#when i get back to those old men.... it will be with renewed vigour

[rad-roche]

still life! working on my colours and edges. you can see me fighting for my life below to the soothing sounds of Skeleton Music. i'd guess at a colour, swatch it over the reference picture, get that wrong, repeat until correct. it's slow-going, but i feel like progress is being made

[amymel86]

Sooo.... I’m gonna share the first part of my ‘Jon was raised in Essos’ au because a) @vivilove-jonsa​ made me this gorgeous pci set (thank you so much, my lovely) and b) I cannot help myself....

(translations at the end)

(things may get changed)

Sansa sat straight-backed on her steed as she, Lord Royce and a few of her Valemen watch the bloody battle below. From their vantage point, up here, high on the ridge, the men look like warring insects - a scurry of territorial ants defending their nests. The noises though – that doesn’t seem insect-like at all. Battle-cries, bellowed commands, the screams of the dying – they all made their way up to them on the breeze.

Horridly human noises.

Sansa’s mare, Jonquil shifts her hind quarters, whether sensing her mistress’s emotions or simply spooked by the songs of battle, one could not be sure.

“He will live to see you again, my lady,” Lord Royce comments beside her.

No doubt he is speaking of his liege lord, her husband of seven moons, Harrold Hardyng. Sansa gives Yohn Royce a tight smile. Gently tightening Jonquil’s reigns, she urges the horse to calm her jitters and be still. “I am sure he will, Gods be willing.”

A murmuring chorus of “Gods be willing,” echoes through their little group as they continue to watch the battle unfold.

Truth be told, it had not been her husband’s face that had flit into her mind when fearing the lives of those little ants down there. It had been her brother’s. Robb’s war for a free and independent North had started against the Lannisters, sparked by the rolling of their father’s head, but now it continues after the invasion of dragons.

A newcomer on a dark gelding approaches Sansa’s right, coming to a standstill to view the chaos below. “We shall see if your invention saves us all, Sam,” Sansa smiles at the black brother beside her. Samwell Tarly had travelled to The Vale at the behest of The Night’s Watch with instructions to negotiate for supplies from their rich and fertile lands. Clear that the large man was not keen on the thought of his return, Sansa had grown fond of him and insisted on extending his stay. His fellow Nightswatchmen were not under any urgency to welcome him back.

“W-we can only hope, my lady.” His pale face was clammy as wide eyes took in the fighting below. The shouts, cries and screams met their ears making his horse even more skittish than her Jonquil.

Samwell was a very learned man, that was immediately clear. Sansa had appreciated his love of book, songs and arts but once she realised that within his fantastic mind there lay an idea that could finally get her husband to join her brother’s fight against the Targaryens, she had been even more pleased to have kept him close.

Oh, Harry had been keen on taking up arms – as keen as any young lord is to prove his skills on the battlefield and emerge victorious. He- of course – was most taken by the idea of winning The Vale its independence and ruling as King of Mountain and Vale. His kingdom may have warred against the Kings of Winter for a thousand years but together, he and Robb Stark might work together against the dragons yet.

But that had been his advisors main objection; how exactly does one win a battle against dragons?

Sansa still thanks The Old Gods and the New for sending Sam to her. Without his invention, she’s sure she would still be awaiting any and all news of her brother’s war from ravens and travellers in her high towers at the Eerie. Sam had no enjoyment for weaponry and warfare but he very much liked to solve problems and his huge Scorpion crossbows could be the answer to how it is they can kill a dragon.

Once she’d had that – once Sam had drawn up his plans and they were sent with a trustworthy messenger to Robb, then Harry’s advisors thought the scales may very well tip in their favour.

Sam takes a big gulp beside her. The leather of Sansa’s gloves creaks as she squeezes her fingers around the reigns. All eyes are affixed to the conflict below where tiny bodies mingle and crash against one another. A direwolf on a waving flag falls to the ground as its bearer screams and gurgles. Horses hooves thunder around the far outer edge, both cavalries clashing with shouts and whinnies. Jonquil whickers and claws her hoof into the soft peat earth. Sansa leans down to pat at her neck. “Shh, girl. It’ll all be over soo-“

A piercing screech comes from behind their ridge and beats from a monster’s wings stir the air enough to whip Sansa’s braid along with it. The men duck their heads, some horses rear and bolt. A huge, grey dragon flies directly over them, swooping down, heading toward the battle.

Sansa’s heart is trying to escape her body. “Which one is that?” she asks, head turning this way and that. Sam looks too shaken to form words and –along with most of the men – was trying to keep his steed under control.

“The-the grey one,” he finally says as they watch below, “there’s been no accounts of it breathing fire, my lady. S-some say it-it cannot.”

Yohn Royce pulls closer. “No accounts of it breathing fire yet,” he says, giving her a pointed look. Very true. A dragon cannot be trusted. And still – she squints her eyes, trying to focus in this grey autumn sun – it has a rider. What will he or she command of their beast?

Below, she sees their forces rolling out the three hefty Scorpions that had been hastily made. “Time to see if Tarly has saved us all or condemned us,” Royce mutters. Beside her, what little colour left in Sam’s round face drains completely. He looks as though he may well fall from him horse and empty his stomach. Two more dragons join the fray from the opposite end of the battlefield – the golden and the red, both bigger than the original grey, and both more deadly from all accounts. They screech at one another as if in excitement.

“Which is the king’s?” Sansa asks. If they can kill that one at least, surely their plight for independence will be taken seriously? Or it shall enrage him further and they shall be punished for it.

“It is not known for sure, my lady,” Lord Royce answers, eyes following the beating of great monstrous wings as they circle. “The golden is without a rider,” he tells her, narrowing his eyes and watching the others. “The rider on the red has a head of silver-white hair. I would surmise that to be Viserys while his sister-queen is safe at the Red Keep.”

“And the dark-haired rider on the grey?”

“Their War General; some bastard nephew loyal to Viserys’s crown.”

Jonquil shifts her weight and stomps at the soft earth again. “Another Targeryen?” Sansa asks. “Do they sprout up like mushrooms after hard rainfall?”

Sansa’s eyes follow the rider on the smaller grey dragon. Together they swoop low over the black troops of the Targaryen army. The War General bellows some command and the dragon forces scream their battle-cries with renewed vigour.  A bolt from one of the Scorpions flies just to the left of the dragon’s head. It rears up, unfortunately unscathed. Sansa’s breath is held captive in her lungs as she continues to watch. A second bolt is loosed just as suddenly as the first, this time seeming to tear through one of the golden dragon’s wings. It crashes devastatingly to the battleground below, skidding to a halt and taking hundreds of lives with it. Valemen behind her cheer. But it is not dead. The beast lifts his great head and screeches into the mournful sky – a sound so loud and abrasive it makes Sansa wince. The rider of the grey doubles back towards the fallen monster and circles above – round and around he goes. They are too far to be able to hear, but Sansa wonders if this bastard dragon lord of theirs is commanding the animal to move. The golden beats his wings – once, twice, thrice, then screeches again for good measure. It does not seem to comfortably fold up its injured wing against its body as it holds it outstretched, somewhat awkwardly-looking. Another bolt speeds past them both. The rider of the grey bellows something very loudly, finally making the golden take action. It leaps forward, back toward the Targaryen line of defence, turns its head and belches out a huge hiss of flame that engulfs all it touches. Sansa can hear the screams from where she sits high on the ridge. Finally, the gold dragon leaps into the air, clumsily flapping its wings. It does not get far, only managing to  land on a nearby rocky outcrop, out of reach of the Scorpion’s range.

“That one won’t be in battle for quite some time,” Royce comments beside Sansa, bringing her back to herself.

“We need to kill, not maim,” she reminds him. “If it still breathes there’s a chance it will heal.” She looks to him and he nods reluctantly. None of them have warred against dragons. They know not what to expect.

Sansa’s eyes return to the grey – the War General. Perhaps his is the one they need to eliminate?

Currently, it is circling with the giant crimson winged beast – they seem to be engaged in some sort of push and pull. The red screeches and pulls forward, spitting flame with every exhale – but the grey looks to Sansa to be trying to calm its companion – or the one rider is trying to dissuade the other. The scarlet dragon pushes forward heedless of the grey’s protests and Sansa watches in horror as it heads swiftly with every beat of its wings towards their weapons – towards the Scorpions, burning a path of flame as it goes. A bolt is losed, skimming passed the monster’s shoulder, but judging by the way it shrieks and pulls up, up, up until it disappears into the clouds, they had succeeded in injuring it at least.

Too busy staring at the sky to try and see where the red dragon went, Sansa’s attention is suddenly drawn back down to the battle when the grey dragon screams. It hovers where it is, clearly in distress. “What happened?”

“We-we shot at it but it swerved,” Sam tells her, “I think the rider fell off.”

***

Sansa and her retinue made their way down from their ridge when it was clear the Targaryen’s were retreating for now. It took a good while to manoeuvre the terrain and by the time they’d reached Robb’s and Harry’s battle line, many of the injured were being cared for and the dead being mourned. Perhaps she should have moved toward the tent heralding the falcon on blue as well as the red and white diamonds of her husband’s house. Instead, she urged Jonquil’s hooves toward the one beneath the wolf. Every now and again, the grey dragon screeched from above. Sansa told herself to be brave and found comfort in the thought that the other winged beasts seem to have left the battleground completely – leaving their fireless sibling behind.

Robb’s war tent is dark as Sansa enters. It takes a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dim. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, mud and the metallic bite of blood. “You’ve seen what we are capable of now, at least,” Sansa hears her brother’s voice before he turns to see who had entered.

She runs to him, arms outstretched, not caring for the muck coating his armour. “Robb!”

“Sansa!” he is surprised to see her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“They have retreated, have they not?”

“We do not know for how long,” he says, pulling away from her embrace. He smells sweet – too sweet – sweet and earthy and... wrong. Her brother gives Lord Royce a scolding glare over her shoulder and as if to serve as a reminder, a guttural shriek is heard from above. “And there’s a dragon still hanging around. Go on – go.”

Then came a gruff and unexpected voice. “Nyke gōntan daor gīmigon aōha Vesterozia jaesa morgho naejot sagon sīr gevie.” The Valyrian was spoken by a man that Sansa had not noticed before – a man wincing in pain as he spoke. He was bloody and bound to the central tent pole. Sat with his arms tied behind him, his legs stretched out before him – one looking rather injured and shoddily seen to with a crude sort of splint at his shin. Sansa steps back and takes in Robb’s prisoner. His hair was raven black, his skin had known the sun. His face was handsome, yet scarred and he wore a patch over one eye – the uncovered one, as grey as a winter’s day and very interested in Sansa. He sits up straighter, staring at her. “Lo ēdan, nyke would emagon pȳdan hen ñuha zaldrīzes hae aderī hae īlon jiōraton kesīr,” he says as though talking to her alone. It has been many a year since Luwin’s teachings on High Valyrian and Sansa did not catch the meaning.

“Who is this?”

“The Targaryen War General,” Robb answers. “The rider who fell from the dragon.”

Fascinated, Sansa crouches to the prisoner’s level. He looks so... ordinary. Granted, he’s a handsome man, but all tales of Targaryens speak of their unnerving, otherworldly beauty – of fair skin, of silver hair or violet eyes. Leaning closer, there are a few flecks of violet she thinks, in that one eye of his.

“Drējī gevie,” the man whispers almost in reverence and Sansa only now realises how close she has gotten from how his breath stirs strands of her hair.

“Can you speak the common tongue?” she asks.

The man’s lips twitch upward. “Aye, I can.”

Sansa stands, taking a step back. The prisoner’s eye follows her. “You sound northern.”

He nods. “My mother.”

“He claims to be the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and our Aunt Lyanna,” Robb supplies.

“Aunt Lyanna?” Sansa’s mind felt like a snow storm. She looks to Robb. “Can it be true?” Her brother only shrugs. Crouching down again she assesses this Targaryen War General with a gloved hand beneath his chin, turning his face this way and that to better see his features.

He looks like father.

“Hae skoros ao ūndegon, dārilaros?” he says, voice low and it takes Sansa a moment or two with his face in her hand for her to translate. Like what you see, Princess?

“Speak the common tongue!” Robb commands, giving his prisoner a swift boot to the thigh, making the man wince.

Sansa stands again. “Robb, if this is true then he is family.” If this is true then perhaps his loyalties can be swayed. With a dragon on their side, they may be able to get Viserys Targaryen to concede the North and the Vale yet. “What is your name?” she asks this would-be cousin of theirs.

“I have many,” he grunts, trying to shift his painful leg. “My mother wanted to name me a Stark but that could never be. Am I a Sand? A Snow? Viserys used to refer to me as Nādrēsy when we were boys. Many of my men call me Morghe Vala.”

Nādrēsy... Bastard.  

Morghe Vala?... Dead Man.

“And what should we call you, cousin?” Sansa asks.

Before their Targaryen prisoner gets the chance to answer, the tent’s entrance is a flurry as more come to join them. Around four or five Stark men enter and amidst them is the most welcome sight of her mother.

“Sansa!” she greets, reaching her quickly, pulling her into a warm embrace. “Sansa, I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. Sansa is not sure what the apology is for but does not question it straight away, too glad to be in her mother’s arms.

Theon Greyjoy comes to her side, putting a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “My condolences, Lady Sansa.”

“Condolences?” She says, retreating from her mother’s warmth. She looks to Theon in askance, and then to the other eyes on her from around the tent. Oh.  “...Harry?”

The quiet was deafening. She should have thought of him... why had she not thought to check on him?

“His wounds look deep and clean,” Theon tells her. “His death would have been swift.”

Sansa feels a little numb as her mother cradles her face with both hands. “The Stranger has him now, child. He is not in any pain.”

She blinks – feels like she should cry. Why is she not weeping? There was no great love between them yet but he was her husband and there was at least a companionship of sorts between them. Should she not be feeling the gnarled fingers of grief creeping up her throat?

The grey dragon screeches high above them making everyone look skyward as if they could see through the canvas of the tent. Sansa’s hand goes to her stomach. Harry had bedded her last night and she had washed him off of her as she’d bathed afterward. If she hadn’t – perhaps there would be more chance of a babe. They’d been trying for one for the entirety of their marriage with barely a glimmer of success throughout.

Is she callous to feel more melancholic over an empty womb than a dead husband? There is no time to ponder it and it is something Sansa does not wish to look too closely at.

When she looks to their Targaryen cousin he is already staring at her intently with his one eye, still sat there, bound on the floor. “Robb, untie him. Let him up.” Her brother glowers at her. “He is surrounded and unarmed, what harm can he do?” Sansa reasons.

“Theon,” Robb instructs with a nod of his head towards the prisoner.

Sansa steps closer to Robb as Greyjoy moves to sever the War General’s bonds. She ducks her head and lowers her voice. “If he is family, perhaps he can be swayed? If he joins us, we will have his dragon.”

“He is loyal to his kin,” Robb murmurs. “And besides, what use would his fireless dragon be to us?”

“We are his kin. Robb, if we can-“

“She is almost blind, too,” the deep voice of their prisoner says, interrupting. Sansa turns to see him now standing uneasily on his injured leg, rubbing at his wrists and still staring at her as though no one were here.

“Pardon?”

“Zokla,” he says, “my dragon. She is almost blind. It is why she’s still circling. She needs me.”

“Zokla?” Greyjoy repeats.

Sansa is quick to realise. “It means wolf.” She looks to Robb. Surely that must mean something? Surely, this cousin’s loyalties can be pressed upon? Surely, he wants to honour his mother’s family?

