#I simply had to this comparison has not left my mind for the past nine months !!

[breakbleheavens]

#jedi taylor

#tswiftedit #taylorswiftedit #tswiftgif #taylor swift #the eras tour #eras tour #eras tour film #1989 #blank space #*mine #*2023 #*gifs #mine: eras tour #mine: 1989 #1k #this is the most unserious post I've made in my life ASDKLFJAH #I simply had to this comparison has not left my mind for the past nine months !! #taylor listen I need you to cast my other glow stick wielding fave in your upcoming movie

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you do the oxygen loss prompt with Cygate, but instead of the human being their S/O it’s their adopted human child? Sorry if that’s weird but I crave space dad content with every fiber of my being

There is nothing weird about space dad content, it's good and pure and the world needs more of it, thus I am happy to provide.

Here's links to other posts of this prompt!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: You're Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Cyclonus/Tailgate

Adopted Human Reader

·Tailgate was the primary driving force behind your adoption, but Cyclonus was in no way opposed, merely more reserved as you were welcomed into their lives through an unexpected but life-changing adoption. Though somewhat new to being a couple and quite new to parenthood, they've done an excellent job getting you set up for your shared life together as a family. You even have your own room right across from there's! Today though you're chilling with them in preparation for a movie night, sitting atop a table as snacks are decided on and the list of potential films is narrowed. Cyclonus is mostly content to let the two of you pick what you want, though he does try to encourage the entertainment selection to be more... educational and the snacks a modicum healthier.

·Your greatest struggle is choosing the final winner from your options left, until of course, the electricity begins to cut out and the three of you are left momentarily in the dark. This alone would have been nothing but an inconvenience, though the seismic shake that hits the ship afterwards is far more dangerous. Nothing but a blur of metal in the dark fills your vision as the tremor sends each of you tumbling. When you finally orient yourself and the world stops moving, you realize you're being cradled in a panicked minibot's arms, and a blue visor glowing in frenzy is above you. Tailgate is checking you over like a concerned mother hen, and you're so overwhelmed by his fussing it takes you a moment to realize that he's also being held, and that you're between two pairs of optics overflowing with care.

·Cyclonus gently puts an end to his mate's impromptu medical examination by pointing out the more immediate issue; something dangerous is undoubtedly inbound. Tailgate may not have the same level of experience, but he's been on enough ships to know what an anchoring feels like, and regardless of the enemy in question things are about to get unpleasant. In unison they both agree to get you somewhere safe. Gently as can be, Tailgate reassures you that everything will be okay while stroking a little hand down your back. He promises that much, and Cyclonus firmly echoes the sentiment.

·Quite aware of how tiny you are, particularly in regards to Cybertronian combat, you put up no resistance to their plan. So long as everyone gets out safe, you insist. In a well rehearsed battle strategy, Cyclonus stands just behind Tailgate, but he's hardly the only one who will be protecting you. Your other adoptive parent has you in his arms and, with his smaller frame, is set up to shield you quickly from the front while Cyclonus handles any potential assaults from behind with his solid back armor. It's a routine they established just to keep you safe. Right now it is helping you feel like you're in a kind of moving fortress, and to be fair with these two that comparison isn't far off. Unicron himself would have a hard time breaking through their collective front.

·Perhaps tempted by your metaphorical thoughts, the universe answers with a challenge in the form of an entire squadron of enemy combatants, though your guardians are quite prepared. Before the attacking aliens can even charge, the two of them are moving in a kind of wordless sync, one that an outsider might think was the result of peerless calm. You know better when Tailgate rolls to slip you into a well defended little cove though, as you catch what's in both of their optics; fear. Tucking down as small as you can, you watch them attack with a kind of rage that juxtaposes almost fantastically with the tender kindness they raise you with. Few would probably blame you for having a hard time believing the same Cyclonus cleaving an enemy in half right now also sings softly when you have trouble sleeping... The same could be said for Tailgate, who fusses over you every time he feels you may be too hot or cold but is now pummeling an alien's legs so his mate can finish them off. Knowing that it's all to protect you is somewhat awe inspiring.

·No sooner has the last enemy fallen then the two are back where they left you, though this time Tailgate isn't alone as he checks you over whilst they walk, with Cyclonus inserting a quick request for confirmation that you are indeed uninjured. Admittedly a little dizzy from the rush, you smile and assure them both you're unhurt. At that they continue on the way to the well defended medical bay. You are actually far more sluggish than you think you should be, but it's hard to care about that in the face of everything else, and you don't really have to worry with these two protecting you... How lucky you are, to have been adopted by such a loving pair of parents. Being quite the unusual couple just makes your little family more unique in your mind. At such happy thoughts you can't help but smile, though it's weak and visibly hindered by how groggy you are.

·Tailgate takes notice of that sleepiness first as you become less upright in his arms. Giving you a little bounce, he starts to walk faster as the requests regarding your condition start anew, his visor growing worried as he sees your tiny frame failing to perk up. Cyclonus follows in his worry, especially when you prove physically incapable of lifting yourself up completely. They know something must be terribly wrong. Uncertain why they're so upset, you try to reassure your parents that you're simply a little tired. The rush of the fight probably drained you more than expected, you explain. Hearing how breathless you are in the explanation only solidifies their fear that something is wrong. Not knowing what it could be, they make the difficult decision to forgo stealth for the sake of speed; you need to get to the medical bay.

·Rushing air flows past as they move at speeds impossible for humans, drawing your gaze upwards as Tailgate reassures you everything will be alright despite your total lack of concern. Though you can see the fear in his face, you still appreciate how brave he's being for your sake. Having parents who prioritize your health as well as your feelings is a dream come true. Cyclonus is mostly silent, his optics on the horizon, but you know he's also concerned to an incredible degree. It's obvious in his optics every time they glance down at you so full of worry. Despite his usually reserved exterior, the big bot loves you just as much as his mate, and you've more or less had him wrapped around your finger from day one. You can still recall how they would lovingly ensure your comfort every time you went to bed in your new home...

·Both mechs can see you're drifting off faster with every passing minute. Tailgate tries harder to keep you awake as he watches your eyelids grow heavier, but his efforts prove to be in vain despite how badly he wants you to be okay, and his spark twists with anxiety. Cyclonus is the same, as both have no real idea as to what is wrong, and thus no real way to help you. Doubts that plagued them from the day they considered making you their own child return to haunt them in full force. They loved you so much, but there was so much they just didn't understand about your species, and what if that made them unfit to care for you? Would another human have figured this out by now? Surely you wouldn't be in this situation if you weren't with them...

·Cyclonus takes matters into his own hands, rather literally, when he scoops up his tiny mate to run at his fullest speed. Tailgate barely notices the action in his increasing panic. He can feel you growing weaker in his arms, but why? Attempts to comm Ratchet or anyone who might have a clue as to what's going on prove fruitless, and the two parents are left to flounder in their fear, the worst possibilities barreling through their minds in unison. You feel bad that they seem so scared, but can't bring yourself to stay awake as they request, the grogginess pulling you down in your parent's arms as it has under less dire circumstances in the past. The desire to sleep is simply too great. Isn't it ironic, how these bots are usually the ones pushing for you to go to bed, and now they want you to stay up? It's enough to make you smile as warm blackness finally claims you...

·Tailgate is beside himself when you drift off, and Cyclonus isn't any better, his legs giving out as he cradles you both. It's only by happenstance that a team of bots comes by at that moment, doing emergency rounds to gather the crew and clear out hostiles, and stumbles upon the terrified parents. By the grace of good fortune Ratchet is among them, and the medic is able to quickly put together what's going on due to his intel. Between the bursts of begging from Tailgate and Cyclonus, he's able to just break through and inform them of the full situation; oxygen has been compromised due to the attack. Before they can ask further questions, he explains that you need medical attention, but the ship is still under threat. It's somewhat obvious even in their cloud of grief and fear what he is going to say next.

·To secure the Lost Light, and by extension you, they wordlessly agree to accompany the group to the medical bay... at which point they'll leave you there to join the defense. Being by your side will do no one any good if the ship is taken. It hurts more than anything ever has, but they turn their mutual rage and pain towards the threat. All the while you remain in the medical bay, being stabilized by the medical staff who provide the care and oxygen you need to recover, their incredible skills ensuring you'll make a full recovery in due time. It's a prognosis that gives your parents relief but no peace when the battle is won. Seeing you in such a state still hurts in ways they can't begin to process, and thus they're left to wait in silent pain for you to awaken, holding each other as Tailgate weeps openly and Cyclonus internally.

·When you do wake up, it's beneath your favorite blankets, which were tucked about you just how you liked. A gentle but very concerned flurry of activity welcomed you back to the living world, and before you knew it your parents were on either side of the medical slab you found yourself upon, their worry obvious in every word and every inch of their expressions. Confused, especially by the oxygen mask on your face, you ask what happened to you. Worry turns to guilt in an instant. Tailgate starts with an explanation about what you do remember, gently asking about your recollection of the moments leading up to where your memories end. Cyclonus takes over for his mate when it proves too much, laying out the full scope of the alien attack and the atmospheric failure which nearly killed you. The brush with death catches you quite off guard.

·Unable to hold back tears, Tailgate bursts out in an apology for their failure to protect you, particularly in regards to not even knowing what was hurting you at first. Cyclonus gently shushes him, but doesn't correct the sentiment. Instead, he shares it, expressing his understanding if you have any newfound reservations regarding their parenting. Such a thought is so unfounded it strikes you silent. Why would this hamper your relationship in any way? These two had saved you! Their lack of human anatomy had spared them, and by extension you, from meeting an untimely fate in the suffocating attack. Letting them know as much, you can't help but feel a pang of your own fear when they appear unconvinced. If they're the ones changing their minds-

·Both Tailgate and Cyclonus react in a unified rush when you let that thought slip; they will never leave you, both promise at once. Tailgate assures you he loves you far too much and Cyclonus promises no challenge could ever make him leave you. It's enough to make the three of you cry. Clearly there are still challenges for your unique family dynamic, but none of you will ever give up. The challenges will just have to be faced together. Before you can thank them for everything they did your parents start fussing over you once again, encouraging you to rest while they adjust the room to your liking and promise that whatever food or entertainment you want will be there when you wake up.

#transformers #maccadam #mtmte #more than meets the eye #lost light #ll #idw #tf #my writing #my asks #anon #requests #cygate #human reader #self insert #cyclonus #tailgate

[louiserandom]

Of Punishments and Rewards

Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara | Rating: M

Summary: The citizens of Konoha have long grown used to (and frankly bored of) the often destructive spectacle that is Madara and Tobirama screaming their lungs out at each other in the market district. During one such clash, however, Madara suffers an accidental concussion and proceeds to not-so-accidentally flirt with, grope, and expose his secret affair with none other than the white-haired Senju he's supposed to hate.

Now this has the whole village intrigued.

Read Chapter 1 on AO3 or continue under the cut :3 Ko-fi info is in the header!

The citizens of Konoha have long grown used to (and frankly bored of) the often destructive spectacle that is Madara and Tobirama screaming their lungs out at each other in the market district. So when today the Uchiha Clan Head, foul mood and all, stomps towards an unsuspecting Tobirama (who really isn’t bothering anybody and seems to be busy enough picking out oranges) and starts shrieking at the top of his lungs about some manner of ‘experimental bullshit' crawling out of Tobirama's 'death trap of a lab,' most of the passersby find themselves stifling a yawn.

Another day, another bout of fires and flooding from the two village founders whose hate for each other hasn’t diminished in the slightest in the two years of Konoha’s existence.

Grown stronger, if anything.

“BECAUSE I AM NOT,” Madara bellows at the end of his first public rant of the day (though surely not the last), “GOING TO STAND FOR YOUR BRAZEN INCOMPETENCE ANYMORE, SENJU!”

Of course, Madara accusing Tobirama of incompetence is also nothing new, although it is common knowledge that it’s the latter who often has to get the Hokage and his best friend out of ridiculously foolish debacles.

(Konoha still remembers how the two godlike shinobi somehow stumbled into quite the deep hole intended for garbage disposal and in their drunken stupor ended up forgetting that they could have simply jumped outーwhat with their immense chakra reserves no less. Tobirama, naturally, had been exceptionally cross that day.)

“Incompetence?” Tobirama only scoffs in answer. “Whatever problem you have with how I handle my duties, Uchiha, pales in comparison to the damage your complete lack of logic deals to society.”

“You shut the fuck up,” Madara snaps, fists clenching and chakra becoming visible alreadyーa faintly shimmering fire-cloak upon his form. That really never bodes well for the market’s survival. “And study the logic behind proper fucking sleep so your complete lack of sense and self-restraint doesn’t lead to more dangerous fucking jutsu that spiral out of fucking control!”

This does perk up a few ears; after all, what novelty of Tobirama Senju’s could appear more dangerous than his summoning of an undead army that past Obon Festival?

“I am conducting a perfectly safe study,” Tobirama says, though Madara doesn’t seem like he believes him at all. “And not of a jutsu but a living being. Though it’s unsurprising your handful of brain matter failed to distinguish the two.”

“A living being with nine godsdamned tails made out of enough chakra to wipe out the whole of Fire Country?!”

This perks up a few more ears but seeds no panic; it’s thanks to Tobirama, after all, that most of Konoha has seen much, much worse. 

“It's a perfectly docile and friendly chakra fox,” Tobirama insists, crossing his arms. “Now for the love of all things holy and unholy, stop your shrieking.” He glances at the mostly disinterested crowd. “You’re embarrassing me. And yourself, though I doubt there’s any room to sink lower than you have.”

“I will fucking destroy you, you worthless piece of shit!” The crackles of a budding Katon flicker around Madara’s fists. “Now go and take care of your fucking experiment-living-chakraーwhatever bullshit, or I will fight you and there will be no remains left for your brother to cry over.”

Tobirama glares, straightening to his full height which has him towering above Madara’s bristling frame. “How so much fight can fit in so little a man,” he sneers, “I will never understand.”

Three things happen in quick succession.

Naturally, Madara attacks. A massive raging wall of fire sizzles straight at Tobirama, who matches Madara’s wild toothy grin with a smirk as he jumps out of the way with the usual easeーonly for Madara to charge at him, fist coated with white-hot flames, and unsurprisingly, Tobirama dodges yet again.

What does come as a surprise is Madara’s slight... miscalculation, it seems, as his eyes linger a bit too long in the general direction of Tobirama’s thighs for some reason, and he’s just slow enough to miss the giant crate of oranges that falls from a panicking store owner’s shelf.

“Madara-sama!” the salesman cries as the legendary Uchiha collides with the box headfirst and drops limply to the ground. “F-forgive me,” the poor man stutters, appearing quite a bit more worried about Tobirama than Madara’s squirming form.

After all, neither of the two are happy when their fights are interrupted before they can destroy at least one building, and as expected, the Senju in question frowns and visibly deflates.

“Madara?” Tobirama asks, tentative, banishing the spikes of ice he’s conjured with his jutsu.

“Mmm,” Madara articulates from the ground, face scrunched in pain as he squints at the sky as if it’s personally offended him. “Mm-wha?..”

In a yet unseen show of kindness, Tobirama walks up to him and kneels to check on Madara’s condition. Quite a few stares shift in their direction. Shouldn’t Tobirama be inclined to leave the Uchiha to suffer?

Apparently not.

“Madara? Can you hear me?” Receiving no answer, Tobirama coaxes him to sit up as he checks over his head. Though unwounded, it does appear he’s seriously concussed as he starts slurring nonsense and pointing at a part of the crowd mumbling something about ‘fute birdsies.’ “Listen, IーAnija will be really upset if you’re seriously hurt, so can you tell meー”

Madara slaps a gloved hand roughly over Tobirama’s mouth. Another uncharacteristic move that provokes many a frown. The pair usually avoid skin to skin contact religiously, even when fighting.

“Your lips,” Madara slurs, eyes unfocused as he stares dazedly at his supposed enemy, “could putーbe put to... much better use than talking.”

“W-what?” Tobirama stammers, shoving the hand away and scrambling to his feet.

“I said your lips,” Madara tries to clarify, before Tobirama cuts him off, “Shut the fuck up, you moron!” he grits through his teeth, extending a hand to the Uchiha as he flops back down to lie on the ground.

“And get up," Tobirama orders, "now. I’m taking you to Anija. Concussions are tricky to heal and I might not be able to avoid leaving lasting effects.”

Madara smirks, and for some reason that prompts a look of horror to settle on Tobirama’s face. For good reason, as the onlookers discover.

“It’s always up for you, Tobirama,” Madara’s slurring is mixed with a bit of a stupid-sounding drawl as he positively ogles Tobirama, eyes once again lingering a tad lower than appropriate. “The question is if you wanna play.”

“Madara!” Tobirama hisses, casting death glares at the crowds now circled around them as one unified and now definitely intrigued mob. “Stop this foolishness right this instantー”

“Stop isn’t our safe-word, Tobiー”

“ーand take my fucking hand!”

“I’d rather have it wrapped around myー”

“MADARA!” Tobirama is trembling with fury at this point, chakra radiating killing intent enough for shinobi and civilian alike to feel it wash over them. The people gathered only scuffle closer, disappointed that the rest of Madara’s sentence gets drowned out by Tobirama’s shout and their own collective gasp. Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not. Here.”

“I kno-ow,” Madara whines, finally grasping for Tobirama’s hand only to use it to yank him down once he gets ahold of it. “This hand indefーit definitely needs to be reaching a lot lower.”

“Madara, gods fucking dammit,” Tobirama growls as he wrests himself from Madara hold, “people are staring.”

To be fair, the self-proclaimed honorable and pure-hearted citizens of Konoha make an effort to pretend they aren’t gapingーwhich really isn’t an easy task though, because the display is turning out to be more exciting than any of the village-wide festivities to date.

“Oh?” Madara seems to be trying to raise one eyebrow but ends up skewing his face into an awkward frown at best. “If yesterday’s anything to go by, you don’t mind a little voytriloquism yourself, koibito.”

Another round of gasps follows as Tobirama blanches, mouth slightly agape and lips trembling. Someone helpfully shouts, “Do you mean voyeurism, Uchiha-sama?”

“Yes-yes!” Madara pipes up, still squirming helplessly on the ground. “Voyagerism. That.”

“Uchiha,” Tobirama glowers, a sheen of blue energy wrapping around his limbs as his ire escalates, “I am literally begging you toー”

“Didn’t get enough earlier, eh?” Madara leers, finally managing to wriggle into a half-sitting position, sending a few oranges rolling on the ground. Intrigued and unperturbed by Tobirama’s spluttering (and what a strange sight it is, to see the usually composed Senju at such a loss for words), Madara picks up two of the fruits and proceeds to shock the bystanders to the core once more, “You know, they say fresh squeezed oranges are good for you in the morning, but I think your fresh squeezed diー”

“MADARA, NO!” Tobirama roars, this time quite evidently to drown out Madara’s words.

“Madara, yes,” the Uchiha moans, “that’s all I remember you saying to me this morning.” A few desperate “Kai” resound in the area as Madara Uchiha incarnate starts licking the oranges in his hands. He keeps eye contact with Tobirama all the while as he sucks on them, shameless and wanton, swirling his tongue over the fruits with such wanton enthusiasm one might think him a common harlot. “Remind you of anything, To-bi-ra-ma?”

Needless to say, the world plunges into chaos. Choruses of cheers and wolf whistles, sounds of both affront and confusion erupt from the bystanders as quite a few women rush to cover their husbands’ eyes lest they require the same astonishing level of skill from them.

Tobirama, meanwhile, seems to have finally regained his ability to act, if not speak, and proceeds to grab Madara by his collar and drag him into a wobbly stance, slapping a hand bathed in faint green glow against the Uchiha’s forehead.

"Get permanent brain damage for all I care.” Tobirama gives Madara a pretty hard shake. “Now will you stop fucking talking?”

"You don’t tell me what to do, Senju,” Madara grumbles, looking a bit steadier on his feet now even as his voice still sounds a bit shaky. “And how did I get here?”

Tobirama ignores him, directing one last glower at the excited crowd as he commands, “Don’t you dare speak a word of this to the Hokage,” before disappearing into thin air with Madaraーhis secret lover, something Konoha still can’t wrap its collective head aroundーin tow.

Granted, the younger Senju must have sensed his brother’s approach because the next second none other than Hashirama steps into the market with the usual wide grin on his face, flowers sprouting on each patch of ground he steps on. The crowd stills and grows silent but for a few moments as Tobirama’s order rings clear in their minds, and yet,

“What happened here?” Hashirama asks in childlike confusion.

In just a handful of moments, it proves too much of a temptation for Konoha prolific rumor mill to resist.

“Madara was doing what in front of my Otouto?!”

