parenting books he reads, the better equipped he’ll be to figure out what’s sane and not. Jake trusts Bruce Willis with his life, but he does have some doubts about whether playing the Die Hard-soundtrack on maximum volume really is the best way to calm down a screaming baby.

  He’s watching Amy over the edge of his book, making note of how she’s doing, if it looks like she needs anything. It doesn’t seem like she’s going to be sick, she’s not shivering nor sweating and her lip’s not trembling like it tends to do before she starts crying, but every now and then it seems like her eyes are falling and she has to shake her head to keep from nodding off. He decides to ask.

“Are you doing okay, Ames?”

“I don’t think I like being pregnant yet,” she huffs, closing the book and putting it on the coffee table with a thud. “I’m so tired, I can’t even read. What’s the point of anything if you can’t read, Jake?”

“Sounds rough,” he says, trying not to grin. He probably shouldn’t be making fun of her, but it’s such an Amy thing to be upset with, he can’t help it.

“It is! I’m trying to read up on breathing techniques so I can get this baby out eventually, and that’s what I get in return? It’s like this kid doesn’t want to be born,” she grumbles, touching the top of where her stomach has started to curve ever-so-slightly.

“I’m sure it’s not their fault, babe.”

“I know it’s not their fault, “ she replies, giving him an apologetic smile and a shrug. “It’s okay. I’m just tired of being exhausted, and feeling constantly motion-sick, and I miss being able to have more than one cup of coffee per day. All my clothes are becoming too tight, but I don’t really look pregnant yet, so it just looks like I gained a bit of weight.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be complaining about this.”

Jake frowns. “Why not?”

“Because we tried for so long! I spent ages thinking I’d give anything if we could just get pregnant, and now we are, and I’m whining like some ungrateful toddler who just got told they can’t have ice cream for dinner.” Amy goes silent for a moment, staring longingly at their freezer. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now I want ice cream.”

“Is that code for me to get you ice cream?”

“No. Maybe. Yes. Later. ”

“Just say the word.”

“Do you think I’m being ungrateful, Jake?” She bites her lip the way she does when she’s nervous, twisting her hands in her lap. “Because I feel like I am, and I hate it. I’m so happy about this baby, and I can’t wait to meet them. Pregnancy’s just way more annoying than I thought it’d be.”

“You’re not ungrateful,” he assures her, putting down his book before reaching for her hands and taking them in his. “I promise. I don’t know what it’s like to grow a human with my body, but if it’s as tiring as you describe it - I swear I don’t know how you do it. I’m pretty sure I’d be awful at it if I ever got to try.”

Amy giggles. “Yeah, you would.”

“Thanks for the confidence.”

“Anytime.”

“Point is, babe, you get to complain as much as you want. I know how much you’ll love this child, and that doesn’t disappear because you think pregnancy is hard some days. You’re still doing it. And,” he looks to where he can see her belly beginning to take a rounder shape, the corners of his mouth instinctively turning into a smile. “You look adorable. Full stop.”

She blushes. “I do?”

“You’re the cutest pregnant person I ever saw,” he promises, repeating the same thing he thinks every time he sees her.

“Even when I sweat through my clothes or puke my guts out because I found a new smell I couldn’t stand?”

“Even then.”

“Wow,” Amy laughs. “You really must love me.”

“I really, really do.”

  She leans forward, cupping his face the way she likes to do when she kisses him, the way she’s done since the first time she pressed him up against a tree when they were undercover and the way he hopes she’ll do for many years to come. It’s soft without being lazy, firm without being demanding, and his heart flutters as he feels her smile against his lips.

“Do you want me to read aloud to you?” He asks when they separate, Amy leaning her head on his chest. She nods, and he picks up the book where she left it, continuing to read something about the power of wording that doesn’t fully make sense to him while Amy turns around so she’s laying in his arms.

 Jake reads until he can hear her breathing slow and even out, telling him she’s fallen asleep. Once he’s certain it won’t wake her up, he lets her hand stray to her stomach, pulling up the tank top slightly and stroking gently over the tiny bump that’s started taking shape.

That’s their child in there, he reminds himself, marveling over the insanity of it all. He still has to pinch himself sometimes to remember that any of this is real, but whatever the future holds, he knows he can’t wait to experience it with them; Amy, and the lime-sized little bean growing inside of her.

   ~

     2020, november.

  Leonel Jacob Peralta isn’t anything like Jake thought he’d be.

He's bigger than he had guessed - Amy won the bet on who could be closest to guessing their son’s birth weight and height - but smaller than he pictured in his head, almost drowning in the newborn-size pajamas with a pattern of grey stars and striped hat. He looks less like the copy of Amy that he’d visualized, but he's not a copy of Jake either, despite Charles’ claims. He's calmer than they expected, having slept through most of his first day aside from the occasional feeding attempt and diaper change, but they know from the moment he took his first breath that he has a powerful voice.

Most strikingly, he is infinitely more perfect than Jake could have ever imagined.

 After coming into the world with the sunrise, his son has had a long and eventful first day of life. He’s had visitors, Charles and Holt and Rosa being first in line to meet and hold and fawn over him. He even opened his eyes for a moment while Holt held him, causing Jake to tear up as he dutifully followed Amy’s orders to take a picture. He’s facetimed with his maternal grandparents and several of his uncles, gotten well-wishes on social media from just about every employee of the 99th precinct and has received more gifts than Jake supposes any newborn could really need. Looking at their list of visitors scheduled for tomorrow, he’s come to the conclusion that his and Amy’s son is already way more popular than either of them has ever been.

  Leo’s parents have had a long day, too, and a long night before that, but somehow, Jake doesn’t feel tired. Amy’s finally sleeping in the hospital bed next to him, passed out on her side with her mouth open and a little bit of drool on her pillow. Her hair is a mess and her hospital gown has the two top buttons undone, and yet the first word that comes to mind when Jake looks at her is badass. Not a single day goes by that he’s not proud of his wife for everything she does, but after today, that level of pride has skyrocketed past the moon and sun and the entire milky way. His wife is a superhero and their son is magic, pure and undiluted magic that is resting in Jake’s arms.

  If this had been an ordinary evening, he might have been focusing on the discomfort of the stiff armchair he’s sitting in, how the temperature of the room is slightly too warm or how he’s getting kind of hungry, but tonight, he’s barely registering anything else. His son is in his arms, opening and closing his fists with full concentration, and he’s watching him with the most focused gaze Jake’s ever seen in a baby. This kid is staring right into his soul like he’s trying to learn every detail and secret about him, and Jake would have been unnerved by it if it hadn’t felt so right.

 Jake spent a long time wondering if he was the right person to have kids. He was so scared of being a bad parent, he didn’t dare to dream of what he could have if he were to be a good one. He’s still scared, has accepted he might always be, but he looks into his son’s eyes and knows deep in his bones that he’ll do everything to make sure this child grows up knowing exactly how beloved and important he is.

Jake doesn’t know what fathers and sons do, but he gets to find out, and finding it out with Leo is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

  He still doesn’t know a lot about his son, but he’s trying to learn everything. He has his stats memorized, knows he’s six and a half pounds and nineteen inches of absolute perfection. His camera roll is already filled with close-up pictures of his round cheeks, button nose and thick, dark hair that curls a little near his neck. He knows he’s changed their lives forever, and that it’s guaranteed to be for the better.

  Leo stretches his legs inside the blanket, trying to wave his arm, and Jake laughs.

“Too excited about the world to sleep, huh? I get you. Sometimes I feel the same way.” Leo gurgles, which Jake decides to interpret as an okay to keep talking.

“I love you so much,” he whispers to his son without breaking their eye contact. “So, so, much. It’s kind of insane. You were so longed for, and so wanted, and it’s crazy that you’re finally here. Especially considering you weren’t supposed to come out for another week,” he jokes, grinning. “I’m just kidding, that was totally expected. It’s your Santiago genes. It’s still crazy, though. I can’t believe you’re here with us.”

He leans down, kissing both of his son’s cheeks for the fiftieth-or-so time that day.

“It’s a scary world out there. I’m sorry about that. But it’s a little less scary when you’re surrounded by the people you love, and your mom and I will do our everything to keep you safe through the scary parts.” Leo yawns, sticking his little tongue out, and Jake can’t help but smile at the overwhelming cuteness.

“We love you. I love you. More than you understand. Honestly, I don’t think I understand it myself yet, but I don’t care. It’s all good, buddy,” he says, nudging Leo’s fist with his index finger until the newborn grips it. “It’s all good, because you’re here with me, and we’re going to be okay.” Leo lets out a tiny squeak. “Yeah, we are. I promise.”

  Either Leo’s unconvinced, or something else is bothering him, because the squeaking noises continue. Gently, as if he was handling the finest of porcelain, Jake holds one hand under his son’s head and lifts him so that he’s upright against his chest instead. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he’s read that babies like to be close, and Leo does seem happier as his nose presses against his neck. Jake strokes the baby’s back through the blue-and-pink hospital blanket, humming the first Taylor Swift song he can think of - Shake it off, always right. It’s only a minute, maybe two, before the newborn stops fussing, and Jake realizes that his son has fallen asleep.

It’s late in the evening of the early November day Jake will forever have written down as their son’s birthday, and he’s sitting in an uncomfortable armchair in a hospital room in Brooklyn, the love of his life still passed out in bed next to him. Their son is sleeping with his head resting on Jake’s shoulder, like Amy has done so many times before, and he can’t remember ever feeling this peaceful in his life. Leonel is warm and soft and smells as if heaven had a scent, and Jake is so in love.

There had been a time, not too many years ago, where Jake had dreamt about dying a heroic death trying to save the city from evil or working himself to the bone trying to become the most successful cop in New York. Now, every single one of his dreams circle back to the same focal point - a boundless, incandescent hope that he gets to keep being a safe place and favorite sleeping spot for the two people who hold his entire heart.

  ~

[kuriquinn]

Wait For Me

Blanket Fic Disclaimer

Original Prompt by: @toscafan

"Olá. Você poderia escrever uma fic onde após Sasuke voltar para a vila, Sakura vai em uma missão e é gravemente ferida. Então Sasuke percebe que seus sentimentos por ela cresceram quando ele a vê ferida no hospital. Talvez com um pouco de Naruto preocupado também. Eu imagino isso entre o período que Sasuke volta para Konoha e antes de eles partirem juntos em suas viagens. Suas histórias são maravilhosas :) eu sinto muito não escrever em inglês :( “

[Roughly:  Hello, Could you write a fic where after Sasuke returns to the village, Sakura goes on a mission and is seriously injured. Then Sasuke realises that his feelings for her have grown when he sees her injured in the hospital. Maybe with a bit of Naruto worried too. I imagine it between the time Sasuke returns to Konoha and before they leave together on their travels.]

Author’s Note: As promised during Evil Author Day, I am trying to finish some of my WIPs. I actually managed to finish this one (Prompt # 4), which is a total miracle given how I’ve been feeling lately. And the fact I think this one is like...two years old. So yeah, major backlog of stuff that needs writing. Enjoy!

Beta Reader: None but me and my editing software :)

________________________________________________________________

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

It shouldn’t have happened.

The words repeat themselves on a loop in Sasuke’s head, like a record player tossed asunder, skipping unerringly back over the same line in a song. In every momentary pause where the words begin to repeat, there is a breath, an extended moment of tension where his chest feels tighter and tighter.

She hasn’t been on active duty rosters since the war. Her field is medicine, not defense or combat or infiltration, and as strong and talented as Haruno Sakura is, she’s still human and prone to mistakes. Shinobi work isn’t like riding a bike. You have to continue to exercise your particular skillset daily, or mistakes can be made, leading to mishaps, leading to—

It shouldn’t have happened.

サスサク

When the call came in for a relief-force of medicnin, it wasn’t unusual. War or no, there are still major medical emergencies and disasters. In this case, reports reached Konoha of an earthquake 350 miles away. Though the village had barely experienced a tremor, the quake had apparently devastated the shepherding community living at the base of the mountain.

As a rule, Sakura should have stayed behind to coordinate everything from the village; with Tsunade on another of her gambling jaunts, she was the most senior healer.

But the devastated town was without its own medical corps, and the number of injured was overwhelming. Every able pair of hands was needed and naturally, Sakura volunteered herself for the mission.

“I can do the work of a dozen medics and they might need someone to lift debris,” she informed the Sixth Hokage when he seemed likely to protest. “I also trained the latest group of emergency medics going out there; they’re still relatively untested in the field. Better they take their orders from me than some random jounin that you assign.”

Kakashi knew better than to argue with his former student, but he was reluctant. For some reason, he was uneasy. There was little reason for it that he could discern, but after all his years as a shinobi, he had learned to heed his instincts.

“Please, Lord Sixth, there are many large families there, with children.”

Against that—with no concrete reason to give—he could not say no.

“Do you need anyone else beyond the emergency medics?”

“Any civilians with basic first aid training,” Sakura replied, pleased at the response. “Whichever doctors and staff can be spared. The general surgeons, perhaps, but no one with specialized training or technique that we would supper from losing.”

Kakashi nodded and made a gesture she recognized to mean an official granting of the request.

“Ideally, you’d send Naruto as well. He could use the Nine-Tails chakra to mass-heal the simplest injuries. It would make triage a lot faster.”

“That’s not in my power. I’m already on thin ice with the Elders for my executive order to pardon Sasuke. I doubt they’ll want him leaving the village any time soon.”

Sakura scowled.

Under normal circumstances she would argue—she had long ago made clear her dislike  and distrust for the village Elders—but every minute spent arguing was wasting crucial time.

“Can you try to convince them?” she asked as she turned to leave the office. “We should be sending out best for this.”

“We already are,” Kakashi said with ease, and there was a smile in his eyes. The one Sakura returned was only a little strained, mind already on her future patients.

サスサク

Sasuke was on a short, probationary mission at the time, in the complete opposite direction from the disaster zone. He didn’t even hear about the earthquake until two days later.

While handing his mission report to Kakashi, he may have been somewhat surprised to learn Sakura would not be around to greet him the way she usually did—and Kakashi’s eyes had a far too knowing gleam in them when he mentioned it—but it never occurred to Sasuke that she would be in any kind of danger.

At least, nothing she wasn’t capable of handling for herself.

For those two days, Sasuke carried out his usual routine, slowly acclimating to being back in service to the village. It still wasn’t his preference to be around so many people, and there was a constant sense of discomfort that lingered at the back of his mind. The sensation of eyes on him from all over, ANBU and civilian alike, heavy with judgement and fear. The only time that feeling abated, even for just a little, was when he was around Sakura, Naruto or Kakashi.

Still, he wasn’t willing or able to seek any of them out. They all have busy lives, and he earned that judgement and fear from the village. It would be an easy feat to leave and never return, but he didn’t deserve easy. Remaining here was part of his punishment, and so he would learn to live with it.

At home, when the constant surveillance became too much, he went to an empty training ground and put himself through various sword forms or engage in other exercises. In two years, he’s grown used to living and fighting with only one arm, but it’s the constant practice that keeps him lethal.

On the morning of the third day he is going through one of his complex sword kata in the training ground where Kakashi made them genin. He tells himself it’s coincidence and not sentimentality that brought him here this morning, even as the three posts stand vigil over his training like towers of memory.

Today he is working only on form and movement, not using any techniques requiring chakra, just trying to sharpen his movements into their usual lethal grace.

As he uncoils from a low final arc of his sword, returning to a resting position, there is a sudden cracking noise; his gaze snaps toward it, and he watches as—apropos of nothing—the wooden post to his far right splits right down the middle.

Sasuke immediately goes still, focussing his awareness around himself and the area, scanning for danger. There is no one in this place foolish enough to try something—even if he wasn’t lethal on his own, the ANBU escorts hidden in the shadows would have been alerted.

The wind continues meander, sending leaves rustling; the sound of birds and the distant crash of the river do not change. There is not threat that he can detect, nothing but a growing sense of foreboding.