She’s about to say as such when their new cousin closes his one uncovered eye. “Issa jēda,” he says quietly, calmly.

‘It is time?’

Time for what?

The answer comes with another almighty shriek and a ground shaking thud making men shout and clamour. Outside the tent, a dragon roars for her master.

Robb draws his sword, his men follow. All weapons point at their captive who stands there with a small but defiant smile on his lips. “Call your beast off!” Robb commands.

“Let me go,” he counters.

“Call the dragon off or we’ll see to the thing ourselves!” Greyjoy demands, shoving his sword forward, the point of his blade lifting the man’s bearded chin. Their supposed cousin does not answer. A menacing growl vibrates through Sansa’s ribs from outside. “Send it away!” Greyjoy bellows while some of their men outside shout and holler for their King and others flee.

“She may not breathe flame, my lords, but how much damage do you think she could do to you and your camp before you manage to load those dragon killing weapons of yours? ....Let me go.”

Robb’s jaw tenses. The air is thick and waiting. He lowers his sword with a reluctant grunt. “Let him go.”

“And I’ll be taking her with me,” the Targaryen juts his chin in her direction. Sansa’s eyes go wide.

“No, you won’t!” her mother growls beside her, her cold finger slipping around Sansa’s wrist like and anchor. Their cousin watches the movement. He watches everything.

“Zokla,” he says and moments later a huge grey snout clumsily emerges through the tent’s entrance making the men closest to it leap away and cower. Her mother’s hand tightens on her wrist. The beast almost looks as though it smiles with that monstrous mouth and its forest of dagger teeth. It inhales, sniffing at the air within the tent, its snout taking up the whole space of the entrance. Maybe it can scent the tension or the blood still plastered to the armour of the men and slicking their swords. She growls. Low and dangerous.

Their new cousin moves closer to his beast, limping a little on his injury. “Easy, girl. Easy,” he coos, smoothing a palm between the dragon’s flared nostrils. She nudges into him, almost knocking him off his feet. He chuckles. “Hello, bump,” the man murmurs warmly to his monster. He then turns back to face the rest of the tent, uncovered eye finding her  instantly. “Lady Sansa,” he addresses, voice low and honeysuckle-sweet  “you will come with me.”

“Take me instead.”

“Robb, no!” her mother gasps beside her, fingers slipping from around her wrist. “If they have you then all is lost.”

Sansa knows her mother means their bid for independence. Robb has been the figurehead for this plight and the cause has been rallied behind in his and father’s name.

She must be brave.

Glancing at the Targaryen, it is the first time she finds him with his eye not affixed to her in some fashion. He seems to weigh and measure Robb’s desperate offer. He is a War General, he knows capturing Robb Stark, King in the North would surely spell victory for his uncle, she can see it written on his otherwise stony face in the way his brow creases momentarily before looking to her again, his gaze burning straight through her bones. “No,” he declares gruffly. “Jaelan ao.” I want you.

She must be brave.

The captive-turned-potential-captor offers Sansa an outstretched arm and open palm. “Māzigon, Dārilaros.” Come, Princess.

His expression is so earnest and resolute. As though nothing would sway him from taking her. Not even certain victory. Not even cutting short a war.

She can be brave.

Maybe he can be swayed yet? Maybe she is the one to do it?

“I will go,” she says.

“No!” her mother cries. “No, Sansa not again. They won’t take you from me again!”

Clutching her hands, Sansa barely notices as the dragon’s snout disappears and her Targaryen cousin waits in the entranceway, illuminated by the cold light from outside. “It is alright mother,” she whispers, “It will be alright.” Reaching over she takes Robb’s hand too. “I will bring him to our cause.”

“Sansa-“

“I will do it, Robb. Trust me.” She has been known to tame other beasts – why not a dragon?

She does not wait for her brother’s reluctant agreement, nor more of her mother’s pleading, instead she walks out with her spine straight, ignoring her new cousin’s offer of his arm as she goes. He chuckles darkly at that. “What am I to call you?” She asks as he follows close behind her. Sansa would rather engage in conversation than show her fear as they approached his dragon – his Zokla.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he says. “Though most call me Jon.”

Jon? Such an ordinary name for a man who rides on the back of a dragon. The animal in question turns her huge head towards them, those smiling teeth and her hot breath a truly terrifying sight to behold. Sansa’s boots come to a halt and refuse to move. A warm hand is placed at the dip of her spine and suddenly she is alight at the touch. “She will not harm you, cousin,” Jon whispers in her ear. “Kostas ivestragon jaelan ao ȳgha.”

She’s trembling. Too focussed on the slow blink of the dragon’s golden eyes to try to translate. ‘Safe’? He said something about safe.

Jon says another command to his animal and it lowers its neck and shoulder in invitation. Her cousin helps her up. The beast’s scales are the size of her palms and warm to the touch. Sansa does not quite know how one seats themselves upon a dragon but she finds herself gripping onto two huge thorn-like scales that ridge along Zokla’s neck.

Even with his injured leg, Jon seems nimble enough to climb his mount. He settles alarmingly close behind her and slips a strong arm around her waist, pulling her closer still. Everyone has vacated the tent to watch them go. Her mother has tears in her eyes. Robb looks unsure and set-jawed.

I can be brave.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights, Princess?” Jon murmurs low at the shell of her ear. The downy hairs on the back of her neck prickle. He holds her even tighter. “Zokla, sōvegon!”

Fly!

***

Valyrian sections translated:

Then came a gruff and unexpected voice. “Nyke gōntan daor gīmigon aōha Vesterozia jaesa morgho naejot sagon sīr gevie.” (I did not know your Westerosi goddess of death to be so beautiful)The Valyrian was spoken by a man that Sansa had not noticed before – a man wincing in pain as he spoke. He was bloody and bound to the central tent pole. Sat with his arms tied behind him, his legs stretched out before him – one looking rather injured and shoddily seen to with a crude sort of splint at his shin. Sansa steps back and takes in Robb’s prisoner. His hair was raven black, his skin had known the sun. His face was handsome, yet scarred and he wore a patch over one eye – the uncovered one, as grey as a winter’s day and very interested in Sansa. He sits up straighter, staring at her. “Lo ēdan, nyke would emagon pȳdan hen ñuha zaldrīzes hae aderī hae īlon jiōraton kesīr”  (If I had, I would have jumped from my dragon as soon as we got here,) he says as though talking to her alone. It has been many a year since Luwin’s teachings on High Valyrian and Sansa did not catch the meaning.

***

Fascinated, Sansa crouches to the prisoner’s level. He looks so... ordinary. Granted, he’s a handsome man, but all tales of Targaryens speak of their unnerving, otherworldly beauty – of fair skin, of silver hair or violet eyes. Leaning closer, there are a few flecks of violet she thinks, in that one eye of his.

“Drējī gevie,” (truly beautiful) the man whispers almost in reverence and Sansa only now realises how close she has gotten from how his breath stirs strands of her hair.

***

The animal in question turns her huge head towards them, those smiling teeth and her hot breath a truly terrifying sight to behold. Sansa’s boots come to a halt and refuse to move. A warm hand is placed at the dip of her spine and suddenly she is alight at the touch. “She will not harm you, cousin,” Jon whispers in her ear. “Nyke ivestretan zirȳla naejot gaomagon ao ȳgha.” (I told her to keep you safe.)

[auburnandamberangel]

You were so young when you were mortal and with Marius. Do you think that shaped certain things about who you are today? Did it shape your sexuality in any way? The type of person you’re attracted to? The things you enjoy in the bedroom? How you view/approach relationships and love and romance?

This blog is accepting development anons! :

It shaped that happiness is transient. That life is fragile. Marius was my world and it stopped spinning when an thought he was dead. I suppose my trust issues are many layered, and the only person who can save you is yourself. It took me a long time to be my own hero, the instigator and not viewer of my life. I'm a born survivor, but not necessarily a born experiencer. I was as Amadeo, but forgot until around the time I found Daniel.

My sexuality would have been rather simplistic if I hadn't have been kidnapped and ended up under Marius' guardianship. I wouldn't have had a varied choice of partners. Back then I saw myself as a lover of love, it never had a name back then in the 15th century. All very hush hush, and open secrets even in Venice that had brothels for everyone's tastes. I learnt alot from those rich houses, not enough to them away from my cold Lord, as Marius had hoped. Now I'd have been labelled as Bisexual, though I seem to gravitate more towards men than women. So Pansexual may be more on point for now.

I'm attracted to a richness of character, intelligence and form. Spunk. From my memoirs you can extrapolate my bedroom preferences.

Relationships and romance, once your in my heart you're there to stay rent free. I like the idea of still being wooed ofcourse who doesn't. Getting to know old flames with a renewed vigour...That's all I say on the subject.

[my-soul-sings]

I Won’t Let Go

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku Pairing: Yukimura SanadaxMC Genre: Angst

Summary: He made a vow on a shooting star that night; a vow to fight for his happiness, and for hers. 

Spoiler warning: This is written based on Chapter 12 of Yukimura’s Dramatic Route, from Yukimura’s POV based on the gacha side story! 

She was adorable, getting Muramasa to be her secret messenger just as he had done earlier. 

He could hazard a guess as to what the “important matter” she had to discuss urgently with him was. She probably missed him and just wanted an excuse to secretly meet him under the cover of night, with the stars watching over them. 

It was hard to hide the silly grin that crept up his face as he read her short message over and over, treasuring each and every word while Muramasa wagged his tail and stared at him with his big, black eyes, as if waiting for a compliment.

“Good boy,” Yukimura praised him, scratching him at the spot behind his ear just like he loved. The wolf’s tail wagged with more vigour, in the same way Yukimura’s heart began pumping faster at the thought of being able to see his beautiful lover again, to hold her in his arms, kiss her and call her his. Every moment they shared alone was a precious memory that made his heart feel full yet also made him yearn for more; he was downright insatiable and greedy when it came to her. 

Time couldn’t pass fast enough. He anxiously counted the seconds till the night grew darker. The lights in the camp went out one by one in a cruelly slow fashion, and Yukimura wondered why his damn men wouldn’t just go to sleep when they obviously needed the rest in the middle of war. He briefly considered stalking over to the last lit tent when his patience wore dangerously thin, but thankfully it went out before he could seriously contemplate the idea and risk giving himself away.

Once the coast was clear, Yukimura quietly emerged from his tent. With light footsteps and a terrible attempt at keeping his goofy smile at bay, he snuck away to the meeting place. 

She was already waiting for him when he arrived, and he frowned at the thought that she could have been standing out here alone, prime for attack by any rogue soldier or bandit who happened to pass by without him to protect her. He would have to make sure he snuck out earlier the next time. 

“Hey.” He jogged up to her, eyes shining brightly. She saw him coming, but unlike her usual self, she didn’t burst into a huge smile immediately. Instead, she looked troubled, and when he got closer, he thought she was sick from how unusually pale her cheeks were.

She dismissed it as the mere moonlight shining on her, which he found reasonable enough, though it didn’t explain why she was making that sullen expression.

“I called you here tonight because I have something important to tell you, Yukimura,” she said, no trace of playfulness in her eyes or her tone. It felt out of place to hear her like this. She was always so full of life, vibrance, brilliance, yet right then, she sounded far too serious and worried. 

“Hm? This is starting to sound serious,” he replied. 

“I... want to give you my reply,” she continued in a slightly smaller voice. “To what you said before we left Kasugayama Castle. I know you said I should wait until after the battle, but... I’ve already made up my mind.”

He knew immediately what she was referring to. His mind went back to that night before they left together, when he had frantically searched for her after Sasuke told him the truth of where she’d come from, and the choice she had to make.

“I don’t want to let you go. I want to be with you forever. I want to live my life with you.” It was the first time in his life he had said something that embarrassing and honest, but for her, it had been worth it. The thought of her leaving this time period--leaving him--had nearly split his heart into two and despite knowing how selfish it was for him to steal her dreams, family, friends and home from her, he simply couldn’t let her go. He had fallen far too deeply for her, and he couldn’t imagine a life without her. Screw a life of peace after the war. If she wasn’t there with him, there wouldn’t be a life to begin with.

A moment of silence passed as he waited for her to continue, with nothing but the sound of chirping crickets filling the tense air. He wondered why she was in such a haste to give him an answer, but he had a growing sense of dread, from her expression and tone, that he wasn’t going to get an answer that he had been hoping for; the answer he was so sure that he would get. 

“I can’t live with you, Yukimura.”

Her words were like a bucket of ice cold water that drenched him, making his heart recoil in his chest at the sharp stab of pain and shock that hit him. 

“I do have feelings for you, but...” she trailed off, gaze falling to her feet. “I just don’t love you enough to want to spend the rest of my life with you, Yukimura.”

Her words pierced through him like a spear, a painful ache beginning to grow from deep within his chest as he stared at her in shock and disbelief. Millions of questions swarmed his mind. Why now? Did she really not love him? Had he been the only fool to think that their love was mutual? Was it all a lie then? Her risking her life and safety to follow him out to the battlefield, chasing after him and telling him that she didn’t care that they were supposed to be enemies, time and time again being a stubborn mule who didn’t care that all he wanted to do was protect her and keep her away from the life of war and violence that he had chosen?

She continued speaking while he stood there in stunned silence. “This period of endless war is horrifying. I really want to return to my old world. So, I can’t stay with you.” She sounded almost mechanical when she said this, like someone else was pulling the strings to her tongue and lips, making her say things she didn’t mean.

He wanted to say her name. To ask her all the questions resting like deadweight on his tongue, but he couldn’t. His heart had been broken, and he couldn’t move or utter a single word to stop her from leaving him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, bowing her head to hide her face from him. “I really am sorry.”

An apology wasn’t enough. She couldn’t leave him with a mere apology, not after what she’d said the day before--insisting that he tell her how much he loved her, making a wish upon a shooting star for him, running headfirst into him the moment she found him like the adorable wild boar she was... He couldn’t have been dreaming it. Their relationship--their love--had been real, and whatever this rejection was, it was coming out of nowhere.

He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t.

Yukimura placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing tightly in the same way his ribcage felt too tight and suffocating right then. 

“Look at me,” he demanded, shaking her lightly. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head and meekly clutching on to his wrists to pry his hands off her. “Let go.”

He only tightened his grip, knowing that she was nowhere near his match when it came to strength. “No, look me in the eye.” He wasn’t going to let her go. Not unless she looked him in the eye and told him honestly that she didn’t love him.

Eventually, she relented, knowing just how stubborn he could be. 

And when she raised her head, eyes meeting his, he noticed instantly her lips were quivering and the moisture brimming in her eyes.

That wasn’t the face of a woman who was ready to leave him. That wasn’t the expression she should be making if she truly didn’t love him.

There was unmistakable affection and longing in her eyes, mixed with excruciating pain that she could no longer disguise through her tears. 

So she had been lying to him. That was the only way this all made sense.

But that didn’t change the fact that for some reason, she had to push him away and leave his side, in the same way that he had before, when he thought that staying away and cutting off all ties with her would be the only way to keep her safe. The memory of all the times he’d turned away from her and left her to cry on her own filled him with guilt and remorse, but it also gave him a renewed sense of motivation and strength. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“I won’t give up on you,” he declared.

“Yu-”

“I made my decision on that night in the rain,” he continued, ignoring her protests. “I promised myself I would protect you no matter what. I will do anything to keep from losing you.” 