#madatobi #tobimada #madara uchiha #tobirama senju #humor #fanfic #lou writes #idiots in love #naruto

[thecosmicsen]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒    (  royal au verse  )

they are born with a hearty cry that piercingly rings through the ears of the midwives who are stunned at first but then crack smiles in relief at the sight of two healthy baby boys.  at once,  the queen consort is joyously congratulated for pushing through the agonising days of labour since it is worth it in the end.  two male heirs to the throne and she has succeeded in delivering perfect little boys who refuse to be easily subdued.  with a tear-streaked and sweaty frays of hair sticking to her face,  the queen gets the chance to coddle her newborns with an adoring smile as she protectively hugs them to her chest.  she can already tell the eldest boy by the way how he is significantly calmer in comparison to the other frantically wiggling crying newborn.  thoroughly pleased,  she comes up with the sweetest sounding names that she reckons will go along with their lengthy royal titles.  the kingdom is immediately swept up in buoyant festive celebrations as they get to look forward to what the prosperous birth will bestow upon them all.  as the kingdom is known for its distinctive one-of-a-kind sweetest scented flowers,  the boys are instantly blessed with their blankets of forget-me-nots,  moonflowers and roses.  

prince Jaewoo is everything all his parents could ever pray for.  robust,  cheery,  healthy and a soft heart that is wavered by poetry,  he is the exact role model that they hoped the kingdom could look up to.  whatever sporting practice he has to take up for his duties,  he excels at it far beyond anyone’s imaginations.  when it comes to memorising endless new knowledge ranging from the politics of nearby kingdoms to the solar physics of the sun that gifts them with year round sunshine,  the young prince instantly soaks it up for life.  his royal sentry take genuine affection for him as they get accustomed to his non-stop chirpy chatter and unquenchable curiosity.  

his personal bodyguard,  a grim tough towering man named Seojun,  is often seen smiling adoringly at the prince’s antics besides often scolding him.  he notices the way how his young prince’s eyes too often flicker to the kingdom’s boundaries and what lays beyond the dense lush fauna of the forest.  in vain attempt,  he seeks to satiate the prince’s curiosity by personally taking him on trips to the scaling rugged mountains rumoured about the hideouts of remaining dragons to the glistening aqua fairy pools nestled in fields of stretching tulips.  however,  this only intensifies the prince’s thirst to discover everything in the world he can possibly get his hands on.  there is a leather notebook embossed with his name in liquid gold in which he frantically jots down notes and tasteful sketches of the unknown.  it ranges from commonplace forest wolves to the swirling myths of ground goblins and lurking griffins.  nothing fly pasts prince Jaewoo’s eyes.  he remembers every conversation for life.  

although the prince takes his royal duties with utmost seriousness,  he cannot ignore the itching feeling that he is destined to achieve far greater in the name of his family and his kingdom.  something prickles the back of his neck at night when he is unable to sleep.  tossing and turning in his bed,  he often saunters up to his open balcony to stargaze in contented peace.  but the horizons of the endless mountains etching out call out to him as his frenzied need to find out whether there are actually dragons left in the world sings his fate to him.  if he can get his hands on a dragon then surely his kingdom is forever protected by the majestic beast.  then surely his parents will be overjoyed to know that their son has accomplished the impossible.  

during the nights of pure restlessness, the young prince has devised a sneaking away plan in which he can actually slip past all the sentry and Seojun so he can venture out in the thick of the woods.  you see,  there are simply far too many things that he requires visual confirmation of.  another one happens to be the shimmery legend about the lady of the lake.  they say that she is the most beautiful enchantress in the lands who possesses the excalibur sword that is attributed with the most potent magical powers of all kingdoms.  he ardently maps out all the lakes in nearby vicinity so he can stake which areas he hasn’t attempted summoning this supposedly gorgeous enchantress to quell his curiosity.  

the mornings afterwards,  he remains his usual bubbly persona but with a touch of darker shades bruising underneath his eyes.  Seojun notices this,  not bothering to interfere as he acknowledges that the highly revered prince is bound to rebel in some way or the other.  for now,  he allows Jaewoo his freedom but god forbid anything happens to him.  he will have to try silently following after the reckless prince.  but as if the younger prince is reading his mind,  Prince Taesoo urgently jabs at his side.

“  sir,  please make sure my brother is all right.  he might be straining himself with something at night.  I do not know what it is at this time but I fear that he may fall into the clutches of some ungodly witch if we are not careful.  you know how much of a hopeless romantic he is.  ”

Seojun raises a brow at this since he had been entirely suspicious of Taesoo’s own nightly ventures but he makes no further comments.  “  but of course,  your highness.  ”

in essence,  the younger twin is absolutely right.  everyone knows this about prince Jaewoo.  he has published poems about his dreamy ideals of romanticism which he even passionately advocates over state dinners.  the King has resigned to the fact that he will never be able to cajole the prince into marrying someone for strengthening diplomatic relations.  if he ends up with a peasant girl,  so be it.  there is no convincing the stubborn prince once he has his mind set to something.  for now,  Jaewoo is let off the hook since he remains as the obedient and willing son who goes beyond his official duties to ensure the legacy of their kingdom.  

“ I will have nine daughters and four sons,  ”  he declares firmly over one dinner.  when questioned why more daughters,  he responds with.  “  haven’t you noticed that our kingdom’s population requires some balancing,  good sir  ?  there will be lots of them for me to spoil.  I’ll never be alone.  ” 

the witty banter of his is a great source of entertainment that resonates with important figures from various kingdoms and backgrounds.  the young prince knows how to capture the minds of the crowds,  his dance skills attract the inquiring masses of the elite and royal who fight over whose sons and daughters get a chance to partner with him for the opening dance act for the massive festive banquets.  never tiring of his royal duties and responsibilities,  everything weighs on the jubilant upbeat prince’s shoulders which he bears quite happily.  but there is something missing in his life which is romantic love.  how will he find it  ?  he is sure of it occurring on some adventure.  but for now,  the secluded dragons await.  he will be the biggest pride and joy that the kingdom has ever come to witness.

#this verse is soooo much fun to plot out and expand #so if you wanna do a thread with prince Jaewoo then hmu :}} #this is the one verse where I will let him truly be happy and have it all #power money status happiness #he gets his romance with Inés later on #with lotsa babies #* : ✮ ┆𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑠 (𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑢 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒).

[pengychan]

[Batman: TAS] Clockwork, Pt. 1

Summary: To say the Clock King was pleased to see Hamilton Hill lose his bid for re-election would be an understatement - but suddenly nothing in Gotham is on time anymore, and he has to choose the lesser evil. Characters: Temple Fugate, Hamilton Hill  Rating: K    

A/N: Happy birthday, @vampirenaomi​! If you wondered about my radio silence these days, this was why. I was hoping to get the entire thing done by today, but I couldn’t make it. Will do my best to get the second and final part done by Christmas! (Also, little heads-up for everyone: the plot bunny for this thing actually hit me a long time ago and I promise the election fraud plotline in it has nothing to do with the insanity currently going on in the States.)

***

“Freeze!”

The order comes a quarter of a second after the first cop reaches the roof, predictable as the stroke of midday that will follow in precisely twenty-five seconds. The Clock King estimates it will take him exactly another fifteen seconds to reach the ledge, at which point he will have ten more to turn and throw in a mocking comment before his ride arrives. 

Excellent. His plan has been running as smoothly as sand in an hourglass.

“I said freeze!”

Temple Fugate entirely ignores the order and keeps walking to the ledge, pocketing his watch and twirling his cane in his free hand. It is an unspoken rule in Gotham, it seems, to do anything but freeze whenever you’re told to. It only occasionally works - not in a pattern he’s been able to reliably discern, to his annoyance - when it’s Batman to give the order. Or, well, Mr. Freeze, for reasons that should be quite obvious.

An interesting fellow, that one. Intellectually gifted - he wouldn’t mind conversing with, provided that he leaves his freezing gun at the door. Fugate generally pays little mind to his colleagues, even less after having to endure the indignity of being referred to as the White Rabbit by Mr. Tetch - a comparison that he found nothing short of insulting, because he is never late. Not anymore.

Not since the one time he was late and lost everything. But he’s getting it back, one timepiece at a time. The one he just took back from the museum is a priceless one, which he acquired by sheer luck only months before he was forced to sell every single piece he ever collected to pay--

“Stay where you are!”

The Clock King reaches the ledge, turns, and gives the three cops walking towards him with their guns drawn a tip of his hat. He might have thrown an explosive watch or two at them, of course he came prepared, but they are still far away enough he knows he needs not bother. Even if they decided to sprint now, they would never get to him on time. 

“Apologies, gentlemen, but I must decline your invite to stay. I have a lot of lost time to make up for,” he declares, and lets himself fall back exactly at the strike of midday. He straightens himself in mid-air, knees bent to prepare for landing on the roof of the eleven-fifty-eight train downtown going through the elevated tracks right no--

Except that there is no train beneath him. Fugate falls past the exact point where a train should be and is thrown entirely off balance. By the time he does connect with something, it’s with his left shoulder first.

“Aagh!”

He cries out, more in outrage than actual pain - though there is pain, train tracks are extremely unpleasant to pull upon from a height - and sits up, dazed, trying to make sense of that nonsense. He looks around, ascertain that there is, indeed, no train in sight. What… what just happened? The eleven-fifty-eight train is always, always precisely two minutes late. 

Where is it now? It can’t have been on time, he would have heard it rushing past. Is it even more late than usual? Has it broken down? Has the schedule changed? This is an outrage - is nothing in this world reliable anymore?

“Hey! Are you all right, uh… sir?”

Fugate looks up, and sees the three cops looking down at him from the roof of the museum. “It’s Clock King to you,” he snaps, though without much venom. That is… a rather civil enquiry, and he sees no reason not to be equally civil. “I have had softer landings, but I’ll live,” he mutters, standing up and rubbing his battered shoulder. The one talking, the big one, looks relieved. 

“Good! Listen, uh, Mr…”

“Clock King! It’s not that complicated!”

“Right, right. Mr. Clock King, don’t go anywhere - we’ll get you help.”

Of course, on account of not having been born yesterday - his birth took place fifty-seven years, ninety-two days and approximately seven hours ago - Fugate has no intention to wait there until they get help. “Ah, I believe I have to decline your offer, unfortunately, and be on my wa--”

“No, look - things are never so bad. Don’t do this. You’re in a dark place, but it won’t last.”

He pauses, taken aback. Their tactics to get fugitives to surrender certainly seemed to have changed since last time. “... Come again?”

“Get off the tracks, there is no reason to do anything drastic. I am sure we can help - professionals can help.”

The cop standing right next to him - the third is surely coming down the building heading his way - nods in agreement. “It’s going to get better, okay? It will be all right.”

… Wait. Wait a moment. 

Fugate sputters a moment, face ablaze as incredulity and outrage threaten to choke him. “Is this-- are you-- is this some kind of suicide prevention talk?” he yells, pointing up accusingly with his cane. “What in the world makes you think it is the appropriate response now?”

The two of them blink a moment, then exchange a glance before looking back down at him. “... You just jumped off a roof on the train tracks.”

“I am aware! But the eleven fifty-eight train is always exactly two minutes late! Is should have been--”

His words are covered by a warning cry from one of the cops first, then vibrations on the tracks, and finally by a dreadful, loud horn. 

Ah. There it is.

Right after turning to see the eleven fifty-eight train rushing towards him, Temple Fugate has enough time to make two calculations: the first is that it’s five minutes late, which is entirely unacceptable. The second is that he has approximately nine seconds to get off the tracks before he’s turned into something resembling strawberry jam, which is highly concerning.

He doesn’t quite manage to estimate precisely by how many seconds he manages to avoid that fate, but later on he decides that is probably for the best. 

***

Hamilton Hill, former Mayor of Gotham City, is rather enjoying his retirement. 

Well. Perhaps losing re-election for Mayor and spending most of his time in his mansion to lick his wounds is not precisely what most people would consider a vacation, but saying he is ‘taking some time to spend with his family’ got most attention off his back for now. 

There is the fact he’s been divorced fifteen years and Jordan is off to college, so the house is empty aside for himself and some domestic staff, but that isn’t something the general public needs to know. He needs some time, is all, to recover from a loss that was unexpected as it was painful, and then to figure out where he’s going from here. 

Back to practicing law, probably. He enjoyed that. Maybe returning to the courtroom having to worry only about the fate of the person he represente and not the entire city will do him good. Gotham is far from an easy city to serve as Mayor, so much so that some of his closest friends delicately suggested he belonged in Arkham for just wanting the job. And maybe they were not too far off, Hill muses. Maybe losing the election was a blessing in disguise. 

… Maybe he needs another glass of port.

He is pouring himself said glass when the glass door leading to the balcony opens, letting in a gust of cold wind. That could mean a number of things in Gotham: that the latch of the window was not closed properly, that a criminal is breaking in, that Batman is breaking in. 

All three things have happened remarkably often in the past decade or so, and Hill simply got used to visits from a masked vigilante, or the occasional kidnapping scheme that would later be foiled by said masked vigilante, so he’s not overly worried. But perhaps, as he no longer is the Mayor, this is simply a matter of closing the glass door properly and--

“Hill,” a voice proclaims. 

Well. It was not the latch.

Hamilton Hill makes the decision to gulp down half the glass before he turns. “Mr. Fugate,” he greets politely, before his eyes even rest on the figure standing rigidly on the balcony. He recognized his voice quite well, of course. When someone tries to squish you between the hands of a giant clock, you do tend to remember what they sound like. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

Temple Fugate lets out a noise of mild disgust. “I highly doubt you’re any more pleased to see me than I am to see you,” he informs him, stepping inside. “But as the situation in Gotham City is most dire--”

Hill downs the rest of the glass. Fugate trails off, then reaches into his pocket to pull out - of course - a watch. He stares at it for a moment before he looks back up at Hill, at the glass in his hand, at the liquor cabinet he’s standing at. “It’s eleven thirty-two in the morning,” he finally informs him.

“So it is.”

“Not even noon yet.”

“And…?”

“Don’t and me, Hill! Isn’t it-- far too early to be drinking whatever it is you’re drinking?”

Ah, Gotham truly was like no other city, was it? The only place where a man who kidnapped and tried to kill you can later show up to lecture over socially acceptable times for alcohol consumption, without any self-awareness whatsoever. Hill supposes Fugate truly is a man born in the wrong time: he would have been right at home during prohibition. He considers voicing that thought, but in the end he shrugs. 

“I’m only having a glass. I’m not drinking myself into a stupor.”

“Your demeanour suggests otherwise.” Fugate frowns, or at least it looks like he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell, with those glasses, but he seems mildly offended. “A reasonable reaction upon seeing me would be fear,” he adds, pointing towards him with that curious cane of his, part sword and part clock hand. “Possibly a scream, if not too drawn out or grating, followed by an attempt at running for your life.”

Ah, here comes the lecture in proper hostage etiquette. “Let me reassure you, it is not down to alcohol,” Hill informs him, putting down the empty glass. Honest to God, he would be more worried if he found himself facing a run-of-the-mill goon with a gun; people like that are more likely to simply shoot you dead. But those like the Clock King, or the Joker or whoever was out in the streets that week? They would come up with an elaborate scheme that gave Batman plenty of time to intervene.

Maybe the best course of action would be to stall for more time, until Batman does intervene. 

“Don’t take it personally, Fugate, but I have been Mayor of Gotham for too long not to get used to some things,” Hill adds. “No Tuesday is complete without at least an attempt at kidnapping me.”

The frown turns into something closer to disgust. “It’s Monday, Hill. have you truly lost all sense of time?”

“Happens when you’re on holiday, I suppose. I am no longer Mayor of Gotham City.”

“I am aware. About that--”

“I am a private citizen with a lot of time on my hands.”

“Not for long!” Fugate snaps, stepping forward with the cane pointed at Hill’s chest. Ah, yes, there come the death threats and-- “You must return into office!”

… Wait. What? Hill blinks, and moves the cane aside with one arm to look at the Clock King’s face more closely. “... Come again?”

“Are you deaf? I am here to make sure you take back your office.”

Who are you, Hill thinks, and what have you done to Fugate?

“Are you well?” he finds himself asking instead, and Fugate groans, throwing up his arms. The cane very nearly knocks a very expensive lamp right off the nearest table. 

“Of course I’m not! Two months with a new Mayor, and this entire city is in shambles, Hill!”

That’s not exactly what Hill expected to hear. He has been told that his replacement made a few… questionable choices, appointing questionable people in delicate roles, and there have been some complaints - but no account he’s heard so far made the situation sound quite that dire. Not that he doesn’t get some vindication over being told that the man who ousted him is making a dreadful mess of things. 

“Is it now?”

“Of course it is!” Temple Fugate paces back and forth, features twisted in what’s nothing short of anguish. “Nothing - and I do mean, nothing - is on time anymore! The trains, the buses, everything is all over the place!”

“Yes, I did hear that the public transport office had an overhaul--”

“Not that your administration was ever able to make things run on time,” Fugate cuts him off, clearly not inclined to hear a single word from him at the moment. “But most things were reliably late. There was a schedule, there was a pattern! Now there’s nothing but chaos! How am I meant to carry on in such a world?”

Hill opens his mouth to suggest he loosens up, remembers what happened last time he advised him as much, and chooses not to. “Surely, it is not quite that bad--”

“Yesterday there was the inauguration of a new mall. It was meant to be at midday - the ribbon was cut almost sixteen minutes late, Hill! What sort of administration is sixteen minutes late?”

"Yes, that is, er. Absolutely unacceptable,” Hill says. He knows better than dismissing it as something minor, considering that it’s distressing Fugate enough to make him turn to the man he probably despises the most in the entire world. “However, there isn’t much I can do--”

“Once you’re the Mayor again, you can put things in order,” Template declares, pointing at his chest with his cane again. “And everything will be just as it was before. Until I exact my revenge on you, that is. Which will be--” he pauses, and a look of discomfort crosses his features at the realization he doesn’t have a set time for that. “... Soon,” he finishes, not very threateningly. 

Hill frowns, pushing the razor-sharp tip of the cane away from his rather expensive shirt and, rather more importantly, the general vicinity of vital organs. “Fugate, as much as I’d like to help you - possibly with better results than last time I attempted to - there is nothing I can do. I lost my bid for re-election. I cannot just waltz in my old office and declare--”

“You can,” Fugate cuts him off once more.

“Yes, I suppose I could, only to be arrested before--”

“This election was rigged.”

Hill trails off, his brain grinding to a halt. “... Come again?” he hears himself muttering, searching Fugate’s face for any sign that he may be joking despite his strong suspicion that Fugate is simply incapable of uttering a joke. All he gets is an annoyed hum.

“Get your hearing checked,” the Clock King mutters irritably. “Surely you must have suspected it.”

He didn’t, not really. The race was rather close from the start, his opponent a new face who made plenty of promises Hill already knew he would be unable to keep but which, apparently, many couldn’t resist; alluring lies often hold more sway than less glamorous truths. He’d thought he would win, sure enough, but that it would be narrow. So his defeat by a rather small margin had been… a surprise, sure enough, but not something he’d thought beyond the realms of possibility.

“I… not really.”

“Hmph.” Fugate scoffs, and sits on the nearest armchair. He may very well be sitting on a stool, because he doesn’t lean back: he remains upright, back rigid, both hands on the handle of his cane. “Unexpectedly gullible for someone sly enough to engineer my demise.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “I engineered nothing. I only suggested you took your coffee break fifteen minutes later than usual because you were so tense--”

“The plaintiffs were represented by your law firm! Am I supposed that your advice making me late for the court date was a coincidence, Hill?”

“Yes, because it was! I had nothing to do with that case, I knew nothing about it - it was only some advice in a conversation you started in the first place.”

The last statement seems to hit a nerve, and there is something on Fugate’s face, a twitch that passes immediately but doesn’t go unnoticed. After all, Hamilton Hill built his career on being able to take note of every telling twitch and expression shown by witnesses and defendants. “... You have thought of that, haven’t you? That it was yourself to start talking that morning, not myself. There was no plan nor conspiracy. You were not targeted. It was a terrible coincidence-”

Fugate’s hands clench on the handle of his cane, so tight the knuckles go white. His jaw clenches before he speaks, words cold and clipped. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“It all happened by chance. Out of your control. Accidents happen whether or not we believe--”

“Silence!” Fugate snaps, tapping his cane on the hardwood floor and likely leaving a hole in it. “I will get you back for it, mark my words, but this is not the reason why I’m here. And you have already wasted--” a pause to check his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes of my time. Now, do you want to hear what I know, or not?”

Hill sighs, and sits on the armchair across him. “How do you know the election was rigged?”

“I crunched the numbers. Something is not adding up.”

“My entire campaign team crunched the numbers--”

“People who were not me,” Fugate cuts him off, a sharp edge to his voice. “And who forgot to keep an eye on the time.”