And then the ground begins to shake.

As far as earthquakes go, it’s not the worst he’s experienced. He has no problem remaining on his feat as the ground roils and trembles. Even the trees surrounding him show no sign of shuddering.

It’s small and innocuous, nothing on the same level as the one Sakura was sent to help with.

His eyes drift, lingering on the cracked post.

Memory conjures an image of a gawky twelve year old with too-long-to-be-practical hair and luminous green eyes betraying strain and discomfort as she feeds their third teammate tied to the middle post.

It’s probably nothing.

But for some reason his focus on his exercises vanishes, replaced instead with a growing disquiet in the pit of his stomach.

It only grows with every moment as he returns to the village proper and, without knowing why, makes a beeline for Hokage Tower. All around him, people talk excitedly about the tremor, laughing it off and telling one another what they were doing when they noticed it. It’s just a facet of their day, something that—while uncommon—is not dangerous enough to merit panic.

So why does he suddenly feel uneasy?

サスサク

Sasuke arrives at the Tower at the same time as Naruto, a face which causes his inexplicable agitation to ratchet immediately higher, especially given his friend’s uncharacteristic frown and the absence of his usual joking greeting.

Without exchanging words, they enter Kakashi’s office and are immediately treated to the sight of their former instructor pacing by the window, a frown drawing his brows together. The coiled cord of the telephone stretches and relaxes with his back-and-forth movements. It’s so in contrast to his usual demeanor—lazily slouched in his chair—that Sasuke’s spine stiffens in response.

Kakashi eventually hangs up the phone and faces his students.

“There was a second earthquake,” he tells them gravely. “Right next to the refugee camp we set up. According to reports, about 180 million tons of mountainside have crumble down onto the camp. They don’t know if there are any survivors.”

Sasuke’s fist clenches and Naruto’s eyes blink into slits as he activates his senjutsu.

“I can’t sense Sakura’s chakra,” he says, a panicked note in his voice. “Usually I get a definite flicker from her, even at this distance…”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sasuke tells him. “She masks her chakra when she’s on medical missions to avoid presenting a target.”

He’s not sure how he knows this, since he can’t recall if she mentioned any such practice in their conversations since he’s been back, yet he knows it to be true. Still, this knowledge brings no comfort with it, because the uncomfortable pit in his stomach remains.

“She would be healing everyone after a huge disaster like that,” Naruto protests. “I’d definitely sense that. But I can’t.”

Which, admittedly, worries Sasuke a little despite his unshakable faith in Sakura’s abilities.

Naruto turns to Kakashi, his shoulders squared as if in preparation for a fight. “I’m going to check on her. Even if she’s fine, they’ll need help digging survivors out. I can definitely help with that.”

“Fine,” Kakashi says. The fact he doesn’t argue or mention the concerns of the Elders is telling. “If you leave now, you should get there within—”

Sasuke doesn’t stay to listen.

He’s already climbing the stairs to the roof where there is more open space.

He is by no means an expert at using his Rinnegan yet—every day heralds a new ability or application—but he has more or less figured out how to travel between far distant locations instantly.

“Oi! Sasuke! Wait up!” Naruto shouts from behind as Sasuke focusses himself on creating a pathway. He glanced the coordinates he needs on the papers covering Kakashi’s desk, knows where he’s supposed to go—

The space in front of him crackles, displacing the air, and then rips open, forming a portal of swirling violet energy. On the other side, he can discern a giant wall of rubble.

He wastes no time slipping through, trusting Naruto to follow directly behind him.

サスサク

The sight before them is a grim one.

Sasuke hasn’t seen destruction on this scale since the war.

Mountains loom around them, the closest one looking misshapen due to the giant shelf that has vanished as if scraped off with a giant chisel. Its remnants spill out in front of it, creating a smaller mountain of churned earth and rock, uprooted trees and other debris.

People gather around, civilian and shinobi alike, covered in dust and digging frantically at the rubble. Likely the lucky few who were far enough away when the second quake hit to avoid the harm.

There are almost no Konohanin, medicnin or otherwise, that he can see, suggesting a grim truth to him: they are all underneath the remains of the mountain. Dead, most likely, or trapped and dying as the seconds pass.

But where is Sakura?

She could survive being buried under such weight, and should have dug her way out by now. Stone and rock are like cottage cheese to her strong fists.

“Naruto!”

The two newcomers glance up as a Konohanin scrambles toward them. As he gets closer, Sasuke recognizes him as the kid Sakura has taken on as an assistant. Ando something or other.

“We need help!” the kid gasps when he arrives in front of them, dust-covered and exhausted. “We can’t shift the earth using doton because it could hurt the people underneath.”

The jinchuriki is already forming the signs to summon up shadow clones. If this has to b cleared by hand, he’s the best man for the job. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

“We’ll get through this without a problem!”

“Believe it!”

The clones are already spreading out across the landscape, like a sea of orange washing over the scene.

Sasuke stares down at the boy. “Where is Sakura?”

Ando goes pale beneath the fine layer of dust, eyes pained. “When the earthquake stared, she was trying to get everyone in the medical tents to safety. When she realized she couldn’t, she tried to create barriers to stop the worst of the damage using doton. But it was coming on too fast, and so she tried to slow down the avalanche—"

“Of course she did,” Sasuke murmurs to himself, teeth gritted.

“—but it wasn’t enough! The last I saw, she was destroying the rocks coming at her, but then she was buried.”

“And where were you in all this?”

There’s an accusation in his words that has made stronger men tremble, but Ando merely shudders and clenches his fists. No shrinking violets working with Sakura, that’s for sure.

“I was on water duty. The rivers here were all polluted by the first quake, and so I had to travel far. I saw it all from that cliff up there and hurried down here as fast as I could to help, but…”

He gestures ineffectively, clearly not knowing where to start.

“Sasuke!” Naruto yells all of a sudden, and Sasuke’s head whips toward where he is helping a woman with shredded clothing to climb from the rubble. She is remarkably stable on her feet, considering the situation, and Sasuke understands a moment later when he sees the white creature attached to her shoulder.

“Lady Katsuyu!” Ando cries and hurries over, followed closely by SAsuke.

“Where’ Sakura?” Naruto demands as the younger boy helps the quake victim to sit down. “Is she okay?”

“She’s at the very bottom,” Katsuyu says fretfully. “There’s an airpocket and she’ll still have air for a little while, but she’s gravely injured. Her entire lower body is crushed.” Sasuke’s heart constricts painfully. “I tried to help, but she insisted I attach myself to all the refugees, to keep them alive until help arrives. I fear she won’t be able to keep it up very long. Even my healing can’t save the people buried so long without oxygen.”

“Little fool,” Sasuke growls, the viciousness of the words surprising him more than the situation. Of course she’s more worried about the survival of her patients and the others instead of herself.

“We’re getting her out,” Naruto declares, summoning more clones. “We’ll get her and everyone else out!”

And Sasuke finds himself hoping this is another miracle that his friend’s mere presence and stubbornness will help pull off.

 サスサク

The task is arduous and time consuming.

Sasuke is bizarrely conscious of the speed at which the time passes—too fast. They continue dragging survivors out from beneath the rubble—all unharmed, but looking more and more shambled as the rescue efforts reach deeper into the rubble. Every so often, there is a red glow, and the unearth another person being Naruto has managed to sense and enfold in his healing chakra cloak.

Sasuke uses his snake summons for the first time in years, sending them from his sleeve to slither around and crush rocks blocking their path. He digs one-handed while Naruto and the clones make quick work of their chosen debris fields.

They have yet to find Sakura, or a person that as died of their injuries; all of them so far have had a miniature clone of Lady Katsuyu attached somewhere on their bodies.

Yet he can’t sense Sakura.

“Her chakra signature is everywhere,” he frets. “She’s channelling it through Katsuyu to keep everyone alone. I can’t get a proper read on her.”

“And you won’t,” Lady Katsuyu says in a tremulous tone. “The byakugou has disengaged—her strength has finally run out.” She shudders. “We’re too far away. There’s no way we’ll make it to her in time. And I can only linger here a few minutes longer without her sustaining me.”

“We’ll make it!” Naruto growls, tone and eyes harsh like that of a cornered fox. There’s a panic there, belying his words, because he clearly has no idea how they’re going to do that.

It’s that panic more than anything so far that makes Sasuke’s guts roil and a sickening nausea of fear well up within him. Because Naruto never gives up, he always has hope and he always has some kind of harebrained plan to fix a bad situation.

And if he doesn’t have one in this case, it means Sakura’s fate is sealed.

Which—

No.

“You have a clone with Sakura now?” he asks Katsuyu.

“O-of course,” the snail replies, almost surprised at being addressed so directly.

“You can share your chakra between one another. Can you share the chakra of someone else the same way?”

Naruto’s eyes widen as he catches on. “Yes! If I share my chakra with you and your clone, I’ll able to sense where your clone is and we can find Sakura faster.”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Lady Satsuyu replies mournfully. “And besides, I can’t share your chakra, Naruto-kun. The chakra of biju is too volatile, and unless a blood contract has been made, like yours with the toads, it would become too volatile.”

“You wouldn’t need a contract with me,” Sasuke says. “My chakra is entirely my own.”

The slug’s head bobs to one side in consideration, and then she makes a noise of assent. “We can try.”

Sasuke holds out his hand, allowing Lady Katsuyu to inch closer, pressing herself up against his palm. There’s a beat of tense silence as they both concentrate, Sasuke infusing a burst of chakra in the tiny creature’s body.

She shudders from the force of it, her energy signature changing to a mixture of her own and his.

“It’s done,” she says, and he can feel a tiny twinge in his senses calling from far beneath the crumbled mountain.

Sasuke nods and begins to back away from the rubble. “Get beneath her.”

“I don’t understand,” Ando is saying. “How will that be any different from before? Lady Katsuyu was already able to direct us to Sakura.”

“He’s not just looking for Sakura’s location,” Naruto says with a grim smile. “He needs to know exactly where she is.”

“But why—?”

Sasuke tunes out the useless questions as he positions himself somewhere with a decent amount of clearance all around him. Bracing himself—he’s never tried this particular gambit before—he activates the Sharingan and reaches deep within his chakra reserves.

Instantly, violent purple energy manifests, bones and muscle and armor, as Susanoo encompasses him all around. The burning, ripping pain of it has almost become distant by now, and he focusses past it, still holding onto that shred of his chakra beckoning him from wherever Sakura is.

He turns his head, concentrating on the space in front of Susanoo’s empty right hand and activates the Rinnegan.

A portal twists into being from thin air, and Sasuke hardly waits before raising Susanoo’s hand and pressing the limb through the portal. He can distantly feel the weight of her against the flat of the hand as it materializes directly beneath her body, and then pulls her backward, shutting the portal immediately after extracting her to ensure none of the rubble baring down on her might follow.

As gentle as he can, Sasuke lays Sakura down upon the ground, Susanoo vanishing as her body touches the earth.

サスサク

Everyone is already kneeling around her when Sasuke touches back down, the chakra giant vanishing once more. Lady Katsuyu vanishes, no longer having Sakura’s strength to draw on, and Naruto is snapping something at Ando, probably to get help.

All of it washes over Sasuke in a meaningless, soundless wave as his eyes fall upon Sakura. His lungs tighten as he takes in her broken body.

Her legs are bruised and battered, crushed inward in some places and bones poking out of other places; it’s the same for her hips and several ribs. Her eyes are open and staring, a trail of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth and nose.

The sight is terrifying.

For a short yet eternal moment he is back in the streets of the Uchiha district, surrounded by the bodies of his family. Just as he was then, he is frozen now—inutile and incapable of doing anything.

“Naruto…” he begins, not knowing exactly what he’s trying to ask.

“This is bad,” Naruto says, voice strained. His eyes are slits once more, his sage mode active as a red film covers Sakura’s body. “I can heal the big stuff, but so much has been pulverized…” He swallows as if in physical pain; Sasuke knows the feeling. “She needs someone that can do surgery at the microlevel. If I heal her right now, like this, I could do a lot more harm then good.”

It’s a measure of how far Naruto’s come that he recognizes this, that he knows not to simply ram through his power and hope it helps.

Sasuke doesn’t know what will help now.

Scenarios and plans speed through a mind more suited for battle tactics than life-saving measures, as he tries to think of any way that he can help her and wishing for the first time in a long time that Karin were here.

Wishing he had ever taken the time to learn more about the healing arts than how to kill.

All the while, the sight of Sakura’s shattered limbs taunting him as her blood seeps into the sand.

Sasuke blinks.

Sand.

The memory hits him out of nowhere, the way many of his recollections from before do. Waking in a hospital, distantly hearing people talking about a fight—sand versus strength.

“Tsunade,” Sasuke says, remembering how the Fifth Hokage dealt with something similar. Right around the time she healed his mind from Itachi’s merciless assault on it, she saved Rock Lee from a life of paralysis.

Naruto is frowning, once again on the same wavelength as him. “No one knows where she is.”

“I’ll find her. Get Sakura back to Konoha—”

“No…”

Both of them jump at the pained, feeble voice and glance down.

Sakura’s eyes are closed now, clenched as tight as her jaw when she speaks through gritted teeth. “There are still…people…” She tries to raise a hand, gesture toward the rubble. “Naruto…stay and…help…”

“Sakura, no!” he snaps. “You’re in a mess right now, I need to keep you going until—”

“…Too much…damage…wasting your…chakra…”

“Sakura,” Sasuke says tersely, and her eyes shoot open toward him. Awareness flickers behind green irises, along with some surprise, as if she didn’t realize or expect him to be there.

“Sasu…ke…”

He shivers.

There has never been a time in his life when he and Sakura haven’t been aware of the presence of the other. The fact she didn’t notice him is telling in the severity of her injury…as is her not expecting him to be by her side.

After all, when has he ever been?

What has he ever done for her?

“We have to get her out of here,” Naruto says. “Do you have enough strength for another portal?”

Sasuke nods, though he isn’t sure; he’s used his abilities twice now in quick succession. But for Sakura, he’ll try.

The space beside them rips open, once more opening onto the familiar rooftops of Konoha as seen from Hokage Tower. All they need to do is step through, and so Naruto goes to pick Sakura up, only for her to scream in sudden sharp agony.

Sasuke’s heart stutters, his concentration wavering slightly, allowing the portal to shrink and contract worryingly.

“She’s too hurt,” Naruto says, panicked. “We need to keep her on her back or…I might sever something important.”

There are no stretchers here, no immobilizing aids to move her. If he had any idea where Tsunade Senju was, he’d seek her out and return her here instantly, but he doesn’t have that time and neither does Sakura.

“I’ll bring her,” Sasuke says.

“But—”

“You stay here. Help the survivors.”

There’s something on his face that keeps Naruto from arguing further, but Sasuke is no longer paying attention. Once again, he centers himself, trying to divide his power between the portal and call up Susanoo in just the right manner.

It takes searing concentration to manifest Susanoo’s hand in the space between Sakura’s body and the ground, letting the chakra fill in beneath her and keep her steady and supine.

Sakura’s eyes are wide, trained on him in something like desperation, before they roll back and she lapses into unconsciousness.

Sasuke’s lungs constrict, but he forces himself to work through it, to slide Susanoo’s hand straight through the portal until Sakura is no longer lying among the debris of the dead but in the safety of their village.

Sweat breaks out across his forehead and the back of his neck, and he tastes blood in his mouth, but he manages to retract the chakra within him. He’s about to step through when—

“Wait!”

He grits his teeth, eyes darting back to the kid—Ando—who has returned.

“Let me come too,” he says. “I can keep her stable, or—or go get someone from the hospital, or—”

“Go!” Sasuke snarls, half from effort and half from irritation the boy is taking up valuable seconds.

A terrified expression breaks over Ando’s face for a moment, before he throws himself headlong through the portal.