He would always remember that night when he had laid bare all his emotions to her; it was the one moment in his life he had been truly honest and vulnerable with his feelings. And that was the moment he knew that there was no escaping from his feelings any longer: he loved her with all his heart and soul and he would give up anything if it meant being able to protect her and love her for the rest of his life. 

“I... I need you,” he finished softly, only then realising how shaky his voice had become. He was scared of losing her. Frightened of it, actually. A future without her... he couldn’t even imagine it. “You’re the only one for me.”

“And if you don’t love me enough to stay--” If she really had to lie to him for some reason by pretending that she didn’t love him anymore, then...

“--I will chase you this time.” 

“What?” she asked, sounding surprised. 

“I’ll prove that I’m the man for you,” he said, flashing her a confident smile. He would convince her and pursue her until there wasn’t a single shred of doubt or concern that could stop them from being together.

“No, you can’t.” Her voice cracked as she spoke those words, more tears rocking in her sorrowful eyes. A tear was starting to slip out, and he reached towards the corner of her eye to gently brush it away, but before he could even graze her skin, she shoved his hand away with sudden force that he didn’t know she could muster.

He stumbled, dropping his hands from her shoulders and looking at her in confusion.

“Sorry,” she said again. “I’m sorry.” 

Seriously? Did she not understand a single word he was saying? Did she really think she could convince him that she didn’t love him when she looked so fragile that she could burst into tears at any moment? 

She was a horrible liar. 

“If you’re sorry, then why are you doing this?” he asked, before pulling her firmly into his arms once more, as if daring her to push him away again. Her shoulders were starting to shake, and the sound of her quiet, muffled sniffles made his heart ache. 

“Don’t apologise,” he said, hand stroking her back comfortingly. “I’m the one who should apologise.”

“Why?” 

“Because I’m not going to give up. You’re the only woman for me, after all.” 

She pulled away, briefly meeting his eyes and he noticed her determination begin to flicker like a candle being blown in the breeze. He thought he had finally convinced her, but without warning she pushed him away again, hands trembling just like her lips were.

“M-My feelings won’t change.” Every syllable coming out of her mouth sounded laboured and forced. “We have to be up early tomorrow. I’m going to bed. Goodbye.” 

Without another second’s hesitation, she took off running, ignoring his shouts of her name. She never looked back, not once. It took every ounce of his self-control to not give chase. It pained him to think that she would be crying alone, struggling with the difficult decision she was determined to make all on her own. 

But he remained rooted to his spot, knowing that she wouldn’t listen to anything he had to say. He had been the same once, so he had no right to complain about her leaving him like this. If this was how much heartbreak she had felt when he had abandoned her before, then he had absolutely no right to feel hurt or to grieve over the decision she’d made. 

He raised his head to look at the stars, as if they could offer him some consolation. 

If she really didn’t love him, then he would give up on her. But the warmth of her skin lingered on his arms, and he knew from the way her body had trembled and the tears that had threatened to spill from her eyes that she loved him. There was no doubt in his mind at all that she loved him. 

A shooting star passed by then, and he recalled that she had made a wish upon it for him to be happy always. 

He didn’t need a wish. If she was his happiness, then he wouldn’t depend on the stars to make it come true; he would chase her to the ends of the earth and make her his, tell her over and over how much he loved her, and never let her go again.

So he didn’t make a wish on a shooting star that night. Instead, he made a silent vow. A vow to fight for his happiness, and for hers. 

A/N: I needed more from his POV so I wrote this thing.... and I have an exam tomorrow may Yukimura bless my soul.

[writingfromkitchenator]

Haldir ~ Old Heart Falls

Old Heart Falls by Katatonia

600 Followers Challenge!

Requested by Anon

Words: 869

Warnings:  Character death

Haldir was surrounded by soldiers, the beat of rain hitting their armour echoing in his ears, the footsteps of the approaching armour barely masked by the clash of thunder.

His heart was racing, even though he was in charge, he was still scared, scared for his men, scared for you.

You were by his side, expression grim as you stared at the approaching force, your knuckles almost white as you gripped your bow.

Haldir forced himself to look away.  The two you had already said everything that needed to be said, you had made your peace; now was not the time to get unfocused by worrying about the other, no matter what happened.

The lightning flashed across the sky and Haldir felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, blinking to rid his eyes of the effect of the light, watching the soldiers give a slight nervous shuffle.

He ordered for bows to be drawn.

You were stoic by his side, hands steady as you drew your bow back, anchoring and waiting for the order to fire.

Haldir felt his stomach turn as everyone seemed to wait with bated breath, an unease suddenly settling over him that he quickly had to force to the back of his mind.  This was not the time or place to be feeling like this.

Someone amongst the men let go of their arrow, hitting an uruk-hai, the beast falling with a dying scream.

As they started to charge, Haldir was at least thankful that it was a good shot.

Chaos quickly erupted as large ladders were placed against the walls and the uruk-hair started to climb. There was no time to keep track of anyone else but yourself and Haldir found himself doing all that he could to control the numbers on the walls.

The explosion rocked the wall, brining warriors down, many losing balance temporarily, including Haldir, who momentarily found a ringing in his ears.

It was almost the end of him, the uruk-hai, at least those around him, didn’t seem to as affected by the blast and were charging in with renewed vigour as more of them poured in through the break in the wall below.

As Haldir fought, he could feel his heart racing as the screams and shouts of men and elves filled his ears.  This was a desperate fight, surely one that they could not hope to win?  Surely this would be the battle that would start the end of it all?  That Sauron was going win, no matter what resistance they put forward?

He caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye and he saw the fire burning within you, like he always had.  You were bleeding from a wound to your head but it wasn’t slowing you down, you were much too good a warrior for that.

Haldir smiled, pride welling in his chest.

The call for retreat came not long after and he forced himself to become occupied with getting what remained of his men away from the battle, so they could seel themselves away in relative safety, to catch their breathes and regroup for a final attack.

But in that moment, dread filled him.

He was confused, unsure what was causing it and that was when the attack came, swifter and quicker than what he could’ve predicted, and, already exhausted, he realised just how compromised he was as he sunk to his knees.

Haldir knew, even as he saw you running towards him, screaming, other elves trying to stop you, that an uruk-hai was approaching him from behind, that this was to be his final moment.  In a single heart beat, all he had ever known would be over, including any memory and thought of you.

He heard the woosh of the sword and as swung in.

Haldir awoke in a heavy sweat, breathing heavily as he sat upright in bed, slowly forcing his fingers to relax in the sheets as he looked around at the familiar setting.

Glancing over at the feint green glow next to him, he read the time.

3 am.

Groaning, Haldir rubs his eyes, only stopping as a warm hand rests on his arm.

You smile softly at him, clearly still half asleep.  “Are you okay?”

He returns the smile and kisses your hand.  “Yeah. Just a bad dream.”

You rub your eyes, trying to wake up for him.  “You wanna talk about it?”

Haldir shakes his head, but then hesitates a moment, looking into your eyes.  “I swear I saw you there, your hands were reaching out for mine.”

Beaming, you lean up and kiss him softly on the lips.  “We promised each other forever, remember?  Nothing’s going to stop either of us.”

He gives a soft chuckle and returns the kiss, settling back down into bed with you.  You were quick to snuggle into him and it wasn’t long before he was listening to your deep breathes again, making him close his eyes.

As he drifted back into sleep, he vaguely wondered why it had felt so real, but as he slipped deeper and sleep finally claimed him again, he realised, that as long as he had you, it didn’t matter.

[alchemisland]

The Tennis Racket II

Back we must journey to go forward. Have I mentioned before that this is a sad story? I must have. A very sad story indeed. Do not all such tales of mighty men end in a cacophony of wailing mourners. A lesson then: do not spite the Gods. Even Bellerophon himself, gifted mission and means by the Olympians themselves, was forbidden deification, stricken back for his presumptuousness.

We must journey back to the zygotic beginnings of our friendship.

Thinking to liven an empty day we took a trip to the lake district, Lobilus and I. I drove his dainty Bentley, slick as a submarine, black as a raven's wing and polished to a shimmer, so fresh it was from the factory line its umbilical cord trailed from the exhaust. Peas in the pod of destiny.

Though years have passed since and my mind is stripped to its starkest early impressions, when many oft visited reveries are lost, this one remains clear.

A golden sun greeted above. Mist clung to hidden flows, where it carried upriver and, hurling itself on the rocks, faded to airy dampness. All along golden shrouded, feeling summer's kiss on our blacks we trod.

Great Whoap rose before us. Little wonder those who came first saw graven idols for worship.

Approaching the rainshadow the wind stole chatter and our procession proceeded silent. We traced the great hollow that sat like a womb barren at its centre, meeting again at its crown where medicinal woodbines renewed our vigour.

From our eagle vantage I imagined England as a plated knight, Albion dressed for war. Those great hills either side, lesser than Whoap, formed pauldrons, and we the plumed helm.

A grand vista it offered, worth every laboured breath. Structures took a more magnificent aspect, contrasting the flatlands due east and west. Cathedrals loomed like ancient wonders against the hinterland. My lungs, used to city toxins, could not stand such freshness for long. Our descent took half the time, arriving with ample light for a picnic.

Inside a thicket wound tightly where no whipping winds could reach, we ate a meal of roast beef sandwiches, still hot from the foil, slathered with seeded mustard and sprigs of rocket, cups of sparkling apple juice, the kind in glass bottles you don't find anymore. All this I had prepared myself, for Lobilus was little culinary use. A bachelor, he subsisted on chips and cocktails, stretching his routine to fit a banana when the doldrums chimed. Testament to his sporting vigour. What angel-built engine has that man which runs on rubbish.

I chortle considering the subsequent opulence, and how unlikely it should ever amuse me that once we had sat ragged as prussian proles by the roadside for lunch; a far cry from ten-course meals in Lillie's Bordello, swan entrees and oysters filled with limoncello spread lavishly on silver plates in the Montrose.

Our friendship then was in its infancy. I was more a clinger-on, he an old master, and our conversation reflected thusly, with much praise heaped between barrages of questions.

It was on the stark dale where we first broached the idea of business relations. I, as intermediary and manager, would do as alchemists are bid by Kings, making gold from nothing, while also organising non-intrusive media obligations; book signings, grand openings, that sort.

That day I whistled home. I stopped to gloat in every pub from Pinkley Crescent to Primrose. "You are looking" I would slur, "at the new brand manager of Mr. Lobilus Serve." Course, most working men thought brand manager involved cattle in some capacity. I deigned to enjoy every second of that day. People took umbridge to my boasting until two tankards by my dime sat in their gullet, which met raucous applause. What a day. I remember it still, clear as crystal.

*

Important tastes decried rugby and pugilism as barbaric, wounds from a wicked past as yet unhealed by the balmy wet wipes of modern kindness, but tennis remains a noble pursuit. Nowadays the tennis brood are quick, lithe and skilled enough to beat every great that came before, but they have no game, no style; gone are the days when an athlete might proffer an exotic pet for his pleasure, and delight walking Roger the tiger around town on the flimsiest leads, shielded by public favour; gone are explicit dalliances and forbidden love, for what is forbidden when the sacred is profaned; I blame not education nor bad raising, nor do I blame the rise of tedium and idiocy, of pointless labour and lowest common denominator opportunity, I blame those bloody paps. I loathe them.

Through the sands of time the game stays with us. Forms of tennis and similar variants are found across the world. The oldest records point to origins in the Levant, a game played in the shade of a courtly marquis, free of choking dust and searing sun. Wherever its true beginnings, it came to old England on the waves, on the wind, in the mind and eventual whisper of a bloated tick. Henry Defender of the Faith was known to be a skilled player, but find me a monarch whose gaming victory is not preordained, I will gift thee swans three.

All those who know death and quiver not in the grim's fireside company are superstitious. A warrior cannot attain the highest martial prowess without a spiritual shield, a barrier apart from the physical. While athletes don't stir the reaper as often, when one trains with a willingness to expire as part of the learning process a similar effect is achieved. Lobilus wore lucky shorts, wound blessed grips on his racquets, a band containing microscopic strands of Admiral Nelson's cloak, plucked from the Bodleian by Yorkshire huntsman and self-styled master thief Roger Courtsacker, he girdled around his brow at play.

He preferred playing ad-court, except if the set fell on a Tuesday, in which case deuce was more celestially fortuitous. All the time this was dictated to me through sighs, expecting I should easily follow such simple concepts. Moonballers, that dreaded bunch of uncoordinated slobberknockers more suited to swinging cudgels at wild beasts than crown court, had traditions unto themselves. If the last winning set was a breadstick, fast was broken on bread three days hence, likewise for a bagel. Last, but most importantly, came preparation for a pusher, the style he loathed most.

'Tennis has been overtaken entirely by pushers" he waxed, pouring from the gin jug one balmy Tuesday afternoon. He chewed an ice cube while he spoke, the slow release of water reputedly staving away the alcohol's more adverse effects, "Damn disgrace the clubhouse sit idly as barbarians clamour across Rome's walls. Soon we will have empty beer cans strewn across the courts and used hypodermic needles in the showers!"

"Really, I think you're exaggerating. The whole thing seems worse in your head, why marvel upon it at all?" I pleaded.

"The worst layer of hell is reserved for those who sit idly by, who bear witness to evil deeds and stir not. A weekend with your bible might do you a world of good, flush out those toxins with a divine enema, a holy freshener! Nice to get a top-up not involving vodka, eh?"

I sighed relief, having evaded succuessfully the sharp rocks of distemper which longed to splinter the hull of my day's galleon.

I hope, a clear picture is drawn. See the man, see his friends, dream his dreams. Now we can away to the meat of our tale with confidence. The small matter of the anticipated trilogy, which all hoped would be the rivalry's capstone. Valsage seemed more interested than ever, which initially I attributed to his sportsbook involvement.

Hindsight forms a pool so clear one cannot discern the minute ripples from the very air.

[illuminating-dragons]

White Picket Fences

Summary:  The incredibly fluffy (seriously it's pretty much pure fluff) conclusion to the series, where puppies, babies and love abounds.

Sequel to The Truth That Once Was Spoken and Just Deserts 

Read it on AO3

It’s surprisingly easy to be in love.

Dean and Cas have their moments, of course—where Dean worries that he’ll never be good enough for Cas, when Cas wakes panting from nightmares of Zachariah’s torture. They cling together so tightly that there is inevitable friction, but they talk, now, about everything, and eventually those moments turn into seconds, rarer than blue moons.

Dean delves into the domestic with real relish, creating a home at the Bunker with Gabriel and Sam. Their friends come in and out, but no one has to hide there—Gabriel and Crowley reach a pact, of all people, and Heaven and Hell pretend that they’ve forgotten about Team Free Will. Which suits them just fine.

Cas learns a new life all over again, except this time he isn’t trading wings for driving but fear for comfort, loneliness for movie nights with his brother and his friends and constant worry for a happy ease in work and play with his lover.

And every night Cas curls into Dean’s arms and they hold each other. Sometimes they make love, sometimes not but they always fall asleep in each other’s strong hold, their fingers intertwined as a promise. I won’t leave. I’m here. I love you.

One night—the new happiest night of Cas’ life—Dean’s finger bears a ring inscribed with that very promise in a delicate Enochian script. Dean jokes that it’s the first time he’s ever said yes to an angel, and the only time he ever wanted to.

Sam is thrilled, Gabriel even more so. The only bachelor party either of them throw is a long drive in Baby to the motel where Cas and Dean got together, and a night of ‘home videos’ which were never filmed that show Cas and Dean’s story from the beginning. There’s licorice and popcorn, and a peanut butter and banana sandwich for Sam to stop the bickering.