Ah, of course. Of course it was going to boil down to time.

Hamilton Hill can feel the beginning of a violent headache starting to build up behind his eyes.  “All right, I’ll hear you out.”

“You’d better.”

The headache immediately spikes a notch. Hill glances back at the liquor cabinet, thinking he could use another glass of port. “Can I offer--”

“I do not drink. Certainly not before noon.” Fugate’s voice sure is full of judgment for someone who goes around with glasses looking like the face of a clock, stealing timepieces from auction houses and museums and throwing around explosive pocket watches.

“... Right. Coffee?”

“I have my coffee at three in the afternoon. On the dot,” is the stiff reply. “As you very well know.”

Hill almost considers asking why not three-fifteen, then his gaze falls on the razor-sharp tip of the Clock King’s cane and he decides against it. 

“... Very well,” he finally says, leaning back on his armchair. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

*** 

The key, as it’s the case with most things in life, was in the timing.

It was something easily overlooked by most people who poured over the election result, exit polls and whatnot, but Fugate found the answer by painstakingly looking through the transcript of all votes registered by the brand new voting machines, which allowed one to give their vote at the press of a button. There were no names, nor details to match individual voters to any vote, but he found something better.

On each of them, he found timestamps.

One of the tenets of Temple Fugate’s existence is that everything has a chronological order. Everything has a discernible pattern. And where order and pattern are disrupted, it can only mean one thing: human intervention. Bumbling, chaotic, life-ruining human intervention, like sand in the cogs or a too-jovial councillor suggesting a break fifteen minutes later. Fugate has seen human intervention at work more times than he’d have liked.

But until he began looking into this, he had never seen anything quite like it.

“So something is wrong with the… timestamps?”

Unsurprisingly, former Mayor Hamilton Hill is having trouble keeping up with his explanation. “Yes. In the districts of Gotham where you were expected to perform better, the pattern was disrupted.” Fugate pulls out his notes from the breast pocket of his jacket and hands them to Hill, who opens the folded pieces of paper to take a long look. “Your team poured over nonsense like age, or gender, or race and class--”

“It isn’t nonsense, it helps predict--”

“But none of them,” Fugate speaks a little louder, cutting off whatever nonsense he was about to spew, “looked at the time in which each vote was cast. One after another, polling stations in each of those districts had precisely a two-hour window during which not one vote was cast in your favor.”

Hill blinks down at his notes, adjusting his glasses as though to see better. “What? Not one?”

“Not a single one, you can check the timestamps yourself. Just read - the pattern is clear.”

He sees it, Fugate can tell from the way his eyes widen. He may be dense, but not so dense that he couldn’t see the pattern now that it had been pointed out to him. He stands and begins pacing back and forth, eyes glued to Fugate’s notes. 

“I think, these polling places-- I would need to look at a map to be certain, but--”

Well, he has picked that up on his own. If not stubbornly determined not to be impressed by anything this man does or say ever, Fugate could say he is impressed.

“No need. I already did, and saw what you are seeing now. This happened in polling stations close to each other. There was the first one downtown, then another a short distance away, then another a short distance away from that one… and so forth.  It, whatever it was, moved across the city with brief pauses consistent with the time it would take to drive from one polling station to the next. This kept up for the entire two days the polls were open,” Fugate adds with no small amount of disapproval. 

He sees no reason why the citizens of Gotham would need more than one day to pick their Mayor, but apparently the change was brought forward upon suggestion of Bruce Wayne, along with the decision to hold the vote over a weekend. Something about allowing more time to vote to people working long hours. How typical, catering to people who cannot be on time by giving them more time.

Unaware of his musings, Hill is still staring at the notes, then at him, then back at the notes. “I… how can it be?”

“Is it possible someone was able to sabotage the voting machines?”

Hill frowns, ceasing his pacing, and finally shakes his head. “I don’t believe so. Those machines were inspected before and after, and are not connected to any other device. They store all votes within their own memory and at the end of the day, the data is saved on an external device. There are witnesses for all candidates each time, to ensure everything is transparent.”

“Yes, that is what I suspected.” Fugate frowns, rubbing his chin. “I have looked for a link between your Mayor Sanderson and the company that manufactured the machines, but found none. Well then. This only leaves one option.”

Hill blinks, trying to think what he may mean and drawing a blank. “What option?”

“If the devices and therefore the votes were not manipulated, then the voters were. At least to a more extreme degree than they usually are during your campaigns.”

Hill gives him a look that somehow manages to be insulted, stunned, and confused at the same time. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not have my pardon, Hill, but I will repeat myself,” is the dry reply. “You must agree this very clear pattern must have been the result of an external intervention. If the machines could not be compromised, then the people in the voting booths were.”

Hill stares. Opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Stares some more. 

“... Not that I don’t appreciate you keeping silent for once, but as I cannot read your mind--”

“Is this-- what are you exactly suggesting, Fugate? Some sort of mass bribery?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Word could have got out immediately if such an attempt had taken place. I said the voters were manipulated, not bribed - were you not listening?”

A scoff. “Manipulated with what? Hypnosis?”

“You say that like no such thing occurred in Gotham before.”

For the second time in less than a minute - Fugate probably knows exactly how many seconds - Hill finds himself opening his mouth to speak and then closing it without uttering a single word. He is right, something remarkably similar did happen from time to time in Gotham, usually the work of… of…

“Now, I cannot imagine Mr. Tetch has any stake in this, but the man is not above selling his machinery for money. It is a possibility worth exploring, don’t you think?” Fugate says.

Tetch isn’t above giving people wildly unfitting and unrequired nicknames either - White Rabbit, the notorious latecomer, what an insult that has been - but that is beside the point at the moment, and Fugate doesn’t bring up that particular grievance. 

“I… yes, I suppose it is,” Hill is muttering, looking at his notes over and over as though he thinks anything has changed while he wasn’t looking. “I should call the police, perhaps Commissioner Gordon--”

“Forget the police, they’re busy giving misguided anti-suicide speeches these days. Perhaps once you’re the Mayor again, you can see they are hired in Arkham.” Fugate stands, adjusting his tie. “I know exactly where to go to gain some intel.”

“... Right. I’ll get my coat.”

Fugate blinks. “... I beg your pardon?”

“It’s cold outside. I am not sure how you manage to stroll around with only a suit on, but--”

“Whatever gave you the idea that you are coming?”

“Why else would you show you up here to tell me all this?”

“To let you know what an imbecile you are for letting someone steal an election from you. Put that coat down-- Hill!” Fugate barks, but it’s too late: the coat is on and Hill is buttoning it up, looking back at him. Good God, he misses the days Hamilton Hill feared him. 

“I am not about to leave you a choice, Fugate,” he says, much too flippantly for the Clock King’s taste. “This is personal. I am certain you of all people understand.”

“That’s not-- well--” Fugate is taken aback, fumbles for words. It is only a couple of instant, but it is enough for Hill to get coy. 

“Good to see we reached an understanding. Are we going, or are you inclined to waste more time, mmh?”

The remark makes Fugate want to smack him with his cane, or better yet skewer him with it, but that would be rather counterproductive as a dead man cannot be elected Mayor and he needs Hill alive for… a little while longer. Just enough to fix the utter mess his successor has made of things. A sixteen minute delay on an inauguration, for God’s sake. How is anyone meant to live in such chaos?

The thought of ending that particular brand of chaos is what eventually stills Fugate’s hand. He takes in a deep breath, relaxing his grip on the cane. “... Very well. But you will do exactly as I say. No speaking, no initiatives. And if you’re going to take any advice from me, put your hat on and lose the glasses,” he adds, turning back towards the window. “The place we’re heading to is both rather cold and not someplace you’d want to be recognized if you wish to avoid a potential scandal.”

“Fugate?” Hill calls out, causing him to stop walking and look at him over his shoulder. Chickening out already, is he? He almost smirks, waiting to hear excuses as to why he has just realized he really cannot come with hi--

“You do realize we can get out through the door, right?” Hill says instead, pointing at the door behind himself with his thumb. Something about his raised eyebrow makes Fugate scowl.

“Well, it is not often I get the luxury to go through main doors, since you made me a wanted fugitive,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

“I thought I made you late.”

“It is the same thing!” the Clock King snaps, and stomps out of the room, using the window out of sheer spite.

#batman: tas #batman #mayor hill #clock king #batman: the animated series #temple fugate

[angelicdestieldemon]

Reindeer (Day 1 Of Christmas)

Prompt was Reindeer, as you can see it kinda got away from me.

SHIP: Barson

Requests are open for the next 24 days, I write for Barson, Bangan, Barisi and potentially other Rafael Barba ships (even other Raúl Esparza characters too), just talk to me on asks or private messages.

Rafael Barba’s childhood was not very happy, and abusive father and a mother who refused to speak out, there were many times he went to bed with bruises. His mother would whisper apologies in one ear while telling him to behave in the other. His father would tell him to stop being such a wuss, to grow up already and start acting like a man.

When it came to Christmas, his father would drink more, on good days he would pass out drunk on the couch and leave Rafael and his mother alone. On bad days the beatings would be worse. On those bad nights, Rafael would sit at the desk in his room and write letters to Santa, praying to God every other day of the year didn’t seem to be working so why not try Father Christmas?

---

It was almost midnight as nine-year-old Rafael Barba sat in his bed, his ears pricked up, listening for the sound of his father stumbling about. The house, however, was silent as the grave but that meant nothing, it would only take a moment of distraction to get caught awake a long while after his bedtime. So, he listened while scratching words across the page of his most recent letter to Santa.

Other children wished for toys, snow, to stay on the nice list, or to be taken off the naughty list. They prayed for big family dinners, for the parents to spend time with them playing in the snow. Even at nine, Rafael didn’t wish for such things, instead, he asked Santa for his father to stop hitting his mother, to stop hitting him. He asked Santa to convince his mother to get help, to stop covering the bruises his father gave them, and show someone instead. With every wish, he backed it up with arguments and promises to be a good boy for this Mami and Abuela.

He was just about finished when he heard it, the sound of hoofbeats on the roof of their apartment, as quietly as he could, Rafael slipped out of bed and over to the door to the hallway, listening hard against the door his ears strained to hear even the slight sound, but it was quiet. Rafael pushed the door open as much as he could without it creaking and slipped out into the hallway. Padding down the corridor, staying close to the wall where the floorboard creaked the least, he moved quietly towards the living room and that’s when he saw him. A large man in a big red coat and black boots, a bushy white beard and half-moon spectacles resting on a cold-weather-induced red nose. Creeping closer to hide behind the couch, he poked his head up to see a red sack filled with presents, Father Christmas removing some to lay beneath the pitiful excuse for a tree (his father set fire to their last one while drunk).

“It’s rude to stare, you know?” The jolly voice sounded loud in the otherwise quiet room and before he could help himself Rafael jumped up and shushed the man, his eyes wide with fear and the little hairs on his arms and neck jumping up.

“My dear Rafael, your father won’t hear anything I don’t want him to hear,” Santa says while turning to face the boy.

Sure enough, as loud as the man was, his father was still snoring away in his room, his mother too.

“How do you know my name?” Rafael asks, his eyes remain wide with wonder instead of fear, moving around the couch, to get closer to the large man.

“I received your letters of course,” Santa answers.

“I burned my letters,” Rafael asserts.

Santa merely smiles in response. It doesn’t assure Rafael as much as it aggravates him.

“If you got my letters then you’d know I don’t want presents. That’s not why I wished for,” he counters, annoyance lacing his words.

The man in red pauses, looking at the Cuban boy small for his age but mature beyond his years, a boy forced to grow up far too fast. He can see the pain, and sorrow, and tears this boy has experienced and is yet to experience. He wishes he could do what the boys asks but these are things even beyond his control.

Santa walks closer to the boy, his big heart breaking at the flinch when he places his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder.

“My dear boy, I wish I could do as you asked, I really do, but there are things even I cannot do,” he sees the boy’s heart break in his unbelievably bright green eyes. The shine of tears welling up, but he knows the boy has had enough practice of fighting them away.

“Things will get better, this I can promise you; you just need to stay strong for a little while longer,” he reassures, getting down on one knee, drawing the boy in, Rafael reluctant at first but eventually collapses into the large man’s arms.

No tears fall, but he can feel the nine-year-old shaking in his arms, and the pain in his chest increases. Flying across the world in one-night leaves him numb to the passing of time, it occurs as fast or as slowly as he likes, but in this moment, Santa loses track of time completely, he simply waits until the shaking has stopped, and Rafael pulls away.

“I heard hoofbeats, that’s why I came to the living room, was that you Reindeer?” Rafael asks, his voice quiet but straining to sound strong.

Santa smiles and stands, offering a hand to the boy, as soon as their fingers touch, they are suddenly on the roof, and Santa looks to Rafael in time to see the wonder in his eyes as he spots the big red sleigh and the Reindeer who make it fly.

Rafael’s mouth drops open in awe of the Reindeer before him, the size of the antlers making them huge in comparison to him. His fingers itch to run themselves through the soft fur and he feels Santa push him towards the magical animals. He doesn’t resist.

He approaches them slowly, willing himself not to accidentally startle them, but each of them eyes him with no twitches, the one closest to him actually steps closer to him, once he is close enough it bows its head, mindful to avoid hitting him with its antlers and slow him to run his hand across its crown. The fur is softer than he could possibly imagine and the joy he feels warms him. He gives one last pet before moving over to the next Reindeer and the next, taking the time to stroke them softly before saying goodbye and moving on. Rafael can’t spot much of any difference between them until he sees that last one, with its glowing red nose, he knows exactly which one this Reindeer is – Rudolph. Rudolph treats him much the same as the others, allowing Rafael to pet him softly before Rafael backs away.

He turns back to Santa and this time he has a smile to mirror the larger man.

“Thank you, for letting me see them,” Rafael whispers, the gently falling snow resting in his tousled brown hair and long eyelashes, how anyone could hurt such a kind boy Santa will never understand.

Santa offers him a kind smile and nod in return before once again kneeling before him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Stay strong my dear Rafael, and stay kind, you will be happy one day,” he promises, placing his hand over Rafael’s heart, he waits for the boy to nod.

The next thing Rafael remembers is his mother stroking her hand through his hair softly to rouse him from sleep, “Feliz Navidad, cariño.”

---

“Uncle Rafa, what should I write to Santa Claus?” Noah asks turning in his favourite uncle’s lap to face him.

Rafael flicks his eyes away from the films rolling credits to give his attention to the boy sitting in his arms, looking up at him with big wide eyes, and for a moment he sees himself when he was a child. But he blinks away the image, Noah isn’t him, Noah is happy and safe with a loving mother who would fight her way through hell to keep him safe and unharmed. He would do anything to prevent this boy from going through even a fraction of what he had to. Then he remembers that night when he was nine, for so long he convinced himself that it was a dream, but it never felt like one. He could feel the snow in his hair and on his face, the soft fur of the reindeer and the warmth from Santa’s hug. There would always be a part of him that believed it was real. Pulling himself from his memories his eyes focus back on Noah.

“That’s up to you, Hijo. What do you want from Santa?” He responds, his voice softening in a way it only does with Noah.

“Mama says I can ask for toys or games, but I have lots of toys, but can I ask for other things too?” He asks, shuffling himself around to cuddle more into Rafael’s chest, subconsciously his arms tighten around the boy, keeping him secure in his lap.

“Hijo, you can ask for whatever you want, it doesn’t need to be toys, you can ask for it to snow, or for your favourite food on Christmas day or even just to be happy. This is your personal wish list to Santa, ask him for whatever your heart desires,” Rafael reassures. “Just maybe not a pet, I think your mother will kill us both if she hears the word puppy one more time this year,” he jokes, making Noah giggle.

In the past week alone, Noah had begged his mother for a puppy at least twelve times, and Rafael could see Olivia’s patience thinning with every ask.

“Okay, thank you, uncle Rafa,” Noah whispers sleepily, his eyelids drooping.

“You’re very welcome, Hijo. Now, I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?” He whispers, trying to keep the boy from waking back up from drowsiness.

He pushes himself off the couch and carries the almost sleeping boy to his bedroom. Tucking him into his toddler bed and switching on the night light. He takes a moment to just watching him cuddle into the warm duvet before dropping a kiss on his forehead with a whispered, “Goodnight, my sweet boy.”

Rafael stands and turns to the doorway to see Olivia standing there, her expression warm, a smile pulling at her lips but even in the dim light he can see how tired she is.

Rafael stands to the side letting her pass to drop a kiss on her son’s head in the same place he left his before taking her hand and pulling her back into the living room. As soon as they are clear of Noah’s room Liv folds herself into his arms, tucking her face into Rafael’s neck and as easy as breathing he wraps his arms around her, holding her close.

“Thank you for being here, for looking after him,” she mouths against his neck, he feels her breath ticking his skin and ear. “I’m sorry I’m so late, I should have called,” Rafael shakes his head in response.

“You know I love spending time with him, we enjoyed ourselves, we had dino nuggets for dinner, and did some drawing, speaking of we might have a little artist on our hands, and then we watched a film after his bath,” Rafael pulls back and cups her face with his hands. “The fact that you trust me with him after everything with Sheila, warms my heart, I love that boy and getting to spend time with him makes me happy, you both make me happy. I will accept no apology,” he finishes.

Liv slaps his chest before her hands smooth their way down to his waist, keeping him close. “Stop it you sap, you’ll make me cry.”

“Happy tears I hope?” Liv merely nods her head in response before kissing him soundly.

When they part, Liv take his hands in hers, “I’m exhausted, take me to bed?”

That needs no verbal response.

---

The sound of hoofbeats wake Rafael just before midnight on Christmas Eve, his eyes snap open, his vision partially blocked by Liv’s hair, from where his face is buried in her neck, his arms wrapped around her, warmth radiating from her bare skin pressed against his. Rafael carefully disentangles himself from Olivia and climbs out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt to cover his chest.

Like the last time he pads across the floor to the living room, taking a deep breath before turning the corner and the all the air in his lungs leaves him in one fell swoop. Standing there before the Christmas tree is the same man, he saw all those years ago as a child.

“My dear boy, it is good to see you once again,” the jolly man smiles at him, looking not a day older than the last time Rafael saw him.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you but why are you here, after all this time?” Rafael asks, getting straight to the point, Santa merely grins and pulls a letter out of his pocket, Rafael’s brow furrow in confusion.

“I received a letter from a boy named Noah Porter Benson, do you know what it says?” Santa asks, and Rafael shakes his head in response.

His mind drifts back to the night Noah asked about what he could write to Santa for, Noah hadn’t mentioned the letter since.

“Noah only asks for one thing and I’m afraid it’s not something I can deliver, but I think you can,” Santa replies, a twinkle in his eye.

Rafael steps closer to the man, his brain working to think of something that Santa Claus himself couldn’t provide. Santa just opens the letter and begins to read, “Dear Mr Santa Claus, I don’t need any new toys for Christmas, all I want this year is for Uncle Rafa to be my daddy, I promise I won’t wish for anything else just please give me a daddy. Love Noah.”

Rafael feels tears in his eyes, but unlike before these are tears of joy, and he lets them fall. Before wiping them away, trying to keep his cool, but the warm happiness inside of him is too much to ignore, the smile on his face unavoidable. Santa walks towards him and is glad when Rafael doesn’t flinch like he did when he was a young boy.

“I asked you to stay strong and to stay kind and you have kept your promise to me, can you promise me one more thing?” The man asks and Rafael already knows what it is but nods anyway. “Be the father I always knew you would be, I know you’ll be the best father Noah could have.”

“How can you know that?” Rafael asks, doubt swirling low in his stomach, the fear of failure making him feel sick.

“Because, my dear Rafael, you already are.”

When Rafael blinks, his eyes open to Olivia sleeping with her head on his chest and Noah lifting the duvet to climb in beside him.

“Merry Christmas, daddy,” Noah whispers before falling back asleep.

“Merry Christmas, mijo.”

#rafael barba #Raúl Esparza #Raul Esparza #Barson #Olivia Benson #noah porter benson

[antagonisms]

a self-para, and parting gift, for my second-favourite korean 

trigger warnings for: allusions to domestic and child abuse

general warnings for: evan being a dick

i.

“This is her, right?”

Evan’s gaze flits to Connor’s phone screen. There’s a photo of a woman sitting cross legged on a piano stool, back turned against the keys.

“Yeah,” Evan tells him. “That’s my mom.”

“You look alike,” Connor says.

Evan laughs. “I know.” And it’s a nice thing, half the time, that he can look at the mirror and not see Rina’s husband instead. Lord knows he doesn’t want to be reminded of a pain that’s been buried. Still, there’s some pain seeing Rina’s face reflected, too — when the distance between past and present elongates, even the best memories turn bitter.