“Find Tsunade,” Sasuke tells Naruto as he follows. He doesn’t have to hear the response to know he will.

サスサク

He has no right to be here.

The intensive care wing of Konoha’s hospital is a flurry of movement as doctors and nurses and medic-nin rush in and out of the surgery where they are working on Sakura. He lingers outside the doors, his own self-recrimination keeping him out here more than the ‘Staff Only’ sign on the door.

He doesn’t deserve to be here, to hear news of her condition. He left—he’s always leaving—and she’s always waiting. She’s always here and he realizes with a sudden disbelief that somehow, somewhere along the line something in him has taken that for granted.

Ever since the War, ever since watching her blossom into her abilities and to demonstrate power that makes her neigh indestructible, he’s been thinking of her as if she is. As if she’s a constant that will never change, that will always exist.

Like she’s immortal.

Except she’s not, she can die like anyone else.

It’s something taken for granted in their line of work, but medic-nin die the same as anyone else in the service. And Sakura would be the first to insist she is no more important than anyone else, that her life is the same value as any of their comrades. He knows if given the choice she’d sacrifice that same life without any regret—hell, he watched her try to do just that today.

That knowledge—and the reality of what is happening behind that door in front of him, the image of the light in her eyes dying—steals his breath.

Will that be his last memory of her? A broken body pulled from a wreckage?

Very real terror grips him then, something he hasn’t felt in years. A close, clawing sensation and his lungs constricting as something jagged forms in his throat. Nightmares of blood in the streets, blood in his hands and the rush of a waterfall in the background, the chirping of lightning in his ears—

“Sasuke.”

His head jerks up, the world around him returning, senses no longer going haywire to stave off the incoming panic.

Kakashi is standing beside him—when did he get here?—eyes somber. There’s a beat before he reaches out, hesitant, and lays a hand on his shoulder.

It’s as if a current is going through him, memories from long ago, that same hand on his shoulder. It’s the first time Kakashi has reached out to him since he left Konoha as a child.

“I’ve had news from Naruto,” his former instructor continues. “He’s found Tsunade.”

And somehow with those three words, every bit of tension in Sasuke’s body evaporates. He realizes he hasn’t been breathing and tries his best not to gulp for air, forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose, to not lose his composure.

Kakashi, of course, is not fooled. “Sakura will be alright. She’s strong.”

Sasuke wants to reply that he knows, he’s always known, but his tongue is still frozen. Instead, he returns his gaze upon the door, trying to sense what is happening beyond it.

He feels Kakashi remove his hand, but the man’s intense stare remains on him.

“I should go,” he eventually manages to say. Yet his legs refuse to move.

“You should stay. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re exactly where she needs you to be.”

Sasuke’s protest dies before it was truly born, and he goes back to trying to breath. Inhale and hold; exhale and repeat. It doesn’t matter what he needs or wants, after all.

Why?

Sakura is Sakura. Yes, they have always had a connection, a bond, but it’s the same connection he’s had with the rest of his former squad. You can’t go on missions or into battle with one another without developing a synchronicity. Even if the connections are different.

With Kakashi it’s the kindred spirit of someone who has lost everything almost the same as he has, with Naruto it’s a bond that can never be replicated for the most complicated of cosmic reasons.

And yet…with Sakura, there’s something different there.

He always thought it was nostalgia, the last lingering remnants of a weak child desperate for whatever scrap of affection was offered to him after losing his parents. Every moment he’s ever spent with her, he pretended like it didn’t affect him at all; and yet, there was always that eagerness he had to tamp down, wanting to see the smile on her face because he knew he didn’t deserve it.

A smile he missed in the years training with Orochimaru, then wandering the world in penance. He knows she’s had feelings for him since they were children, and has has spent most of his last years hoping against hope that she’ll let him go and move on.

That she’ll find someone else, someone worthy of her, someone who will keep her safe and guard her heart against pain. Because that’s all he can give her is pain; tht, and a soul that will never completely heal.

Except it wont matter, will it, if she dies?

She’ll be gone, and he’ll be empty again. No matter where he goes, he’s always known that somewhere, Sakura is out there, keeping him in her heart. He knows that even if she does find another, there will always be a part of her that thinks of him, just like he will always have a part of him that thinks of her.

But if she dies…if she doesn’t make it through this…

Suddenly he can see it.

Years stretch out in front of him, bleak and empty and gray. Visits to a gravestone of a life that could have been. Regrets and pain and an endless void of existing instead of living.

More of everything he endured as a child, only this time, without the tiny ray of sunlight that Sakura willingly gave him.

And suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t want that.

A world without Sakura in it, is not one that he wants to be a part of.

He wants her—needs her—to be happy. And if her happiness is him…if he could ensure that happiness somehow…

Well, he’ll do whatever it takes.

Sasuke takes a shuddering breath at the realization.

It feels sudden, like a switch has been flipped with realization, and yet at the same time he knows it has always been this way.  

He’s in love with Sakura.

The world returns then in sharp focus, ignorant to the realizations he’s just made. Kakashi is still eyeing him with concern. Perhaps wondering if he’s going to have to talk him out of leaving the hospital, even though Sasuke knows that he’s not going anywhere until he can watch her open her eyes again.

Until she smiles at him again.

Maybe not even then.

“I’ll wait for her then,” he says, shaken but still somehow managing to control the timbre of his voice. He leans against the wall, eyes once more resting on the door in expectation.

I’ll wait for her forever.

終わり

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I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels 🤯mind blown 🤬god damn cliffhanger 😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!?

栗

[silvcrlining]

elaine, self-para: after new year’s

The pounding in Elaine’s head awakens with her the morning after the masquerade ball, persists through her attempt to water it down, and follows her on the bus ride to Zuzu City.

She fidgets with one of the bows poking out of the bag in her lap, and watches as the view outside her window slowly and then all at once shifts from tree lines and mountainsides to concrete buildings that stretch out towards the sky. At some point, she begins confusing the pounding in her head with the one against her chest. Every time she visits, she feels like she should’ve done it sooner, or for longer, or more often. It never feels like enough, and something about that makes her palms sweat. She grips her bag tighter as the bus rolls to a stop.

The walk to her old house is oddly quaint; the streets are mostly barren, the strings of lights strung across buildings and the trash cans overflowing with confetti and red solo cups the only evidence that it had been filled to the brim with celebration the night prior. When she reaches the front door, she barely gets two knocks in before it flies open and she’s being pulled down to her mother’s height, engulfed in her embrace.

“Hi, Mama.” mumbles Elaine, feeling her headache subside for a moment. Amelia Carter hugs like she’s savoring every bit of warmth a person has to offer; Elaine hugs like she’s afraid they’ll disappear under her touch if she’s not careful. Her mother fuzzes over her, hands reaching up to her face and resting on her cheeks, “Oh, my baby-- how are you? Is the shop doing good? Are you doing good?” Her thumbs sweep under Elaine’s eyes knowingly, “Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Her answer is automatic, as she’s too preoccupied with leaning into her mother’s touch. She spends so much time by herself back in the valley; she forgets how nice it feels to be held.

“Ma, give her a second. She just got here.” Elias says behind them with a chuckle. Amelia steps to the side so Elias can greet his sister. He reaches up to brush away snowflakes that had yet to melt from her hair, giving her a silent smile. He just barely towers over her, and she watches his eyes briefly shine with concern, like they always do. “You good, Ellie?”

“I’m good.” Elaine returns the smile, though she wears it a bit tightly on her face. She ignores the look that he gives her, like he doesn’t entirely believe her. With a clear of her throat, she raises her bag. Even with her family, she doesn’t like having the attention on her. “I brought gifts.”

The family dinner is small, but Elaine doesn’t mind. After yesterday, she feels like she’s wasted her social battery for the entire week. She’s just happy to be with her family. Amelia pours champagne to celebrate the new year, insisting they toast using the mugs Elaine made for the two of them. Her heart feels warm; warmer than it has in months, warmer than she’s let it be in a long time. A part of her brain tugs at her, reminds her that the warmth is temporary, that it will leave the moment she returns to the valley and hides in her little home in the mountains. She forces herself to ignore it for today.

_____

Hours later, Elaine curls up beside Elias on the living room couch, blankets draped over their shoulders as they warm up by the fireplace. For a moment, she feels like they’re kids again, and the feeling is almost comforting. Aunt Nora stopped by-- Elaine learns she visits Amelia every weekend-- and her and Amelia’s laughter filters in from the kitchen.

“How’s everything in the Valley?” Elias asks, taking a sip from his beer.

“Good.” she answers, and adds when she feels her brother’s gaze on her, awaiting more, “The, uh, the shop is doing good. The house is fine. There was a, um-- there was this masquerade ball the town hosted yesterday. It was…” Chaotic. “... interesting. It was... nice, though.”

Elias hums, nods. “What about the people, your friends-- Malia still there?”

“Yeah. She’s doing good… or, well, as good as she can be.” she shrugs, “Winter can be tough for some people. I stop by her house every now and then.”

“Okay.” He nods again. Elias always asks a lot of questions. Sometimes too many. She can’t blame him, even though she wants to. He’s always been the open book of the family, while she locks herself away behind countless doors. “What about, uh-- Henry was his name, right? You two seemed to be getting along.”

Elaine bristles at that, coughs out a forced laugh and tries to veer past the subject. “God, Elias, I’m thirty-three. I feel like you’re asking me how my day at school was.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He chuckles, taking another swig of his beer and setting it down on the floor. He leans back on the couch and glances at her. “I just worry about you, you know.”

“You don’t have to. I’m--”

“-- fine. I know. You’re always fine.” There’s something cold behind his words. Not necessarily biting, but like he’s talking around what he actually wants to say.

Elaine runs a hand through her hair and sighs. The tension that hangs in the air isn’t new, but it never gets less uncomfortable. It’s been like this for a while, especially with Elias. They love each other, that much is obvious, but there are always things left unsaid, invisible lines that they need to tread carefully around-- or that he feels like he needs to tread carefully around.

She just wants to change the subject.

“What about you? How are you and Diana doing?” Diana is Elias’ wife. They dated for five years before he mustered up the courage to propose; they’ve been married for three.

“Oh, we’re good. We actually just finished redecorating the house; she wants you to stop by and see it one of these days. You know, give your stamp of approval.”

Elaine smiles faintly, “I will.”

Elias opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then clamps it shut. Elaine notices, and her brows furrow, “What?”

“I, uh… I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He pauses, clears his throat. He glances at her, his words cautious. “Diana’s pregnant.”

“... Oh. Oh.” Elaine looks at him, then at the fireplace, then back at him. She stays like that for a few seconds, feeling something heavy settle in her chest-- it feels briefly like jealousy--  before realizing she should probably act a little happier. She presses a smile onto her lips. “I, uh-- that’s-- Elias, congratulations.” She wraps him up in a hug, and he returns it gently. “How far along?”

“... Three months.”

She pulls back then, the smile still stretched along her mouth. “... Oh.” Her smile lessens. “Why didn’t you… Does Mom know?”

He still regards her carefully, “Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“... October.”

“Oh.” She pulls back further now, hands settling in her lap. “... Why am I finding out about this now, then?” 

“Mom thought I shouldn’t tell you yet.”

She stiffens, “Why?”

“You know that’s a stupid question.”

A small bit of frustration flares within her, and she huffs out a small chuckle. “I’m not some… some fragile thing, Elias. I can handle your wife being pregnant.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but…” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “... you still have wounds, Ellie. And that’s okay, and it’s understandable, but we just didn’t want to make them worse.”

“I’m not-- I’m fine.” She’s lost track of how many times she’s said that today. She moves away from him, focusing her narrowed gaze on the fireplace. “I know how to take care of myself. I don’t need you or Mom tip-toeing around my feelings or my-- my ‘wounds’.”

“You’re not fine.” Elias responds gently, running a hand down his face. “You and Mom always say the same thing, but both of you still have that same look in your eyes since Dad died.”

She clenches her jaw. They’ve barely ever talked about their father since it happened. Hell, they’ve barely ever talked about death or grief even though they all still feel it deep within them, some more than others. “What are you talking about?”

“You look at people like you’re scared they’re going to disappear the moment you look away.”

Her eyes flicker towards him, her knee bouncing repeatedly, hands wringing in her lap. He gives a faint, sad smile. “See? There it is.”

“Oh, fuck off.” The blanket around her shoulders falls gracelessly on the couch as she gets up. “I don’t get what this has to do with anything.”

“Because it’s impossible to have any kind of relationship with you when you’re so afraid of losing people all the time.” 

There’s a silence that follows his word, where she’s facing away from him, and her mind is racing, and tears are pricking at the back of her eyes. She wants to change the subject.

“I’m not afraid.” She tries in vain, and she hates how she sounds. Like a little kid swearing they’re not scared of the monster under their bed.

“Mom told me you spend most of your time in your house. That you never really mention seeing or talking or being around other people. Not even a pet or anything. It sounded like she was talking about Grandpa.”

That hits her. It’s like salt on an open wound, and she presses her lips together to not cry out from the pain. Her grandfather was a lonely man by choice. She knew that more than anyone. He pushed people away until they stopped seeing the point in trying. Her mother didn’t push people away, but she isolated herself most of the time, forgetting about the world until it came knocking on her door. Elias is probably the most well-off, but even he has his bouts of sadness, when Diana can barely get a word or two out of him. Elaine just thinks loneliness runs in the family like a disease. She doesn’t try to fight it that much anymore.

When she doesn’t say anything in response, Elias presses harder, pushes another button, “Have you cleaned out the baby room yet?”

There’s a room in Elaine’s house, half of the walls painted yellow, a crib she had begun building but never finished probably picking up dust and mold in the corner. She had gotten overly excited, begun working on it even though she was only four months along. She keeps that door locked now.

With an inhale through closed teeth, Elaine turns to Elias, her eyes still shining with un-shed tears. “I have to go.”

He realizes he’s stepped too far. “Elaine--”

“It’s getting late, and I wanna catch the last bus before it leaves.” She smiles tightly. “I missed you. It was nice seeing you.” 

“Elaine, I--”

“Tell Diana I said congratulations, by the way.” She adds, looking down for a moment as she blinks back the shine in her eyes. “I’m really happy for you guys. I hope she has a good pregnancy. I’ll try to visit your house soon, okay?”

“... Okay.”

She walks closer, pulls him into a hug that’s more like their mother’s: too tight, desperate. “I love you.”

He hugs back just as tightly, “I love you too. Take care of yourself.” 

She walks into the kitchen, says goodbye to her mother and aunt Nora, hugs them too tight. She has to actively focus on her breathing on the way to the bus stop, and most of the trip back to the Valley becomes a blur.

_____

Three days later, Elaine goes to Gabe’s shop and buys a small bouquet of forget-me-nots. Three days after that, it’s January 7th, the anniversary of her grandfather’s passing. She gets up early to make the trek down to the graveyard. The sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon by the time she gets there. She stands in front of his gravestone long enough that the snow around her feet begins to melt faintly. With a clear of her throat, she places the flowers on the ground, bringing her hands up to her mouth to warm them up. 

She always feels like she should say something, but she never does. She’s never been good with words. That was never a problem with him, though. They were both quiet, so they learned to communicate with each other through the silence. She stands there for a few more minutes, breath shuddering and forming in small clouds in front of her. The sound of bells chiming--the general store door opening-- breaks her out of her empty thoughts. Tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat, she nods at his gravestone and walks back up the hill to her house, tracing the path she had left earlier in the snow.

Ella Fitzgerald’s smooth voice echoes through the halls and rooms of her home, the music sounding through the record player in the workshop. Elaine sits on one of the stools, cheeks damp as she sips her morning coffee and hums along.

“Stars shining bright above you; night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you.’” Her grandfather would dance around the workshop with her sometimes, singing the words under his breath and denying ever doing so if she complimented his voice. “Birds singing in the sycamore tree-- dream a little dream of me.”