It takes some doing, but the wedding is held exactly where it should be: the Roadhouse, at Ash’s invitation. Dean’s father-in-law (Dean still can’t remember when he signed up to being the Creator’s in-law) had a quick chat with an old friend, who comes to the wedding himself with a pizza. Thanks to that chat, their whole family is there, guests from Purgatory and Earth and Heaven…and even one blonde lady that shows up the night before the ceremony. It’s a good thing she did, because both Dean and Sam break down when they see their mom again, and Dean didn’t want to cry at his wedding.

When he and Cas step up in front of Gabriel together, and Sam hands Dean the rings, he cries anyways. When the vows are said and they are wearing their rings, Cas kisses the tears away.

Then there’s gifts, and dancing and laughing, and then an announcement from the back that anyone at the wedding who would like to visit the Bunker, short- or long term, is welcome. Cas doesn’t understand. Not at first. Then he sees tears rolling down his husband’s cheeks as he clings to his family—the family that will be coming back with them—and for a minute he feels his Father’s love more strongly than ever.

When they’re almost ready to go on honeymoon (the beach for a week, then to the Grand Canyon), Gabriel pulls Cas aside for a moment.

“Here’s your gift, little brother.” Gabriel’s eyes are unusually serious. It’s a blank card. Cas doesn’t understand.

“It’s good for two uses,” Gabriel says. “If you want more, we can negotiate, but I thought we’d start small.”

Cas hugs his brother to thank him, although he doesn’t entirely get it.

Two years pass. Cas and Dean move out of the Bunker into a small house nearby. Dean gets a job as a mechanic, his past cleared from the record, and Cas learns to keep bees. They have honey on their toast and go on hunts only when necessary.

They have their family, they have each other, they have their health and they are happy.

Then Cas has an idea.

Dean is hesitant at first, John Winchester’s shadow still looming over his head, but Cas reminds him of Bobby, of Sam and Claire, and Dean agrees. They start talking about how to do it, about adoption and surrogates. Cas never knew how complicated this was.

Then he gets it.

He finds the card from Gabriel tucked in their wedding album. It’s no longer blank. All it says is Boy or Girl?

Dean calls Gabriel immediately, and after a few minutes of intense discussion Cas and Dean decide to let it be Gabriel’s decision. Gabriel promises that the baby will be a soul rescued from a difficult life, and will be theirs wholly.

Nine months later, Gabriel appears in their nursery with a tiny baby girl in his arms with blue eyes that will turn green and fuzzy black hair, and Cas realizes he’s found a new happiest night. They don’t sleep that night, even though Mary Jo does. They sit together in the rocking chair and watch their daughter breathe.

Mary Jo is bright in every sense of the word—intelligent, happy and good. Her wings take years to develop, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to fly. Cas takes her up to Heaven every so often to help her practice, and after much pleading on Mary Jo’s part Dean allows Cas to show him how it feels to fly. He still doesn’t like airplanes, but coasting above the Grand Canyon with his husband’s arm around his waist and his daughter’s delighted laughter in his ear is enough to make him smile.

When Mary Jo is four, she asks for a brother for Christmas. She asks in October, which isn’t much time, but Gabriel brings over a bee blanket and a new crib, Sam behind him with one of their puppies and a baby boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. Dean wants to name him after Bobby and Sam, and Cas agrees, but shoots down ‘Sammy Bobby’ in favour of Bobby Sam. They only ever call their son Bee anyways.

With two children and a Bichon Frise named Balthazar (his namesake is less than thrilled), there’s less time for worrying about themselves. They play and teach and try their best to keep their children from fearing the darkness in the world, which still rears its ugly head every once in a while. Cas especially fears for Mary, the only one who figured in his torture.

Dean keeps reassuring him, telling him that their house is as safe as the Bunker, that no one alive dares mess with them, and that their babies will grow up happy and healthy. Cas does his best to believe him.

They are both still profoundly relieved when Bee turns seven months old.

Sam never imagined feeling this safe.

Ever since that fateful Christmas Eve when Dean confirmed the stories in Dad’s journal, Sam has felt threatened. No matter how good he became at defending himself, there was always the possibility of a mistake, of someone he loved getting hurt. Of failing.

Now both he and his brother have angels watching over them, and Sam lets himself relax.

It’s easy to do with Gabriel, who helps him with translating the Bunker’s library primarily to have an excuse to drag him to bed more often. Gabriel’s waited years to have this love, spent centuries without a family, and he’s not about to let ‘research’ get in the way of more interesting activities.

(On the other hand, they both enjoy quiet rainy afternoons where they read out loud to each other, everything from Harry Potter to ancient Asgardian gossip rags).

While Dean and Cas begin to pull away from the day-to-day of hunting, particularly as their wedding approaches, Sam dives in with renewed vigour. Now with a divine promise that the Men of Letters won’t die out, he sets about expanding it. He, Kevin and Charlie work on reaching out to Legacy families, creating databases and networks among hunters and civilians alike. Jody and Donna are instrumental in this effort, and it takes less time than Sam can really believe to have a semblance of order in the hunter community. Not everyone trusts them (and fewer like them), but the phones ring through the day and the database gets added to constantly and Sam feels proud when he closes the large catalogue he started working on when they first got to the Bunker, their inventory complete.

Dean and Cas come over every so often, and soon they begin to talk about marriage. Sam’s delighted and stands by his brother’s side when ‘Destiel becomes canon’ (as Charlie wrote on the cake). But as their family and friends stand around them, Sam finds himself wishing for the first time in years that he could wear a ring too. But Gabriel doesn’t seem to be into getting married at all.

Sam doesn’t ask, and Gabriel doesn’t bring it up. Dean (because of course it’s Dean who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut) asks about six months after his wedding when he’s going to get to put on a tux and be Sam’s best man.

Gabriel makes a joke out of it and suggests getting married in Vegas during ‘Vegas week’. Sam doesn’t say anything for the rest of the night, but he forgot that Gabriel could hear his thoughts loud and clear, could feel the hurt—if their relationship was just a joke then it was probably better not to get married, and anyways, why would an archangel want to be tied to someone like him forever?

The next morning Sam wakes up to a small puppy nuzzling his face. She looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a Newfoundland dog, but she fits in the palm of his hand. Gabriel explains that he couldn’t pick one dog at the shelter so he chose all of them, settling them into one dog that will live as long as Sam does. The puppy’s wearing a soft yellow collar with a diamond ring attached.

Sam names the puppy Ruff. And he says yes.

Their wedding’s a bit more raucous than Dean and Cas’, mostly due to the Asgardian guests’ shenanigans. But everyone seems to have a good time, no one dies and Sam doesn’t even get mad when he realizes that every song on the playlist for a solid three hours has the word ‘angel’ in it. Dean claims it was Cas, Cas blames Dean. (It was Adam’s idea).

When the wedding is over, Chuck takes Sam aside. He doesn’t speak, but he places his hand on Sam’s head and Sam feels a lightness in his body that he’d lost years ago. The damage of the Cage, the wounds that even Gabriel’s love couldn’t heal, are gone.

Ruff grows up fast, and by the time their anniversary rolls around she’s up to Sam’s waist. She’s a wonderful hunting dog, Sam’s constant companion on runs and a great cuddler. She and Arthur, Gabriel’s terrier,  act as a wonderful go-between when Sam and Gabriel have one of their rare but inevitable clashes, silently convincing the guilty party to apologize and the angry party to forgive.

Dean and Cas decide to have a child right around the time they realize that Ruff is  going to have puppies. As Gabriel cocoons the future Mary Jo’s soul in his Grace, he rubs Ruff’s belly and asks Sam if he ever wants to have kids.

Once upon a time, the answer would have been ‘yes’, but honestly with most of their family in the Bunker and Dean and Cas down the road about to have a child and Ruff and Arthur and the coming puppies…Sam feels like his life is full enough. He and Gabriel have built a family, and it doesn’t have to involve children of their own. He does ask if Gabriel—well, Loki’s—kids are real.

That’s how he ends up meeting two wolves, a snake, a goddess that reminds him of the few good parts of Lucifer he ever saw, and a mare. (The last one was a joke, because Gabriel wanted to test exactly what Sam believed of him.) They threaten Sam and then accept him as a ‘Stair-Dad’ (Sam’s afraid to correct Fenrir, who thought this one up—Gabriel’s very proud).

Ruff’s puppies take longer (“they’re divinely enchanted puppies, Sam, they’re fine”) and gives birth to fifteen puppies of various kinds. Sam names the Dalmatian Pongo. He’s no longer allowed to name the puppies. Ruff has two more litters in the next three years, eight in the first and six in the second, and then calls it quits (according to Gabriel).

When the puppies get older, some go to hunters as trained companions, some stick around the Bunker, and a Bichon Frise is Mary Jo’s Christmas present the same year that Bee is born.  Sam loves the name she chooses.

Sam never imagined feeling this safe, and now with his dogs, his husband, his work and his family, all close by, all as safe as they can be in the world they live in…he never imagined feeling this happy, either.

Dean cradles his son close, pressing a quick kiss to Bee’s forehead before he lays him in his cradle. “Goodnight, buddy,” he whispers to the slumbering baby. Bee will be two this Christmas. Dean can’t quite believe it.

Tiptoeing out of the room, he walks down the hall to stand outside Mary Jo’s room. It’s Cas’ turn to read to her tonight, and Dean just listens to his husband read the same old Narnia book he read to Sam all those years ago. They’re nearly finished; the battle is won, and the children are being crowned.

The story stops and the light goes out. Dean comes in to see Cas pressing a gentle kiss to Mary Jo’s cheek as she winds sleepy arms around his neck. Dean sits on the other side of the bed and tucks their daughter in, giving her the stuffed cat she refuses to name to cuddle. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers, and kisses her forehead.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

Those words—the ones he didn’t get to say after he turned five, the ones he hopes Mary Jo will never stop saying—still make his throat constrict. He strokes her hair, then stands and takes Cas’ hand.

They leave the room, closing the door tightly behind them (Mary Jo hates the hall light that Bee needs). In the dim light Dean can see worry in Cas’ face, a remembered pain. Dean kisses his husband, holds him tight until Cas stops shaking. He doesn’t have to ask. All he can really do is hold Cas close, change the memory where he can. There are demon traps at every entrance for a reason.

When they get back to their room Dean’s phone is buzzing. It’s Sam.

“Hey Sam, why are you calling so late?”

“Dean, it’s eight.”

Dean glances at the clock. “What do you know?”

Sam laughs. “I just wanted to double-check the time for tomorrow; Gabriel told Fen and Hel everything except the actual time, and he’s insisting I got it wrong.”

“You do have it wrong, Samshine!” Gabriel, from the other end. Dean shakes his head.

“Come by around two, that goes for all the guests.”        

“Ha!” Sam covers the phone, but Dean has to work hard not to hear what Sam gets for being right.

“Dude, too much information.”

“Sorry.” Dean rolls his eyes; Sam’s married and he still blushes about sex stuff sometimes.

 “Don’t forget to bring Ruff,” he remembers. “Bee’s still too little for Fen’s rides.”

“Gotcha.”

“Oh, fair warning. We got Mary Jo a braiding kit for her birthday. And guess who she’ll want to try it on?”

Sam sighs, but Dean knows his brother loves playing with his niece. “Do I have to?”

Dean chuckles. “Goodnight, Sam.” He hangs up and puts the phone on his night table. Cas is already in bed, and Dean slides under the covers. It might only be eight, but they’re hosting a six year old’s birthday party the next day. And Mary Jo’s an early riser; she’s up before dawn on a normal day.  

Cas lays his head on Dean’s chest, his earlier fear forgotten, and Dean wraps his arms around him. He does a quick check in his head—Bee and Mary are asleep in their room, Sam and Gabe are fine, he’s gotten texts and calls all day from everyone else, checking in or chatting. His family is safe, happy, and he’s happy too.

It’s an almost daily truth now, but it’s the greatest miracle that Dean’s ever witnessed, and he’s profoundly grateful that it bears repeating.

[owlsshadows]

CHAPTER UPDATE!  I AM ALIVE AND NOT GIVING UP ON THIS STORY!!!

4 millimetres (Terudai)

Rating: Teen And Up

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Terushima Yuuji / Sawamura Daichi

Karasuno+Johzenji is the same school AU, Public Morals Committee Chairman Daichi AU

Terushima Yuuji, 17-year-old up-and-coming volleyball captain has a few bad habits. It is not really his hobby to cross ways with the public morals committee, though he admittedly enjoys every clash he has with vice-chairman Shimizu; it’s just in his nature to not to comply with regulations. Being late is inevitable anyways.

Tuesday mornings have never been so nerve-wrecking.

Terushima walks towards the school gates with wary steps, his soles tingling as if thousands of ants were running under his feet. He wants to turn around, to run away, to sneak back under his blanket so badly. He wants to hide from the world because he feels hideous, and just about to explode.

It’s probably the very first ever day since the beginning of high school, that he has done his necktie properly; tucked his shirt in his pants and buttoned his jacket up. His fingers run through his well-coiffed hair nervously.

This goody-two-shoes attire suits him just as much as ice suits the surface of the Sun.

He feels absolutely disgusting.

He questions his life choices, and his hands itch to mess up his looks entirely, to be the good old Terushima – the one who may have been a loser oblivious to his own feelings but at least he could face himself in the mirror.

He gulps dryly upon noticing Ennoshita by the school gates. He feels jittery enough even without the sarcasm of the fellow second year.

The committee member raises one eyebrow ever so slightly.

“What a well-dressed gentleman,” he says softly. This is the thing Terushima envies the most in him: Ennoshita is able to insult people amicably.

“Good morning to you too, Ennoshita!” He returns the taunt with a wide smile, sticking his tongue out to show off his piercing.

“Ah, nothing is perfect,” Ennoshita sighs, and waves Terushima closer. “I have a message to relay, from our president.” Terushima’s heart skips a beat and he freezes in motion. “It’s not a trap,” Ennoshita chuckles at the boy’s expression. “Probably.”

He hands a folded piece of paper to the boy, then turns away to shout at some unruly freshmen.

Terushima gazes at his direction for a few seconds, waiting for some more information, some instruction, any tips coming from Ennoshita… but the committee member doesn’t pay attention to him anymore.

Confused, the boy heads for the classrooms, making a stop at the restrooms only to read the message in a place no one can see.

His hands are trembling – therefore he closes the lid of the toilet and sits on it firmly to evade any situation where he might drop the message into the flush water – and he unfolds the paper excruciatingly slowly.

The handwriting is neat; the characters are easy to read – but they don’t give off a spec of personality. They are just like Sawamura. Terushima snorts at the thought, carefully reading each and every word. The message is short and commanding:

“Meet me in the study room during first break.”

The boy contemplates crumpling the paper into a tiny ball and throw it out, but in the end he folds it back as it was and sinks it into his pocket.

When he enters the classroom, Bobata bursts out in a laughter, and several others follow. Good boy Terushima soon becomes the mascot of the class.

“Man, my stomach still hurts,” the middle blocker says minutes later, after the first bell rang.

“Then head to the nurse’s office,” Terushima suggests. “Unfortunately I can’t accompany you as my attendance needs to be perfect until the end of the schoolyear, but I’m sure sensei would keenly appoint someone to assist you.”

“Oh, my. Same fashion comes with the same snarky attitude?”

“I think you meant sass,” Terushima says impishly. “Who are you comparing me to, anyway?”