This is what they discovered about Rina Watanabe: She abandoned her ex-husband’s surname. She runs a semi-popular music store slash studio and still teaches basic piano to little kids. She abandoned the rolling mountains of Blackrock for the sepia-toned city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, which is apparently a real place that people live in and not just a state Eisenhower invented to add more stars to the flag. It’s also nine hours away from Montana by bus. 

This is what Evan discovered about Connor Park: He cares enough to take him there. 

He also knows Evan well enough to offer the window seat. Knows Evan well enough to inch away even if the seats are small and the bus is already pretty cramped. He knows Evan well enough not to say anything when Evan’s eyes, still lingering on his mother’s photo, turn downcast with the rest of his expression.

Of course, he reminds himself, Connor’s been through the same shit, so he has the decency not to pity him.  

The rest of the bus ride is quiet. Behind the window, Wyoming’s rolling fields blur into long yellow lines. The mountains get smaller and bluer with distance. Connor’s listening to music on his phone. His fists are balled into his lap, and his expression is tight in a way that makes Evan suspect that he’s less focused on whatever he’s listening and more focused on a question running through his mind, like he wants to ask Evan something but doesn’t know where to start.

Evan realizes he wants to ask Connor things too. Wants to keep his mind away from his absent mother and the hole she left — wants to ask about the similar-shaped hole Connor might have, what’s the system like, do you remember your mom, how long have you and your brother been fighting, do you remember being a kid?

Instead he taps at his ear, gestures for Connor to pull an earphone out. When Connor does, Evan asks, “What are you listening to?”

Connor hands over the other earphone. “Do you wanna hear it?”

Evan takes it. It’s a Frank Ocean song, likely from Evan’s lost years, because it’s not anything he’s heard before. Still, the mellowness is familiar enough that a wave of wistfulness settles on his chest. There’s nothing out the window but vast space, so Evan looks at Connor, and right on that beat Frank Ocean croons, it’s quite alright to hate me now. 

Maybe all Connor wants is for Evan to have the closure he and Noah never got. It’s too late to tell him that it’s not worth the effort — Evan’s not worth the effort — and what kind of person does this, anyway? What kind of person exhausts themselves to make sure another person doesn’t feel the pain that they’d felt? Evan furrows his brows. He imagines Connor, five years old, sat on a swing set waiting for a mother that wouldn’t come back. He imagines himself, twelve years old, staring at a window and waiting for a car that would never return.

The same story, different endings. Evan gets his heart broken and keeps the pieces to himself. Connor gets his heart broken and offers the pieces to other people. The comparison fucking stings. For a fleeting moment, he considers berating himself for being so goddamn selfish, but then he tells himself that, you know what, maybe it was neither of their fucking faults. There are versions of themselves that could have been kinder had they simply been afforded the privilege of being loved. A version of Evan where he isn’t too guarded. A version of Connor where he isn’t too insecure.

He imagines them then, as children, their hearts full and whole and unbroken. Evan’s much taller at six years old than Connor is at five, so when Connor sits at the swings his legs are still too short to kick himself up high enough. It’s the make-believe Evan that stands behind the swing, grabs it by the chains, and pulls. When he lets go, Connor soars.

Right on time, Frank Ocean sings, we’ll never be those kids again. 

ii. 

In the music store in Wyoming, there’s a small child. Her face looks like Evan’s. A near splitting image of his eight-year-old self. Evan watches her run up to the woman leaning by the cash register, gives her a kiss on the cheek and says, I’ll see you at home, Mom. 

Then his eyes find the woman at the counter. Evan knows that posture. Relaxed shoulders, elbows propped on a surface behind her, back leaning, entirely graceless and casual. She waves goodbye to her child as her mouth splits into a smile, a fondness Evan doesn’t realize is familiar until his heart sinks to his chest.

Mom.

Evan takes a breath. 

Connor faces him. Evan can feel the concern in his eyes even without looking. “You don’t have to do this now,” he says, and he’s right, because they’re both still exhausted from the bus ride. “There’s still time tomorrow.”

Evan shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Hands slide into his pockets. He doesn’t break his gaze from the woman, who has yet to notice him, too busy throwing her head back in laughter as she gets lost in her conversation with the man at the counter. She looks happy. Happier than she ever was at home. If any painful feeling arises from that, Evan keeps it buried.

He drags his feet toward her. His heart feels heavy. This is a bad idea, he thinks, but he doesn’t stop walking until Rina turns her head and stops at the sight of him.

Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens, then closed. She looks at him the same way most people in Blackrock do, at least after the lost years. Like the can’t tell if the man they’re looking at is anything more than a ghost.

Evan wills himself to smile at her. “Hey.”

She smiles back, startled and painfully forced. “Can I help you?”

“Mom.” His voice drifts with the softest sort of desperation. “It’s me.” 

She blinks. Her gaze won’t meet his. There’s shame evident in her eyes — which, if he were crueler, might make him feel better about all this, but now all it does is stab a knifelike pain through his chest. 

Her lips press into a thin line. If he remembers her correctly — and he probably doesn’t — it means she’s fumbling her mind for words. Her eyes finally meet his, and when her mouth opens, the words are slow to come out. 

“Do you,” she asks, “want to talk outside?”

Now, it’s Evan’s turns to pause. “Sure.”

Connor’s standing by one of the drum sets, one finger tracing the circumference of a cymbal. He stops when he catches Evan’s gaze. Evan mouths, I’ll be right back and waits for Connor’s nod before following Rina out the door.

Outside, Rina fishes a pack of Marlboros from her pocket. She leans against the wall and plucks a light out of the box. Head turning to him, she says, “Do you smoke?”

Evan purses his lip. “Kind of.”

She hands him the cigarette in her hand and picks out another for herself. It’s silent, mostly, when she takes out her lighter and sets the tail end aflame. Evan doesn’t ask her to light his. It seems that she, too, forgets to offer.

She takes a drag. A long one. Only when she huffs the smoke out does she face him again. “You’ve grown.”

“I mean,” Evan says. “It’s been a while.”

Rina sighs. Evan can’t tell where the frustration is directed: herself, or him. Her brows crease and form a worry line. “I’m sorry — I just. I thought you were—”

Evan cuts her off. “I’m here now. The girl in the store earlier. Is she your—”

“She’s my daughter.” Even if guilt drips through her voice, the words are a gut punch.

He’s been playing the same made up story in his head since he was twelve. Sometimes she comes up in his dreams. It starts without awkwardness. They speak about everything and nothing until the conversation’s strong enough to carry the heavy shit — the questions he couldn’t ask and the answers she failed to give. At twenty-seven, his mind rewrites the story. First, she’ll asks, where have you been, and whatever flippant excuse he might give for his disappearance won’t matter, because she’ll throw her arms around him and say that she missed him, say that she’s sorry she ever left him behind.

But she doesn’t ask him where he’s been. She asks, “Why did you come here?”

And here’s where he starts to regret asking for a light. Grief wells at his chest, pushing his heart to his throat. I had some questions I wanted to ask you, he should say, but his impatience gets the best of him, pushing the words out too soon. “Did you—” And he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answers to. “When I disappeared, did you — did you look for me?”

Rina looks down.

She folds her arms. It makes her posture look more closed, like she’s putting space between them. “I tried. I tried very hard, for a year.” Rina wraps her arms tighter around herself. Her head hangs low. “I just — I had my obligations here, so I had to—”

“You gave up hope,” Evan says.

She tilts her head up slightly, to face him. There’s very little resentment in his eyes, but she still seems to shrink under his gaze. “But you’re alright now, aren’t you?”

It’s tempting to snort at that question. Six years, Evan things. Nobody had seen him for six years. “I’m getting by,” he says, voice flat. “Dad’s dead. You probably already knew, though.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

The laugh he tears out of his throat is small and dark. “Come on. Don’t lie. We both wanted him gone.”

And maybe his expression’s gotten darker, because his mother’s shrinking deeper and deeper inside of herself. “It must have been hard, still.”

“It was harder when he was alive.” Evan steadies his voice. He knows he doesn’t need to say more than this. But the anger wrenches at his chest, and the bitterness leaks through his words. “You know, everything he did to you, he did to me.”

Her face is all heartbreak and shame. Not the strong-willed mother he once knew. Or maybe she was just louder in the house because she needed to be. He used to think neither of them gained anything from living in that shitty manor, but maybe, in the cruelest sense, it was a learning experience. Rina learned to fight back, and when she couldn’t, she learned to run. Evan learned to take a hit.

“I’m sorry.”

Evan scoffs. “I mean, it’s cool.” His voice is a calm and wretched sound. “Did you know bones get stronger after you break them? They have to adapt after the fracture. Become more resilient to stress. I think I feel invincible now. You can put me in Guinness records for world’s best pain tolerance.”

He imagines himself, on a swing set, waiting. Hang on. That’s not right. He imagines himself, at a piano, waiting. He imagines this small girl, at a piano, Rina holding her small hands, guiding her fingers along the keys. He imagines this girl, a bruise on her neck in the shape of a man’s hand. Wait. That isn’t right either.

He imagines himself, twelve years old, sitting shotgun at Rina’s car, watching Montana blur past them. Rina turns the radio up and tells him to sing with her, so he does; he sings and stares at the road ahead and smiles bright even if — or maybe because — he has no idea where they’re headed. He imagines a life where she saves him. He imagines a life where neither of them have to heal.

“I’d understand it,” she finally says. “If you hated me.”

Evan’s face falls. “I never hated you.” He drags a sigh out of his throat. “I just — I don’t know. I guess I just wished you loved me.”

iii.

He’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like he didn’t expect this. Did he get his hopes up a little? Maybe. But it’s not something he can’t survive. That’s what he’s good at, right? Surviving. He survived broken bones, a broken home, a broken life. He can survive a broken heart.

Connor shuts the door of the motel room and leans against the wall. Good. He knows when to keep his distance. But Connor opens his mouth, because of course he has to say something, and immediately, Evan thinks, this is going to get ugly.

“If you need me—”

Evan says, “I don’t need you.”

“—I’m here.”

This is going to get ugly. 

“Thanks,” Evan says. 

Connor looks so small like this. When Evan meets his eyes, Connor’s gaze flits away. Maybe that pisses him off. Things are fine, right? So Connor should be a better friend and act like things are fucking fine.

But maybe Evan wants Connor to open his mouth again, say something stupid, cross a line. Don’t take it personally. His anger’s just a ticking time bomb and it just so happens that Connor’s within the blast zone. 

“It was hard too. When me and Noah found out that our—”

Evan laughs. “How’s that hard? It’s not like you actually knew her.”

“Our mom,” Connor continues, and Evan can tell that it’s getting harder for him to stop himself from getting angry. “She had a new family, too. I’m just trying to say that I get it.”

Evan’s mouth splits into a wry smile. “Projecting. That’s always fun, isn’t it?”

“Evan,” Connor warns.

“Maybe that’s why you brought me here. Couldn’t fix your fucked family relationships, so maybe fixing mine’s enough of a compensation.” Evan puts a hand on his chest. “Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds. Thank you, Connor.”

Connor narrows his eyes. There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze. “You asked me to take you here.” 

“I said thank you, didn’t I? I think it’s real nice of you to keep putting in so much effort as if it’s ever done anyone any good.” Evan’s mouth curls into a sneer. “Persistence. I like that in a man.”

Connor frowns. “I’m gonna take a smoke outside. Don’t talk to me until you’re done throwing a tantrum.”

“Oh, nice.” A wry laugh leaves Evan’s lips. “Connor Park’s walking away from someone. Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

That gets Connor to flinch. 

His eyes meet Evan’s. “Look, I get that you’re hurting, but don’t you dare take it out on me.” A sigh leaves his throat, frustrated. “All I fucking wanted was to do something nice for you.”

“I’m not,” Evan strains to say, “hurting.”

“Like I said.” Connor’s gaze doesn’t break from his. “I get it. I’ve been there.”

“You really think we’re the same, huh?” Evan folds his arms. Under Connor’s stare, his body feels very close to shattering. Still, he keeps his voice tight. “You don’t know me. You don’t know half of what I’ve been through.”

“Can you stop acting like you’re the only person who’s gone through shit?” Connor snaps, with a fire that almost gets Evan to smile. “Look, fine. I don’t know what happened to you. But I know—”

“What do you know?”

“—that you like to lash out when you’re upset.”

“Go on,” Evan says, sharp and venomous. “I’d like to know more.”

There’s a glint of cautiousness in Connor’s eyes. For a fleeting second, Evan expects silence, suspects that Connor is afraid of saying the wrong thing, as he always is. Connor opens his mouth anyway. “You’re pushing me away so you can prove that I don’t really understand you. Because you don’t want to be helped. Because you want to hurt yourself. Or Because—”

Connor pauses. His eyes meet the ground. Evan’s voice goes tight. “Because what, Connor?”

A breath escapes him. Connor finally tears his gaze away. “You don’t want people taking care of you. Because then they’ll have the power to hurt you.”

Jesus. Connor Park is so fucking smart. 

“Or maybe I just don’t want you taking care of me,” Evan snaps. “I’m starting to think that maybe you like that I’m damaged.”

“Why the fuck would I like that?”

Evan started this fight; he’s not about to lose it, not even when his legs feel weak and his heart wants to leap out of his throat. “Why else?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. “Can’t solve your own problems? Why not throw yourself into someone else’s. You think that if you save me you can save yourself from having a nonexistent sense of fucking self-esteem. But guess what? I’m not you fucking project, Connor. So stop trying to fix me because I’m not fucking broken.”

Connor’s face falls. He looks more hurt than angry. “I don’t,” he says, “think you’re broken.”

Evan knees collapse from underneath him. 

His hands ball into fists at his lap. His eyes fall shut when he lowers his head, body keeling forward, mouth falling open as his heart dredges from his throat a scream that comes out soundless. His lip quivers. Small, unwanted dew drops form at the corners of his eyes and spill into the floor.

There are versions of themselves that could have been kinder to one another had their lives been kinder to them. “We deserved better,” he says, because it’s a lot easier to say than I’m sorry. It’s true, anyway. His mind runs through the same sentence, again and again and again — we deserved better. We deserved better. We deserved better. 

Or maybe he’s very close to proving that he’s capable of being crueler than his past. It’s just Connor that deserves better. Deserves more than an absent mother the set of transient homes she’d doomed him to, deserves better than a friend who gives him a verbal beating for — what? Doing exactly what Evan asked?

Guilt, useless and cloying, floods at Evan’s chest, punishing him for wanting comfort. Evan’s never been good at asking for help. Connor’s never been good at giving it, or perhaps that’s because he gives too much — and Evan would like to ask, now, but what right does he have? An apology is owed and he’s too much of a coward to give it. 

Connor still kneels down in front of him. 

Evan holds his head up. Looks at Connor, watches as reluctance and concern flickers in the other’s eyes. Cautious as always. Evan loved and hated that about him. He moves closer, wraps his arms around Evan, pulls him close to his chest. Against his own self-scrutiny, Evan buries his face into the crook of Connor’s neck.

Evan’s shoulders drop down. His breathing remains shaky and jagged, but it slows as Connor’s arms fold around him. His grip tightens, but it doesn’t hurt. That’s funny. 

“If you let me take care of you,” Connor says, “I promise — I am not going to hurt you.”

Evan’s voice goes very quiet. “Don’t let go, then,” 

“Okay,” Connor tells him. “Okay.”

iv.

The bus ride back to Blackrock is mostly quiet. It’s a night ride though, so Evan’s exhausted, and not even Frank Ocean’s crooning can keep him awake. He drifts off, eyes fluttering drowsily when he turns to Connor, mouth falling open, as if to say something. To ask for something. No sound comes out, but still, Connor lifts a hand and guides Evan’s head down his shoulder. Something warm fills Evan’s chest. He’s not sure what to call the feeling, but it’s quite a special thing, when someone knows exactly what you need, and you don’t even have to ask. Evan’s head stays on Connor’s shoulder for the whole drive home.

#dw ive been given permission to use connor for this One thing #depression is depressing i can only write sad things #self para. #emotional beats? what are Thoooose

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (23/?)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I wrote this entire story in some kind of pregnancy-fueled Mexican-food-craving haze, and I didn’t realize just how much time was between some certain big plot points until I was proof-reading this. That said, I’m not changing any of that and am literally impatient to share all of the upcoming chapters with you wonderful people! @resident-of-storybrooke​ has assured me that they’re actually good. lol. Not entirely sure that I trust her 😉

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-/-

I need your post-series comparison report by nine this morning.

You were late with it last time, and that made me late with my report. This is why you should probably stick to on-air reporting instead of continuing to write articles when we have people for that.

W.O.

“Asshole,” Emma mutters to herself after reading that blatantly condescending email from Walsh.

She’s been in the office for approximately fifteen minutes, most likely a little less than that, and the first thing that Emma saw after logging into her computer was an email from Walsh about her report on the difference between playing at home and away, specifically when it comes to playing the Red Sox. Two weeks ago, the Yankees lost every single game they played in Boston, especially that epic game where they lost 3-17 the night Killian was the starting pitcher, and then over the last four days, they’ve won every game while in New York.

Home team advantage taking on a whole new meaning because it is seriously in play this year.

And Emma doesn’t want to get too excited, doesn’t want to get too ahead of herself because anything can happen for the rest of the season, but only a month and a half of the regular season is left and there’s no way the Yankees aren’t making the playoffs. Once they get there, who knows if they’ll make it to the Series?

There’s a chance, though, and that’s all that matters.

As a fan, she’s excited. As Killian’s girlfriend and a reporter for the team, she’s over the freaking moon. It would be insane for them to back it up, but she’s got to slow her roll.

Slow her roll and send Walsh this report so that she doesn’t have to deal with him anymore today. Working with her ex is fine since it’s not an everyday thing, only an office day thing, but the man has got to get the stick out of his ass. He cheated on her, belittled her out of jealousy for her success in her job, and yet he acts like it’s an inconvenience for them to have to spend a miniscule amount of time together. He’s probably sitting at his desk thinking of ways to torture her while drinking a giant bottle of Mountain Dew. She always hated that he did that. He could have at least had the diet version instead of consuming all of that extra sugar.

But whatever. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

Ruth: Do you think you’d like to come to Portland in October? Or maybe sometime before Thanksgiving? I was thinking you could bring your boyfriend so that I can meet him.

Emma reads the text, but she doesn’t answer it quite yet. She needs time to look at her calendar and have time to ask Killian if he wants to go. Hell, she needs time to figure out if that’s what she even wants because, wow, bringing a boyfriend home is not something she’s ever done. Neal literally never wanted to come home with her, never wanted to go to David’s, never wanted to do anything that wasn’t in his control, and Walsh was just…

Shit. She needs to email him now and stop letting her mind go down this path.

Today is a good day. Nothing is going to ruin it. If she repeats that enough times it’s sure to come true.

“Oh my God,” Ruby groans as she steps into Emma’s office, barely able to squeeze in past the chair that’s keeping the door open before sitting in it, “I am ready for this season to be over. Why is it always so jam-packed? Do people really need to watch this much baseball? There are so many damn games.”

“Nope. They really don’t.”

“I feel like you should not be able to say that because of your job and the fact that your boyfriend is a freaking baseball player.”

“Rubes,” Emma hisses, twisting in her chair and looking out the small glass window in her office, “shut up.”

Ruby’s eyes widen, her hands immediately going to cover her mouth, and that might be the fastest Ruby has ever stopped talking in the entirety of her life.

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes before getting up from the chair and moving it so that she can shut the door behind her. Damn this small office. “I didn’t even think about it.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like you have a giant poster saying that I’m dating him. There are just a lot of people constantly walking by this door, so we can’t really talk about it with the door open.”

“My lips are sealed. Also, are you ever going to get a bigger office?”

“I don’t even know why I have an office. Like, honestly. I keep waiting for them to realize that I don’t need it and to give it away to someone who works here more than once a week. Then I could do all of this stuff from home.”

“That is the life. Though, I think you would probably never put on real pants again.”

“Yoga pants are real pants, and that’s a hill I’m willing to die on.”

“Whatever,” Ruby yawns, covering her mouth with her hands. “I’m ready to go home already. Do you think we have time to go home before the game?”

“Considering we have to get out to the stadium in less than an hour and I still have to finish this report for Walsh, I’m thinking not.”

“Ugh,” Ruby groans, propping her feet up against the walls like she owns the place, “why does he continue to exist? Can’t he go work in another department or something?”

“I imagine,” Emma sighs, twisting back in her chair to actually get work done on the report, “that he stays simply to annoy me, but I tend not to think about him too much.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re getting fucked much better now.”

Emma huffs. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“You know, I think it comes from being raised by my grandmother instead of my mother, and I –”

“Rhetorical question,” Emma hums, pulling up her file with her notes from the last few games up so that she can fill the last bit of information in while they talk. “So, Ruth has asked me if I want to bring Killian to Portland.”

“I thought you just said that we couldn’t say his name.”