Then, a sudden smack against one of the workshop windows almost makes her drop her mug. Elaine stills, eyes widened, heart thumping in her chest. Trumpets tut in the background all the while, Ella singing, unbothered. Elaine stumbles to the record player and removes the needle, letting silence wash over the cool morning.

She waits a second, then two, then three. Seven seconds later, she finally hears it.

A weak chirping. 

She hurriedly slips on her boots and puts her coat back on, taking a wooden board that had been tossed into a corner (just in case-- she’s not paranoid!), and rushes outside. She finds it nestled in the snow just beneath the window: a small blue-feathered parakeet with the feathers on its left wing partially ruffled. It visibly shivers from the cold. 

The weight in Elaine’s heart is momentarily forgotten. She kneels down, settling the wooden board on the snow, and slowly moves her hands closer to the bird, careful not to spook it.

“Oh, my baby, what happened?” She coos softly. The bird initially cowers away from her, though once it feels the heat from her hand, it eventually nudges its head against her fingers. “Did you get lost?”

She manages to pick it up, cradling it in her hands and taking slow steps towards the entrance. The bird looks like it could be injured, though its wing doesn’t look broken. It chirps weakly at her, and her chest warms at the sound. “It’s okay, it’s okay-- I’ll take care of you.”

She doesn’t do Ella’s voice justice, but she continues humming the song gently as she nudges the door closed behind her, attempting to make the bird feel safe.

“When I’m alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me...”

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

In a Garden of Blue Violets

I’m gonna start on requests this weekend in between studying but until then!!! 4k of angst?? new territory for me. ft a happy ending. 

Jason x Reader. You are always trying to heal from the loss and move on with your life, but Jason finds ways to remain tangled in your soul. 

Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night (tomorrow, at dawn by V. Hugo)

Two days after Selina finds you at an ungodly hour on a rooftop, bare feet dangling off the edge and shoulders drooped, as if one more ounce of melancholy might pull you into the deepest depths of the Earth. Maybe that’s where you could find Jason. She wants you to know she’s there – you can hear it in her uncharacteristically audible footsteps because you know her heart is heavy, too. You stiffen a little and rub at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, sticky tears and fresh wave of grief, before turning around to face her. She taught you to never look away, so you meet her eyes with a shaky exhale. A sentimental sorrow glimmers in the twist of her mouth and the subtle, maternal warmth reflected in orbs of jade and wisdom. “Y/N, you should come eat.” Selina’s voice is a soft caress above the cacophony of late-night traffic and Bruce’s words still echoing in the space between your ears. You nod meticulously and sniffle, gaze shifting to your toes. She looks at you for a long moment of bated breath before she sighs and slinks down the stairs. Now when she moves, she’s silent. You weren’t supposed to find out this way, but Bruce called the landline and your heart did a funny little flip when the caller ID read Wayne. You and Selina had been off on a drug ring bust for the past four days and she was only just catching up on calls and intel. You were supposed to hang up when Bruce asked for Selina, but you didn’t. Instead, you barely breathed and stayed on the line. When Bruce’s words caught in his throat and he whispered one of your worst nightmares into existence, your mind blanked. You don’t even know if the phone turned off – you only comprehended that you had to go somewhere Selina couldn’t immediately find you. After Bruce had called, his voice a static rasp over the phone, you’d thrown yourself up the stairs and onto the rooftop, sobbing against an empty crate until you were dizzy. Eventually you’d ended up on your back, staring up at threatening storm clouds. The concrete beneath you was cold and jagged, marred by time and rain and sun. You don’t understand how you drift off to sleep with your heart so impossibly heavy, but you do. You don’t know how long you sleep, minutes bleeding into hours, but when you wake the world is much darker. When you remember why you’re on the roof in the first place, you have to shove your first into your mouth to keep from bawling and rousing the whole city. This is an awful breed of despair, thick and frantic, filling your lungs with coal and your blood with acid. Now, you stand and stretch and crane your neck to look at the stars, but nothing shines. The expanse of darkness makes your heart ache impossibly more. Each contraction is an echo of loss. You’re a bit lightheaded as you make your way down the steps, but you barely notice the throbbing in your temples or the taste of sandpaper on your tongue because the weight of Jason’s death presses so severely on your chest. Selina waits at the bottom of the stairs. You don’t think twice before collapsing into her arms and dissolving into tears once more. 

Two months after When the doorbell chimes and you peek through the peephole on a rainy Friday afternoon, you expect to find either your cranky downstairs neighbor or Maggie – certainly not Dick Grayson. Hot tears well in your eyes upon the sight of his damp hair and five o’clock shadow, and you have to take several deep breaths before you open the door and welcome him inside with a tempered grin. “Nice to see you, Dick.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes in the way that’s so defining of Dick Grayson. “You, too, Y/N.” “Selina’s just upstairs, I can – “ “Actually, I came for you.” You blink up at him, surprised. “M-me?” He nods and swallows hard. “I was gonna go, um, visit Jason. And I was wondering if you wanted to join.” At the mention of Jason, you freeze. You feel as though you’ve been plunged into the Arctic, so intensely frigid that you feel pinpricks of heat down your spine. Breath dissipates from your lungs and your language skills completely vanish. You ogle at him, mouth slightly parted and eyes suddenly very watery. Dick takes immediate notice of your shock and flaps his arms frantically, like he doesn’t know whether to fan you or hug you. “But you totally don’t have to! There is no pressure at all! Only do what you’re comfortable with!” A reply lodges itself in your throat. “Maybe you should go, Y/N.” Selina drawls, rounding the corner and slinking towards the pair of you. You can’t offer much of a coherent response, so instead you nod tensely and turn robotically on your heel to grab shoes, an umbrella, and three packs of tissues.

The car ride has been largely devoid of discourse, but Dick’s radio plays what sounds like circus music and you’re quite certain that opening your mouth will evoke either a torrent of tears or hysterical laughter. Possibly both. Dick’s voice is like the faint fog hovering in the air. “He cared about you a lot. I hope you know.” You swallow the lump in your throat and squint out the window, where blue violets wilt on the side of the road. “I cared about him, too.” You don’t think you could ever stop caring about Jason; he’d become too deeply threaded into the very muscle fibers of your heart. Falling for Jason had come easily, refreshing and natural like spring rain. The pair of you tagged along with your mentors or operated solo on less severe missions, often crossing paths and ending up back-to-back, battling chains of criminals and otherworldly creatures. When you weren’t training to lead the next generation of heroic vigilantes, you often found yourself in a cozy corner of the library with Jason and many textbooks. You were not his and he was not yours, but a sweet sort of chemistry flourished between you and Jason, a quiet relief from the pressure of mentors and successors and evil. It never blossomed into a garden – it never had the chance– but an undeniable warmth, an indisputable maybe one day, had existed between you and Jason, sprouting like roses in April. Dick stops at the florist and grabs a bouquet of flowers; lavenders, anemones, and gladioluses. You hold the bouquet as Dick continues driving. You tell him they’re beautiful and he tells you that next time, you should pick out the flowers. The prospect of a ‘next time’ is like cold glass cracking within your chest because there hasn’t even been a first time yet, but you say okay and stick your nose in the lavender bunch. 

Three years after You decide this time of year is your favorite in the company of rain clouds and the white heathers and violets sprouting on your windowsill. Spring blossoms into summer easily, in the same way that you turn the worn page of your textbook. Things are different now. Instead of saving the city by battling villains, you enroll in nursing school to help heal the people of Gotham. You still see Selina often – she mandated that you two have dinner at least once a month – and occasionally bump into Dick on weekends at a coffee shop. Once in a blue moon, Catwoman, Batman, or Nightwing will request your help relaying intel from the Batcave or patching up a team member. Time has been the best remedy for you. As months bled into years, the searing anguish melted into a dull ache. You drive with Dick to place flowers across Jason’s grave every once in a while, whenever he gets a moment away from the office and you can afford a study break. You still need to bring tissues, but now the visits only require a few stuffed into your pocket instead of several packets. This evening, your schedule is free of any obligations for the first time in ages. You work nights at the local hospital and when you’re not working, you’re in class or at the library. Work has been especially taxing lately. You’ve treated more criminals than you’re comfortable with due to the thoroughly wounding work of a rancorous vigilante who calls himself Red Hood. You don’t necessarily mind that he targets the worst of the worst, but you are less than thrilled when you end up changing gauze for gang leaders. At the same time, you don’t feel any less rabid anxiety when a convicted murderer has a seizure due to brain damage and flatlines in front of you in comparison to when the same happens to an elderly mailman. Death is death; there is no return from her cool embrace. And a patient is a patient, even if you know their soul is less than human. Sometimes, you struggle with this and when you voiced the thought to Selina a few weeks ago, her answer was unsurprising. “Right now, you are obligated to save people. Some are so horrible; I know you don’t think they should be saved. You can always come back to me, Y/N. We save good people by getting rid of the bad ones.” But tonight, in the company of your cat and a light drizzle, things don’t seem so morbid. Admittedly, you do feel a little lame for spending your night off buried abnormal psychology notes, but quickly shrug it off when your cat bumps her head against your ankle encouragingly. You scratch beneath her chin and she purrs like a motor. “I’m not that lame. I’m working hard so I can buy you the spiffiest cat trees. And I have the whole night to cuddle with you, can you believe it?” She meows, probably in disbelief.

You take a break from studying and make the executive decision to pick up your favorite Chinese food. “Hold down the fort for me, baby.” You tell your cat as she bids you farewell with a soft chortle, shutting the light off. She doesn’t do a very good job because when you return twenty minutes later with a large brown paper bag and a Disney song stuck in your head, there’s a man sitting at your kitchen table. And your cat is in his lap, purring. You see red – not because you’re angry, but because the color of his mask is the color of blood, something you’ve always been too familiar with. You let the door shut behind you with a soft click and when he turns to look at you, you have a vision of your body, bruised and broken at the hands of a man who had done the same to so many others. Dick and Selina are on speed dial, but if Red Hood wants to murder you, that would not matter very much.   It’s been a while since you’ve had to punch anyone in the mouth or land a swift kick to the back of a knee, but the rush of adrenaline fizzing in your head all the way down to your toes is relatively reassuring. If nothing else, you could scream. His face is angled towards you and his chests moves with steady, untroubled breaths. Your face is still a bit cold from the way the rain kissed your cheeks, but you feel heat rising to the surface of your skin. You swallow hard. “What do you want from me?” He’s quiet for a long moment, tilting his head in a disarmingly casual, pensive manner. “I’m…not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out, Y/N.” His voice rumbles like distant thunder and you blanch when he utters your name. “How do you know my name?” You say hoarsely, fighting the building panic in your throat. “I know a lot about you. You’re a nursing student and you work at the hospital.” “And?” You subtly stick your hand in a pocket, hoping to dig for pepper spray in a less than obvious way. “You used to live a different life, under the guidance of Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Adoptive mother figure. And, occasionally Batman.” Your shirt sticks to you uncomfortably with rain and sweat. “You left that life after a bad incident with The Joker a year and a half ago.” You exhale sharply, goosebumps erupting across your arms. Instinctively, your hand goes to fiddle with a necklace at the base of your throat, one that hides a tiny but terrible scar. “You’re also probably waiting for the right moment to pepper spray me or call Selina.” You practically jerk in surprise. Red Hood shrugs, looking down at his lap. “Didn’t know you have a cat, though. She’s cute.” “Leave my cat out of this.” You manage. He sighs complacently and gently places her on the ground. She has the gall to meow in protest. You clear your throat and move towards the kitchen table like you’re walking on ice even though you feel like you’re on fire with fear, setting the food down and fixing Red Hood with what you hope is an unwavering, intimidating look. “If you don’t know what you want from me, you should leave. If you do know what you want from me, you’re already aware of my history. It won’t be an easy fight.” He bristles at the threat and the implications. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He bites out, leaning forward microscopically. His arms rest on the table and his gloved hands are clenched tightly, as if his sense of composure will unravel if he relaxes his fingers. Your strong front dithers at this. “Then what?” Red Hood exhales like he’s never been more exhausted, shoulders hunching, and head cast downward. He’s quiet for what must be an eternity before he responds. “I just wanted to know if you are yourself.” You don’t know what his eyes say about his soul in that moment, but in his voice, you hear a very human sense of hurt. You pay no attention to the ambiguity of his mortality and ability to feel pain. “Somehow, that’s the most cryptic and creepy thing a villain has ever said to me.” He barks out a laugh at this and the sound startles you because it’s nothing like The Joker cackling or Ivy giggling. “I think I have my answer now, though.” He stands up and you’re further startled by his size – over six feet of toned muscle, brutal tendencies, and a remarkably light laugh. Instinctively, you step backwards, poised to fight if need be. He raises his hands in surrender, walking slowly toward the window. “I’m leaving. No trouble.” You proceed to propel yourself across the room and land with a soft thump in front of the window, shoulders squared, and hands clenched. “I don’t think so, Red Hood.” “Huh?” “You don’t get to break into my apartment, spew facts about my life, and leave.” He leans back a little, seemingly resigned. You imagine he arches an eyebrow at you skeptically beneath the mask. “What do I get to do in addition to that?” You frown. “Answer some questions.” “Like?” “Who the hell are you? And are you aware of the fact that I change bed pans for high ranking drug dealers because of you?” “You’re not going to like the answer to either of those questions, Y/N.” “I still want to know!” “I’m no hero, but I don’t think I qualify entirely as a villain. And, no, I was unaware. You’re showing them a kindness they do not deserve.” “And why do you know my name? He shrugs; a deliberate, slow movement. “For a bit, it was the only thing I did know.” A sensation of dread begins knotting tightly in your stomach, sending your heartrate skyrocketing even higher. You watch him through wary, wide eyes, drinking in the unbothered slouch in his shoulders. “I-I don’t understand.” You take a tiny step backwards, anxiety slithering up your throat. He looks directly at you and his voice is almost haunting. “I don’t think you want to.” It feels a bit like you’re climbing a mountain, except without any equipment or preparation. Your breathing becomes more erratic, just shy of outright hyperventilation, and there’s a funny buzzing sensation in your head. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth and your hands are cold, no matter how tightly you curl them into fists. If you fall off this cliff, there’s no hope. It’s perhaps a bit unwise when you suck in a deep breath and say, “Try me,” but you’ve never been one to accept anything at face value. Red Hood goes still for a few moments before reaching up to place his hands on the helmet. “Okay, Y/N, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Red Hood slowly removes the mask to reveal a mop of dark hair, olive skin, and ocean eyes. You see burning sapphire and then, darkness.