“The company of exemplary men, of course. Lead by Sawamura Daichi, the vice is Ennoshita Chikara, and the little crown prince is none other than our wonderful ex-teammate, Tsukishima Kei!”

“You’re loud, Bo!” laughs Terushima shortly, silencing his friend just as the teacher enters the classroom. Terushima opens his notebook, hushing Bobata back to the territory of his own desk.

“Wake me up when it’s finished,” the middle blocker says, leaning his head down on his desk.

Terushima tries not to fall asleep. He really tries, for once.

He snorts at his friend’s remark and reaches for his pen. ‘World History,’ he scribbles on top of a new page. He has only one notebook – he didn’t really take notes so far, so he didn’t really see the reason to buy more. He wonders if he will ever take notes, like every normal high schooler. His handwriting is such a mess, it’s possible he wouldn’t even be able to read his own notes later.

His thoughts wander off to Sawamura’s precise calligraphy – the neatly drawn strokes and evenly paced characters bug him.

Just as everything else related to Sawamura has always bugged him.

A sudden chill runs down his spine and a weird, heavy feeling settles itself in his stomach. He tries to ignore the growing nervousness, the panicky, faint fluttering, the dizziness, and the urge to gag and run.

He readies his heart. He tries to imagine Sawamura, back in the study room, reading his essay and taunting him; but he gets the opposite effect from desired: he is reminded of the shy, blushing smile, and the soft, confused laugh – and the memory of the embarrassed Sawamura Daichi does all kind of weird things to his body.

He crouches in his seat, drawing tiny stars on the margin of his notebook, uttering curses under his breath. The class feels excruciatingly long.

The teacher talks about the First World War, a topic Terushima would naturally be interested in, yet his brain refuses to take in the words.

All he can think about is that he will meet Sawamura in the break.

He groans painfully, drawing his stars with renewed vigour.

*

Before, whenever he found a girl he liked, he walked up to them and asked for their number. He was not always successful (oh, sometimes he pestered them, even) but he was still relatively popular and he didn’t pursue girls against their will too much, and lately, his sweet talking has almost always been fruitful.

He knows how to sweet talk girls. How to flirt subtly with the shy ones, and how to ask out openly those who hate reading between the lines.

But he has never loved a guy.

He has no idea how to sweet talk them or how to win them over or whether he really wants to try flirting with the chairman of the public morals committee at all.

By the time the bell rings, his notebook is filled with stars and thunderbolts – and volleyball tactics, names of players to fear from other teams – and that stupid, smiling face of Sawamura with his missing front tooth, so adorable his stomach churns again.

Terushima feels weak to comply with the order on the note in his pocket but his pride doesn’t let him to run away. This is how he finds himself in front of the study room, message crumpled between his sweaty hands and heart throbbing in his throat. He hears a heavy ‘Come in!’ from the other side upon knocking on the door and he enters with knees trembling and brain fuzzy.

“What a sight,” Sawamura greets him. “To think you will wear your uniform compliant to the school regulations one day…”

“I have to do it, don’t I?” Terushima asks back. “I have to keep our agreement if I want to stick with my club.”

“I’d say you have to keep that agreement not to be expelled, but yes. Good to see that you know how to tuck in your shirt.”

“Was I called here to be mocked and taunted again?” the boy asks softly, only a hint of threat lingering in his voice. Sawamura raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“Don’t give me ideas,” he murmurs.

“Oh, my… I didn’t think the chairman of the public morals committee would think about bullying another student! Will we have a routine going on from today onwards? Will you send me more of these kind messages and order me around?”

Terushima is thankful that his heated speech gives reason for colour to rise on his face, otherwise he would be ashamed of the blush developing on his cheeks. He shouldn’t even admit it but for a split second he found the option of Sawamura bullying him tempting.

“Stop it,” the older boy says. “I don’t intend to make a routine out of this. I called you here to give you some advice.”

“Advice?”

“I’ve seen your practice match yesterday.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in volleyball,” Terushima starts.

“Your play in the beginning of the game was pathetic,” Sawamura says, disregarding the malicious comment of Terushima. “As a captain, you can’t doubt or waver. If you can’t even be confident about your stand and your own feelings, then the nationals will be completely impossible.”

Terushima can feel his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach.

“I have…” he starts.

“Enthusiasm. At best,” Sawamura cuts in finishing the sentence for him. “What you lack is dedication. You need to entirely commit yourself to the goal you set in front of you.”

“I am trying my best,” Terushima says. “And I got enough of your lectures.”

Sawamura sighs softly. “It’s not a lecture…”

“Oh, yes. Advice,” Terushima spits out the words, frustrated. “My bad for mistaking it.”

“Terushima. I meant it,” the other says, stepping closer. If only his face wouldn’t be so damn adorable, if only Terushima could concentrate on anything, but the honest and strict eyes, the cute little flutter of nostrils as Sawamura breathes out a sigh… if only his crush could recede by these condescending words, if only he was able to be truly angry, without that hint of dizziness and that weird pain in his stomach.

“Fuck off,” he murmurs quietly. He is shaking in fury as he stomps off, leaving the committee chairman behind in the study room.

He still takes in Sawamura’s words. It is true that he had no idea how to keep his team together and he became indecisive facing a strong opponent; but it hasn’t been long since he became the captain…

“Sorry for being such a failure,” he spouts at the corner, frightening two freshmen with his abrupt outrage.

“Sorry!” squeals one of the girls and they run off to the library. As Terushima looks after them apologetically, he notices the committee chairman exiting the study room.

His rage boils again as he swears to get back at Sawamura with some witty remark; but also butterflies flutter in the pit of his stomach making all of his efforts ridiculous. Unsure whether he could survive even another glance at him, Terushima decides to run off before Sawamura could realize that he still didn’t leave.

*

“Have you ever felt the urge to punch and kiss a person at the same time?” Terushima asks after third period.

“You mean, like… nah, this doesn’t make any sense,” Bobata replies.

“But I really want to,” the boy insists.

“Honestly, I’m not sure I could still consider you my friend if you did that,” Bobata says flatly. “Punching a girl is not acceptable, man.”

“Ah,” Terushima gasps. That’s true. All he has ever shown interest in before were girls. “Would you accept it, if I said it was a guy?” he asks. “Theoretically speaking.”

“Theoretically,” Bobata starts and he gives a weird look to Terushima over his phone screen, “boys can punch each other. However, if you want to kiss someone, you shouldn’t punch them regardless of their gender. People don’t hit those who they love.”

“I love how big of a romantic you are,” Terushima says, clinging to his friend.

“Yeah, thanks,” Bobata replies. “By the way, how can you punch and kiss someone at the same time? Wouldn’t you punch yourself as well, then?”

“Bo, please stop thinking.”

Bobata laughs, then stands up from his desk.

“I suggest we start for the nurse’s office soon,” he says.

“Why?”

“We have medical check-ups fourth period.”

“This is the first time I hear about this,” says Terushima surprised, but follows his friend out to the corridor anyway.

“Ah, true, you were not here last week,” Bobata nods.

“And since no one communicated with me, I got no news,” Terushima adds. “It was a truly excruciating week.”

“Enough of your nagging, captain!” comes a cheerful voice from behind, and Futamata jumps on Terushima’s back as greeting. “Guess I grew a few millimetres since last time, I might have reached 180cm even!”

“Oh, look who is optimistic! You are still way shorter than me,” Bobata replies.

“How tall are you?” Terushima asks curiously.

“I was measured 185.9 cm last time, I can only hope that I grew that one millimetre since…”

“So nice,” Terushima says. “I guess I’m still 177ish.”

“Yeah, you didn’t grew much,” Futamata adds and receives a jab in the ribs for his comment.

“You know who grew a lot? Asahi-senpai!” says Bobata.

“You are around the same height, so you keep an eye out for him, huh?” asks Futamata jokingly. “Well, I do the same,” he laughs then, “Yamaguchi was a centimetre taller than me in the beginning of the school year. I think I might have surpassed him.”

Terushima falls in silence and while listening to his friends, his thoughts wander off. He finds Futamata’s theory intriguing. If he was to compare his growth to the teammates with similar heights, shouldn’t he worry about Tanaka? They were both 177.2 cm at the last check-up. He remembers because Tanaka threw a fit, complaining how Terushima has “copied his height”.

But really, it never bothered him.

Tanaka should have been his obvious rival, same grade, same position, same height… yet his eyes were forever fixated on Sawamura.

Yet he took pride in his 4 millimetres height difference to the third year.

“Is it possible, that I…?” he utters before he realizes that he nearly gave out his thoughts.

“That you?” Futamata asks back.

‘That I had feelings much earlier than how I realized them,’ Terushima thinks, but it’s something he would never dare to tell them, especially not to Futamata.

“That I didn’t grow. I think Tanaka is taller than me now,” he says instead.

“Well, well,” appears a predatory smile on Futamata’s lips. “We will see.”

“Hinata grew quite a lot! He is 164.2 now. He just wrote in the group chat on LINE,” says Bobata looking up from his phone. “Their class had med checks third period.”

“Lucky kid,” comments Futamata, then he adds mockingly: “If our captain doesn’t grow, he might end up the smallest on the team soon!”

*

The idea that he might have had something for the committee chairman prior to the day before plants itself into Terushima’s head, and by the time they arrive to the nurse’s office it spouts like weed to every inch of his body.

It’s always been Sawamura.

The one who catches him when he sneaks up to the rooftop for a smoke.

The one who finds him behind the gym or stops him by the school gates when he tries to skip classes.

The one who sends him to the self-study room to write apologies and nags him all the time.

It’s always been Sawamura.

And Terushima seems to be thrilled every time he is caught.

(While his eyesight is checked, he ponders whether he has masochistic tendencies.)

“Terushima, come here let me measure your height and weight!” calls the nurse him over, and he follows her to the scale.

“The moment of truth!” whistles Futamata, who has been measured just before him, whispering. “If you really didn’t grow, captain, you will be one of the shortest!”

“Height: 177.4cm, weight: 63.3kg,” dictates the nurse to Nishinoya who volunteered to keep the records.

“Yuuji, you lost weight!” the libero exclaims. “A lot of weight, actually!”

“At least he grew a little,” says Futamata.

“We need to feed him better,” adds Bobata.

“Ok, thanks guys, you are really supportive,” Terushima hushes his friends away. He walks to the far side of the room, to look out of the window as if there was something important out there he needed. He only lets out the tiny little sigh of relief that’s been sitting on his lips ever since the nurse announced his height when he is sure none of the troublemakers can hear him.

His next breath hitches as a group of third years catch his eyes. They are running laps in the backyard. He instinctively finds Sawamura within the fragment of a second – the committee chairman sports his uniform flawlessly, standing by the side lines of the running track, stopwatch in hand.

His boring good-guy looks are flawless as ever. His short dark hair glistens in the sunshine, his flawless skin gleams. Terushima’s stomach takes a dangerous turn and he gulps on air as his heart rate rises.

The real rival has never been Sawamura Daichi. Yet, he always found him to be the opponent.

It has always been Sawamura.

Since the very first day the committee chairman blocked his way at the school entrance to criticise his uniform, Terushima had no one else on his mind.

He went to such extreme lengths as to bribe the nurse to get some information on Sawamura. He celebrated his victory of a 4 millimetres height difference as if he won a war.

“2 millimetres growth,” he murmurs softly. Barely anything. It could be his hair or the socks he is wearing.

He wonders how much the committee chairman might have grown. The fear that he might lose his perfect win over Sawamura is real.

The decision to somehow steal his medical records is made faster than how the Shinkansen crosses the country.

He has no plan but a bar of cheap chocolate in his pocket as he wanders off to the nurse’s office in lunch break. To his luck, he finds the room empty so he sneaks in quickly and heads straight to the cabinet where students’ files are stored. The drawers of the cabinet are labelled according to years and classes.

His gaze stops at third year, class four.

His fingers dig into the handle eagerly, but he can’t pry the drawer open. This is confidential information after all… really, what was he expecting?

He gets discouraged for a brief moment, but he is far from giving up.

He looks around. He knows that the school nurse is way too lax of a person to carry around the keys to the cabinet drawers. His eyes stop at the desk, all messy, piles of papers topped with empty, dirty mugs. He reaches for the drawer of the desk, pulling it out. A bunch of keys he finds, mostly unlabelled. He huffs in frustration, looking over the desk once again.

Then he spots it.

It’s under the freshest looking mug – coffee still somewhat liquid at the bottom – a nude brown folder with “3-4” on it.

Terushima lifts the mug with delicacy a china from the Han Dynasty deserves, and takes the folder out from below. He places the mug back and slides into the chair of the nurse. His fingers are shaky as he opens the folder and runs through the pages. He finds Sawamura’s data pretty easily.

Sawamura Daichi. Birthday: 31 December. Height: 176.7 cm. Weight: 70.1 kg.

It’s a win.

Terushima closes the folder and places it back under the mug. He fixes the chair, so it looks like nobody touched it. He walks to one of the beds and lays down on it. He closes his eyes, covering his face with his palms.

Sawamura, rather than growing, has shrunken a millimetre.

A victorious little laugh leaves Terushima’s lips.

Simultaneously, the door to the nurse’s office opens.

“Excuse me,” says a voice way too familiar.  

Terushima is unwilling to move but wants to disappear at the same time.

“There was an accident during home economics,” the voice continues. The newcomer walks in, closing the door behind him. “Not here, huh?”

Terushima sits up.

“There’s nothing but failure here,” he says. His heart flutters so loud he wonders if Sawamura can hear his words.

“Oh,” the committee chairman says, stopping in his move. He holds his arm up in a bizarre angle, lifting his pointer finger up in front of him. He is bleeding an absurd lot, red streaks running down his forearm until his elbow. His shirt is tucked up until his shoulder. His face looks ridiculously stupid, blinking blankly and surprised at Terushima.

Terushima could drop dead or jump out the window this moment; yet he stands up briskly, walking to the committee chairman to examine his wound.

He finds the idea of a clumsy Sawamura unbearably cute.

He feels a sudden jumble of different urges: he would like to vomit, jump around, shout and scream and run away at the same time – but instead he walks to the small cupboard open to all students where the first aid kit is stored.

“Let me disinfect that,” he manages to say matter-of-factly, while his brain screeches and squeals incomprehensibly.

Sawamura seems to hesitate over accepting the offer for a second. Terushima decides that he is not ready for a reply – be it positive or negative – and he takes a gob of cotton wool, wrapping it around his bare finger, saturating it with disinfectant before the committee chairman could utter a word.

He grips the hand of Sawamura with his left, carefully swiping away the blood from the wound with his right. The older boy opens his mouth then closes it without saying anything. He seems rather meek, compared to his usual self.

Terushima tries to reason with himself. He tries to persuade his screaming brain that Sawamura only lets him help because he has cut his dominant hand… but how could he do so, when he was probably holding the knife in it?

Terushima stops in his movement for a second to analyse the possible factors that can lead to one cutting their dominant hand, only to drop the idea another second later.

He wraps gauze around the other’s finger, fastening it with a strip of plaster.  

“Done,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” Sawamura says, stepping away. His voice is barely audible. There is a hint of surprise in his voice; a whisper of a blush reddening his ears. He presses his lips together so tight they whiten. “And… sorry,” he breathes.

“Sorry for what?” Terushima asks.

“This morning. I was preaching.”

“Yeah, you were,” the boy says.

“I was condescending,” Sawamura continues.

“Yeah.”

One part of Terushima is overjoyed. The other feels chaotic. Frightened. Feverish.