“We can’t yell it with the door open. We can say it quietly in here.”

“Gotcha, gotcha,” Ruby sighs as Emma keeps working. “How do you feel about the boyfriend going home to meet Ruth? That’s kind of a big step. I mean, he’s already met David and Mary Margaret, but that’s different. They’re more like friends than anything else.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that.”

“This is, like, ‘I see a future with you and want everyone I love to love you’ kind of stuff.”

“Are you trying to freak me out?”

“Only a little. I could have brought up marriage and babies, but I figured that would have you jumping through the ceiling to escape the conversation.”

Emma’s heart kind of feels like it’s going to jump through the ceiling of this conversation. Why did she even bring this up? Probably because she does actually want to talk about it, and Ruby will be the most honest with her because she doesn’t seem to have any kind of filter in that wonderful brain of hers.

‘Yeah, let’s avoid the marriage and babies stuff.”

“Okay, so barring those things,” Ruby sighs, getting up from the chair to perch herself on the edge of Emma’s desk so Emma can actually see her while talking, “how do you feel about this? I know you love Killian because you guys are ridiculously adorable together, which makes me happy for you even if I sometimes find it disgusting, but I also know that you like to freak out about relationship stuff.”

“I’m…” Emma rolls back in her chair and tilts her head up to look at Ruby while she tugs her bottom lip with her teeth. “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, really, because Killian has met everyone else and we do travel pretty often together. But that’s for work, you know? This is…this is moving forward in a way.”

“That’s a good thing, hon. People in good relationships move forward. Graham and I dated for awhile, then moved in together, even if you do live with us because rent is ridiculous, and then one day we’re going to get married. When you love someonesomeone,who is good to you, that’s what you do, even if every relationship roadmap is different with different destinations. It’s scary as hell, but sometimes you’ve got to do scary shit.”

Sometimes you’ve got to do scary shit.

“You sounded really philosophical until you got to the end there.”

“Eh,” she scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulders, “I think all great philosophers should talk like me. It’s real. Good advice doesn’t have to be poetic. It’s just got to be good.”

Emma hums in response, crossing her legs over each other and readjusting her position while she thinks over everything that Ruby has just said. “So, you think I should talk to Killian about it and then text Ruth back?”

“That’s exactly what you should do. And then you should finish this damn report, send it to your asshole ex with a picture of a middle finger attached, and then we should get something to eat on the way to the stadium.”

-/-

The Yankees win an easy game against the Orioles that afternoon, as they usually do, and it’s a smooth day at the office for all involved. Killian is particularly cheeky in his post-game interview, he and Will bantering off each other, and Emma has to bite her tongue to keep herself from telling Killian that she loves him live on-air.

Talk about a disaster waiting to happen there.

-/-

“Darling, can you get me a napkin?”

“Get it yourself, Jones.”

“Emma is literally standing in the kitchen.”

“You are a big boy. You can get your napkin yourself.”

“You just asked her to bring you a glass of water.”

“That is different.”

Emma rolls her eyes at Ruby and Killian bickering with each other. It’s honestly how they talk. Emma doesn’t think that they’re capable of speaking in normal terms, and as obnoxious as it can be, it’s kind of hilarious. Those two are pretty much a friendship made in heaven because of their wit and ability to make anything a dirty joke, but it results in a hell of a lot of bantering.

Or bickering.

Emma’s not sure which one, but if the look on Graham’s face is any indication, it’s a combination of both.

“We’re going to have to stop allowing them to spend time with each other, aren’t we?” Graham asks as he reaches over her to grab a napkin that the restaurant provided them with when they ordered take-out. “I think they might kill each other.”

“Eh, it might just be the natural progression of things.”

“True. Might as well just let it happen.”

“I can hear the two of you,” Ruby huffs, leaning over from the couch so that she can get a handful of chips out of the bowl before standing and walking to the kitchen, “and it’s totally not cool that you’d just let the two of us die. You are supposed to love us.”

“To be fair, I just met Killian, so I’m not sure that we love each other quite yet,” Graham teases.

Killian winks, the biggest smirk stretching across his lips, and it makes Emma’s stomach flutter. “Give it time. I’m irresistible. Ask Emma.”

“He’s not,” Emma sighs, taking the napkins out of Graham’s hands and walking them the few feet over to Killian before sitting down next to him on the couch, plucking a chip from his plate instead of the bowl. “He pretty much had to beg me to get me to date him.”

“Um, no, you definitely asked me out, Swan.”

“Only because you wouldn’t ask me out.”

“We have talked about this,” Killian breathes, scooping up a forkful of his rice. “And besides, it’s a moot point now.”

“Maybe. Are you going to eat the rest of your queso?”

Killian hands her his bowl in answer. Him watching his eating habits more carefully is quite possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to her even if she has to cut down on the pop-tarts in the morning. That’s probably for the best. She’d rather waste her calories on things like queso and grilled cheese. Killian has learned to make a really good grilled cheese sandwich, and that may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her.

Obviously she has some really high (low) standards, but it’s the little things.

Cheese is the way to a woman’s heart. At least to hers. There are some crazy people out there who don’t like cheese.

Crazy.

“Why didn’t we get margaritas with our food again?” Ruby asks as she and Graham both settle back into the living room. They barely have enough room for the three people who live here, let alone four. “I really want a margarita.”

“We’ve got an eleven o’clock game tomorrow.”

“You two do. I don’t.”

Emma reaches to the side to slap Killian’s shoulder, nearly spilling her queso dip, and what a tragedy that would be. “You have training.”

“Not at eleven in the morning.”

“Poor people having to wake up and be at work before nine in the morning to start work at eleven. However do all of you live?”

Everyone’s eyes move toward Graham, evil stares likely there, and instead of backing away, he shrugs his shoulders and takes a bite of his taco, completely unbothered.

“Shut up and eat your tacos, babe.”

He holds up the taco he just took a bite out of. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Killian chuckles beside her, lifting his arm over Emma’s shoulder so that she can lean into him and into his warmth. “And you say Ruby and I bicker.”

“I’m starting to think maybe it’s Ruby that’s the problem.”

“I,” Ruby scoffs, reaching forward to grab the remote to turn the TV on, “am picking the movie we watch tonight because all of you are assholes, and I deserve this.”

They watch Pride and Prejudice because it’s the first thing Ruby finds on TV, something that Emma definitely isn’t going to complain about. She’s usually not one for period romances, most of them a little too damsel in distress with no backbone for her, but this is one that she can appreciate. Plus, Keira Knightly is pretty much the greatest at being in movies that aren’t modern. The woman wouldn’t know how to act in a movie where cell phones exists.

(Okay, maybe she would, but that’s entirely beside the point.)

Ruby and Graham go to bed before the movie is even over, Ruby falling asleep on the couch with chip crumbs on her shirt, and Graham has to coax her into getting up, telling her that she’s not going to be able to move her neck in the morning if she doesn’t move. Ruby pretty much tells him to fuck off in that charming way that she has, but she does get up, slowly wandering back down the hallway to their bedroom until the door shuts behind her.

She and Killian manage to make it until the end, and even though she’s been up since early this morning and spent so much time outside, Emma’s not tired. She’s not tired as she and Killian move to clean up their food, wrapping up the leftovers and putting them in the fridge, before moving back to her own bedroom so that they can go through their routines to get ready for bed. Emma kind of feels like they’ve been spending most of their nights together even though she knows that it’s not true. It’s been two or three times a week, mostly depending on her schedule or Killian’s game schedule, and it’s not something they ever really plan.

But she likes having him here or likes being over at his place, even though she isn’t the best at sharing the comforter or not sprawling out in the middle of the bed, and it’s a nice thing to get to have someone to spend time with like this.

Today has been a good day.

Killian is in bed before her, the white of her comforter pulled up over his lap to cover his sweatpants, and instead of getting under the covers herself, Emma moves to straddle his lap, placing her knees on either side of his thighs while her hand plays with the chain around his neck, moving the cool metal back and forth in her palm.

Killian arches his right brow at her, that side of his lips tugging up to, and it makes her laugh before she places her hands on his bare shoulders all the while Killian reaches up to tuck her loose strands of hair behind her ear, thumb running across her cheekbone in a gentle motion.

His eyes could not possibly be more blue.

“What is it that you think you’re doing, Swan?”

“What do you mean?”

A low hum comes from Killian as the hand that’s not caressing her cheek moves to her waist, snaking up underneath her t-shirt to rest against the bare skin of her stomach.

“This position isn’t exactly indicative of us going to bed.”

“Is it not?” Emma teases, dipping her head down to press her lips to the tip of his nose. “Because I’m very comfortable right now.”

She does a pointed roll of her hips and revels in the way that Killian’s eyes shut at the movement.

“I think the queso is getting to that head of yours.”

Emma shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

And then Killian is tugging her closer and moving his lips over hers, soft and slow and completely and utterly thorough while his hand tangles into her hair, fingers pulling at the strands, and her hands move from his shoulders to his neck, holding him steady. He tastes like her toothpaste, far too minty, and his skin smells like the soap she keeps next to her sink that definitely should not be used for skincare. It’s weirdly refreshing for him to smell like her things, if not a little overwhelming. Last week she used Killian’s bodywash when she was at his place because she didn’t have any of her own, and while she used to be entirely attracted to the smell, carrying it around on her all day was far too overwhelming.

How do men live smelling that strongly of some kind of Irish spring or mountain brook?

That’s not how either of those things smell either. Or, at least, she thinks.

But that’s entirely beside the point when shivers are spreading across her body at the feeling of Killian’s tongue moving inside her mouth. It’s warm and wet against hers, the feeling that same high that she always seems to be chasing with him, and her fingers inch up his neck to curl into the thick strands of his hair while she groans.

“Bloody hell do I love that sound.”

Heat immediately rises to her cheeks, but it’s also curling between her thighs at the heady sound of Killian’s voice and the demanding pressure of his kiss as his legs shift beneath them to move the two of them until Emma’s back is pressed against the mattress and Killian is hovering over her, his lips trailing across the expanse of skin at her neck that has the simmering heat between them continuing all the while Emma tries to catch her breath.

Every time she thinks she’s got it back, though, Killian nips at her collarbone or nibbles on her ear, and it all evaporates into thin air.

“Oh fuck,” Killian grunts, and Emma takes it as an invitation to trace her nails along his back, pressing her hips up to his to get a little more friction. “No, love, fuck.”

Her eyes snap to him at the more pained exasperation in his voice, and it’s then that Emma realizes that he’s stopped kissing her neck and has his forehead pressed there instead, his body not moving over hers.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“My,” he grits, his voice dark but not in the way that she wants it to be, “leg is fucking cramping.”

Emma doesn’t mean to, not really, but the laugh bubbles from deep within her belly until it’s passing through her lips and she can’t contain herself. It’s not really even funny. Cramps and weird noises and all of that jazz are as normal as can be during sex – don’t even get her started on lock jaw – but it’s usually not when they’ve only been making out for five minutes. This is some kind of new record.

“I’m glad you’re so amused by my pain, love.”

“No, no,” she laughs, wishing that she hadn’t but still not able to stop herself, “I promise you I’m not.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you laughing at?”

“Your pain.”

Killian groans before rolling off of her, the loss of his body heat immediate, and she watches as his arm reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes still shut so tightly that those little crinkles have shown up around his skin. It’s adorable even if he’d probably like to chop his leg off right now.

“I hate you.”

“That is entirely untrue,” Emma sighs, leaning down to brush her lips over his cheek before moving across the mattress so that she can grab onto Killian’s leg and rest his calf on her lap, fingers digging into the flesh to start to massage it. “I have it on good authority that you love me in spite of all of the weird things about me like the fact that I laugh at your cramps.”

Killian’s hand moves from his face until his arm is flopping against the mattress in what has to be the most dramatic fashion in the world. “That’s probably the least weird thing about you.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the weirdest?”

Killian props himself up on his elbows, his eyes obviously taking her in as he thinks, and she squeezes his calf a little bit too hard in response. “You put too much creamer in your coffee.”

“That’s a cop out answer.”

“Nope. It’s my honest to God answer, love. That is the weirdest thing about you.”

“The weirdest thing about you is the fact that you organize your t-shirts by year that you got them instead of color or putting your favorites up front.”

“I don’t believe I asked for your opinion on that.”

“No,” Emma shrugs, squeezing his calf where she can see the muscles twitching, “you didn’t, but I thought I’d give you my opinion anyways since you’re not being honest with me about what you find weird about me.”

Killian rolls his eyes before falling back down to the mattress, strands of hair falling over his forehead. “You have too many blankets. It’s not…I mean, you do a million little things that are different or quirky, but I don’t find any of them weird. Not really. But you collect a hell of a lot of blankets. You’ve probably spent thousands of dollars on them. I swear, you’ve brought a different blanket on every road trip we’ve had this year.”

“That is not weird.”

“Neither is my t-shirt thing.”

“Agree to disagree,” she sighs, pulling a pillow behind her back so that she’s not hunching over. “And you have never complained about having use of one of my blankets before.”

“Nor you my t-shirts.”

“This is true.” Emma keeps working at Killian’s calf, feeling the muscled skin under her fingertips, and she figures now might be the time to talk to him about Ruth. It’s not like he can run away. Well, he could, but she could probably run faster than him now. “So, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Killian’s body stiffens. “And you saved it for when I can’t run away?”

Great minds think alike.

“Yes, because I knew you were going to cramp while we were making out.”

She rolls her eyes but still smiles at the way Killian’s forehead is wrinkled with the raise of his brows. His face can hold so many different expressions – from soft to broody and from sexy to amused – and she likes that he often gives away what’s going on in his mind through them, even if he doesn’t always.

“You are evil like that.”

“I know,” Emma shrugs before putting a little more pressure on Killian’s calf so that he groans. Definitely a different groan than what was happening before. “So, Ruth texting me today and asked if when I wanted to come visit. She’s been on me about it for a few months now even with her coming here, but I probably should go home when the season is over. And I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”

They’re simple words, but the weight behind them makes Emma feel like she’s just been run over by a truck.

She’s absolutely great at being an adult.

The best.

Her heart is probably going to implode.

“Well,” Killian sighs, propping himself up on his elbows again, “I’d have to check my calendar. You know, I am a very popular man, and many women ask me to go home with them to meet their mothers. I have to make sure that I’m not scheduled to do that with someone else.”

“Asshole,” Emma huffs as she slaps Killian’s leg and pushes it off of her lap so that she can get off the bed. “You’re an asshole.”

“I’m feeling a little bit of de ja vu with you calling me that.”

“You deserve it.”

“Hey,” he sighs, stretching across the bed to grab at the bottom of her t-shirt until he pulls her back down onto the bed with him so that she roughly lands on the mattress and against Killian’s knee. It’s not exactly comfortable, but Killian shifts and caresses her cheeks with his hands, pushing her hair back while he looks at her. “I’m kidding. I would love to get to go to Portland with you to meet Ruth. I really do have to check my schedule, especially with how we do in the post-season, but I’m more than happy to go with you and get to hear all kinds of stories about you as a teenager.”

“Yeah, you’re not allowed to ask for any stories when we go.”

“I’m one hundred percent asking for stories.”

“No. You can’t do that because – ”

Killian doesn’t let her finish her protest, pulling her forward to press his lips into hers, a soft yet insistent thing that has her forgetting her argument. He’s good at that. Probably too good, but that’s definitely something she’ll address at another time.

A time when he’s not doing that thing with his tongue and his teeth that she likes so much.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma stops, possibly against her better judgement, and Killian pulls back only to bury his face in her shoulder.

“W-what?”

“My leg is cramping.”

Killian groans into her neck before wrapping his arms around Emma’s waist and pulling her down alongside him so that they’re a tangle of limbs that very well may never be unwrapped. She wouldn’t mind that either, not if she can stay in the dim light of her bedroom with Killian holding onto her and looking at her like she put the stars in the sky and tells them to glow every night.

No one has ever looked at her that way before.

Ever.

She’s really damn happy.

“I love you,” Killian breathes out, and her heart metaphorically skips a beat while she reaches for his chain between them so that she can run the metal between her fingers. “More than anything, I think.”

Well damn. Who knew three little words added to those big three words could completely change the meaning of it all? Or, at least, amplify them.

“I love you too, twenty-nine.”

Killian shifts again, pressing his back into her and pulling her closer, as if that was possible, and she can feel the scruff on the underside of his chin pressing into her temple while he intertwines their fingers and moves their joined hands to rest between her breasts.

“I’m serious, Emma. I know…” Killian takes a deep breath, one that she can feel in her own bones, and she has to swallow down the emotion that she feels at just the gravely sound of his voice. “Thank you for trusting me enough to take this shot with me. I haven’t been this happy in a long time, and I kind of thought that I’d reached the pinnacle of happiness last year when we won.”

“I mean, you did win the World Series,” she says, trying to play off some of the emotions she’s feeling. “What could be better than that?”

“Don’t you know, Emma?” Killian speaks into her hair, pressing a kiss there that has her lashes fluttering closed against her cheeks. “It’s you.”

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

[clericbyers]

Mike and Will are fooling in the snow one night after an evening out with the Party. Will is laughing really hard after throwing a snowball at Mike, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, his short brown hair a mess from under his wool cap, he's so breathtakingly beautiful. Mike is so, so in love with this amazing boy. He knows Will is IT for him. He can see them together 50, 60 years from now. ("I love you, you giant dork." Eskimo kisses are always the best under the snow.)

“Catch you on the flip side!” Lucas shouts to the others as he gathers his bike from the Wheeler garage and sets himself to head back home.

“See ya tomorrow, Lucas,” Mike replies warmly, tucking his gloved hands into his jacket pocket with a chilled shiver. Dustin pats him on the back and heads over to grab his bike as well.

“You two take care tonight, alright?” he says once he’s wheeled himself in front of the curb where Mike and Will stand side by side. “Tomorrow is gonna be amazing.”

Will rolls his eyes and Mike can’t help the smile on his face at the sight. “You always hype up your campaigns but it’s just an excuse to help Mike level up faster.”

Dustin sends him an affronted look. “Hey! Mike should be thanking me for making sure he’s not a drag for you and Lucas. He’s always losing so many hit points every time he steps three units to the left.”

“I don’t lose that many!”

“You nearly died touching the juice of a poisonous berry, Mike.” Will reminds him. “Not even eating it, just touching it. You need the XP points; it’d just be nice if someone here didn’t play favorites while helping you.”

“You are really one to talk about picking favorites, Byers.” Dustin motions to Mike with both hands in an exaggeratory fashion. “Look at him. Your favorite.”

“He’s not!”

“I’m not?” Mike puts a hand to his chest with a gasp. “All this time, I thought being your friend since kindergarten made me your favorite.”

“You’re my favorite first friend.”

“The only one I hope.”

Will grins and slips his arm around Mike’s. “Sorry to tell you that Dustin and I actually met long before we did.”

“Mike, we did no such thing. I didn’t even know you until 4th grade; tell him to stop lying. Will, stop before you make him beat me up with an irrelevant speech of a rant.”

“I won’t beat you up,” Mike rolls his eyes but pulls Will closer to him. Will giggles and leans into the embrace. “Maybe just scare you a little by spending the next twenty minutes being the devil’s advocate and explain why The Breakfast Club is the worst movie to grace this earth.”

Dustin gapes. “You’re a horrible best friend; I hope you know that, Mike.”

Will cackles against Mike’s arm and Mike looks down at him with a smile, always so happy to see Will grinning and, in general, happy given everything that’s come to pass in the past few years. Dustin kicks up snow toward the two before laughing and giving them each a goodbye before biking down the street back to his house.

This leaves Will and Mike alone at the curb, which is nothing new, but this is the first time they are left alone like this as a couple. That’s still such a wild concept for Mike to accept but to be fair, it’s still only been a few hours since they went official. Will’s tucked into his shoulder a bit more, staring out at the snowflakes falling from above. Mike wants to go inside where it’s much warmer but a snowflake lands on Will’s red nose and he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it and Mike’s heart hurts so much.

“You wanna spend a few playing in the snow before it gets too cold?” Mike asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible with his question.

Will perks excitedly. “Yeah! Let’s try to make a snowman on the lawn and see if it lasts into the morning.”

The shorter boy untangles himself from Mike’s arms and bounds toward the snow piling up in the yard. Mike is a little slow to follow, breath caught in his throat as he watches Will start piling up snow to pack into a sphere. He’s dressed for winter to the nines; neck draped with a scarf, hair half buried under his wool cap, fingers covered with gloves that are getting wet from his ministrations. Mike takes a second to soak this moment in, how he gets to think back on this moment not as ‘that time I built a snowman with my best friend’ but as ‘the first time I built a snowman with my boyfriend’ and that thought brings a flood of heat to Mike’s freckled cheeks.