You wake with a frantic gasp on your couch, a damp cloth falling off your forehead and into your lap as you look around in a frenzy. “Mittens, I just had the worst dream of my l- OH!” When your sight lands on a man reading your favorite Hugo criticism, you fling yourself off the couch and against the front door in a whirlwind that leaves you dizzy and nauseated. He nearly jumps off the armchair and moves towards you but freezes in place when you put out your hand. “No! P-please.” You inhale a ragged breath, lungs aching as you slide down the cool wood onto your butt with shaky legs. “I need y-you to stay over there. For now. Please.” You can barely make out a nod because your vision is so blurry. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in big gulps of air that make your chest burn, leaning your head back. Inhale. Red Hood. Hold for four seconds. Jason. Exhale. Alive. Repeat. You don’t know how long you stay like that, quelling rampant thoughts and waiting for the blood to stop rushing around in your ears. When you open your eyes, you notice that tears have begun to stream down your cheeks, but your vision is less blurry than before so you can see at the man in the armchair properly. He looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin, a concerned frown etched into his dark features. “Maybe you should drink some water.” He suggests. You nod numbly, struggling to pull your guard up. “Is it okay if I stand up and get it for you?” You sniffle a bit before croaking, “Okay.” He fills up a glass – it’s your favorite, one with dancing frogs – and ambles over to you cautiously. He remains over an arm’s length away from you and you are grateful for the space. He squats down and hands you the glass. You barely look at him, muttering a thank you and chugging it down. When you finish, you shut your eyes again and take several more steadying breaths before sitting up and looking him in the face. This is a different kind of heartache. It’s like your best dream and worst nightmare to have a man in front of you who looks an awful lot like the boy who left a gaping hole in your soul. But he’s certainly not the same. His face is hardened by unforgiving edges. The hair atop his head is wavy and dark, save for the streak of white curling over the center of his forehead. His earthy skin is inscribed with a litany of scars; one curves across his cheek and you feel a swarm of anxiety loom closer to your head because you can read the marred skin like it’s the only language you know. There’s a darkness in those eyes, as though his demons had swallowed any sliver of light, leaving a fire of anguish instead, and a weariness in the bags beneath the stormy sea of sapphire. “Who are you?” “Someone you’ve always known. Someone you’ve never met.” You shake your head slowly. “This can’t be happening.” There’s a shade of panic in your voice that makes him sit down completely in front of you. He crosses his legs and wrings his hands, visibly nervous and almost boyish. Red Hood – Jason – radiates heat and smiles bitterly. “If I had a dollar for every time I said exactly that…” But this isn’t the time for smiles. “You’re different.” You say in a way that says much more. The implications are clear. He hears them, you’re sure, because his face briefly scrunches in pain. You were killed. You came back. Your soul is darker. “There is no way I could be the same as before. Or maybe this has always been me. I don’t know, but I wish I did.” “How long?” You ask meekly. “A little over two years.” You blink at him, lashes wet. “Oh.” Seconds of silence ebb into minutes. You think about the past two years of your life and all that’s changed; your path, your home, your hair, your fears, your hopes, even your little pot of flowers on the windowsill, but never the space in your heart for Jason. You think about how he’s changed; from a lanky, brash teenager into a dauntingly powerful man; a hero that once lay bleeding into nothingness on the floor of a warehouse, one who now has blood on his hands. You think about the dulled pain of the past two years and you wonder about his pain; if he wants to clean the blood from his hands, if he wants to turn back the clock, if he wishes he had never been brought back at all. You’re quiet because you can’t find words and because you’re looking for a flicker of familiarity, of the Jason who always felt like home in a meadow of gentians. In those stormy eyes, you see him. A sailor lost at sea, trying to find his way home in the dead of night. Your hand is a bit shaky, but you reach out to place your palm against his cheek, if only to ensure that he exists outside of your memories. His face is warm, and he places his own hand over the back of yours, large and calloused. His name on your tongue tastes like hard liquor and ripe fruit, but you can’t bring yourself to speak it aloud, into the air, beyond the cascade of tears and a torn heart. “Y/N,” His voice is thick with emotion. Your bottom lip quivers. “J-Jason.” It almost burns to say it and a fresh wave of tears crashes to the shore to put out the fiery pain in the same way that you crash into his chest. You clutch at worn leather and thick hair, tighter still when you feel tears drops on your head like the early evening rain. He holds you to his chest securely – too much has changed in his life has been unsteady and he’s spent too long without you, he doesn’t know if he’s capable of letting you go. But you don’t seem to mind, keeping your head tucked under his chin until you can breathe without weeping, almost going limp beneath the way he rubs the pad of his thumb soothingly against your hip. “This whole night has been longer than the past three years of my life.” “Time is relative.” “Says the guy who’s been dead.” “And brought back to life, don’t forget that part.” You squeeze him tighter when he says this. Unanswered questions hang in the air, but you know they will find answers in time. For now, your eyes find his and he seeks your mouth with a tenderness you haven’t known in this lifetime.  

[sennokami]

parallelisms - chapter 4

ao3

Hashirama had been a few weeks shy of turning fifteen when he first noticed Madara staring at him. It hadn’t been his usual scheming stare, the one that meant he was planning something mischievous. It wasn’t his alert-to-the-world look or his wary face either. It was a look that he never saw before.

“Is there something on my face?”

Madara jerked as if struck. “No.” He shook himself a little. “No, why?”

“You were looking.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were!”

“I wasn’t!”

That quickly devolved into a wrestling match that became a proper spar and Hashirama, sweaty and breathless, painlessly forgot about the whole affair.

Why he was remembering it now as a grown man wasn’t a question he could even begin to answer. Hashirama leaned back in his chair, examining the whorls in the wooden ceiling, as he tried to summon those old, old memories back to him. Just for this, he could’ve happily traded his Mokuton for a Sharingan; everything he tried to recall came back hazy, uncertain in the undefined recesses of his thoughts. Had Madara really been looking that long? Had that glitter in his eyes just been the sun or something else?

“Damn,” Hashirama muttered to himself. He covered his eyes with his arm. “Damn. Damn.”

Why was he trying so hard anyway? Why did that memory feel so important?

He pressed his arm down against his eyes. What had Mito said? ‘I’ve never met a man so obviously only interested in other men’?

Was it that obvious? Hashirama had never really suspected it until certain facts about Madara came together. But Mito hadn’t even known Madara that long and she’d figured him out. What crucial thing had she seen in Madara that told her about something so intimate, so personal? And why hadn’t Hashirama seen it too?

He wished he’d thought to ask her. Then, he’d just gone quiet, as had Mito, the two of them taken by their thoughts again.

“Hey.”

Hashirama lifted his arm to see his cousin, Toka, perched on the window of his office. She unfolded herself, her armor softly clinking. “You’re back quick.”

“The Hyuuga weren’t that far.”

Hashirama straightened. “They’re moving towards Konoha?”

“Turns out that they spoke to Madara yesterday and he convinced them to come to the village. You didn’t know?” Toka’s wry look dropped, her eyes narrowing. “If he’s negotiating with them without telling you -”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought that they wouldn’t be moving so soon.” The lie was thoughtless. Hashirama was just so used to defending Madara from his clan that he didn’t even think about covering for him again, no matter how pointless it was now that they had peace.

“Well, they are. They’re not far out from Konoha now and they’ll probably be at the gates by sundown. I assume they’re gonna be coming in?”

“Absolutely.”

Toka sighed and leaned against the wall. She was, like most Senju were, a tall woman. Her top knot added to her height. She’d been one of the few kids who’d been exactly of age with Hashirama and they’d been close for a little while, back when age was something that mattered, right up until Toka caught wind of her parents discussing potential marriage matches with Butsuma. They’d drifted apart afterwards, both of them not particularly interested in encouraging thoughts in that direction, and now they were comfortable in their relationship as clan head and subordinate first, cousins second. 

Toka crossed her arms. “So I heard that Uchiha Madara is going to marry a Hyuuga.”

Hashirama opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out one of his bonsai projects in lieu of answering. He began to trim its tiny branches.

“And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker.”

Hashirama snipped a little branch off, then winced. He shouldn’t have done that one. Now the whole thing was going to be lopsided. Toka came closer.

“I saw her for a little bit. She’s pretty.” Toka’s elbows came to a rest on the corner of his desk. “I wouldn’t say no if the Hyuuga offered her to me for a wife.”

Hashirama nearly snipped off another wrong branch before he finally admitted defeat. He set his trimming shears down. “Is there a point to this?” he asked, glancing at Toka’s inquisitive face.

“Well, I’d thought that you of all people would be the one who knows the best. I asked Mito and she wouldn’t tell me anything concrete.”

“You could ask Madara.”

“And what, get burned? No thanks. Just tell me.”

“Madara isn’t getting married,” Hashirama said firmly. He touched the base of the bonsai tree and regrew the branch he’d lopped off mistakenly. It was cheating, doing it this way, but he thought he was warranted one do-over since he’d been distracted. “It was just a first-time offer from them. We’re going to negotiate down, it won’t be a big deal. Everyone gets marriage offers. Remember how many I got?”

“Oh, yeah.” Toka’s face twisted. “I can’t believe anyone is that eager to marry you.”

“Maybe I should’ve made Tobirama become clan head so he got to deal with all those contracts instead.”

Toka smirked. “You could just give them to me.”

“And risk growing your harem? Dangerous thoughts.”

Toka laughed and rose up to her full height. “I guess I’ll have to do it my way then. Did you know I met this one Uchiha girl last night? I couldn’t tell if she hated me or wanted to sleep with me, it was confusing as hell. Especially since I couldn’t tell the same thing. These Uchiha…” She shook her head a little. “Confusing little bunch, aren’t they?”

With that, she sauntered out of his office with a wave and a promise to see Mito. Hashirama let her go, picking the side of his thumb thoughtfully. He didn’t know what Madara was doing. Normally, this didn’t bother him. A lot of people didn’t know what Madara was doing. But this time, this whole marriage affair – he just couldn’t get it out of his head.

-

Hashirama spent the rest of his week trying to convince himself that Mito was right. He tried to push it out of his head, dredging up all kinds of work that might distract him, but he eventually circled back to right where he started; scribbling ideas for the new proposal he could bring to the Hyuuga. It wasn’t strictly about Madara, sure, but it was definitely tangential enough that he felt vaguely guilty.

“Land,” he muttered. The Hyuuga would need land to settle into and there was a surplus of it. Hell, they could have the whole west side of the forest if they wanted, it was no concern. And since winter was coming, they’d need food. The Senju had ample food provisions ready for the winter, even accounting for the additional demand of multiple clans. As for security – they were worried about the village in Cloud, right? Maybe Hashirama could meet their leader, establish communications, and tell them the Hyuuga were off-limits now. All of it came easily when Madara might marry wasn’t making his stomach knot up.

As Hashirama pondered what else could go on the list (did the Hyuuga want anything particular grown for them?), he heard heavy steps from the floor below. Normally, noise from downstairs didn’t come up to his office but this one was different. Madara had a particular way of walking, a deliberate and thumping way, that announced his presence a full minute before he actually arrived. He could do the same thing with his chakra, make it bloom so fiercely that everyone on the battlefield feels the hot, dry wind, but this was different. They were different.

Hashirama tracked it with one ear, listened to Madara skip over the one bad step on the stairs, march up to his door – thump, thump, thump – bam. He opened the door. Hashirama automatically grabbed a paper before it fluttered away.

“One of the chuunin told me you were available.”

“I am.” Hashirama perked up eagerly. “What is it?”

“I talked to the Hyuuga.” The door swung wider, revealing more of Madara. He wasn’t wearing his mantle. Instead, he was dressed in a fine kimono that stretched across his shoulders, his hair tied up and curling around his neck. It all suited him unnervingly well.

Hashirama’s mouth went a little dry. Madara was still talking.

“-they agreed to my terms but the finer details haven’t been set down yet.” Madara put his hands on his hips. “Are you listening?”

Hashirama nodded.

“I even spoke to her.”

“Her?” He swallowed and clasped his hands so his fingers would stop buzzing. He wanted to walk over to Madara, grab his shoulder, and hold him still so the silk wouldn’t move over his hips like… like that. What color was it? It wasn’t quite red, nor was it violet. It was something in the middle, like the color of good wine.

“The girl,” Madara said, sounding annoyed. “It was as I expected.”

“Was it?”

He dug his nails into his hands and put a valiant effort into looking away. On his visual journey to safer waters, something worse ambushed him. The white triangle of Madara’s chest, scarred, muscled, netted him like a fish.

Oh god. The voice in his head sounded as dazed as Hashirama felt. Oh fuck.

“Mito’s advice was very helpful.”

“Right.”

“You’re not listening,” Madara accused.

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama said, because he really was. He was happy that Madara was finally visiting him again. He definitely wasn’t losing his mind over the fit of Madara’s kimono. “I was just. Your kimono.”

Good job.

“This?” Madara looked down at it scathingly. “Hikaku thinks the Hyuuga will be more receptive if I wore something different. At least it’s not mine.”

So that nixed his vague ideas about Madara’s closet and its contents. “Were the Hyuuga more receptive?”

“They served better tea than last time.” Madara shrugged. Hashirama followed the rise and fall of his collarbones. “What did you do?”

“I...” Hashirama squeezed life back into his fingers. “I thought about setting some incentives for the Hyuuga actually, since we should probably negotiate down from their initial offer-”

“That isn’t necessary anymore.” Madara crossed his arms. His biceps bulged. “The Hyuuga have promised half their fighting forces to the village and they have some interesting ideas about how they can help with the water aquifer. The wedding will be in a month. I said it should be sooner but they insisted they need the extra time. You’re invited, obviously.”

Hashirama had the distinct impression that Madara just had a whole conversation without him. “...Wedding?”

“Traditional.” Madara waved his hand, as if this whole thing was just a fly he wanted to shake away. “I think it would be a good time to get all the clan heads together, put their attention to something that isn’t politics. The Hyuuga intend to foot the majority of the expenses, but I think you could-”

“What,” Hashirama loudly cut him off, “are you talking about?”

For the first time since Madara got here, he looked act him – as in, actually looked at him, not just at the space over his left shoulder. He looked nonchalant but there was something else lurking in there, something behind the set of his dark eyes.

“My wedding,” Madara said.

“To who?” Hashirama said.

“The girl. The Hyuuga. You were there with me.”

“You didn’t say you would marry her.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“That isn’t a yes!”

“What else were you expecting?” Madara snapped. “It was a good idea, even your brother could see that.”

“But why would you agree?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Madara peered at him, his eyes narrowed, and this was all going bad, going in directions Hashirama hadn’t wanted it to go in. He wanted to say something to defuse the situation but he couldn’t seem to find the right words for it. Maybe he didn’t want to defuse this at all. He was… he was just… gods, was he angry?

Angry at Madara?

“We were going to negotiate down, it was a rash move for you to just -”

“It was my offer to negotiate.” Madara’s mouth was just a thin line now, a bloodless slash of restrained fury. “Don’t you understand that? It was my own damn marriage. I brought you along, that should be enough for you.”

“I didn’t expect you to actually agree!” Hashirama stood up. His chair screeched back. His entire body was buzzing again, the wood under his hands growing warm, and for once, Hashirama didn’t pay it mind. “Tobirama didn’t, I didn’t, Mito even didn’t -”

“Oh, Mito didn’t, did she.” Madara sneered. It was an ugly expression for his handsome face. It made him cold and unwelcoming, a visit backwards in time. “Well, maybe, you should ask me instead of asking her.”

“Do you think you have to?” Hashirama said. He was grasping at straws. “You don’t! There’s plenty to discuss with the Hyuuga, you don’t need to do this to yourself. I’m sure we could reach some kind of accord with them.”

Madara stared at him. His face twisted, a hot spitfire of anger simmering in his eyes, before cooling down to banked coals. “You don’t get it, do you?”

The disappointment hurt worse than Madara’s anger. Hashirama was capable of enduring all his fires, all his heat, but he’d never learned to cope with Madara’s disappointment before.

“What’s there to get?” he asked him. Pleaded. I don’t understand. Please, Madara. Please.

“You’re a married man, Hashirama.” Madara walked closer to him. He pressed the tips of his fingers on his desk and leaned in, his hair whispering over his silk shoulders. “That’s that. I thought that maybe… well, it’s over, isn’t it? You and I. You’ve gone ahead without me."

Madara’s fingers slid over the desk. Hashirama felt the scrape of his nails over every groove in the wood. When he touched his hand, he felt both hot and cold. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Senju Mito is your wife. And I can’t stay waiting."

Madara curled their fingers together. Hashirama looked down at their interlinked fingers, then at Madara’s face. He didn’t look so angry anymore. Just resigned and rueful, the creases in the corners of his eyes too deep for his age. Hashirama gently pulled his hand a little closer. When he cupped his cheek, Madara didn’t move.

“It was necessary,” Hashirama said. His voice was hoarse.

“I suppose.” Madara leaned into his touch. Hashirama’s gut twisted harshly. “But that doesn’t change reality.”

“Madara, I -”

“Hashirama.”