He is not holding Sawamura’s hand anymore. He is not touching Sawamura in any way. Yet, he leans closer, ever so slightly.

Because he wants.

Four millimetres were nothing – seven millimetres seem even less, as he presses his lips on Sawamura’s. Skin touches skin shortly, shyly.

There is no reason, no intention and no thought behind it.

There is only craving, budding in the pit of Terushima’s stomach.

The world appears to be mute. Everything seems to be still. Terushima can’t hear, can’t see a thing. The only sensation that rolls in his brain is that Sawamura’s lips are chapped.

There is a sudden thud as someone’s bag hits the door. Laugh rises from the corridor; slivers of heated conversation filter through the door.

Terushima recognizes Futamata’s voice.

He comes to his senses at once, pushing the older boy aside by the shoulder, starting for the door. By the time his hands grasp the handle to pry the door open he is already running. He spots the brown head of the setter on the right, so he darts to the left. He sprints through the hallway without looking around, nearly knocking over a bunch of freshmen. He has no perception of time or space as he sprints, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his class.

“… the heck you’ve been?” he hears Bobata. “Lunchbreak’s nearly over, come on, cafeteria time! I bet all the bread’s already sold!”

He faintly registers that his friend grabs his arm and pulls him out. He lets himself to be led.

*

Terushima Yuuji knows that he did something stupid - he knew the moment he did, but he did it anyway – yet the realization hits him harder than he imagined.

Sure, planting a peck on the committee chairman’s lips was not one of his brightest ideas, but when did he have a bright idea these past days?

At least, he thought, he could always run away.

Until it dawned on him that he has to be in school and attend all of his classes until the end of the school year unless he is ready to be expelled.

He has nowhere to run.

He sits next to his friend in the cafeteria and he can’t brush the feeling away that everyone knows of what he did, and everyone's watching.

He wishes to be transparent, dead and forgotten at the same time.

Bobata inspects the situation intently and finds it highly critical. Terushima sits in his chair with limp limbs, eyes staring off to nothing. He has merely touched his lunch. His chopsticks abandoned, rolled far away on the table.

"Did it really surprise you so gravely?" Bobata asks, no sympathy in his voice. He asks about something he told Terushima a minute ago or so on the way, concerning the ‘third year scandal couple’ who were caught making out in the public morals committee room last week.

Terushima would love to answer. He would cheerfully declare that he is not bothered by the fact that the couple in question turned out to be Shimizu and Sugawara, if he could. But the overwhelming feeling of relief stops him from doing so and renders him passive.

He is so... so happy. He is delighted.

Not for Shimizu and Sugawara to be a couple; but for Azumane and Sawamura not to be one.

"Bo, I think I have a problem," he mumbles.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"It's love," Terushima adds.

"Poor you," his friend deadpans. “I hope it’s not so grave that you can’t continue with our mission; we are doing this for your sake after all.”

During lunch, they were supposed to finalize the plan to get Tsukishima back on the team. Terushima knows for sure that he is in no condition to think, let alone to conspire with the boys. He is well-aware of the risk he takes if he doesn’t comply with all the points in Sawamura’s deal… but does it matter anymore?

He bits his lip annoyed.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’m listening.”

“So, what I’ve wanted to tell you, is that Yamaguchi came up with a plan,” Bobata starts. Terushima leans closer, taking a wary look around. He spots Ennoshita on the other side of the cafeteria and drops his chopsticks into his soup.

‘What if he knows? What if Sawamura told him?’ he panics, fishing his chopsticks out of the bowl with fidgety motions.

“Yuuji, what on Earth do you do?” Bobata asks.

“Can we… probably continue with this plan on another day?” he whispers faint-heartedly, sinking slowly deeper into his chair. “I am not…”

“Yuuji,” Bobata stops him before he could disappear under the table. “Come on, get a grip. Don’t forget that we are all in a pinch thanks to you.”

“I… do you have time?”

“We don’t have much time until the end of lunch break, so…”

“Bo,” Terushima begs with puppy eyes. “Believe me, I am interested in the plan Yamaguchi came up with. I am more than willing to go along with anything. But today is no good…”

“No good.”

“It’s love,” he says. “And situation is grave enough that my brain can’t focus on anything else.”

“Is that so?” Bobata asks unimpressed.

“I did something terrible!” Terushima says, pushing his plate to the side and splaying all over the table.

“Yuuji. Your necktie is in my soup,” Bobata responds calmly pinching the piece of fabric and lifting it from his bowl.

“You won’t ask what I did?” Terushima asks, looking up helplessly.

“Not unless you want to talk about it,” Bobata says, munching on his rice.

“I want to, Bo! That’s what I’m trying to convey… but… I don’t know where to start.” Terushima huffs giving up. “I am as good as dead,” he whispers.

“Fine.” Bobata leans closer over the table. “Just what did you do?”

“I fell for the wrong person…”

“Hm.”

“And when I realized it, I became overly restless.”

“I faintly recall you asking me whether I’ve felt the urge to punch and kiss a person at the same time,” Bobata cuts in to hasten the conversation.

“And when I met them, even though I was angry, I couldn’t stop myself from helping them…”

“I don’t see anything terrible in this.”

“Then I kissed them,” Terushima says, hiding his head behind his arms.

“Forcibly?” the middle blocker’s expression darkens.

Terushima nods. “But that's not the worst,” he adds.

“Not the worst?” Bobata raises his head, wary of the tone of his friend’s voice.

“My… affection is… quite peculiar.”

“Hm,” Bobata hums along, listening intently. “Is it a boy?”

“Wha-!” Terushima jumps in his seat.

“My bad if I got it wrong,” Bobata continues. “I just made a deduction from this morning’s talk…”

“Nah. You are right,” Terushima says and he presses his lips together strongly. “I have feelings for someone who has the same equipment as me.”

“’Same equipment’, for God's sake, Yuuji,” Bobata snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Terushima shrugs. He is on the verge of a mental breakdown. He has to tell at least to Bobata, if no one else, otherwise he feels that he is going to explode. He knows Bobata since forever – same as Futamata, but with the exception that he actually trusts Bo – and he knows that even though the tall boy is outgoing and sociable, he knows when to keep his lips sealed.

Terushima gulps. All his feelings bottled up inside makes him feel as if there was a stopper in his throat.

“It’s Sawamura,” he breathes.

It’s Bobata’s turn to drop his chopsticks in his bowl.

Terushima – now, that his secret is out, and no one can take it back – takes a spoonful of rice, and munches on it.

“You crazy bastard,” Bobata mouths, barely audible.

“I told you so.”

It’s the calm before the storm. Then, from the corner of his eye, he notices Tsukishima, glancing at his way with a clearly disgusted expression on his face while Yamaguchi talks to him, and he is in shambles. The weight of his actions breeze the edge of his consciousness, and he starts shaking.

The rice won’t go down.

His thoughts wander off, reenacting the scene in the nurse’s office. Sawamura looked so cute, so charming and irresistible.

Terushima doesn't regret his decision.

But he is terrified by its consequences.

*

Breathing has never been so hard.

He walks back to the classroom in dead silence, following Bobata from a few steps’ distance. He is afraid to return to the class. What if it has already spread all around the school? What if everyone already knows? How will he be able to continue with his life and with volleyball?

He is mortified.

Every step is a struggle to take.

Few faces turn as he enters, even less rests on his face longer than a few seconds.

He sighs. Nothing extraordinary.

He makes his way to his desk, falling onto the desk top, burying his head under his arms.

Bobata lets him.

While the taller boy accepted the fact that Terushima’s crush is a boy with surprising ease, he is visibly shocked by the identity of his crush.

Terushima can't blame him. He is just as flabbergasted.

[kyloknightofren]

You’re Sure It’s Not Spelt Hucks?

So for the @verymerrykylux shindig that I’m totally late for, I got to write for @gingerbitch-hux. I’m so sorry it’s late. I have no excuses. I’m a lame dude. Anyways! I hope you like it. Thanks to @sithofren and @kyloren-sithlord for reading through this and giving it the polishing it needed!

There is something to this newfangled Facebook thing that Han is simply unable to wrap his mind around. Leia insists -- in that endlessly annoying Leia way of hers -- that he needs to get it in order to stay current with ‘this generation.’ Whatever that's supposed to mean. Han’s never met a computer he couldn't work his way around, but this god damned, imbecilic blue-and-white website of death is testing him in new and inspired ways.

He hates it.

His first friend, surprisingly, is Luke. He didn't even realize Tibetan monasteries had wifi, but proof to the contrary is staring him right in the face. Lando and Leia tie for second, because he can't find the little button that looks like a horribly mutilated and bleached upper body for a solid ten minutes while Leia sends him a series of increasingly concerned and illegible texts, using literally anything on the keyboard save actual letters, until he finally cedes defeat and calls her to ask for help.

She rolls her eyes at him but helps all the same. She's sweet like that -- burn and salve all in one.

It takes him a month to realize that he's missing something, or perhaps more accurately, someone. Han had simply assumed -- evidently wrongly -- that Ben would search up his name, click the little white face and their relationship would repair itself. The accident smoothed over, or perhaps even ignored; Ben’s attempts at running from the guilt that Han had no small part in exacerbating, resolved.

Searching ‘Ben Solo’ comes up with frustratingly little -- ‘Ben Organa’ produces even less. The internet is supposed to connect people, and all it’s left him with is the taste of palpable bitterness.

Leia gives him a knowing look over what could generously be considered spaghetti and spinach salad that night. She’s never been much of a cook, and Han himself can’t do much in the kitchen beyond opening the wrapper of a granola bar. The house feels empty with just the two of them, and Han can’t even fathom how much emptier it must feel when he can’t take anymore of acting domestic, when it’s just Leia.

“He’s not on there, you know,” she starts, apropos of nothing after too many minutes of uncomfortable silence.

Han grunts in response, digging into his pasta with renewed vigour. Perhaps if he just doesn’t respond, this conversation can simply stop. Of course, Han knows that’s a losing battle.

“I try looking, every few months. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for this internet crap. But -- I happen to know someone. He’s rather good with technology, always getting me out of a bind when I need it.” She smiles at him -- it’s small, but significant. Like everything about her. Han can’t remember the last time he saw her smile like that.

“Is that so?” he asks, the beginnings of a smirk playing about his mouth. “I suppose I could take another look for you, princess.”

“My hero,” she says, rolling her eyes with something he hopes is fondness.

The next days are spent in a fevered state, scrolling through the blue-and-white screen of death. He’s always worked best when he has some sort of task to complete, some goal to reach for.

It seems unlikely that Ben simply isn’t on the internet — he’s a young man, after all. Or at least, that’s how Han remembers him. It’s been close to ten years. Things can change.

Still, no matter how hard he works, there’s no tangible results to give to Leia. no gold medal to award for a job well done. Google refuses to cooperate with him — all of the results pulled up relate back to the accident. One particular news site has the gall to refer to it as a tragedy, which is frankly absurd.

Han resorts to means he never thought he’d use — calling Luke’s daughter and praying that she doesn’t tell Leia. Rey insists that she hasn’t heard from her cousin in at least five years, which is still somehow better than Han himself.

But, she does give him a name, someone he was apparently seeing when they last ran into each other (in a coffee shop of all confounded places). Hucks. Which can hardly be the real name of a human being, but Han supposes that if Rey can be married to someone named Finn, then who is he to judge?

Hucks turns up...nothing. Well, not nothing exactly, but unless Hucks lives in the Bahamas and is a very busty sixty year old retiree whose given name is Pamela, Han probably has the wrong person. Still, he’s not here to judge Ben or his life choices (much), so he sends a link to Rey via email and waits for confirmation.

What he gets in response is a series of -- what are they? Emogicons? -- that indicate someone crying from laughter. Or at least, Han thinks that’s what it is. Rey sends another email to follow up, informing him that he’s spelt Hucks wrong, which is hardly his fault. Who the hell assumes it’s spelt ‘Hux’?

Idiots, that’s who.

Hux is apparently a very well-off lawyer with a strange fixation with ginger cats and a child that Han assumes is his own, given the bright shock of red hair and what Han can only consider to be most morose pout he’s ever seen on a toddler. He apparently doesn’t have a first name, and might be the most boring person Han could have ever conceived of.

His relationship status isn’t publically listed, and as he scrolls through pages and pages of Hux’s very tame Facebook history, he can’t help but be disappointed that there’s nothing on his wall from Ben Solo-Organa-whatever.

There is, however, a lot from a person named Kylo Ren, whose profile picture looks like a hunk of metal garbage in a white room. Leave it to uppity rich folks like Hux to be friends with modern artists. At the very least, this Kylo Ren character has good taste in animal pictures -- Han is a particular fan of the one with the cat holding onto a railing with the caption ‘Hang In There!’.

Han debates, for the better part of fifteen minutes, when is the appropriate time to send a friend request to someone you’ve never met before. He texts Leia for a second opinion and she replies with a series of thumbs up and the weird hands that look like they’re straight out of a televangelist gathering. Which probably means something like ‘go for it’, but Han has never been very good at figuring out what Leia’s trying to say without making a giant mess of everything.

At 3:02, which is probably a very respectable time for lawyers to get tired of working and go on their phones, Han sends his request.

It takes a week and three days for him to get a response from Hux, during which time Han alternately frets that this entire thing is a waste of time and curses Hux’s name for making him wait for so long.

<< Who the hell is this?

There’s a moment of clarity when Han realizes that yes, of course Facebook has a private messaging system. No wonder Leia kept teasing him about posting things onto Luke’s wall. Damn stupid website.

<< Hello? I’m very busy and I don’t have all day to sit here and wait for decrepit old men to figure out how to use the internet. I don’t want whatever it is you’re selling.

>> hi no dont go my name is han

>> i think u knew my son

>> ben

<< Jesus fucking Christ.

>> thats not my name but ill take the compliment

>> i just want to talk to ben

<< We’re all very happy without you and your miscreant ways, thank you very much.

>> wat does that even mean

<< “Ben” has told me all about you. We aren’t interested.

Han is...puzzled, to say the least. He knows he wasn’t the ideal father, knows the accident was his fault, but he doesn’t think that that qualifies him to be treated like the literal scum of the earth. But still. Ben knows this man.

>> wat do you mean “ben”

>> his name is ben

<< Perhaps it used to be, yes. That’s no longer what he goes by.

>> y not?

>> ben is a perfectly good name

>> its a family name

<< Yippee for that. It’s still not his name.

<< Look, I could spend all day arguing about what name my incredibly asinine husband prefers to go by, but that would be a) pointless, and b) a waste of everyone’s time, but most importantly mine.

>> i just want to make sure hes ok

>> wait

>> husband???!?!?!?!??!?!

<< Fuck.

<< Fine.

<< If I answer all your questions, will you promise not to try to contact “Ben”? He’s very . . . delicate, about things like this.

>> but i want to see him

<< Good for you. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.

>> ok

There’s a brief negotiation, mostly steamrolled by Hux, where they discuss where to meet. They settle on a coffee shop in downtown which Han assumes must be close to Hux’s office. He’s never heard of it before, but -- it’s something.

Han hates the downtown core with all of his being. Where the hell is everyone supposed to park? It’s damn ridiculous. He circles around the block where Hux’s chosen coffee shop is for the better part of twenty minutes before finally finding a spot, squeezed in between two cars that independently are probably worth at least five times what the Falcon is.

He’s wearing his finest jacket — the one with only one grease stain — and a pair of probably clean brown corduroys. Definitely not because he wants to impress his...son-in-law? He’s still not fully able to wrap his head around the concept, no matter how hard he tries. He has a son-in-law, and that son-in-law has a child. Does that make him a grandfather? Does he even want to be a grandfather?