He shakes his head and follows Will’s imprinted steps in the snow to help him roll the base sphere. They manage to work together to build the first two snowballs for the snowman in relative piece, sneaking in small nudges and quick shy glances whenever they pass each other by. Mike feels brave for a moment and presses his lips to Will’s cold cheek when they pause for a moment after getting the second sphere on top of the bottom one. Will giggles and playfully shoves at Mike but his eyes are glowing and Mike thinks tonight can most definitely be labeled as the best night of his life.

Mike turns to focus on the last sphere for the snowman, distractedly packing snow into a tight ball when he feels sloshing cold ice smack him on the back. He yelps, tripping over a snow pile he had created during his task, and stumbles across the lawn trying his best not to faceplant from the force of it all. At the sound of loud laughter, Mike flips around to glare at the offender, but finds all words caught in his throat at the sight before him.

Simply put, Will is breathtakingly beautiful. He’s laughing at Mike, cackling and doubled over with a hand to his stomach as he bellows into the night. His cheeks and nose are rosy red from a mixture of the cold and his buoyant laughter, his hair is a disordered mess under his snow-covered hat, his eyes are scrunched tight with pure joy as he laughs and snowflakes settle on his lush lashes, and Mike…Mike is so in love with this boy.

It hits him like a freight train, the intensity of the love Mike has for Will, and he knows right then and there that Will is it for him. No one else can fill his heart with such unadulterated love like Will does. No one else can ever compare and he was a fool to think otherwise for so long. Tonight is so special, tonight is the night Mike knows he can see him with no one else but Will. He can imagine a scenario 50 years in the future where he’s watching the first snowfall of winter as he sits next to Will on their porch holding hands and remembering this particular day. He can’t imagine what he’ll do later in life but he knows that it wouldn’t be his life without Will at his side.

Will’s concerned now, his laughter subsiding as he takes in Mike’s stricken and silent posture. “Are you okay, Mike?” he asks, rushing over to take Mike’s face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to shock you so much.”

The shock of cold wet gloves to his face brings Mike’s thoughts to the present and he looks down at Will with probably the biggest heart eyes he could muster. Will flushes but manages a shy smile as his gloved thumb rubs against Mike’s cheek. “I’m fine,” Mike replies softly, “just thinking about how much I love you, you giant dork.”

It’s only been a few hours since they started officially dating–despite the fact Mike feels like he’s been dating Will for most his life to a degree–and maybe for others it would be too soon to say something as important and emotionally dramatic as I love you, but Mike’s loved Will since before he knew how to read more than a letter at a time. Mike loving Will isn’t news. It’s not shocking. It’s not overly dramatic. It just is.

And Will’s face lights up like the street lights after 6 PM and Mike really cannot stress it enough, he’s so in love and he gets to say it aloud to Will whenever he wants to instead of wallowing in the emotions by himself. “I love you, too,” Will mutters softly, so gentle like the gloved fingers caressing Mike’s cheeks. He’s a little more shy with saying it even though he’s the one who ultimately asked Mike out.

Mike smiles and leans down to chastely kiss Will’s forehead. He lets his lips linger for a moment before pulling away to press his forehead to Will’s. They stare into each other’s moonlit eyes, raven brown against hazel green, and Mike hopes Will can read his mind like this because he can’t put his feelings into words right now but this is sunshine after a rainy day with a double rainbow reflected in the lingering droplets in the moist air. This is the taste of a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie that’s still chewy and the chocolate is hot enough to melt in your mouth. This is the conclusion to a story he never thought he’d receive or deserve. This is everything.

Mike’s eyes hood over and he parts his lips just the slightest as his eyes trail down to Will’s pink ones. Will too starts to close his eyes, leaning up to close the gap between them as desired. Mike takes his hands to Will’s waist, tight and shaking and oh god, he’s kissing his very first friend, his longest friend, his best friend turned boyfriend, for the first time and he might die from how hard his heart is thumping in his chest. His nose is smashed against Will’s cheek and his neck strains a little from the angle but it’s so perfect tasting the snow on Will’s lips and feeling Will’s lashes against his face as he’s breathing in Will’s warmth.

Will pulls away with a chuckle, eyelids fluttering as a goofy smile drapes itself across his kiss-plush lips. Mike wants to kiss Will again and again if he looks this gorgeous every time. Instead, Mike tilts his head enough to rub his nose against Will’s own. He can feel Will’s breath against his lips and it makes him smile, too. They hold each other’s hands between themselves, fingers twined and wet and cold but nothing matters in comparison to the happiness spread throughout their bodies at every point they’re connected.

This night will go down in Mike’s memory as ‘the first night of many with the love of my life’ and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

#yams answers #yams writes #byler #byeler #anon #this was SO CUTE #i love cute snow shit #fam it's the BEST #my heart is so softtt #wow im really SOFT for these two!! #otp: palaric #prompt? complete

[lyssismagical]

out of sight, out of mind

Whumptober Day Fifteen - Scars

Read on AO3

Tony’s life is written across his skin.

Scars marking all of the worst experiences of his life.

White marking up his elbows and knees from all the trips and falls. Snaking out across his chest from where the arc reactor used to be. The perfect circle on his upper arm from his dad’s cigarette, the echoes dotting his shoulders and collarbones. The little purple ones over his stomach and thighs from the nights gone wrong back in his party days. Jagged red mark in his side from a botched rescue mission. Tiny ones over his hands.

His life’s map is sketched across the planes of his skin, painting his body in his stories.

Peter can’t help but ask when he discovers the new ones. A tale behind every scar. There are a few Tony can’t remember how he got them. A bicycling incident or maybe in the lab. He couldn’t be sure. But sometimes he’ll find one and wish he didn’t.

The truths are always told. Out in the open between them. Tony doesn’t hold any of the stories back even when the hurt shines in his eyes and he rubs the scar like he wishes his skin would swallow it. The stories are told every time.

It’s like building the jigsaw of Tony’s history. Every scar is another piece of the puzzle.

*

Peter’s healing took care of every scar he had from childhood. Nowadays, his wounds are healed within a day and the scars are gone by the end of the week.

He doesn’t have the same kind of visible history that Tony does. But his slumped shoulders and downcast eyes are enough to understand the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, the invisible scars that cut deep below the skin’s surface. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that bullshit nobody really believes.

The bad things happened, and Peter doesn’t have the proof to show. No scratchy scars over his knuckles from how many times he’s split the skin before letting it heal. He should have hundreds of the jagged marks from bullet wounds or stabs or whatever else has happened on patrol.

There’s no scar on his hip from when he was nine. The one he used to scratch at over and over again, wishing the reminder of what happened wasn’t staring back at him.

No vines of white scars over his joints from learning how to ride a bike or, in his case, learning how to use his spider powers. No pink marks on his palms from all the pinching and scratching when trying to keep himself calm. No acne scarring like he had before.

To Peter, there’s no proof to the pain. There’s no validation to his claims.

It’s like he’s begging on his knees for someone to understand, to believe, the pain he’s been through. But there’s no evidence left behind. There’s nothing to back him up. He’s asking people to take his word for it.

And there’s simply been too many people who can’t believe him, so now, he buries those feelings as deep as he can. Piles the hurt in boxes and locks them tight so they never see the light of day.

Who can remember pain once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.

*

Peter’s hands are soft where Tony’s are rough and calloused.

Tony could never achieve the softness he desired, a gentle touch.

Peter could never achieve the calloused proof he desired, a worker.

Sometimes, jealousy is found is strange places, but it burns just as much.

*

Tony hates the scars that stare back at him, a reminder of past pain, experiences he’d prefer to leave behind him.

The scars left by his father, the ones from his kidnapping, the ones when he failed to keep others safe. There are good ones, he supposes, not good, but in comparison. The one he got when he got on his finger when he was trying to make Peter soup. He supposes he can find good in a few of his collection.

He can sometimes see the beauty in the scars that trace out over his chest. He can understand the ‘tiger stripes’ analogy Peter told him. He can understand the uniqueness behind it.

But he sees his chest and all he can think is stain. Blemish. Damaged. And it’s all wrong. He wishes he had the simple beauty of emptiness. Of an unmarked map.

Every scar is tied to a memory he’d rather not remember. Of a shitty childhood followed by a shitty adulthood until he appreciated Pepper and met Peter.

He wishes he could be a blank canvas.

*

Peter hates the emptiness of his body. No stories to tell, no history.

He hates the unmarked smoothness of his chest. He hates that there’s no scar on his collarbone from when he broke it for the first time. None on his ribs from the numerous times he’s been stabbed in the chest. He’s even missing the one that’s meant to be on his sternum from when he was eight and Ben took him fishing.

He’s supposed to represent who he is, but there’s nothing to show for it. He can’t tell stories about his first attempt at riding a bike. Nobody will ever ask him where he got that scar.

Nobody believes him when he asks for help. There’s no proof. No solid proof that he’s hurting. Everything is below the surface, past memories lingering like ghosts over his shoulder.

There’s not even proof of Skip’s existence, nothing left behind.

His parent’s death didn’t leave a scar. Not a physical one.

Ben… There’s no scar. There’s no jagged, red stain on his skin he can show someone to prove his pain.

He wishes the weight of the world on his shoulders was written out on his skin.

*

It’s after they’ve returned from a kidnapping that their jealousy of one another is discovered.

Tony’s tracing the wounds on his arm from the few cuts he sustained there. There are a few more wounds under his shirt, but they’re still bandaged to protect them from infection.

“These are never going to go away,” Tony mumbles, glaring at the scabs. “Another half a dozen scars to add to my collection.”

“At least people will believe you,” Peter replies. His body’s already healed but his brain feels like it’s been torn to pieces. Everything aches, his ribs are far from healed internally, but he has nothing no proof for the pain he feels.

Tony’s eyebrows furrow a little bit, turning his full attention on Peter who sits on the edge of the hospital bed. Tony’s sitting on the couch, leaving a good six feet between them. After what they’ve been through, Tony desperately wants to close the distance just so he’ll feel a little bit more in control, but he doesn’t want to scare Peter.

“I just-” Peter shrugs, looking down at his hands. They look like baby hands, soft and smooth and gentle. Like he hasn’t clawed his way through hell and back. He pulls his sleeves down over his palms. “I sometimes wish I had proof, you know. Evidence that I’m hurting too.”

Tony’s face falls, hurt shining in his eyes. “You don’t need proof, Peter. I know what you went through in there and I know you’re hurting, okay? Don’t ever think you’re not allowed to be hurting just because you heal fast.”

Running a hand through his hair, Peter shrugs noncommittedly. “You know because you were there. What if you weren’t there? What if no one was there?”

“Nobody was there for Afghanistan. That doesn’t mean people don’t believe me.”

Peter sighs loudly, a little too aggravated for his own good. It brings back the aching in his lungs.

“You have proof. All of it is written on your body like a storybook. Everything that happens to me is washed away like it never meant anything. I’ve been through so much shit, but how can I complain if I don’t even have a scratch to show?”

Tony stands. The space between them stretching out like a fun house hall of mirrors. Like he’d have to cross a desert just to sit next to the boy. Peter’s put up his armor, a protective bubble like he’s scared of getting hurt, but Tony will do anything to break them all down no matter how many times he’ll have to do it again.

“I wish I didn’t have them,” Tony says. A compromise. A show that insecurities can go in both directions. “The scars, I mean. I still haven’t grown to love the ones after my arc reactor was removed… I hate it. I hate the reminders everywhere I go. I wish I could just magically heal them all away.”

Peter shrugs again. The same pretense of nonchalance and carelessness, despite the hurt shining in his downcast eyes.

They’re on different pages of the same book.

Tony worries he’ll never be able to understand why Peter would want to be marred with scars.

Peter worries he’ll never understand why Tony wants to rid himself of the things that make him who he is.

They both worry about the blockage between understanding, uncertain ground beneath their feet, caution where there never needed to be before.

*

Peter’s side is bare where he got shot last week when they were kidnapped for a little under forty-eight hours.

A pale expanse of empty skin. Nothing to see. Pain hidden beneath the surface.

Tony’s arms are marred in new scars, new white lines that won’t ever go away from the kidnappers.

A reminder of the pain once experienced, a story he’d rather forget.

*

“I suppose I got what I wanted, huh?” Peter says. His voice is quiet but it echoes in the dingy cell. Turns out, the last kidnappers weren’t finished with them.

It’s been too long since the kid’s eaten and he hasn’t stopped shaking for hours. He’s so weak, his healing has slowed to humanly levels. His wounds aren’t scars yet, still scabbing from how recent they all are, but Tony still understands what he means.

“You say that like I’m not busy planning out escape,” Tony says. He squeezes Peter a little tighter to his side, hoping he can transfer a little bit of his body heat to the kid.

“For the record, I think your scars show just how strong you are to have overcome the things you did and still come out smiling,” Peter says. His voice is slurring, and Tony worries they won’t be saved in time. “I think it’s cool.”

Tony rolls his eyes. Of course they’re having this conversation now.

“Listen closely, kid. You don’t need physical proof to show people you’re hurting. You don’t need to validate your pain. You don’t need to do any of that. Cap has the same sort of healing as you do, but he finds himself torn between the past and the present. He doesn’t need physical scars from the ice to prove that he went through something painful. And neither do you.”

Peter tucks himself closer against Tony’s chest, shaking fingers curling clutching onto Tony’s shirt. “I just wish, sometimes, I could map it all.”

“And I wish I was a blank canvas, kid,” Tony says, pressing a quick kiss to Peter’s forehead. “But it’s okay because at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is you and me, okay? I’ve got you and you’ve got me, right?”

“Course, Mister Stark. Always.”

“I love you, kid,” Tony says, voice thick with emotion. “Even if you’re a blank canvas.”

“I love you too. Even if you’re scarred.”

*

Lying in side by side hospital beds for the second time that month, their thoughts are in the open but it doesn’t stop the insecurity from flaring inside both of them.

Tony has stitches on his stomach, a new scar to add to his collection. Another kidnapping, another reminder of a time where he couldn’t protect his kid, another reminder to wake him up in the dead of night.

Peter’s wounds have healed now that he’s regained his strength. Nothing remained other than the freckles dancing up his arms. Nothing to indicate the pain that tears him out of his sleep every night or that reduces him to tears and breathlessness in a second.

One, a mapped-out expanse of scars, wishing he were a blank canvas. And one, a blank canvas, wishing he were a map of scars.

One day, they’ll learn to love themselves as they are. For now, they’ll love each other to make up for it.

#whumptober2019 #no.15 #scars #irondad #lyss writes #iron dad #irondad fic #spiderson #irondad and spiderson

[wazjunz]

Cult of the Mongoose  (Chapter 1)

“Dude… is he talking to his sandwich!?”

Raymond stole a glance at the boy beside him. Sam was small, even for a Year Eight. He had pale, sandy, nothing-coloured hair, mousey features, bony shoulders and tiny arms. And yes. As the older kid across the walkway has just pointed out, it did look a lot like he was whispering to his lunch. The older boy and his friend were only a few metres away, sitting on a bench on the other side of the concrete walkway connecting the Art department from English, but Sam seemed not to hear the comment. The small boy continued chewing; his cheese sandwich held close to his face. He chewed with his lips slightly open, and kept his eyes locked firmly on the sandwich, his eyebrows would raise and fall as he chewed.

“Oh my God, I think he is,” the older boy continued.

His friend shook his head and laughed. Raymond felt very vulnerable, dreading that the older boys would turn their attention to him next. Raymond put a lot of effort into being invisible, and he suddenly felt more exposed than usual. After waiting long enough that it wouldn’t seem like he had been scared off by the older boys’ comments, Raymond mumbled a goodbye to Sam and walked quickly away. Sam didn’t look up from his sandwich.

Raymond checked his watch. Damn it. He’d planned on spending longer with Sam before moving on. Sam sat alone in a quieter area, and was happy with almost no conversation, so Raymond could kill almost 20 minutes with Sam sometimes before he got too nervous and moved on. There was still forty minutes before Lunch ended. Most days Raymond could secure his favourite spot in the library before anyone else got there. There was a small corner with a low armchair, hidden between shelves, where he could hide out completely alone for an entire recess or lunch if he got there first, but today was a Wednesday. On Wednesdays before lunch he had Drama. Drama was in a demountable way out the back of the school and as far from the library as you could get. Today, by the time he got to his safe chair a couple of Year Tens were crammed into it, giggling and poking one-another while their Group slumped on the floor in the surrounding aisles, smirking knowingly, rolling their eyes at one another.

As he passed the Library doors Raymond considered checking his spot again, but he couldn’t risk it. If the Group hadn’t moved on they might spot him lurking again and call him a stalker, or worse, a Nigel. As in ‘Nigel-no friends’. Raymond put his head down and walked quickly through the crowd in the main quadrangle, past the snaking canteen lines, and out a side gate towards the basketball courts. Raymond didn’t like going near the basketball courts. That was where the second most intimidating group of Year Nines hung out. It was their Area. All the Groups had an Area. The basketball court was the sporty/ tough Year Nine’s Area. They were the biggest Group in Year Nine. The group consisted of two Sub-Groups. The sporty kids (identified more by their running shoes and Adidas track pants than actual sporting ability) and the tough kids, who liked to cultivate an air of delinquency, without ever actually getting into much trouble. The more affluent sporty kids enjoyed the danger and protection of the tougher sub-group, while the tougher sub-group used the prestige of the sporty kids to keep them from being identified with the socially undesirable ‘Dero’ group- who got in actual trouble.

Raymond was equally terrified by both basketball court Sub-Groups, so before he got too close to the courts he jogged down a slight hill to two demountables on the edge of the oval. The eroded, grassless patch of dirt between the demountables was one of his emergency, temporary back up havens when his spot in the library got taken. This was Gumbum’s Area.

Gumbum’s real name wasn’t Gumbum, but it was what everyone called him. Gumbum was bigger and louder than the most confident Year 12, but not for any reason that anyone could figure out. He was shaped like a giant bowling pin, and moved like a T-rex. He had a meaty butt and legs, but stood with a slouch that made his shoulders look disproportionately small. The entire Year thought he was an idiot, and not without justification. Gumbum found himself very funny, and cracked jokes and laughed loudly at himself during class. Often the jokes were references to some wierd Japanese animation series that no one else had seen. Every single one fell flat. Gumbum was permanently unfazed though, and either didn’t mind or didn’t notice that his company was seen as social suicide by his entire year group. Without friends his own age, Gumbum simply found like-minded weirdos from younger Years, and cavorted with them joyously in this strange Area between the demountables. Gumbum was a semi-safe ally for Raymond for two reasons. Firstly, because most other Year Nines gave him a wide berth, Raymond was usualy safe from bumping into anyone scary while in Gumbum’s proximity. Secondly, Gumbum was so big and loud, and unashamedly dorky, that Raymond felt that if he was spotted with him he might look vaguely normal in comparison.

Raymond heard Gumbum laughing like an excitable fog horn before he rounded the corner of the first demountable. The man-sized 14-year-old had two Year Seven boys clinging onto each of his legs, and one on each arm, while a weasly-looking Year 8 threw popcorn into his open, guffawing mouth. It was unclear what exactly the game was or how it hard started, but it was exactly the sort of thing Gumbum and his tiny friends seemed to be doing all the time. Raymond leaned awkwardly against the side of the demountable out of the way of the action. He tried not to smile, but the sight was pretty great. Gumbum had stumbled under the weight of the tiny Year Sevens and had one smooshed up agianst the demoutnable wall squealing, while the rest still clung on giddily. The Year Eight continued hocking handfuls of popcorn into Gumbum’s snapping jaws. Suddenly Gumbum threw his head back, spraying popcorn kernels into the air. “THIS. ENDS. NOOOOOOW!”, he yelled to the sky. Year sevens were suddenly flying off his thrashing limbs, crashing to the rocky ground, gasping with pain and laughter. Gumbum turned and saw Raymond standing awkwardly near the corner of the demountable.

“Oh, Hello Raymond,” he said.

Gumbum made a point of knowing the name of every Year Nine, and a good smattering of the older and younger students’ names. He would use everyone’s names like they were close friends, much to the discomfort of his peers, who didn’t like the implication that they were on speaking terms with the most obvious weirdo in the year. Another reason Raymond sometimes sought out Gumbum in a pinch was that, just like Sam, hanging out with Gumbum meant Raymond barely had to say a word, although (very much unlike Sam) this was because Gumbum never shut up. Gumbum had figured out at some point that Raymond watched Dragon Ball Z, so whenever they crossed paths he would launch quickly into long monologues about hypothetical fights between characters and intricate plot points he had important thoughts about. Having a loud conversation outing him as a Dragon Ball Z watching type was not something that appealed to Raymond at all in the hallways and classrooms generally, but in the near-panic of a library-less lunch time, and in the relative safety between the demountables next to the oval it was a trusty way to eat up some time. Today even that fallback was ruined though. Gumbum had barely started ramping up when a basketball slammed into the wall above their heads and flumped to the dirt near his feet. Gumbum jumped to pick it up and walked out from between the buildings to hand it to an exercise flushed Year nine girl chasing it down the hill.