The seriousness in his voice made him stop talking. Hashirama watched, something too vast for words tossing and turning within him, as Madara turned his head a fraction and kissed the inside of his palm. His lips were soft, just the tiniest bit wet, as if Madara had licked them before coming in, and Hashirama couldn’t stop even if he wanted to as he tilted Madara’s chin and kissed him.

There was no pain. There was no blood. It was just Madara opening his mouth to let him in and Hashirama grabbing his shoulder, holding him tightly, terrified of the idea that he might just leave. Madara was his friend, his best friend, he’d swear it until his tongue went bloody, but he was something more that he was still too afraid to look in the eye.

Madara curled his hand over the back of his neck. He always ran hot but now he felt scorching, his palms leaving brands wherever they went. Hashirama wanted to ask him, burn me, make it forever, but he held his tongue until Madara pulled back, his mouth warm and red, the Sharingan spinning like pinwheels.

“I-” he began, but Madara cut him off. Again. He was doing that more and more, wasn’t he?

“Don’t talk,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

I want to, Hashirama wanted to say. I want to tell you so much. Hashirama wanted nothing more than to hold Madara by his hips until he could find the right words for it but Madara was right, because the world didn’t stop turning for them. It all just kept going and going, forward and forward, and Hashirama was feeling increasingly left behind, snatching at things that didn’t want to be held.

“Won’t you wait?” he pleaded.

“Can I?” Madara asked in return.

Yes, you can, whispered a weak voice inside of him, but even Hashirama knew that wasn’t fair.

Madara let go first. When Hashirama didn’t release him, Madara pulled his hands off. Both of them didn’t make eye contact with each other as Madara took a step back, his hands now tightly clasped behind his back, and quietly said, “A month. That’s how long you have.”

Hashirama didn’t reply, even as Madara left and closed the door behind him.

-

He didn’t know what possessed him when he went down to the Hyuuga camp that was slowly filtering inside of Konoha’s walls. He still couldn’t say by the time he was sitting in front of Hyuuga Hisae, the woman who would be Madara’s wife.

And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker, Toka chuckled. I don’t think he’s going to get married, Mito shrugged.

“I’m honored by your visit, Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, dipping her head. She had long brown hair that’d been combed smooth and bound back by a long white ribbon. Her hands were thin and her fingers long, white as lily petals. Hashirama could imagine the kind of children she’d give Madara: beautiful and strong and perfect.

Did Madara want children? Come to think of it, Hashirama never asked. Such thoughts hadn’t been on their minds when they were boys. Now, he could only add it to the growing pile of things he wished he’d asked.

“We don’t need to be so formal, Hisae-san,” Hashirama smiled back. “You’re going to marry Madara and I think of him as a brother. You’ll practically be my sister.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. Her mouth moved but her eyes did not.

“I was thinking of visiting before. And with the recent news, I finally have an excuse to swing by. I hope your clan’s finding the move comfortable?”

“Oh, very. Konohagakure has been very welcoming to us, and everyone has been very kind. My mother was very pleased.”

“And you? Were you pleased?”

“Perfectly,” she said. Her mouth tilted up into a dollish smile. “Marrying Uchiha-sama will be a deep honor.”

Hashirama’s palms itched. He’d always hated this kind of formality. Tobirama was so much better at it, sitting with a straight back in a stuffy room, drinking tea and making subtle commentary, while Hashirama had always wanted to cut to the heart of the matter, formality be damned.

“You know, I wasn’t there when Madara confirmed. I wish I was – it really would’ve been something to see!” he laughed as Hisae stared at him. “I guess he just talked to Hitomi-san?”

“Ah, no, actually. We discussed it ourselves and I agreed. I only told my mother later.”

Oh. That was new. Hashirama couldn’t explain the spike of nervous energy that shot through him at that. A private conversation sounded a lot more intimate than a negotiated marriage alliance.

“I hope he didn’t offend you,” Hashirama said. Immediately, he regretted it. He prayed Madara would never hear wind of this.

“Not at all. Uchiha-sama was very courteous throughout our conversation.” Hisae tilted her head. “Did you think he would offend me?”

“No, of course not. I just understand that his reputation can precede him a little.”

“Ah, but you have a reputation too, Hokage-sama. The God of Shinobi, was it? It’s quite a fearsome moniker. But I think that both of you prove to be much more than mere reputations. Uchiha-sama, in particular, I thought, seemed to represented rather unfairly. But I guess that it the lot of our clans, being doujutsu clans.”

Hashirama blinked. He rather had the feeling that he’d pulled on a tripwire he hadn’t known existed. “We don’t discriminate against bloodlines here,” he said, cautious.

“It’s not discrimination,” Hisae said. “But it’s… ah, how should I put it… a certain attitude, perhaps, towards bloodlines. It’s not so rare, Hokage-sama, for shinobi to have a reaction to them. Where I come from, the Byakugan is known for being a blind man’s eyes – because they get taken so often, you see.”

Hashirama remembered Hitomi and the bandages wrapped around her head. Blind man’s eyes. What a cruel nickname.

“... I remember Hitomi-san asking for insurance,” he said. “Is that the point of this? Insurance?”

“It wasn’t too long ago that the Uchiha and the Senju were enemies,” she said. “I will not tempt the gods by speaking of darker possibilities, but I think we both understand the precautions we’re taking by acknowledging that.”

“You think this village won’t last.”

“I did not say that.”

“You think it’s possible.”

“You said it, Hokage-sama, and not me.” Hisae folded her sleeves so they laid on her lap symmetrically. “I don’t want to spoil the happiness that will come in a month, so I think a conversation like this is out of place, but-”

“Hisae-san,” Hashirama cut in insistently, “that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”

It was politics all over again. Always politics, here and there, insinuations about what could happen, about potential enemies, but that wasn’t the point of this conversation.

“What I wanted to ask you,” he said, “was if you’re going to marry Madara just for politics.”

Her brows knitted. For the first time during their entire conversation, Hisae’s facade slipped an inch. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room before she leaned in, frowning a little. “I’m… sorry?”

“Can you really just marry him for something that might happen? Doesn’t that seem unfair to you? Don’t you want to marry someone you actually know?”

“We have a month to know each other.”

“It’s only a month. Why not wait a little? Make sure that you two are actually compatible, just so you’re not making a mistake.”

“But Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, “I do like Uchiha-sama.”

“What?”

“Don’t misunderstand. Part of this is politics, most assuredly so. But Uchiha-sama himself is…” Hisae pulled out her fan from her sleeve began to fan herself. Her mask was freezing back into place but behind her waving fan, Hashirama could see a tiny smile that looked almost genuine. Like this, he could actually see what Toka was talking about – Hyuuga Hisae, behind the ice, was truly lovely.

“I’ve never met a man like him before,” she said. “And at first, I was afraid, but I’m not anymore. Because above all else... Uchiha-sama is a very kind man.”

[spnmcrphangirl]

Free Write Friday - Cancun #26 02/22/2020

This is going to be the first post of at least four pertaining to my four-day vacation to Cancun.

The Plane Ride There

Have you ever had the chance to see the world from a different perspective?  You may have without knowing.  But maybe you didn’t take the chance to savor it.  You didn’t take the chance to consider how your perspective is different.  

Let me rephrase.  Have you ever been on a plane?  We flew to Mexico for our vacation.  I haven’t been on a plane since I was 7 or 8 years old.  I’m 16 now, and the perspective I gathered from the initial plane ride was unexpected to say the least.  

The plane was set to leave at 11 am.  We had to be at BWI airport at 8 am for international flights.  It took an hour to get there, so we had to leave at 7 am.  This is normally when I have to leave for school, so I woke up at 5:50 am, as usual.  

I set up the blow-up bed for my grandmother, much to the dismay of my husky.  He sleeps on my bed, even when I’m gone.  My grandmother watches him, and has to sleep on the blow-up bed so that he can still sleep in my room.  He knew I was leaving because of the blow-up bed.  He’s extremely smart for a dog, which is unfortunate due to him being extremely stubborn.  

The car ride to the airport wasn’t exciting.  I don’t think it had hit me yet; I was going to fly to Cancun, where it would 70-80 F and sunny everyday, compared to a measly 30-40 F and rainy Maryland.  I would be missing four days of school, which I was a bit anxious about, but by the time we were driving over, the anxiety had passed.  It was a bit funny to me; having my second semester classes for three days before saying “see you next week” to my new teachers.  

We were in long-term parking before 8, able to find a spot close to the first shuttle stop.  I was tired, but I always am that early in the morning.  I had my glasses on instead of my contacts, because I desperately wanted to sleep on the plane if I had the chance.  

We stood at the shuttle stop, shaking from the cold.  I was wearing capri-length leggings because I knew it’d be cold on the plane, but would be very warm when we arrived.  We waited a bit for the shuttle, and had to go through 15 other stops around the parking lot before getting into the airport.  At least the bus was warmer than outside but it was chilly when the door opened.  

We had to stay in the airport for about three hours.  First, we tried to use the self-service kiosks to check ourselves in, but they kept being unable to scan our passports (stay tuned for the flight home post for why) and we had to do manual.  Manual wasn’t much harder than the self-service and it didn’t take much of the time we had allotted ourselves.  

My sister and I got TSA-pre but my mom didn’t, most likely because only two people were supposed to go on the trip (my mom’s work sent her and a plus one, but she paid for a third herself since it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip).  However, my carry-on had to get opened because apparently, books cannot be seen through on the x-ray, and they rifled through my bag.  They sent it through the x-ray twice before going through it, which sent my anxiety through the roof.

We spent the next three hours in the airport, talking to my mom’s coworkers and eating.  I didn’t eat much in the airport because the flight was going to be four hours and I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be hungry when we got there, since the shuttle to the hotel was also an hour.

We boarded the plane and I found myself sitting beside one of my mom’s coworkers and her husband.  I had the window seat and resigned to looking out at the wing.  I didn’t want to sleep before takeoff since there is an information briefing before takeoff.  I read my book, The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson while I waited.  My stomach churned.  I didn’t dislike plane rides, but I had forgotten what to expect and was anxious about it.  

At takeoff, I gained my perspective.  I saw the buildings get smaller and smaller, wondering how humans had built all that.  Maryland was a brown mudpit from above.  The Bay looked murky and brown, the landscape looking barren as winter in Maryland is at its worst during February.  But still I looked at the buildings in awe.  How some got smaller but others still looked large in comparison.  

But my heavy eyelids brought a close to my brief dose of perspective.  I slept in fitful fifteen-minute increments until hunger forced me awake.  I ate my sandwich; a six-inch sub with roast beef, provolone cheese, and spinach.  

I fell back asleep, only to wake up when we were coming back over land; crossing over the tip of Florida and some of the islands before hitting land in Mexico.  

I knew Mexico would be beautiful even before we landed.  The land was covered in trees, a true forest rather than the dreary concrete forest that lays over the United States.  The bright green landscape stretched below the plane, like a fluffy blanket.  

Mexico’s landscape made me reconsider my awe at the accomplishments of people.  I thought, preserving the green trees was a bigger achievement than the large buildings.  While Mexico is considered ‘poorer’ than the United States, they are certainly richer in happiness and culture.  

I couldn’t find sleep on the descent; the excitement was overwhelming.  The moment the doors opened on the plane, warmth flooded the cabin.  The flight attendants asked us to close the blinds to keep the sun out of the plane, to prevent the temperature from rising too high.  They warned us to turn off our phones lest Customs take them from us.  I didn’t have service anyway.  (Pro-tip: order international service when vacationing.  Especially if your friends or family need to contact you).

The line in Customs was not too long, and there were two very cute boys seemingly around my age that my sister and I promptly spotted.  After getting through Customs, my sister and I ran to the bathroom while my mom retrieved our luggage and we made our way to the shuttles.  

Stay tuned for the First Night post next week.

[thirstygirlclub]

Bed Socks - Chibs X Reader

(something a bit different on the go here, i hope you enjoy. this one is a female reader. best read when listening to rain sounds, just a suggestion)

(inspired by @samcro-saint99, hope it’s finished your work day off nicely my love)

Jax had suggested to stop in a motel  but Chibs rode on through the evening and well into the night; he couldn’t bare to be away from (Y/N) for any longer than he needed to be. When he stepped through the front door, soaked to the bone from the storm raging outside, he saw her asleep on the couch.

She looked so beautiful just lying there with her hair splayed out on the cushions and over the arm of the couch. She was half naked in just a tank top and cotton underwear with cozy, lilac bed socks on her feet. The lamp on the side table was casting a warm, soft glow over her skin and her face. A peaceful expression was on her sleeping face and it made Chibs smile. (Y/N) always made Chibs smile no matter what she did.

Chibs had wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her and hold her like he had been wanting to for two weeks but when he saw her looking so peaceful he had second thoughts. As quietly as he could, he took his boots off and left them on the mat to dry off then slipped the leather kutte and jacket off of his shoulders. His hair was dripping and he could feel the cold drops running down his nose and the back of his neck which made him shiver and want to get (Y/N) into his arms to warm him up even more.

With a yawn and a stretch, (Y/N) woke up and fixed her beautiful eyes on him happily; she had missed him just as much as he had missed her. She stood up with another stretch that only drew his attention down to the soft skin of her stomach when the thin tank top raised up. Chibs sighed and stepped forwards and into her waiting arms and let her kiss his lips in a lazy and slow way that seemed to exchange any words they were going to say.

One kiss proved everything. It proved that they loved each other. It proved that they had missed each other. It proved that they needed each other just as much. 

Chibs sighed in relief and tightened his grip on (Y/N); holding her closer and pulling her flush against him. He laughed when she hissed at how cold he was but then they were silent again, just looking at each other and talking with their eyes in the way that only people that have spent a lot of time together could. Chibs nodded and (Y/N) smirked, taking his hand and guiding him upstairs to the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and she went to get a towel.

When (Y/N) came back with the fluffy white towel in her hands Chibs peeled the t-shirt and jeans from his body to let his old lady dry him off. He watched her with a soft, kind smile as she looked after him; she dried his feet and slid on some cozy bed socks of his own; up his legs and torso then straddled him so she could dry his hair. As she dried his hair, so very gently, Chibs ducked his head down to her exposed collar bone and kissed her so softly while his hands held onto her hips firmly. 

(Y/N) snickered when Chibs lifted his head and looked at her from under the white towel with a roguish grin and mussed up, damp hair that was stuck up in all directions. He looked so handsome that (Y/N) couldn’t help kissing him again. His facial hair was scratchy against her soft skin but she didn’t care, especially when his hands went beneath her tank top onto her back and stroked her skin. He let out another quiet, relieved sigh when he could touch her like he had wanted too for so long.

Usually, coming back from a job meant passionate, needy sex but today they were both tired and there would be plenty of time for that tomorrow. Right now, in that moment, they just needed to touch each other, skin on skin so Chibs brought the top over her head and untangled her hair from the material before bringing her backwards to the middle of the bed where they snuggled up under the blankets.

The only sound was the pouring rain hitting the concrete, the grass and the trees outside in the dark. The cool breeze from the open window drifted across what ever skin was exposed. Chibs had his arms wrapped tightly around (Y/N) who had her head buried in his neck with her eyelashes fluttering against his skin in gentle butterfly kisses.

Even though both lovers were tired they didn’t want to sleep just yet; they were enjoying just being together so they lay awake, tangled together and wearing nothing but bed socks. They just listened to the heavy rain fall outside until they couldn’t fight sleep anymore.

(this is perhaps one of my favourite things i have ever written)

[domestic-energy-vampires]

Confession

The conclusion of Council!

Words: ~3,200 deviantART | Archive of Our Own | FanFiction

Dressing Fletcher proved to be a serious test for Amanda. She prided herself on her fashion sense, but with Darwin on the way, Fletcher had become finicky in the worst possible way. He struggled to agree on anything, desperately trying to find the perfect balance of casual and formal that made him look good but not like he was trying. With only fifteen minutes to put together an outfit, Fletcher wore through Amanda’s patience in record time.