He hasn’t told Leia about this meeting, mostly because he doesn’t want to get her hopes up. Han has spent the better part of twenty years disappointing her, and there’s something about how tenuous their relationship is at the moment that tells him that if he well and truly fucks this up, there might not be any going back.

Hux is easy to spot — he’s the only one with ginger hair and a frown in the whole damn place. He’s sipping fancy coffee, which is to say, coffee that didn’t come from the McDonald's drive through around the corner from his garage.

He claps Hux on the back as he comes around, sliding into the seat opposite with a gruff “Hello.” Hux gives the watch on his hand a cursory glance before glaring up at Han.

“You’re seven minutes late.” His voice is clipped, accented in a way Han wasn’t expecting. It reminds him of Luke’s Uncle Ben, of the Arizona desert and his old smuggling routes.

“Yeah, well, you try parking around here and see if you can get anywhere on time, son.” Hux rolls his eyes, seemingly unimpressed.

From what Han can gleam, Hux is always seemingly unimpressed.

“Yes, well, that’s all well and good but I have a meeting I need to be at in thirty-three minutes, so if we could simply cut to the proverbial chase, I would be most appreciative.” Hux taps a finger on the cup of his fancy coffee, which seems to be more white fluff than actual coffee. The motion draws Han’s attention down, towards the ring gleaming on his hand.

“So — you really — you and Ben?”

“Me and Kylo, yes. If you want to have this conversation, the least you could do is make an attempt to call him by his preferred name.”

“Wait — you mean the Kylo Ren who posts all the cat pictures on your Facebook?”

“Oh my fucking — yes. Of course. Obviously. That Kylo. Your spawn, Kylo.”

“Oh.” Han stares down at the table, at Hux’s hand again. The ring is gold, plain and unadorned but clearly polished regularly and meticulously. There’s something about it that makes Han wish he’d worn his own wedding ring, if only to prove that he’s not a bad husband as well as a bad father. “Are you — happy?”

The question contorts Hux’s face into something more closely resembling a sneer -- it’s clearly not often that he considers happiness as something important, a metric to be closely observed. “I — yes. I suppose we are.”

“That’s good.”

“Indeed.”

They sit in silence — awkward, uncomfortable silence — for what feels like an eternity but is more likely only a minute or two. “He’s an artist, you know,” Hux starts, clearly trying to reach for any topic of conversation that the two of them might have in common. “He has his own studio, and — well, I suppose he doesn’t do as much now because of Cillian, but still. He’s very well known within art circles, if you go in for that sort of thing.”

“Cillian?” Han asks, desperate for anything to cling to in the hopes of continuing the conversation.

“Yes, Cillian. He’s rather brilliant, for a four year old. Kylo is — well, he’s much better with him than I am, but that’s perhaps because Kylo still has the mind of a child locked inside the body of a giant.” The words are harsh, but they’re said with the barest hint of affection — the first actual sign of emotion Hux has displayed throughout the entire conversation.

“And he’s — yours?”

“Ours,” Hux corrects quickly. It’s evidently a conversation he’s had before, if the rapid way he replies is any indication. “He’s ours, no matter who’s biology he’s got in him.”

“Right, yeah.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Leia or me getting to spend some time with Be-Kylo?” Han knows what the answer is most likely going to be, but he can’t help but ask anyways. For Leia’s sake, if not his own.

“I -— look. You seem like a nice guy, sort of. Kylo’s told me all sorts of absurd things about you that might be true, but given his proclivity towards grandiose exaggeration, probably aren’t.” Han nods along, waiting for the definitive ‘no’ that he’s expecting. “But I can’t speak for Kylo personally. It’s not my place.”

Hux reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a business card in matte black with the name ‘Kylo Ren’ emblazoned in plain white font. “Send him an email. Don’t bother calling because he doesn’t answer his work phone and he has no idea how to check voicemail, no matter what he says to the contrary.”

“Thanks, kid,” Han says, taking the card and putting it in his pocket like it’s a winning lotto ticket. In some ways, it is.

“Don’t mention it,” Hux says, standing up and straightening his suit. “Really, don’t. I sleep on the couch enough as it is.”

Han chuckles, sliding out of his chair. “Yeah, his mom’s the same way. They’re always making you think they hate you when it’s the damn opposite.”

Hux makes a face, something between pained and affectionate, before looking down at his watch. “Well, this has been — something. I ought to —”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on, kid.” Hux glares, but offers his hand to Han anyways. The shake is firm — surprising, given Hux’s relatively willowy figure.

“Have a good day,” Hux says, by way of closing remarks. Han smiles and thinks that, for the first time in the better part of a decade, he actually might.

[bromfieldhall]

“Redwood” - A Mentalist Fanfiction

TIMELINE: Set some time after season five episode, ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’. Goes AU from there.

SYNOPISIS: Jane and Lisbon are forced into a deadly game when they try and catch a new serial killer.

PAIRING: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon - Jisbon

Previous Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

CHAPTER 6

"Stop wasting shots," Ben growled at Zack as they headed after Lisbon and Jane. "Take your time. They're easy to track, crashing through all the undergrowth like that."

"I'm not wasting them," his nephew refuted defiantly before suddenly smiling nastily. "I'm making them panic. Keeping them running and wearing them out. When they're exhausted, I'll shoot them. The guy first, a shot to leg, then the arm, maybe the shoulder, let him bleed out slow. Once he's gone I can have some fun with the woman, then I'll kill her too. Bullet to the brain; it'll blow her head clean off."

His uncle saw the way Zack seemed to get off on his thoughts. It hadn't been the first time he'd noticed that particular trait in his nephew and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.

"You're a sadistic son of a bitch," Ben snorted in disgust. "Been saying it for years."

"I'm my father's son," he retorted, bitterly.

"There's no denying that," Ben concurred. He looked over at his own son and beckoned him over. "I want you to go back and fetch the dogs. They're going in deeper and I think we'll need them to flush them out."

"Dad," Wade whined, disappointed at being sent away when it was just starting to get interesting.

"Do as you're told. No arguments and be quick," he ordered harshly. "We'll steer the Fed's towards the creek and meet you there."

The youth stared at his father for a few seconds but couldn't find the courage to disobey. With a shake of his head, he turned and trotted off back in the direction of the cabin.

"You should think about getting him a leash too," Zack commented sarcastically.

"I'm better off getting you a muzzle," Ben retorted irately. "Now shut up."

Zack smiled. He didn't care what the old man said anymore, he'd had enough. Once they'd killed the Fed's he was going to make sure his uncle had a little accident of his own too.

xxTheMentalistxx

Lisbon and Jane sank down behind one of the giant redwood trees and each caught their breath.

"We can't keep on running like this," said Lisbon between pants as she laid the rifle across her lap. "We need to find some water soon."

Jane merely grunted in reply. His legs burned almost as much as his lungs and he didn't think he could utter more than two words together at that particular moment in time.

They sat next to each other in silence for a few moments until their breathing evened out then Lisbon turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed and his head rested back against the trunk, face flushed from exertion. Sweat beaded on his brow and she watched a drop wend its way down the side of face, the rivulet subtly changing direction every time it hit a slight imperfection in his skin. She lifted her hand and reached out to wipe it away with her thumb but caught herself just in time. Letting her arm drop to her side she couldn't quell the unwelcome feeling of guilt that rose within her. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her insisting that he come along. If anything happened to him now it'd be all her fault.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, still staring at him.

He opened his eyes at her softly spoken apology and turned his head to gaze back at her. Confusion and no small amount of surprise swirled in his cerulean depths as he noted the troubled expression on her face.

"What for?"

"For forcing you to come on this case with me," she confessed, quietly.

He took in her glowing cheeks and bright eyes that the adrenaline and exercise had produced. Her tousled hair was slightly damp at the ends making it curl and even with the bruising coming out nicely on her forehead he still thought she was really quite beautiful. The merest hint of a smile touched his lips as he wondered what she'd think if he told her that he really wouldn't want to be anywhere else but by her side...and not just for then, but always.

He imagined such a declaration would go down like a lead balloon. Those emotions were best left until after they'd dealt with Red John; if they managed to eventually catch the serial killer, obviously. Not to mention if he were even still alive when it was finally all over.

So many obstacles, but he liked to think that one day, maybe, there might be a future for them both together. But first they had to get out of this mess.

"Meh, no need to apologise to me, Lisbon. You can't force me to do anything I don't want to do, you should know that by now," he replied with a wry smile.

The brunette's eyebrows rose at his flippant words but a part of her was glad that he was choosing to be glib. It was a far more familiar territory than the one she'd just strayed into and so taking his lead, she smiled back at him sweetly.

"I think your ego misunderstood me, Jane," she retorted mockingly. "I meant I'm sorry I forced you to come because if I hadn't Cho would be with me right now and I'd have a better chance of getting out of this crap alive."

"Ouch," he replied with a wince. "A dagger right into the heart of my virility. Painful."

"I'll think you'll survive," she retorted with a snort.

Jane silently agreed with her. They both knew he wasn't hero material so it was pointless even denying it. Lisbon stirred beside him and he looked over just as she stood up and held the rifle at the ready.

"You hear something?" he asked softly, automatically tensing and straining to listen for any signs of their hunters being nearby.

"No," she replied as she looked back from where they'd just come. "But they can't be far behind us. We should get going."

The consultant stood up, ignoring the heaviness of his legs. Lisbon was right; they couldn't keep on running. He, in particular, just wasn't in good enough shape. Looking around cautiously, he saw the trail of broken and trampled ferns they'd left in their panicked wake. They were making it too easy for the men chasing them to follow. They needed to do something else. A little misdirection.

"We need to backtrack," he said, turning to Lisbon with a sudden smile.

She stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Backtrack?" she queried dubiously. "But I thought you said it was better for us to head deeper into the forest?"

"I've changed my mind," he told her, feeling a surge of renewed vigour pump through his veins. "Follow me."

Lisbon stayed put for a moment then let out a sigh and headed after him as he began tramping through the foliage.

xxTheMentalistxx

"I don't like it," stated Cho as he pocketed his phone and turned to Rigsby and Van Pelt. "Lisbon doesn't go this long without checking in, especially in the middle of a case. Something's up." Rigsby grinned suggestively and opened his mouth to speak but Cho quickly cut him dead with a curt, "Don't say it."

Rigsby immediately sobered and looked down, a little put out by his friends tone.

"I can check for the GPS on their phones," Grace offered, giving her ex love a slight frown at his almost ill-placed levity.

"Sounds good," Cho concurred. "They were checking out Old State Highway so let's head there while you're doing that. It might help us get a quicker fix on their location," he continued before glancing at Rigsby and adding, "Probably best if Van Pelt rides up front with me."

Rigsby scowled slightly then jerked open the rear door of the SUV and climbed in slamming it hard behind him. Feeling like a scolded child, he folded his arms and sulkily stared out of the window.

Cho and Van Pelt both got into the vehicle then the redhead opened her ever present laptop and waited for it to power up while she fastened her safety belt. Cho started the car and they set off towards the old highway.

xxTheMentalistxx

Jane moved quickly, treading down the foliage as he made a trail towards a nearby fallen tree. Once there he came to a stop and looked at his handiwork, seemingly pleased.

"Give me your jacket," he commanded, holding out his hand.

"My jacket?" repeated Lisbon dubiously. "No."

"Come on, I'll buy you a new one," the consultant urged, waggling his fingers for the item of clothing.

"Why do you want it?" the brunette asked curtly, even though her hands were already at the lapels and beginning to slip it off her shoulders.

"I want to make them think we're hiding here," he replied, pointing to the tree as he grabbed the jacket she reluctantly held out.

"Why can't you leave yours?" she queried with slight chagrin. That was her favourite.

"First of all this is a quality suit," the blond announced as he gestured to himself, causing her jaw to set angrily at his implication that hers wasn't. "And second of all, I've still got my notebook in my pocket and if I leave my jacket here, I won't have anywhere else to carry it."

Lisbon watched him arrange her clothing in such a way that anyone approaching would notice some of the black fabric poking out from the side of the trunk as though they hadn't hidden quite well enough.

"There, that should do it," he said coming around the front to see how it looked. "Yes. Perfect."

"Now what do we do?" the agent asked, quickly scanning the area before looking back at him.

"Well, you either climb a tree and pick them off one by one," he suggested with a smile. "Or we could take a very careful walk back the way we came. Make sure we don't leave such an obvious trail for them to track."

Lisbon eyed a nearby tree without enthusiasm then nodded at him. "Let's go for the second option," she decided.

Jane grinned and held out his hand for her to take. She looked at it for a moment then deliberately brushed passed him as she stalked away. Allowing her hand to be grabbed while running scared was one thing, to offer it willingly; that meant something else entirely and she wasn't going there today.

The consultant's expression dropped a little at her snub but Lisbon didn't notice as she cautiously navigated her way through the thick undergrowth, trying not to snap too many fern fronds along the way.

She could sense Jane close behind her as she moved stealthily, cringing slightly at every little snap of a twig and crunching of leaves underneath her feet. Her only comfort was that when they encountered the men coming in the opposite direction as they undoubtedly would at some point, they'd be making the same amount of noise. More even, as they probably wouldn't be so careful.

They'd been walking only a few minutes when Lisbon suddenly heard something up ahead and to the left of them. She halted and put her hand up to signal Jane to do the same. A bright glint in the distance caught her eye and she quickly spun around then launched herself at an unsuspecting Jane. He let out an 'oof' as she grabbed him around the waist and they ended up in a tangle of limbs on the forest floor with Lisbon laying fully on top of her consultant.

The fall knocked the rifle from her grip and it skidded away, coming to a stop under a nearby large fern. She left it where it was and clamped a hand over Jane's mouth to prevent him from saying anything as she urgently whispered, "Hush."

The consultant's eyes widened and he nodded slightly in acknowledgment so she slowly removed her hand. They could hear the men approaching and Jane automatically placed his arms around her slim form, his hands splaying across her back as if it would somehow help them become more invisible.

She turned her head and laid it on his shoulder, trying to control the slight shaking in her limbs that was threatening to overwhelm her. They were only relying on the foliage for their protection, the tall fronds arching over them and aiding their concealment. Feeling Lisbon's heart hammering against his chest and the way she shook in his arms, Jane tightened his grip on her, hoping to convey some reassurance.

The brunette closed her eyes and pressed herself down onto him even further, trying to obtain that tiny inch of space that might be the difference between being discovered or not.

They could hear the men talking quietly to each other, although not loud enough to hear exactly what they were saying. The tone of their voices betrayed their displeasure; whether at the situation or at each other was hard to determine. They walked swiftly on by and as the sounds of their footsteps faded, Jane let out a shuddering breath that he hadn't realised he was holding.

"I think they're gone," he whispered into her ear; although he only loosened his hold enough that his hands dropped lower to span her waist.

Lisbon lay still a moment longer, trying to get her rigid form to relax as her shakes subsided. However, now that the imminent danger had passed, she found herself tensing for a whole different reason as she became very aware of her consultant's warm, firm body lying beneath hers. Despite the fearful situation of only a moment ago, her own body tingled from top to toe as it revelled in the heady feeling of lying so intimately against him. It gave her pause to wonder what sort of person she was that she could glean a perverse kind of pleasure in such dire a circumstance but then again, adrenaline was a powerful force. It made people feel and do the craziest of things at times.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes to look down at him. They were so close their breaths mingled as they gazed at each other intently. She only had to move a few, scant centimetres to close the gap between them and then she'd finally know what it felt like to have his lips on hers. She noticed his eyes darken a shade and his lips part slightly as the tension stretched out until it practically crackled between them. She felt his fingers dig into her waist, her skin burning beneath his touch even though her top still served as a barrier for any real contact. Her breathing deepened. It was what she wanted, more than anything, she suddenly realised; but did she have the guts to actually do it?