“Here you go Kellie!,” he said.

Raymond looked at his feet and slid his back along the wall, trying to blend in to the shadows as the girl approached, but he saw her see him, her eyes flicking momentarily between him and Gumbum. She took the ball quickly, forcing a polite smile from the corners of her mouth, before sprinting back up the hill to her friends.

“See you Kellie!” Gumbum called after her.

Spooked, Raymond half raised his hand to Gumbum in a tiny wave, and mumbled “OK, seeya man,” before striding quickly back toward the main school buildings.

Raymond checked his watch again. Only ten minutes had passed since he left Sam. He still had 30 minutes to kill. There was nowhere to sit and hide on his own without it being obvious he was alone, but he could only do so many laps of the school without that looking weird. He had one more option, but it wasn’t one he liked. He took the longest path he could to stairwell near the Art block, walking as slowly as possible without it looking like he was walking slower than a non-weird person would walk.

The entire school, (with the exception a couple of newer buildings) was carpeted in old frayed astroturf coloured carpet. The strairway leading up to the Art classrooms had the added affect of being speckled with droplets of old paint and stomped bits of clay that couldn’t be cleaned out, making it look like a slime clogged waterfall. The stairway changed directions half-way up, where a wobbly old table lived in the corner next to a window peeling with year’s old red and black paint. The table was Ryan’s spot. The corridor at the top of the stairwell was claimed by another large group of Year Nines, somewhere around the middle of the social ladder, running a distant third behind the Populars and the Sport/Tough Groups. Ryan was probably technically part of that group, but his arrogance and moodiness meant that as often as not he put himself in self-imposed, attention seeking exile on the wobbly desk in the stairwell, rather than deigning to hang out with lower life forms. This set up worked well enough for Raymond as Ryan’s volatile moods kept others away, and made him ill-disposed to making jokes and small talk, which Raymond’s panic stricken brain struggled to keep up with.

The other good thing about Ryan was his MP3 player. He had the only one in school. It was white with a greenish backlight and circular touch dial that let you scroll through songs, and the songs were good. Sometimes, rarely, Ryan would let Raymond take an ear bud and listen to half a song. Once he let him have both headphones and scroll through the tracks himself. Ryan was smart and he had cool and interesting taste in music. Unfortunately he was also pretty much one hundred percent not a nice person. Ryan had something mean to say about everyone and everything. He wore a permanent scowl and was always picking at his fingernails like he was punishing them for something. He was also incredibly moody, and could switch from having an interesting conversation to insulting your mum without warning or reason. Raymond found the fact that Ryan already acted like he hated him oddly comforting, but spending more than a few minutes with Ryan always felt odd and uncomfortable. Raymond approached Ryan and leaned on the window with his shoulder. Ryan looked up and pulled out one of his earbuds.

“What.” He said.

“Nah, nothing,” Raymond mumbled. “What you listening to?” Ryan sighed dramatically.

“The Swerves” he said.

“Oh cool. I haven’t heard of them.” Raymond replied.

“Why did you say they’re cool then?”

“Oh, I dunno. The name sounds cool…”

“Uh-huh.”

Ryan stared at Raymond with his ice blue eyes, eyebrows raised.

“How many songs can you get on there?,” Raymond asked.

Ryan rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

“Maybe like 50. I dunno, depends on the songs.”

“Cool. That’s pretty cool. That’s like three or four full albums.”

“Yep. I guess.”

Another awkward silence ensued.

“Is that all?” Ryan said abruptlky. “Like, did you want something or did you just come up here to stand there like a weirdo and tell me you like my MP3 player?”

“Oh, yeah. No. Anyway. Seeya.” Raymond replied, starting to move away back down the stairs.

“Ok. bye. Die in fire,” Ryan said in pretend cheerfulness to Raymonds back.

Ryan said that to everyone. It was like his stand in for any normal phrase he didn’t feel like saying, and he seemed to drop it almost without realizing. Once he said it to a teacher, almost certainly by accident, but he got in big trouble. By Ryan standards the conversation had been a mild success, but it hadn’t taken much time. Raymond checked his watch again. With 15 long minutes still to kill and no other loner allies to visit Raymond did the only thing he could think of and headed back towards the library.

Recently Raymond had started to feel as though he could sense when his Spot was taken and when it was free. As he neared the library he got a hopeful feeling in his stomach and tentatively started to believe that he might get 15 minutes of safe time in his spot with a pile of books before the bell rang for fifth period. He dodged a screaming group of Year Sevens and slipped through the heavy swinging door into the relative quiet. The library was split into three levels. The ground floor was shaped like a big square with the middle cut out. To Raymond’s right and behind him was the borrowing counter, and staff area. The rest of the square was ringed with clumps of desks with four or five chairs grouped around them, and the walls were covered with laminated posters that looked like they’d gone up when she school was built 30 years before. A few groups of students sat at some of the tables. This area was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. In the centre of this square the floor dropped downa couple of metres, making a sort of sunken area ringed by large steps that could double as a sort of in door ampitheatre for classes or presentations. Technically book-wise this was the Young Adult section. One low shelf in the sunken square had a jumble of crappy graphic novels and busted up surfing magazines thrown in it. Most of them were terrible old Asterix comics, and similar things, so Raymond rarely ventured down to look.  In two corners those round stand-up spinning book stands held piles of thin paperback novels in bright colours. No one really seemed to ever read or borrow any of them, but Raymond had learned from the giggles and not-very-covert whispers of groups of students that two or three has nudity or sex scenes in them. It was easy to tell which ones they were because they were very beat up. Especially a yellow one, that apparently had a part about two guys doing something in it, and bore the scars of being dropped into the laps of unsuspecting young male victims, and subsequently hurled across the room while their friends cackled.

Raymond’s spot was in the ‘mezzanine’, which was the same shape as the ground floor, but up a flight of stairs in front of the borrowing desk, and with a balcony looking down over the Young Adult section. The mezzanine was where most of the books were. Dirty skylights gave the whole area an otherworldly, hazy, gloaming glow. Two rows of massive beige metal shelves ran down each side of the square. Raymond had the sections highlighted in his brain. Right at the top of the stairs was Sport (gross), which morphed into science (meh), and turned into religion (shrug) in the back right corner. Turning down the back side of the square took you through Art and Design (cool), then history (rad), and finally, Raymond’s favourite, the weird stuff.

Raymond’s spot was a low, cushioned armchair with heavy black metal legs covered in squeaky off-white vinyl, tucked in an alcove, and nearly completely out of view until you walked right past it. The chair faced directly onto Raymond’s favourite shelf. Althought he would often grab a couple of massive art and history books (he especially liked the gigantic Encycolpedia of Modern Military Uniforms), the vast majority of his attention always went to the metre-and-a-half bottom shelf across from his Spot. An old yellow sticker on the shelf at this section read “Paranormal/ unexplained/ horror.” It was a treasure trove of off-putting descrioptions, heart-pounding eyewitness accounts and creepy illustrations.  Fifty minutes outside of the library was an age, but a lunchtime spent in his Spot seemed to Raymond like a fleeting moment. He always pulled out way more books that he had time to look through in one sitting. He’d stack the big ones near his feet, balance the smallest on the arms of the chair, and pack the hefty medium sixed hard covers next to his thighs. He loved the books for their stories and ideas and pictures, and their ability to transport him to another world, and raise the hairs on the back of his neck, but he also loved the feel of them. The weight in his hand. The way the thick plastic p[rotecting the covers gave a moved under his fingers as he swung the tomes in his hand down the aisle. The books were his real allies.

About half way up the steps to the mezzanine, a glimpsed view under the shelves showed Raymond that his feeling was correct. The entire floor seemed deserted now. He jogged the last few steps and set off towards his spot. With 15 minutes left he could still flick through a couple of his favourite books. He was rounding the Religion corner, and mentally shortlisting which books he would pull down, when he nearly walked into a Year Ten coming the other way. The boy was tall, a little pudgy, and smiling over his shoulder as he joked with a Year ten girl walking just behind him. Both he and Raymond stopped abruptly to avoid a collision. Raymond froze, and the tall boy did a short double take as he recognised that he recongised Raymond.

“Oh, hey Ray,” the Year Ten said.

“Hey man,” Raymond replied, not knowing where to look.

“How you been dude? You sort of disappeared on us hey.”

Raymond knew he needed to reply quickly but his brain was doing what it always did in this kind of situation. He felt like his mind had turned into spaghetti, and his thoughts were going too slow and too fast at once.

The tall boy was Cameron. He and Raymond were best friends from the start of primary school until the middle of Year 6, when Raymond moved away for a few years. When he came back to his home town, Raymonds mum had decided that it was time to make up for a mistake she felt she had made in sending him to school too early, when he was just a little kid. Raymond was smart, but he had alwaus been a little immature and social stilted compared to others in his year, so when his family moved back to town after being away, Raymonds mum told him he would be doing Year 9 again. Raymond didn’t kick up a stink. Raymond never did that. He did worry that people who remembered him from primary school would be at this high school though. There were only two big public high schools in town, and he felt sick about having to explain to people who recognized him from primary school why he was now in the shameful category of people who had to repeat a year. Cameron’s family lived just around the corner from Raymond’s family home, which they’d moved back to when they came back to town. He’d caught up with Cameron once before school went back (Raymond’s mum had called Cameron’s and set it up without telling Raymond). It was a little awkward at first, but Raymond had always liked Cameron, and even found his mum and his older brother Kim easier to talk to than most people. That day they ate Cameron’s mum’s ‘Specialty’ pizza (plain wraps with melted cheese and tomato paste) in front of the TV and pretty soon things seemed more or less like they’d been years ago. Raymond didn’t tell Cameron he was repeating. On the first day of school Cameron and his brother came out of their house as Raymond was walking past. It was about a half hour walk to school. Raymond was nervous but Cameron and Kim were both super funny and smart. The brothers talked about big ideas and local urban legends and people they knew. Cameron almost never stopped talking, Kim chimed in when he could with a dark joke or a witty comment, and Raymond followed along not saying much, but grinning and laughing along.

When they got to the school gates (massive spiked things swung open from a tall barbed-wire-topped fence) Raymond hesitiated. Cameron grabbed the handle of Raymond’s school bag and playfully tugged it as he strode towards his group’s Area.

“Come on man, you can sit with us,” he said.

The cracks started to show even on that first day though. Cameron’s group were really nice, and interesting. They were basically six boys who sat on the big steps outside Food Tech, but they had a sort of mirror group across from them which was mostly girls, and the two sort of orbited one another, coming together and drifting apart like a tidal inlet. Cameron introduced Raymond around. One of the other boys remembered Raymond from primary school, and for a while Raymond was able to blend happily into the background of the conversation. Predictably the talk soon went to subjects and timetables and who had which teachers this year. Someone asked Raymond what class he was in for Maths and his brain went to mush. Cameron noticed Raymond struggling to explain and intervned.

“Nah Ray’s actually Year 9, so he’s going to have his own hell to figure out haha.”

Raymond noticed a confused look brush over the face of the guy who he’s gone to school with previously. And them moments later a look of shrewd understanding. Raymond was outed as a repeater. No one said anything, and Raymond kept hanging out with Cameron’s group, in that Area for the first two weeks of school, but he was constantly worried that someone would say something about him being a Year 9 hanging out with Year 10s. Inter-year hanging out wasn’t really done. People mostly stuck with their own year group, and Raymond felt like other Year Nines were starting to notice that he sat with Year Tens as well, which made him worried that he would have to explain to more people that he had to repeat. He wasn’t connecting with anyone in his classes either (except for weird, co-loner interactions with Sam, Gumbum and Ryan). He wondered whether the other Year Nine’s thought he was weird- and that hanging out with Cameron’s group was adding to it. Slowly, Raymond started to spend some lunch times in the library. In the fourth week of term he found his Spot, and the shelf of awesome books. He started sneaking to the library right after class, every other lunch time and recess. The more time he spent way from the group the more awkward he felt when he did show up, so by the sixth week of term he started going to the library whenever he could, and avoiding Cameron’s group all together. He never spoke to Cameron about it, and started leaving for school as late as possible, to avoid being on the same schedule as Cameron and Kim. He just didn’t know how to explain, and was worried about offending Cameron, so he pulled his usual move and avoided anything scary or hard.

Now, about three months after he’d weirdly dropped out of Cameron’s fold, they’d come face to face, mere metres from Raymond’s hiding place. Raymond realised with horror that he hadn’t replied to Cameron’s question yet. He laughed nervously and looked at his feet.

Cameron gave him a slightly confused look. His friend walked around the pair.

“You coming Cam?” she said.

“Yep,” Cam replied, still looking at Raymond. “Come hang out again some time man. If you want. I’ve got some books you’d like. Crazy shit. You can borrow them… OK, seeya man.”

Cameron caught up with his friend and disappeared down the stairs. Raymond dragged the pads of his fingers on his right hand down the right side of his face, in a hard repetitive motion. It was a sort of tick he had when he really felt like he’d stuffed up, which was a lot of the time.

He walked to his spot, grabbed as big a handful of books as he could from his favourite shelf and dumped them on his lap as he sunk into the squawking vinyl. Suddenly he found he couldn’t muster the energy to open any of them. He sat, staring at nothing for the remaining ten minutes until the bell.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the windows in the library doors as he left and noticed that the right hand side of his face was all red.  

#periodical #fiction #paranormal

[ebaeschnbliah]

THE  ‘CABIN’  ON  THE  MEADOW

________________________________________________________________

When I took screenshots for DISTRACTIONS & CONSEQUENCES I noticed a certain object on the meadow near the street where Phil deals with his unmoving car. It looks like some sort of small cabin and is caught by the camera several times in all four sequences of the boomerang case. 

More than one director of the TV series has indicated that nothing is unintentional nor a coincidence in Sherlock BBC (X  X)  Therefore the possibility exists that this object on the meadow, which can be seen multiple times, could have some meaning as well. This in mind, I took a closer look .. 

TBC below the cut ….

1 - The first time the cabin can be seen (during Phil’s visual report of the incident) it is shown only partly. First on the left, then on the right margin of the screen. It stands on the meadow next to the street but is separated from the street by a hedgerow. Therefore it most likely has nothing to do with road maintenance. Otherwise it would be rather impractical to reach.

2 - When John arrives at the crime scene and describes his surroundings via WiFi, the cabin takes a much more central position.

3 - When Sherlock explains the boomerang case to Irene, while the camera circles round them, the cabin turns up multiple times in the background.

4 - It even stays in the frame for some time when Irene explaines the case in the final sequence, while Sherlock watches, drugged by her chemistry.

Gotten curious, because I had an idea what this ‘cabin’ might possibly be, I enlarged one of the sharper pics for a better view. 

Those things can be found in various shapes and forms (some examples below) …  but I think this cabin looks a lot like a container for beehives. 

Of course, even if this cabin on the meadow is indeed a container for beehives, it could simply stand here anyway because it belongs to the person who owns that area and therefore it was caught on camera unintentionally. And naturally it would appear that often on screen because the scene was done by an allround shot. But then, who knows? If it really has to do with bees, I consider a coincident as rather unlikely. After all, bees and beehives are very well known to be closely linked with canon Sherlock Holmes, especially with his retirement upon the South Downs. 

Bees on the South Downs

“It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London.”

-

“My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate all to ourselves.”   (ACD, The LIons Mane)

---

“But you had retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs.'

'Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!' He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.”

-

“I shall get level with you, Altamont,' he said, speaking with slow deliberation, 'if it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!'

'The old sweet song,' said Holmes. 'How often have I heard it in days gone by. It was a favourite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”  (ACD, His Last Bow)

A small, lonely farm upon the South Downs, the soothing life of nature, keeping bees and enjoying the honey gathered by them on blossoming fields and meadows. Maybe near a lake or stream? Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere? 

As soon as I considered the possibility that the cabin on the meadow could indeed be a home for bees, I started to look at the place chosen as filming location for the boomerang case, with different eyes. What could have been the reasons for the decision to choose precisely this place? Soft, rolling hills, sometimes covered by woodland, lush green meadows, rivers, streams, small brooks and ponds are characteristic features of the South Downs. (Source of pics: Wikipedia) 

The landscape where the boomerang case takes place could easily be located somewhere in the South Downs … 

It doesn’t take much fantasy to imaginge that Sherlock’s little ‘retirement’ farm lies just round the bend of the street on the pic below, somewhere near that lake or stream. Perhaps there’s even a small boat at hand for occasional trips on the water. After all ... once a pirate, always a pirate. :)

Side note: according to the DVD commentaries for ASIB, the boomerang scene was filmed in a valley in Wales. 

As mentioned in DISTRACTIONS & CONSEQUENCES … viewing Series One as prelude for the whole story, where the first three episodes serve as introduction (ASIP), user manual (TBB) and chapter list (TGG) … the actual story told in Sherlock BBC - the crux of the matter - would then start with A Scandal in Belgravia. Here, Mycroft tells Sherlock (and the audience) that this case is about sex. Sherlock’s appearance as well as the environment chosen for the beginning of the case … 

a naked body wrapped in a pristine white sheet

a heartfelt yawn, as if just woken up from sleep

the lush green landscape of the surrounding area where the case starts

… are metaphors often used as indications for rebirth and renewal. And the boomerang case itself can be easily interpreted as a small foretaste - a teaser - of the central theme told in this episode, respectively of the whole story.

A very short summary of that case interpreted on a metaphorical level:  

A load of unacknowledged desire (obesenes) linked to a certain problem (Phil/John), causes an unmoving body (car) to explode and thus leads to ‘la petite mort’ of a distracted mind (Hiker/Sherlock), who was busily playing with a resurfaced memory (boomerang) from the past (East). The great water nearby (big emotions/Eurus), joined by a small brook (sex/Rich Brook/Reichenbach/Jim Moriarty/Mr.Sex) completes this scene in a perfect way … as do the 59 orgasmic sighs/text alerts of a phone (heart) and Sherlock’s nickname ‘the virgin’ ... given to him by Mr. Sex.

Back to the bees ...

Including a container for beehives into the very beginning of a story that looks suspiciously like a metaphor for the sexual awekening of Sherlock Holmes, shot at a place which has a great resembalnce to the South Downs, is indeed a very interesting filming choice. Bees are strongly linked to the retirement of Sherlock Holmes and therefore to the end of the story. 

Thus, the addition of bees into the boomerang case, creates a full circle and links the end of the story, the retirement of the original character Sherlock Holmes, to the sexual awakening of the same character at the beginning of ASIB in this modern adaptation. 

And it’s not the first END from canon, which is linked to a BEGINNING in Sherlock BBC. The famous quote “Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There’s an east wind coming all the same …” from His Last Bow, chronologically the last of the original Sherlock Holmes stories, is taken up partly in the Unaired Pilot of Sherlock BBC, when Sherlock calls his brand new aquaintance, whom he knows at this point only for a couple of hours … “Good, old Dr. Watson” (X).

Bees and cars ….

ASIB - an unmoving car, next to a container of beehives, makes a loud, explosive noise and as a consequence causes the death of the distracted Hiker. The man is hit by the returning boomerang, his head bashed-in. 

TLD - A car moves at breakneck speed, to the strains of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. It knocks over some bins before it releases a completely drugged Sherlock from its boot. The driver and owner of the car is Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson. According to Mrs. H. this car was financed by the income of her late husband Frank, who run a drug cartel in Florida and blew someones head off. Sherlock ensured his execution. As has been noticed by a lot of people very early on, the licence plate number contains the letters APIS. APIS is Latin for bee.

The only other person who dirves this car, also at breakneck speed, is John Watson when he comes to Sherlock’s aid in the same episode. And just like Jim Moriarty in TRF, who smashes a glass pane to get to the crown jewels, John’s weapon of choice to break into Sherlock’s room (’Am I the current king of England?') … is also a fire extinguisher.

ASIB - Another car plays an interesing role, most likely a HONDA ACCORD (see pic for comparison) which is strongly linked to the red ‘APIS’ Aston Martin from TLD. Linked by the cargo carried in its boot. It’s the first car of significance in ASIB and appears on screen prior to the boomerang case. The man found in its boot is dead. The biggest mystery though is … this man shouldn’t be there at all.

‘... according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here’s his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he’s in a car boot in Southwark’

Later, in the same episode, the plane crash in Dusseldorf, Germany, will turn out to be the rehearsal of the flight of the dead. The ‘maiden flight’ of ‘the dead’ never takes off though. Irene Adler is able to get to the relevant informations. She passes them on to Jim Moriarty and the criminal mastermind thwarts Mycroft’s ‘neat’ plan entirely. 