In the end, she forced him into a navy button-up and a pair of deep teal shorts and a matching bowtie, thinking the whole time about how much she felt like she was dressing a toddler. As soon as he had all the buttons done right, he practically fell back down the stairs in his hurry to make it to the kitchen before Darwin showed up. Amanda made it to the kitchen a full thirty seconds later to find Asteri draining a pot of noodles and Fletcher sucking the daylights out of a relaxant cell, another clutched in his hand. “Hey, slow down. Do you think that’s a good idea?” Amanda asked. Fletcher pulled the cell out of his mouth with a pop and crackle of static. “No, nothing about this is good, but the least I can do is clear my mind a little.” “Isn’t that the opposite of what relaxants do?” “Not when you’re this stressed,” Fletcher said before stuffing the second cell into his mouth. “It’s just bringing me down to normal. You know, it’s almost making me feel like I just woke up from a good night’s rest. Everything’s shitty, but in a fresh kind of way,” he glared toward the chef, “Not that it’s doing anything to make me less mad at you, Ace.” Before anyone had a chance to respond, Fletcher sucked a sharp breath into his ventilation system, biting down so hard onto his battery that it almost burst. “What?” Asteri looked over her shoulder at him. “He’s here. At the gate,” Fletcher rasped, swaying where he stood and grabbing the counter to steady himself. His anger couldn’t do anything to save him now. His only hope was to survive the night without making a fool of himself. “Quinn, it looks like we’re in a cave, could you turn on some more lights?” “Oh, of course, my lord.” When Fletcher didn’t respond to Quinn’s snark, Asteri stopped what she was doing. He gnawed at the empty battery as if it was the only thing keeping him sane. Asteri thought for a moment before putting her spoon down and moving to Fletcher’s side. “Hey, man, it’s gonna be alright ‒ ” As she reached her hand toward his shoulder, he flinched away. “Don’t. I just need to let the relaxant kick in,” he narrowed his eyeforms at her, “And if you say anything to Darwin about what I told you guys ‒ ” “No, I promise, I would never! I just wanted to help, and I swear I think this is the best thing for you. If you don’t feel better once you see him, I’ll take the fall and tell him I invited him without asking you.” “Don’t do that, I don’t want him to wonder why I invited you two over without him in the first place.” “I can make up a reason if you need me to. If you change your mind, just, uh... tap your finger three times.” “Are you sure? That might be too subtle. Why don’t I just wait for a lull in the conversation and call your dad to ask him why he made you this way?” They were interrupted by a sharp knock and the sound of the front door opening. Fletcher scrambled to throw the empty relaxant cells under the sink and stood so stiff he grew three inches. “Anybody home?” Darwin sang. “We’re in the kitchen,” Amanda called. The door closed with a heavy click. After some shuffling, the Android stepped into the kitchen. His brother’s ratty baseball cap sat backwards on his head, he wore a thick maroon sweater hand-knitted by his father that looked irresistibly plush, and he carried a tote bag on his arm. His face lit up and Fletcher thought the ground might fall out from under him. “Fletcher!” Darwin crossed the room in three gargantuan strides before pulling the hybrid into a one-armed hug, holding his bag out at arm’s length. Fletcher hugged him back reflexively ‒ the sweater was every bit as plush as it looked. “It’s been too long, man, you look great! I mean... exhausted, but great. You have to tell me what you’ve been working on!” Fletcher froze. He’d been telling everyone he couldn’t come out because he was working on a sensitive experiment that required around-the-clock attention, but he’d never actually given any thought to what that experiment should be. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and gave the first excuse he could think of. “It’s so good to see you, too, Win. I mean, it’s pretty boring stuff, I’ll tell you later, but I thought for now we could just... catch up? I’ve really missed you guys.” Darwin gave him a big squeeze before letting go. “Sounds perfect, even though I’m sure nothing you’ve ever worked on has been ‘boring.’ So much has been happening that I’ve wanted to tell you about! Guys, he doesn’t even know about Mateo and Gigi yet!” The sisters beamed as Amanda laughed, “You haven’t talked in that long?” “What’s going on with little Matty?” Fletcher asked. Darwin swung his tote onto the counter and puffed out his chest. “He’s not so little any more! Gigi’s pregnant!” Fletcher gaped. “Oh my god, you’re going to be a great uncle?” Darwin laughed from deep in his speakers. “And from the youngest of my nieces and nephews! He and Gigi just found an apartment in the city, they’re so excited!” Whether it was the relaxants kicking in or the balm of finally talking to his best friend, Fletcher’s crippling stress melted to a fluttering nervousness. When Asteri finished making dinner, the group moved to the courtyard. The sisters sat on one of the benches around the central fountain and the boys sat on the concrete ledge around the fountain so the pairs faced each other. It was so easy to fall into their normal laughter and discussion. How could Fletcher have let all this time pass without talking to them? Catching up on everyone’s lives made him feel almost like a stranger, especially as he had nothing to contribute ‒ in all their lost time, he’d only been stewing in anxiety and trying to distract himself with media. Still, he managed to dodge questions about his supposed experiment while still staying engaged in the conversation. It wasn’t hard with everything else they had to talk about. The time flew by, and before Fletcher knew it, the girls had long finished their second helpings and were beginning to yawn. Something like resolve crept out of nowhere and constricted his chest. He ran cold in an intangible way, but... for a moment, everything stopped. After all this time, he was finally here, sitting right next to Darwin. It became a painful wait for a pause in the conversation before he finally interjected, “Say, when do you guys have to wake up tomorrow morning? I feel bad keeping you up if you need to get home.” “Don’t worry about it,” Amanda waved her hand, “It’s not like we’re going to pass up an opportunity to get together after all this time.” “Actually,” Asteri nudged the Human, “Mandy, don’t you remember? We switched shifts with the opening crew tomorrow!” Amanda opened her mouth to say something, but a hard look from the Android made a light come on in her eyes. “Oh, you’re totally right! I almost forgot. Fletcher, are you sure you don’t mind if we head out?” Four different things tried to leave Fletcher’s speakers at once, resulting in a strangled sort of, “Naaawwww.” He cleared his throat and followed, “We’ll get together again soon! Do you need any help wrapping up all the leftovers?” “No, we can handle it, and if we need it we’ll ask Quinn for help. Don’t get up on our account,” Amanda grinned. Fletcher rocked back on his hands, leaning over the trickling water. “If you’re getting tired, I can head out, too,” Darwin offered. Fletcher’s grip tightened on the concrete, but he tried to cover it by rocking forward. “I mean, I won’t keep you if you need to get home, but there is something I’d like to talk to you about if you wouldn’t mind sticking around.” The yellow blocks that were Darwin’s eyeforms turned into the sweetest smiling crescents. Fletcher couldn’t help smiling back, feeling like he was staring into the sun. He laughed when Darwin slung his arm around his shoulders, “I was hoping I could stay! I’ve missed you too much to want to leave yet.” Fletcher was struck again by how plush Darwin’s sweater was. He could imagine putting his arm around Darwin in return, resting his head on his chest and just staying there, laughing at nothing under the stars in the rippling light of the fountain ‒ “We’ll see you guys soon!” “Uh... yeah! Yeah, drive safe!” Fletcher waved. They all exchanged salutations until the women walked through the french doors that lead back into the entry hall toward the kitchen. “Hey, Win, do you want to take a walk?” Darwin let his arm slide off Fletcher’s shoulders. “Sure, it’s such a nice night. You finally gonna tell me about your experiment?” The hybrid stood, stretching his arms above his head and taking a deep breath into his ventilation system. The stretch extended all the way through his body until he was on his tiptoes before he released and let his arms swing down to his sides. “Yeah. There’s a... a lot to it. Let’s walk and talk.” Fletcher silently celebrated that his knees weren’t shaking and lead Darwin to the opposite side of the courtyard from the entry hall, opening a similar set of french doors into the darkened library. Darwin followed close behind, just as comfortable in this home as if it were his own, and they made their way through the bookshelves to a small door that opened to the gardens around the back of the house. Their shoes crunched onto the gravel footpath, joining the serenade of distant windchimes and fountains. Light came from solar lanterns on either side of the path and strings in some of the trees. Fletcher waited until they made it through the hedges and into rows of rose bushes and arches covered in climbing roses and fairy lights. The path wound through the bushes, a breeze sweeping through that set off a series of Fletcher’s chemical receptors that soothed him like little else could. The sensory programming he’d inherited from his mother had just as much of an influence on his mind as it did on hers, activating wonderful reward programming to be near thriving, pollinating flowers. Fletcher slowed his pace and closed his eyeforms, savoring the scented breeze while it lasted and listening to Darwin’s footsteps as he matched his gait. The breeze faded. His eyeforms opened. “...There was no experiment.” “Oh,” Darwin continued to match his step. “You know, I, uh... kinda figured.” Fletcher’s eyeforms flicked over. “Really?” “I wasn’t going to say anything incase, you know, there was, but... something felt off whenever I called you. It seemed like you were dealing with something. Not like a project, but something personal. I didn’t want to push you so I let it be, but if it’s out in the open now, I just want to say that... I’m here. For anything. You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but if there’s any way I can help, I’d do it in an instant.” When Darwin paused, Fletcher just watched his profile, power surging in his chest. “I don’t want to pressure you into telling me anything you don’t want to,” he finally continued, “I totally understand there are some things that you just need to face by yourself or with your family. I won’t take it the wrong way if you need to deal with something without me, and... I get why you felt the need to make up an experiment. Just... I hope you know that we don’t need to share everything to be us,” Darwin said, crossing his arms, “It sounds cornier out loud. I hope that makes some sense.” “No, it ‒ yeah. That makes a lot of sense. I just can’t tell if that makes this easier or harder.” “You don’t need to do anything.” “But I do,” Fletcher smiled, though it came off more like a grimace, and clasped his hands behind his back. “This is only hard because I don’t want to mess anything up. I’m afraid if I don’t say anything, I might regret it, and that would... I don’t really know, but I think it’s too late for me to turn back at this point. I’m not asking anything of you ‒ it’s important to me that you know that.” Darwin nodded, emitting an emotional wavelength that prickled Fletcher’s sensors. The Energy Vampire closed his mind as much as he could. “Alright. I think you remember a while back when I broke up with, uh... Ripley,” decades later, the name still tasted bad in his mouth, “I was sure that I just wasn’t cut out for romance, and realizing that was really freeing. I made it clear that I was only ever looking for casual partners and I started having a lot of fun, and I stopped worrying, and... maybe I kind of stopped thinking about romance as an option for me at all? You, uh, you can imagine my surprise,” Fletcher laughed, “when I realized I was having romantic feelings again.” Darwin’s eyeforms swelled. “For real? Can I ask who it’s for?” Fletcher stopped, soaking in an image he would remember for the rest of his life. Darwin slowed before turning back as well, allowing Fletcher to take in his curious expression, the sparkling lights reflecting off his metal, the form of the friend he’d grown up with and who knew him better than anyone else. No words came. He was frozen. He was staring. His mind shut down. Fletcher felt like he was watching from outside his body as realization dawned on Darwin’s face. “Oh... wait, do you mean,” Darwin paused and pointed at himself. He thought for a while before managing, “Me?” Fletcher’s voice came out dry. “Listen, I just needed to get it off my chest. I hate keeping things from you, and now that it’s out there I can move on, and... uh... yeah. Yes. That’s it.” Darwin ran his hand from the top of his hat to the back of his neck. “So... first ‒ as weird as this may be ‒ I have to say that I’m relieved. I was scared you had some sort of terminal virus.” Fletcher laughed in spite of himself. “Second,” Darwin turned to continue their walk, “I’m... well, I really wasn’t expecting this. Do you mean you want to... to try, like, being together? As a couple?” Something tore around inside of Fletcher. He convinced himself to follow Darwin, scrutinizing a loose strand of yarn on his sweater. “I don’t know, I... maybe? It’s been so long since I even thought I could, and I... haven’t really thought of that? I mean, it’s more like I’ve tried not to think about it, all that matters to me is that we’re still friends. But I guess I ‒ if I thought it couldn’t amount to anything, I wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.” Darwin didn’t say anything for longer than Fletcher thought he could handle. The crunching of gravel was deafening. “We’ve talked about this before, Fletcher. If you wanted me to stop being friends with you, you’d have to murder someone in cold blood, nothing less.” Warmth flooded the hybrid’s circuits. “But... what’s changed?” Darwin formed the words slowly, “I mean, I know so much has changed since the last time we talked about this, and... well, I have to say that 30 year old me would be losing his mind if he was in my place right now, but what’s happened to make you feel like this?” Fletcher shook his head. “I really don’t know. I’ve been racking my mind for weeks trying to figure that out, and I just... can’t. Can I ask how present-day you feels about this?” The white robot crossed his arms. “You mean you can’t, uh, tell?” Fletcher let out a long breath. “Right, I ‒ I don’t want to pressure you, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve asked. I’m actually blocking my sensors.” “It’s alright,” Darwin shrugged, “I think... I’m still pretty shocked. On the surface, you know I’ve always found you attractive, and if we’re being honest, I don’t think being a couple would change anything drastic outside of our physical relationship. I... can’t say I would feel comfortable with anything like that yet.” “O-of course,” Fletcher sputtered, putting out his hands. “But what if ‒ just to figure things out ‒ maybe we start trying new things? Like, do stuff that we’ve never done before.” Fletcher stopped again. “Do you mean,” he had to think about it a few times before finishing, “like dating?” Darwin took a last, slow step before turning on his heel to face Fletcher. His eyeforms were gleaming. “Like dating,” he hummed, “It can be easy and casual, right? If nothing comes of it, we’ll find out together and things will go back to the way they were. And if there’s something more to find... we can.” Fletcher hugged himself loosely and let out a shaky laugh, feeling a weight lift off his chest that had been there for over a month. “If that’s something you’d be open to, I... I think I’d really like that.” Darwin laughed in response and took a step toward Fletcher to close the gap between them, pulling him into a hug. He tucked his head down and murmured, “I’m happy as long as you’re in my life, Fletch. The rest is just details.” Fletcher’s visor stung as he buried his face against Darwin’s shoulder. “I feel so stupid. I can’t believe how scared I was to tell you.” “Hey, don’t worry about it! I know how hard it must have been for you to come to this realization at all, and confessing your feelings to the hottest guy you know is never easy!” he pulled his head back to smile coyly into Fletcher’s visor, “As someone who’s been in your shoes, I’m happy with the way the tables have turned.” Every time he laughed from that moment on, Fletcher felt even lighter. They spent the rest of the night deciding what they wanted to do for their first date. Admittedly, whatever they settled on was something that Fletcher would struggle to remember later in life, but the warmth of that first night never left him.

I'm so happy to finally have this complete! It's not perfect, but it's done. Now I can finally write more for these two and get back to the other stories on my to-do list!! [[eyes Vampirism eagerly]] Also happy that I could finish this during Pride Month :>

[livingcorner]

raising the level of a garden to stop it flooding

These are the five main reasons low lying gardens flood.

Heavy sustained rainfall. The simplest explanation is heavy rain. Wherever you live, you are surrounded by drains and public sewers designed to drain the rainwater away into water treatment plant owned and operated by the water and sewerage companies. In most cases, it does its job. However, sustained heavy rains over a long period can overwhelm these systems, especially where roadside drains have been neglected and become blocked and the water doesn’t drain away as quickly as it needs to causing the water in the drainage systems to back up, and the water rise. Unfortunately if your garden is lower than the surrounding properties it’s heading your way! Into your garden!

Rivers overflowing. You may not have had heavy rain in your area. However, if you live near a river where areas upstream have had heavy rainfall, it could lead to flooding where you live, especially if the river has become blocked down stream by debris or fallen trees.

Nowhere for the water to go. Roads in our cities and towns, car parks our own and neighbours driveways and patios are mostly made of concrete and other impermeable material. Meaning there is no ground for water to sink into anymore. So, where is the water going to go? It is going to flood low-lying gardens. 