It would change things between them irrevocably. She wouldn't be able to pass it off as a mere spur of the moment thing. They both knew it would be a conscious decision on her part if she chose finally to cross that line.

The moment dragged on and just when Jane was about to broach that forbidden barrier himself a distant shot rang out followed by the panicked screeching of several birds, breaking the spell.

With such a strident reminder of their current situation ringing in her ears, Lisbon placed her hands either side of Jane's shoulders then hurriedly pushed herself up and scrambled off of him.

Jane let her go and swallowed hard as he watched her brush down her jeans. From where he lay, he could see the slight betraying tremor of her hands as they struggled to do even such a menial task. He slowly sat up and brought all his mental abilities into play as he tried to calm his own unruly body down. He could see her face was extremely flushed and judging by the way she had still yet to meet his gaze he knew she couldn't have been unaware of how much being that close to her had affected him.

He stood up as she bent down to retrieve the rifle and after a cursory glance in her direction he looked away. Seeing her like that really wasn't going to help his condition in any way he decided as his gazed skywards in the vain hope that if there were a God he'd throw some divine intervention his way and help them both through this awkward moment.

Lisbon chanced flicking Jane a glance as she came back with the gun and seeing he was ready she immediately continued on the way they were going before they'd seen the men. The consultant took her lead and followed silently behind, shedding his jacket to brush off the back that was covered in leaves and dirt.

"There were only two of them. We'd best be careful in case the third man is around here somewhere," he cautioned in a low voice as he donned his jacket again.

A nod of the head was the only response he received and he damped down a wave of frustration. It was becoming more and more obvious to him now that despite his own dogged reticence and many reasons why not to, they were just going to have to stop skirting around the issue of their feelings for each other and at the very least talk about it. True, he could pretend that it was down to the rush of being in danger, but he knew he'd be lying to himself and he was certain that Lisbon had realised it too. She wasn't stupid and if nothing else, it would stop the silent treatment he received every time she got a little too close to revealing herself.

He really was finding it quite tiresome.

xxTheMentalistxx

Zack angrily picked up the offending black jacket then tossed it carelessly away as he scanned the surrounding area.

"Where the hell are they?" he ground out irately.

Ben slowly turned around looking for the telltale sign of which direction Jane and Lisbon had headed. He had far more years experience at hunting than Zack and knew exactly what he was searching for…and then he spotted it. A broken fern frond at the farthest end of the downed tree trunk. Nondescript in its own way but Ben hurried over to it to check it out. It was a fresh break and although there was always a chance that it could have been done by an animal, it was slim given the height and angle off the ground. Besides, his gut told him he was right. The one time he'd hadn't listened to it was when his brother had told him that Zack wasn't a psychopath, he was just in need of some discipline. How that had come back to bite him in the ass.

"I've found something," he said to Zack. "You go on to the creek and meet up with Wade. The dogs will lead you back to me."

"No way," his nephew replied. "If you're going after them, I'm coming with you."

"I haven't got time to argue, boy," Ben retorted angrily. "If they get away then we're all going down, do you understand? Now go get Wade and bring those dogs back. I'm sick and tired of your games."

Zack's jaw clenched as he stared at his uncle in disdain. Without warning he levelled his rifle at the older man but Ben was just as quick. They eyed each other down the barrels of their guns but Zack's overwhelming desire to stay alive proved too much and he lowered his gun with harsh laugh.

"You'd better watch your back, old man," he cautioned with a sneer before turning a walking away.

Ben kept his rifle trained on his nephew until he was sure he'd gone then let out a sigh of relief as he relaxed his aim. He'd won this round but he knew there would soon come a time where he was going to have to do something about Zack once and for all.

With one last look in the direction his nephew had gone, Ben turned around and concentrated on finding Lisbon and Jane.

xxTheMentalistxx

Van Pelt tutted in annoyance as the GPS tracker failed yet again.

"I can't get a lock on their phones," she announced worriedly.

"What about the car?" Cho questioned as he finally pulled onto Old State Highway.

"I'll give it a try," she said, tapping away at the keyboard. There were a couple of minutes of tense silence then she stated urgently, "Got it. About five kilometres north of here."

The stoic agent nodded in response and pressed harder on the gas pedal. How was it that they could get a fix on their car but not their phones?

They passed a lagoon and continued on until Cho had to slow for a tight left hand corner.

"It should be somewhere here," the red head declared, looking avidly out of the windscreen.

He manoeuvred the car smoothly around the bend only to slam on the brakes when Rigsby let out a sudden cry from the backseat.

"Stop! I think I saw something in the trees back there," he exclaimed as he jabbed his finger on his window by way of pointing the direction.

Cho quickly performed a U-turn and drove back to the bend where he pulled off the road so as not to inconvenience any other driver that might by chance happen along the little used road.

Van Pelt propped the laptop onto the top of the dashboard then got out with the men to have a look around. Rigsby jogged forward into the forest to where he thought he'd caught a glimpse of a car parked between two trees.

"It's here," he called grimly as he spied Lisbon's damaged SUV and went over to it. "Looks like they had an accident. Drivers side took the hit."

The other two agents joined him and together they checked over the vehicle inside and out. They soon found that the guns were gone and that there was a small smear of blood on the steering wheel.

"Looks like Lisbon was hurt," Cho commented impassively. "Not too bad though."

"No guns so I guess they're armed at least," said Van Pelt trying to be optimistic.

"Armed against what though?" Rigsby asked with a puzzled look. "I mean, why didn't they just call us? And why is the car pushed all the way back here, away from the road?"

"Because something else happened here," Cho replied, looking around at the forest as though it would somehow magically reveal the events that had unfolded there. "Whatever it is, they're in trouble and we need to find them, quick."

"I'll see if I can get a fix on their phones again," Van Pelt immediately offered before heading back to their car.

"I'll call local PD and get them to come and tow the car and get forensics on it," Rigsby declared, pulling out his phone.

"Good. I'll call Sheriff Newland and let them know they're missing; see if we can set up a search," said Cho as he too got out his phone.

As he waited for his call to be answered, Cho glanced over at the battered SUV again and tried to quell the uneasiness that had settled in his stomach. Something was off about the whole accident thing. Lisbon didn't have accidents. Ever.

Which begged the questions; what the hell really happened here? And where the heck were they now?

He just hoped he found out the answers before it was too late.

END CHAPTER 6

[thesnootyushers]

What are The Snooty Ushers looking forward to most in 2017?

2016 is well and truly in the rear view mirror now, and as the New Year haze is slowly clearing we are ready to stride into 2017 with renewed vigour. And what films should you pencil into your brand new calendars and diaries? Dan has already looked at a few films that might fly under the radar in 2017 here, the best upcoming horrors here, and some of this year’s riskier films here, but right here is where you can find our Most Anticipated Films of 2017!

(NB All release dates mentioned are the latest information on the planned UK releases, and are subject to change)

10. Thor: Ragnarok (Taika Waititi) Release Date: 27th October

James: This is all about the director. Taika Waititi has made two great films in What We Do In The Shadows and Hunt For The Wilderpeople, and the thought of what he could do in the Marvel Cinematic Universe is tantalising.

9. Trainspotting 2 (Danny Boyle) Release Date: 27th January

Dave: As a Scotsman and a product of the 90s, Trainspotting was huge for me.  I loved how it took a group of pretty despicable characters and made you care about them.  I was 19 when this was in the cinema and I saw 4 times and 100 more since.  I have read the book twice and seen it on stage.  I can not wait to see what has happened to these characters over the last 20 years.  I am happy that Boyle has gone his own way rather that adapt Welsh’s lukewarm follow up novel Porno.  We have waited long enough for this, I am positive it will be worth it.

8. Paddington 2 (Paul King) Release Date: 24th November

James: Paddington is a heart warming family film that leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy. The chance to visit the bear from Peru again can’t come soon enough!

No trailer yet for Paddington 2, so here’s the trailer for the first.

7. Star Wars: Episode VIII (Rian Johnson) Release Date: 15th December

Welshy:  People will reminisce  in 30 years time and say “it was the best in the series”. Hand to god,  this will be our generation’s Empire Strikes Back.

No trailer yer, but here’s a trailer for the joyful The Force Awakens

6. Spider-Man: Homecoming (John Watts) Release Date: 7th July

Rich: Spider-Man joins the Marvel Cinematic Universe again for his first Marvel Studios solo movie, Spider-Man: Homecoming. The trailer is bursting with classic Spider-man quips and action, but it also shows you just enough of the characters and villains to keep a little bit of mystery about the plot .Directed by Jon Watts who directed hidden gem Cop Car it looks like he’s paid attention to some faults of previous Spidey instalments and is giving us a lot of things we haven’t seen before in this one. Lets hope the franchise can find new heights and stick around for years to come. Also go and watch Cop Car, it’s brilliant!

5. Alien: Covenant (Ridley Scott) Release Date: 19th May

Rich: Sir Ridley Scott is reunited with his baby, the Alien franchise which he helped create in 1979. It’s been tough going for this film franchise and its numerous directors and sequels, but I feel none came close to recreating what Sir Ridley Scott had done. Obviously the attempted reboot in Prometheus (2012) was a bit hit or miss with audiences but Scott seems determined to win back our trust with this glorious trailer which is dripping with the Alien style and aesthetic. Scott seems set on still fleshing out the universe but also returning to his roots of bloody and terrifying. Check out the trailer below and see what I mean.

4. John Wick: Chapter 2 (Chad Stahelski) Release Date: 10th February

Dan: Good lord was John Wick one of the best action films released in the past 10 years, and one that pretty much came out of nowhere. Who would have thought a film, starring Keanu Reeves, about a former hitman and his dog would be such an entertaining action packed watch. Not only did Reeves do brilliantly, the first brought us fresh directing talent, one of whom has been rewarded with Deadpool 2. John Wick only scratched the surface of this potentially massive underworld of criminals, assassins and hotels, and I for one can’t wait to see how they follow it up.

3. Logan (James Mangold) Release Date: 2nd March

Welshy: So here we are at the end of the line for the Ol’ Canucklehead. Well, for Hugh Jackman anyway. Having had a rocky start with his abysmal first solo outing, then gaining  great momentum in his second we reach the third and final chapter. Now oh sweet Mary the source material this is based on is one of the most glorious narratives ever put to seven panels and thirteen pages. It looks like they are going all out with this final instalment, James Mangold has learned from The Wolverine and now will showcase the best there is at what he does. Just Watch.

2. Blade Runner 2049 (Denis Villenuve) Release Date: 6th Ocotber

Dave: Forget Star Wars and Superheroes, this is what 2017 is about for me.  Blade Runner is one of my favourite films of all time.  Now, normally I would be sceptical about a belated sequel and when it was first mooted I dismissed it out of hand, then along came Denis Villenueve, he is one of the most exciting and promising directors working today.  Ryan Gosling most definitely has the talent to carry any film and then there is the returning Harrison Ford.  The teaser looks like they have nailed the feel of the original.  Here is hoping.

1. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (James Gunn) Release Date: 28th April

Dan: As a fan of James Gunn with his work on Super, and Slither, I was intrigued by the first Guardians of the Galaxy. Then the trailer hit and I just knew it would be special. Watching it in the cinema was the best experience I’ve had watching a Sci-Fi film since my mother took me to see the re-releases of Star Wars: Episodes IV-VI when I was younger, if not better. I’ve never been this excited for a film for as long as I can remember, I’m actually more excited than I was for Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

  And that is our Top 10 – let us know what you are looking forward to in 2017! For more upcoming 2017 releases, check out the upcoming horrors of 2017, the 10 films to keep you eye on in 2017, and the riskiest films of 2017.

Until next time, stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold. See you soonish.

PS As a special treat for reading all the way to the end, here are our individual Top 10 lists:

James 1. Blade Runner 2049 – Come on. I was looking forward to this before I saw Sicario. Then Arrival was amazing. In Villeneuve we trust. 2. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 – Can they capture lightning in a bottle again? 3. Paddington 2 – One of the most charming films in years gets a sequel. 4. War For the Planet Of The Apes – After two amazing films I’m pumped for another! 5. Logan –His scene in X Men: Apocolypse was the best thing in it, and the trailer looks epic. Time to say goodbye to one of the best characters we have seen 6. John Wick: Chapter 2 – Will this be a Raid 2 style upgrade or a Taken 2 style retread? I imagine a bigger budget, but will it work again? 7. Thor: Ragnorak – Man, I just love What We Do In The Shadows and Hunt For The Wilderpeople 8. Dark Tower – Years of expectation means I can’t get my hopes up too much. But still… 9. Kingsman: The Golden Circle – Manners. Maketh. Man. 10. The LEGO Batman Movie – Yes, I AM still a 7 year old, so what?

Split – M. Night Shymalan’s comeback? Alien: Covenant – Prometheus has dulled my expectations of being blown away by this, but on re-watches that is an interesting movie. Kong: Skull Island – Godzilla? Justice League/Wonder Woman Spider-Man: Homecoming Star Wars: Episode VIII: Pressure is on, will need to stand on it own (can’t rely on nostalgia like The Force Awakens) but Looper is a great movie (and those episodes of Breaking Bad), so I have faith in Rian Johnson

Dan

Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol 2

Logan

Alien: Covenant –

It

John Wick 2

Blade Runner 2049

The Dark Tower

Star Wars: Episode VIII

Soldado

Ghost in the Shell

Dave

Blade Runner 2049 – Best director working today, a classic in waiting

Trainspotting 2 – cant’t wait to see these characters again

Guardians of The Galaxy 2 – More of the same please…

John Wick 2 – I could watch Keanu play this character all day long

Murder on The Orient Express – I love a murder mystery, just check the cast

Logan – Old Man Logan! Or as close as we will ever get on the big screen

Soldado – just watch Sicario and you will see why this is on the list

Alien Covenant – back to its horror roots?  Can’t be as bad as Prometheus right?

Paddington 2 – First one was a delight, Whishaw’s vocal performance was spot on

Despicable Me 3 – These movies are just fun.  Trey Parker’s villain looks a hoot.

The Mummy, Live By Night, Episode VIII, The Six Million Dollar Man, Lego Batman, Sing, King Arthur, Baywatch, Pitch Perfect 3

Welshy – Mine is very comic heavy

Star Wars episode 8

Logan

Guardians Of The Galaxy Vol. 2

Spiderman Homecoming

Power Rangers

Thor 3 Ragnarok

Wonder Woman

Justice League

Blade Runner 2049

The Coldest City

Rich

Alien: Covenant – come on… seems like its going back to its roots which is great

Spider-man: Homecoming – lets hope it skips the origin story

Eyes of the Mother – artsy, moody horror flick

Bladerunner 2049 – Trailer is dripping with style

Ghost in the Shell – big fan of the original anime

John Wick Chapter 2 – more shooty shooty

Baywatch – The Rock and Zac Efron!

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol.2

Justice League – It has to succeed, right?

Dark Tower – Will this even release in 2017?

2017 is full of blockbusters, sequels and franchises, but what films are The Snooty Ushers looking forward to most? What are The Snooty Ushers looking forward to most in 2017?