Melting Snow and Ice. Melting snow and ice has to go somewhere. A combination of the factors above mean once again, it’s heading for you.

High water table. I have explained this in more detail here. Water table information 

These are just a few examples of common causes of floods, but sometimes you need to look a little closer to home! Clogged or broken pipes, leaking gutters, down pipes discharging into the ground instead of being connected into the drainage system, dripping outside taps, impermeable material used to construct our driveways and patios. Mud and other rubbish brushed over kerbside drains.

You're reading: raising the level of a garden to stop it flooding

Before setting about raising your garden, it might be worth considering a couple of other options. One option described here Building a Bund or Levee  really can protect your home from flooding. You can find other solutions in the website menu.

In this guide to raise the surface level of a garden I have explained;

Benefits of a raised garden level.

Problems associated with raising a low lying garden.

Retaining wall frame and sub base.

Preparing the topsoil.

What is the floodplain or flood plain?

Contact for our drainage services

Flooded garden before being raised.

The benefits of raising a garden;

You garden will be above the floodplain and associated flooding problem.

You and your kids won’t be walking on a bog.

Plants will grow again.

The problems associated with raising a garden will be;

Read more: Love the idea of a veggie garden but struggle to make it work? Use this handy plan – ABC Everyday

The underlying cause will still be there and you could be creating one big bog unless you install a drainage system.

Depending on how high you intend to raise your lawn or garden, you might need to get permission or at the very least consider the effect on the environment and people around you.

Where will the flood water flow to ?

Raising a lawn or the complete garden surface above the flood-plane will almost certainly have an effect on yours and others privacy, you could end up  2 feet higher and your neighbours 2 foot lower.

Unless you raise the height of boundary fencing or hedging you will be looking down on them and they will be looking up at you. 

A six foot fence erected on the new level will be eight foot high on the neighbours side, probably needing planning permission.

Other important considerations. 

Adding topsoil to permanently saturated soil without first laying a drainage course of clean rubble (explained below) will create one big bog garden.

If you want to grow deep rooting plants like potatoes, carrots, parsnips etc. you will  need a deep bed of soil. 

Don’t bury manholes.

What is a floodplain.

A floodplain or flood plain is an area of flat or nearly flat land that is adjacent to a stream or river, stretching from the banks of the river or stream to surrounding higher ground  and experiences flooding during periods of heavy rainfall and run off from higher ground.

The run off can be from higher ground further up-stream. 

Put simply, a floodplain is an area near a river or a stream which floods when the water level rises.

18 inch high retaining walls will need to be built around the complete area being raised. These can be built  using breeze blocks or any material that won’t rot set on a sound footing. Bear in mind you won’t see the retaining wall, just the top, as it will be filled with soil. Strength and durability are more important than looks. For large areas building a bund may be the answer, this page describes how to construct a bund. 

Slope the surface of the frame very slightly toward where you intend the water to drain away. This should not be your neighbours garden or the footings of your house.

Weep holes for drainage need to be formed every 2 meters and every 1 meter at the lowest end of the slope.

Top tip If you have got good access to the area you are raising leave a gap in the wall wide enough to get a digger and tipper lorry through. It’s a lot easier if you tip the rubble and then the soil directly onto the area being raised. Then finish the wall.

Drainage course. This is a layer of clean chunky rubble laid to keep the new soil separate from the saturated soil and to assist drainage from the newly raised surface.  

Builders rubble, clean broken brick, broken slabs can be used for the drainage course.  Spread the rubble evenly and compact it. You may need to add several layers.

A wacker plate is the quickest way to compact the rubble. Driving a digger backwards and forwards over the area works too.

Depth of drainage course, lay and compact enough layers of broken brick etc. until its deep enough to separate the new top soil from the saturated soil below. This will be a minimum of six inches.

Clean gravel. Use clean gravel to fill the gaps between the compacted rubble to stop the new soil falling through to the mud below.  Soil works like a wick or sponge if allowed to come into contact with mud, drawing water up to the surface.

Buying Topsoil.  The cheapest ways to buy recycled topsoil is in bulk from a local supplier (this type of topsoil cannot be guaranteed to be weed or clay free) or from a building site (make sure you are not using a mix of top and sub soil). The safest way to purchase loamy topsoil is from a specialist supplier.

Spreading the soil. If you can, ask the supplier to tip the soil in even piles over the area.

Raking out the soil. Choose a dry day if you can and shovel the piled earth evenly over the area and then rake it level.

Read more: Soil and Compost for Vegetable Gardening

Firming the soil.  Choose a dry day and firm the surface following the advice on this page.  Its important not to compact the surface or you will end up with a poorly draining lawn or garden.

Settling. The soil will settle as it dries out, so slightly overfill or top up as necessary.

Calculating quantity of  topsoil. Measure the length, width and depth of the area you need to fill with soil in metres and multiply the three figures together to get the volume in cubic metres. 75 cubic metres = 1 tonne

Some alternatives to raising the level of a garden at risk of flooding. 

There are Pros and Cons involved in owning a home built on a floodplain. Pros; such as boating on the Thames, fishing, bird watching, the land is rich and fertile, relaxing sound of running water. You will probably pay significantly less for the property than for a similar house on the hill, possibly out weighing a major Con, higher insurance premiums. Other cons are: Sewers filling with river or groundwater and backing up into the house, Having to move and refit all electrical points and switches, if you are a worrier lying awake all night every time it rains. There are a lot of pros and a lot of cons. Thoroughly check it out before you buy.

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Garden

source https://livingcorner.com.au/raising-the-level-of-a-garden-to-stop-it-flooding/

[storyweaver2017]

Same Time Tomorrow

I spent most of my free afternoons running through the park. Still, the idea of a jog as a first date sounded a bit odd to me. When Will suggested it, I paused, baffled.

“Afraid you can’t keep up with me?” he teased with a glowing smile. He was leaning against the row of lockers at school, arms hanging loose at his sides with his head angled toward me. I noticed how the deep blue color of the lockers complimented his fair skin and pale blue eyes. My stomach did a little flip at his easy grin, but my temper flared at his challenge. I’d taken the bait, as he’d known I would. I was a bit of a hot head and he knew it. 

“You’re so on,” I said, closing my locker and grabbing my bag from the floor. We walked out through the royal blue double doors at the front of the school, and Will followed me across the nearly empty parking lot. Many of our classmates had high-tailed it out of there seconds after the final bell. Not surprising, considering it was a Friday and the weather was nice. Will’s big silver jeep was back inside, but he tailed me to the sidewalk. 

He paused by the wire fence.“So we’re on for this weekend?”

I adjusted the strap on my shoulder. “I normally run Saturday afternoons through the park. Does that work for you?” 

“Perfect.” He tweaked the end of my ponytail. “See you then, Jasmine.” As I watched him jog back towards his car, a smirk found its way to my face. Nice butt.

I started walking home. It was warm and slightly humid, and my bag weighed me down with all the work I had to do this weekend, but I was used to it. I wanted to study pre-med in school, so I was taking extra classes my senior year. It was partially why I loved running. It let me unleash all the pent up energy from having to cram all the time for exams. I was going to be busy this weekend, but I didn’t mind sparing an hour to meet Will. I always ran, and the trail through the park wasn’t long, less than two miles, and we were both avid runners. 

I got home and immediately started on my homework. I wanted to kick back and relax tonight before my shift in the morning. That was another stress pool altogether. I waitressed at a diner down the street, and morning rush was always killer, but the tips made up for it. That was another reason I needed my runs in the afternoon. Frustration. 

Surprisingly, my homework didn’t consume my entire night, so I changed into cozy pajamas, ordered a pizza for myself, and lounged in bed to binge-watch Grey’s Anatomy. Halfway through my third or fourth episode, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I begrudgingly paused the show and stretched to pick up my cell. My irritation melted away when I saw Will’s name. I swiped and opened the text: 

Meet me at the park entrance tomorrow around 4 p.m. Cool? 

I smiled and typed a response.

Cool:)

I went to sleep with a smile on my face. 

❈

The next morning was a nightmare. With two call outs, I had double the amount of tables than usual, and the chef on call wasn’t nearly as good as the one who normally worked on the weekends. Needless to say, I was ready to run.

I met Will at the park entrance. He was wearing his jogging shorts and a fitted, short-sleeved shirt that showed off his muscles. The sight definitely helped my mood.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he handed me a water bottle. Despite the heat, there was an occasional breeze. His dark brown hair was ruffled and his cheeks were slightly wind kissed, making his dimples stand out even more. Was he always this cute? 

“How long have you been here?” I asked as I took the proffered bottle. Condensation had already started to collect on the plastic, coating my fingers. I swiped my hand along the back of my neck to cool my skin. It was humid and, even though I only wore workout leggings and a tank top, I was already sweating just from the walk. “It’s crazy hot out here,” I said, uncapping the bottle.

“It’s not too bad.” Will shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, but even he had started to sweat. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, then guzzled a few ounces of water. He gestured for me to follow him with a tilt of his head. “Come on, let’s stretch.” 

My eyebrows puckered as I sipped my water. I never stretched before a run this short. I never needed it. The brisk walk from the diner was all I needed to warm my muscles and I was so ready to run. I couldn’t wait to feel the wind against my face, especially because I was starting to get really hot.

Will glanced over his shoulder at me with a questioning look. I took a final sip of my water and followed as he led us to a small patch of grass where we set our stuff down. Runners didn’t carry too much, but I did have my watch, which tracked my speed and calories, my car keys, and the water bottle.

After we spent a good five minutes stretching, he took the water bottle from me and walked quickly to his jeep. I snapped my watch into place on my wrist, stuck my car key into my GoKey bracelet, and looked up to see him jogging over. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

I wanted to scream HELL YES, but I simply nodded, and we started off at an easy run. The trail was man-made, a sort of habitation project for the local environmentalists. Two years ago, this was mostly concrete and fencing, but they’d transformed it. You were mere feet away from the city, with its busy streets and loud cars, and still, it was like you were miles away. The trees formed a canopy overhead, making you feel like you were cocooned in their silky foliage. The soft dirt and debris beneath my feet cushioned each stride, minimizing the impact to my knees. The world faded around me and I just ran.

For longer runs, I usually began with a light jog, then worked my way up to about an eight-minute mile before easing back down. I ran everyday, and could run a six-minute mile but, as this was a date, I figured I’d go easy on him. To my content, he set a good pace, and for the first half mile, I kept up with him easily. Soon, I ran a little faster, overtaking him just an inch or so. Despite my exertion, I smiled. I loved the feel of my muscles flexing to carry me across the cement. I loved the slight burn I got from running up the hills and the stretch as I really started to pick up speed. Will was right behind me the whole time. His posture and lack of heavy breathing told me he could have easily overtaken me, so I decided it was time to make him work for it. I jacked up my pace, and he jacked up his. I started sprinting, and so did he. 

My breathing was becoming more labored, but I kept my pace just in front of Will. It was hotter than usual, so there were fewer people out, and I didn’t have to worry about barreling into someone. The wind blew past me and whistled in my ears. I felt it chafe against my cheeks and knew that if I could see them, they would be flushed. I felt his presence and knew he was right behind me, and before I knew it, he was beside me and quickly gaining the lead. I huffed at the exertion and pushed my legs faster than before. 

We reached the end, and he was still ahead of me by about a foot. I leaned over, bracing my palms on my knees, my chest heaving. Will was the same way, but he seemed to recover faster. I still had my head down when he spoke.

“You okay?” he asked sincerely. 

“Sure. Just let me catch my breath,” I huffed and started pacing to calm my heart rate. My hands on my hips, chest opened up, my breathing began to slow. Sweat trickled from my brow and down my neck, but I relished in it. I checked my watch to see my speed. Not my best, but not far from it either. I was focused on the numbers when Will spoke.

“Are you too tired, or can you go for a little hike?”

I threw him a puzzled look. “A hike where?”

“Just through the fence, up the hill.” He pointed towards the break of trees behind him. The path ended, but you could see a small outlet. I looked sidelong at him, but he just smiled. “It’ll be safe, I promise.”

I pursed my lips. It was getting late, how safe could a hike be in the dark?

Will stepped closer. “I want to show you something. Please?” He looked so hopeful that I couldn’t say no. We walked toward the outlet and shimmied through the twigs. The path was much more narrow than I thought, but it was manageable. Though some places, we had to crawl under low branches or fallen trees. Will took my hand to help me over a large trunk and kept it for the rest of the way. 

“Almost there,” he said. But I was too focused on his hand, warm around mine. Soon I heard the sound of running water, and when we emerged from the cover of the trees, my breath caught in my throat. Moss covered the ground on which we stood, climbing up the sides of the cliffs that surrounded us. A shimmering waterfall descended from the top, flowing into a gorgeous cobalt pool so dark it looked like melted obsidian. The setting sun shown just over the ridge behind us, shining over the waterfall and making it look like glittering diamonds falling into the water below. It was utterly breathtaking. 

“You like it?” Will squeezed my hand. I’d forgotten he was holding it.  

“It’s beautiful.” I turned to smile at him and he was staring at me. More like gazing. I felt a blush reddening my cheeks and hid it by looking at the waterfall. 

Will gave my hand a slight tug. “Come on. It’s getting late and we need the light to get back.” Reluctantly, I followed him back the way we came. I could have stayed there all night. 

“How did you find this place?” I asked.

Will still held my hand, but the path was only big enough for one body at a time, so he talked facing forward. “My dad and I used to hike all the time. We moved a lot when I was younger and that was what we did when he was home.”

“When he was home?” 

He paused before answering. “He was in the military. When he was on leave, we would hike every weekend.”

The tension in the air suddenly got very thick, and we walked the rest of the way in silence. Once we were walking through the park, Will broke the awkwardness. 

“I could go for some ice cream, how about you?” 

“Sure, sounds great.” 

Just outside the park was a quaint little ice cream shop, and we started heading toward it, stopping by his car for a quick drink of water. We walked in, basking in the AC, and approached the counter. I chose cake batter with rainbow sprinkles on a cone, and Will chose rocky road. We walked outside, our treats melting in the summer heat. I quickly licked the sides of my ice cream where it was running down the side. Will laughed and I elbowed him in the ribs. 

“How is it?” he asked, gesturing with his own cone.

“Delish!” I took a big bite of my ice cream and felt my mouth grow numb. “Oh,” I laughed, swiping my tongue over my lips. “It made my lip numb.”  

Will didn’t laugh. He just leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to mine. I let my eyes close and didn’t open them until Will stepped back. 

“Better?” he asked.

I met his gaze with a smile on my face. “Yea, better.” I felt the blush on my cheeks and looked down. We walked towards our cars, finishing our ice cream on the way. Will walked me to my Ford Explorer, opening my door and letting me climb in. He left the door open and leaned against the side. I turned in my seat, letting my legs dangle outside of the car.

“Thanks for meeting me today,” Will said.

“Thank you. I had a really nice time.” 

Will tweaked the end of my ponytail again. “I want to show you something else. Will you meet me here tomorrow?”

I hesitated. I wanted to say yes, but my studies were important to me, and I needed to focus on them. 

“Please?” Will angled his head toward me, his lower lip slightly pouting out.

I bit my lip, but I couldn’t keep from smiling at the look of hope on his face. “I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

He gave me a lopsided grin, and when he started to lean toward me, I hopped out of the car and pecked him on the lips, giggling at the look of surprise on his face. I jumped back in the car and he softly shut my door. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked. 

“Same time tomorrow.”

AN: Hey guys! So this is an idea I’ve had in my head for a long time now and it kept nagging at me to finish it. I finally did! It’s not quite where I want it to be, but for now, I’m happy with it. Do let me know what you think! Right now, I’m keeping it as a one shot, but if enough of you express interest, I’ll consider making it into a short story or something. Talk soon! Please read and review<3

-Nicole