In TFP, nine episodes later, Sherlock himself becomes the pilot of the ‘flight of the sleeping’ and safely lands that plane.

Sherlock Holmes baffled ...

That’s the title John chooses for the unsolved case of the dead man in the boot of the car. This title refers to a short American silent film from 1900. It’s the earliest known film which shows ACDs detective character Sherlock Holmes on screen (X). Here John’s post reaches 1895 hits before it freezes. 

The case immediately afterwards is the one in the theatre where Sherlock takes the deerstalker hat from the prop room to disguise himself because of the press waiting outside. (Stalking the Deerstalker)

Then Phil’s car 'explodes’, the Hiker’s head gets bashed-in and Mycroft (RATIO) orders his brother to take on the 'sex case’.

Series Four of Sherlock BBC sets a lot of circles in motion which move backwards before closing. It’s very interesting and thrilling and it reminds me of the snake biting its tail … the ouroboros. :)  (X X)

A last afterthought regarding the three linked cars and where they come from: 

HONDA is a Japanese brand

SAAB is a Swedish brand

ASTON MARTIN is a British brand

Locations and directions seem to play a big role in Sherlock BBC … not to mention the EAST. Considering this, the first car is linked to the Far East, the second one comes from a place east of, but much closer to Britain and the last one is British. This reminds me of Anderson’s map, shown in MHR, and Sherlock’s supposed journey homewards, leading him from Tibet to India to Hamburg, the Netherlands and France. He travels back home from the East ... like John from Afghanistan …..

May, 2019

I leave you to your own deductions. Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

#the cabin on the meadow #asib #boomerang case #phil #hiker #boomerang #container for beehives #cars and bees #in the boot

[autumnspritesworld]

WangXian Week Day 1

Here’s my ficlet for the first day of @wangxianweek! There’s a happy fluffy ending I promise

firsts | longing | modern au

tell me there was worth, in all the ways that it would break

(read it on ao3)

before

Years have passed, and Lan WangJi still thinks of a dead man at night.

Wracked with equal amounts of self-loathing and bone-deep longing, he spends those dreadful hours between nine p.m. and five a.m. wishing, regretting, pondering, fantasizing. It’s nothing short of torture - but what could he do to avoid it? It’s not like there’s anyone awake in these hours for him to talk to, to try to keep his mind off of all these ghostly feelings. It’s not like he can decide not to retire to his bed at night, in favor of simply staying awake constantly; he may not sleep well, but he does sleep some, and although the nightmares still plague him regularly, he’d turn into a walking corpse within a week if he completely forewent sleep. 

And it’s not like he can forget about Wei Ying, either. It’s not like he can simply find someone else to fill the gaping hole that the Yiling Patriarch left in Lan Wangji’s heart. No, Lan Wangji has long since made peace with the fact that he will likely die alone. It’s what he deserves - after all, Wei Ying had to die alone, as well. All because Lan WangJi failed to protect him.

At night, he replays all those critical moments in his mind, those points of no return, and he keeps himself awake thinking of what he could have done differently. Maybe if he hadn’t pressed Wei Ying so frantically to come back with him to the Cloud Recesses on the night Wen Chao died, Wei Ying would have ended up there of his own volition eventually. Maybe if he’d gotten to Wei Ying quicker on the day Jiang YanLi died, he would’ve been able to stop him from using that infernal Tiger Seal. Maybe if he’d hidden Wei Ying away better after he used it, if he hadn’t gone back to Gusu to accept his well-deserved torture, if he’d dodged his punishment just once in his life, he and Wei Ying could’ve made a life together, even as fugitives.

Some nights, he thinks of what he could have done, and he cries. When this happens, he doesn’t cry quietly - he always feels as if something, some beast made of grief and fury and regret, is trying to claw its way from between his ribs; deep, heaving sobs wrack his body for hours on end, and he is always powerless to stop it; he can only thank the gods that his jingshi is relatively secluded, and it is not likely anyone will hear him.

It’s mostly during those moments that he anticipates the moment when he will finally break. Because surely, life is not sustainable under such an emotional weight as the one that is slowly smothering his mind and heart. Sometimes, he thinks he comes close - he hasn’t a clue what it will be like to cave under the pressure at last, but whatever this caving consists of, he has come within a hair’s breadth of it. And every time, he has managed to stay sane - whether by some sort of primal self-preservation instinct, or simply by panicking, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to break, to let his feelings, memories and wishes finally crush him, but sometimes he wonders if that’s where things are headed.

There are times when he functions just fine - during the day, mostly, when he has to stuff down the screaming beasts and ghosts inside him and hide them behind the stoic mask of the Second Jade of Lan. He thinks he must present a good front, because no one treats him as if anything is wrong. But he has no idea when he became such a good actor; because no matter how busy he is, how serene his face appears, he is constantly thinking of him. 

His smile - the one he had when he was a boy of fifteen, long before war corrupted them all; his quick wit, enough to stun and infuriate elders from every Sect; his longing for justice, even when things were at their bleakest for him. His playful banter with little A-Yuan, his dedication to the remnants of the Wen Sect, his unshakable confidence that everything would be all right in the end.

His sculpted body as he stood in the cold springs beside Lan WangJi when they were teenagers; when Lan WangJi felt, for the first time, stirrings of desire for another. His long neck as his head tilted back, allowing a small, glistening drop of wine to roll down from his lips, tracing a heavenly path down the column of his throat that Lan WangJi yearned to follow with his own tongue. The way his lips had tasted, soft and tentative, uncertain and sweet against his own, that day on Phoenix Mountain when Lan WangJi had, regrettably, caved to his more primal impulses.

Lan WangJi thinks of these moments at night, and he imagines even more. He imagines Wei Ying being alive now, and he imagines him reciprocating Lan WangJi’s terrifying, all-encompassing feelings. He imagines Wei Ying pulling off his forehead ribbon again - this time with intent in his eyes, pressing his lips to the skin it covered the moment before. He imagines spending these long nights with the warm body of the only man he has ever loved by his side. And some nights, he fights the urge as long as he can, until his ache is so deep that all he can do is guiltily take himself in hand as he imagines himself repeating that stolen kiss in the field over and over and over - their kisses growing more heated, their hands and lips wandering, Wei Ying calling his name again in that infuriating, devastating way of his -

- and when he spills over his fist on those nights, he almost always snaps back to reality to find tears blurring his vision and fingers of ice gripping his heart. How sick can he be, thinking about a dead man this way? He’s unhealthy, he knows that. This is further proof - he cannot move on, he never will, he’s doomed to endure these lonely, sleepless nights until the inevitable night he finally breaks - whatever that may entail.

after

It’s been a long time since Lan WangJi has been back in his jingshi, so maybe that’s why he’s suddenly finding himself having trouble sleeping. He’s actually slept remarkably well these past few months, in comparison to the last decade of torturous solitude.

He’s almost happy to be awake now, though. His body associates this room with pain and restlessness - to be here with Wei Ying finally, finally by his side makes him think that, maybe, he can start patching those dark memories over with new ones.

The new memories will be of soft moonlight trailing in through the window, falling over a pale shoulder and long, elegant neck, glistening over inky black hair and illuminating the blessed rise and fall of his lover’s breath beneath the sheets. Recollections of moments where Lan WangJi came close to losing himself give way to ones of bite-marks and bruises blooming softly over Wei Ying’s skin, of the little sounds he lets out as he dreams, of the natural scent of him that Lan WangJi forgot about until it started suffusing whatever Mo Xuanyu’s own scent had been.

Lan WangJi shifts forward to wrap his arms around Wei Ying’s middle and to press his lips below his ear. Wei Ying stirs, heaving a sigh; soon enough, he turns around to blink blearily at Lan WangJi.

“Lan Zhan, you’re awake?” he rasps, his lips stretching in a yawn.

“Mn.” Lan WangJi tucks a strand of hair behind his beloved’s ear.

Wei Ying furrows his brow, making Lan WangJi’s heart melt a little more. “Why?”

The corners of Lan WangJi’s lips quirk upward. “I’m happy.”

“Happy about what?”

So many people would have been satisfied with HanGuang-Jun’s brief, curt answers, his unwillingness to speak more than necessary. To many, it makes him appear wise, powerful - sometimes more attractive, even.

How he’d missed Wei Ying’s refusal to take him at first glance, again and again. The incessant questions, sometimes meant to tease, sometimes from genuine curiosity, always out of love - they are what Lan WangJi has to look forward to now, every day for the rest of his life.

He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to Wei Ying’s lips. 

“Mmm,” Wei Ying hums when they break apart. A sleepy smile spreads lazily across his face, and his half-lidded eyes say more than all the words in his vocabulary probably ever could.

And this is where we complement each other, Lan WangJi thinks to himself, you challenge me to open up, and I’m the only one who can render you speechless.

Wei Ying shifts closer, tucking himself in where he fits perfectly, right under Lan WangJi’s chin. They twine their bodies together in the way they’ve become accustomed to, and Lan WangJi falls into a better slumber than he’s had in years.

#wangxianweek2019 #wangxian #mdzs #ficlet #fic #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #my fic #mine #mo dao zu shi #modao zushi #wangxian week day 1 #longing #grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation #founder of diabolism #lan wangji #lwj #pov #lan zhan #hanguang jun #wei wuxian #wei ying #wwx

[sariasprincy-writes]

Hollow Point 23

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three (here) 

Chapter Twenty-Three The longest road to nowhere…

“You’re sure about this?” Kakashi asked not for the first time.

Sakura didn’t bother him with a glance. She merely studied the bullet between her fingers, feeling its weight in her hands, the brass warm from her own body heat.

“We could always tie him to a cement block, drop him over the side of the pier. No one would ever find his body,” Kakashi said.

“No,” she said, loading the shot into the magazine with the rest before she jammed it into his rifle. “I want him executed. Publicly. This is a reminder to all my clients what will become of them if they try and betray me. Just like Kabuto did.”

Beside her, Kakashi said nothing. Like he knew there was no longer any point in trying to convince her otherwise.

Around them, the wind continued to blow. Up where they crouched on the roof, it was colder than down on the street, but it gave them a better view, a better vantage point to the shipping yard below. Kabuto’s men wandered between the large, storage containers. From here, they looked like little ants in a maze but through the scope, Sakura could make out each individual face. None were Kabuto’s.

“You’re sure he’s still here?” Sakura asked after a minute.

Kakashi nodded beside her, a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Give him a minute. He’ll show himself.”

Sure enough, only a few minutes later Kabuto appeared. His hands were deep in the pockets of his jacket, his collar turned up against the chilling breeze. The setting sun cast a long shadow out behind him, causing his scrawny figure appear even more lanky. A cigarette smoldered between his teeth, making his mouth and nose glow faintly.

That familiar rage simmered deep in Sakura’s chest. Just waiting to pounce like an angered jaguar in a cage, wanting to be released so it could skin its claws in. She zeroed him in on her sites, her finger putting the faintest pressure on the trigger. 

Only to relax a moment later.

Instead, she fished her phone out of her pocket and set it on speaker on the ledge beside her before she dialed. She only had to wait two rings before he answered.

“Where the hell are you?” Kabuto demanded through the headphone in his ear.

Sakura merely chuckled. “I’m sorry, Kabuto, but you won’t be meeting your contact tonight.”

Through the scope, she saw him freeze, his body going absolutely still as he recognized her voice. “Tsunade…”

“What? Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?” she asked, her voice light. Almost playful.

Even from here, she could see the way he pinched his cigarette between his teeth until he nearly cut it in half. He swallowed thickly, but didn’t reply.

It didn’t matter. She continued nonetheless. “You made a deal with me. And then you went and turned against me. You should know by now I’m the grudge-holding type.”

“It-it was a misunderstanding,” he stuttered. “I can explain.”

Sakura resisted the urge to sigh. “You see, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re a big talker, Kabuto, but you’re nothing special. Just a little street rat. When you die, someone will just fill your place. As if you had never been here at all. And I’m done listening to your excuses.”

The moment the last word left her mouth, Sakura pulled the trigger. The first shot went through his shoulder, the round so powerful that it knocked him right off his feet. He hit the ground hard. Through the phone, she could hear his ragged breathing as it came out in short, pained gasps. He raised a shaking hand to his shoulder, only for his fingers to come away deep red with blotches of darker spots. Bloody tissue and clots. Behind her scope, Sakura smirked. She would never forget the look of pain and utter terror etched into his expression.

Around him, Kabuto’s men screamed and shouted as they ran for cover. None stopped to help the boss they had pledged their loyalty to. He would die there, alone and abandoned.

“There is one more thing you can do for me, Kabuto,” Sakura continued, as if she hadn’t just put a bullet through him.

Kabuto didn’t respond but she knew he was listening. The headphone was still in his ear.

“I want you to keep that terrified look on your face as the life drains out of your eyes. Do try not to disappoint.”

Then she hung up. Even from here, she could see the pure, honest fear in his eyes as he tried to pull himself up and drag himself to cover. Dark, twisted satisfaction rippled through her but it paled in comparison to when she fired the next shot.

Kabuto fell still and didn’t move again. Through her scope, Sakura watched the blood pool around his head before it spilled down the concrete. Nearby, his glasses lay abandoned, one of the lenses cracked and reflecting the light in fractured waves.

None of Kabuto’s men were out in the open. Those that hadn’t run away were ducked inside the shadows. Sakura didn’t pay them any mind. She did what she had come to do.

“You’re sure the police won’t be a problem?” she asked Kakashi as an afterthought.

He shook his head. “The bullets are untraceable. And the workers for this yard are on strike. Either Kabuto’s men will clean up the mess or his body will be found when the employees return to the yard. At which point, the trail will be long cold.”

Sakura hummed indifferently. She gazed at the yard below as a few of the men made a break for escape before she turned away. Her face indifferent. As if she hadn’t just taken a man’s life only moments before.

Kakashi stared at her but said nothing more. He merely packed up the rifle before they headed down to the parking garage where he had left his car. They were nearly at the state border before he spoke again, “You’re quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”

Sakura drew her gaze from the window to glance at him. She met his eye for a moment before his attention returned to the road. A long sigh passed between her lips. “I spoke with Temari this morning. She found that the port downtown is under the control of Madara.”

“Madara?” Kakashi repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But Akatsuki is using it to move product.”

Sakura said nothing when he glanced at her. Merely waited for him to put the pieces together. When he did, he almost forgot to stop at the coming red-light. “Madara is working with Akatsuki?” he asked after nearly slamming the car to a stop. His voice was full of obvious disbelief.

She nodded. “Which means we need to tread carefully. Very carefully.”

“Are you going to tell your CIA buddy?” Kakashi asked.

Sakura didn’t immediately offer him an answer. Her mind wandering back to that night in her condo only a few days ago when Itachi had wrapped himself around her. She had been so vulnerable then. She couldn’t let that happen again. She wouldn’t. Things were already complicated enough without adding emotion into the equation.

Blinking, Sakura jerked herself back to the present. “Yeah. They’re better equipped to take Madara down. We won’t suffer any losses by letting them take the lead on this one.”

“When are you going to call them?”

“Tonight,” she said. “I’ll go with my contact to the port tomorrow and then hopefully from there his company can track Madara and take him down.”

Kakashi nodded, turning down a dark side street where they had left her car. “Has Naruto told you anything new?”

Frowning, Sakura shook her head. “I texted him but I haven’t gotten a reply yet.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Pursing her lips, Sakura considered her answer. Recalled the last time he had asked her this very question and the consequences that had occurred when she said no.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I can always use your eyes.”

Kakashi smiled in response, the look just a little forced in the corners of his mouth. Like he was remembering it too.

She smiled back comfortingly before she finally climbed out his car to head for her own. Only once she was back in her apartment did she finally text Itachi. Just like she always did: a time and a location. And an unsaid expectation that he would be there.

xx

The following night, Itachi arrived exactly on time. Sakura heard him before she saw him, the soft rumble of the car engine echoing faintly against the concrete walls of the parking garage. This time of night, only a few cars remained, though they all lay dormant on the lower levels.

Leaning against the trunk of her car, Sakura picked her head up when headlights began to cut through the stone, support pillars. She didn’t move. Merely tracked that familiar Lexus with her eyes as it rolled past the empty stalls and pulled into a slot across the way from her.

Itachi killed the engine before he slipped out of the car, his footsteps echoing faintly as he crossed the short distance to approach her. Sakura simply watched him as he glanced one way down the garage and then the other.

He wore a pair of dark jeans with a grey shirt under his black jacket. The look was casual, but somehow undeniably sexy. She wondered if he even realized how handsome he truly was. And then she shook the thought away immediately as she reminded herself she wasn’t supposed to be thinking these things. The voice in the back of her head quietly whispered that she was still allowed to look.

When Itachi finally stopped before her, his eyes raked down her form. Only the small tug in the corner of his mouth was his give away. She simply met his gaze evenly.

“I’m fine,” she told him.

His gaze lingered on the blotchy, purple marks around her wrist before they fell to her face. “Are you?”

The memory of Kabuto’s face before she shot a bullet through it crossed her mind. It was then that she finally gave him a small smile. “Yes.”

If Itachi knew what that meant, he spoke nothing of it. But the ridged set of his shoulders did relax as he peered absently about the garage again. “Interesting place for a midnight rendezvous. What did you want to meet for then?”

He asked the question like he knew she had a purpose. That she wasn’t interested in talking about that night she had kissed him. She wondered for a brief moment if perhaps he knew her better than she liked. But Sakura didn’t give that much more thought. Because she did have a reason for speaking with him and she might as well cut to the chase.

“Madara is working for Akatsuki.”

Itachi nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Surprise rippled through Sakura like a bolt of lightning. She straightened from her car as she fixed him with a hard stare. “What do you mean ‘you know’?”

To her surprise, Itachi simply tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “You got us a copy of Madara’s phone, remember? We dug through some of his old messages and found some warning someone against a raid Hashirama’s men were planning in Newark. The one you told me about.”

“And were you planning to tell me about Madara?”

A strange expression crossed Itachi’s face then, as if he was actually offended by her question. “Of course. We only found out yesterday morning.”

Which was about when Sakura had learned the truth too. Her glare lasted a moment longer before it finally faded.

“So, what is the CIA going to do?” she asked.

“They want more intel. My company will not act until they are sure they can bring Madara down,” he told her. “We have had too many close calls, too many misses to just move in without knowing his next moves.”

Sakura frowned but didn’t voice her complaint. She couldn’t entirely blame the CIA for not jumping into action. She was just as aware as Itachi of how smart Madara really was. If they so much as misstepped even once, he would be long out of their reach before they could recover. And who knows when their next opportunity would be.

“Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing I know what Madara’s planning next.”

Itachi’s brows furrowed in confusion only for understanding to dawn on him a moment later. “The port.”

Her answer was a cunning smile.

xx

They took Sakura’s car to old town. Just a cheap but clean, little Honda she had borrowed from downtown earlier that day. It blended in with the rest of the rusting cars in the lot. She parked at the base of a building that overlooked the entire warehouse by the river before she led the way to the stairs that would take them to the roof.

Neither of them spoke as they climbed, but one check from her phone told her two things: the first was that Kakashi was in position at another abandoned building nearby and the second was that she still hadn’t heard from Naruto. Not the first time the blond had been slow to reply, but just as annoying.

On the top floor, both she and Itachi pulled out binoculars. For a few minutes they said nothing. Merely perched shoulder-to-shoulder as they observed the activity below, their breath turning a soft white and mingling together in the wind.

“Judging from Madara’s messages, I get the feeling he has been here awhile,” Itachi eventually said.

“At least six months,” Sakura replied, watching the men move about in the dark below. This time of night, they were only shadows, but there was just enough lighting to see them hauling and organizing crates. Her eyes narrowed. “And it looks like they just got a new shipment.”

She felt Itachi glance at her briefly. “Does that mean something?”

“Only that Madara was lying when he told Hashirama that Akatsuki had temporarily gone underground.”

“So Hashirama isn’t connected to Akatsuki,” he summed.

“No,” Sakura said, lowering her sights. “Madara has definitely betrayed Hashirama. And I assume Izuna has as well, considering he was monitoring the ports in the area in case Akatsuki moved in.”

Itachi set his binoculars down as well but didn’t immediately speak as a thoughtful frown crossed his face. “Hashirama doesn’t know this port exists then?”

“No, I never told him,” Sakura said, returning her gaze back to the movements below. She wondered if the double meaning in his tone was real or just her imagination. “With Madara watching him, he’s too unreliable. I didn’t want Madara moving his operation before we could act.”

Itachi didn’t reply to that as he too resumed his observation of the warehouse. They didn’t speak for a while as they surveyed the activity below, mentally noting anything that seemed of importance.

Eventually Itachi sat back again. “You’ve been watching this port for a while. How much product have they moved?”

“A lot,” she said vaguely. Because she couldn’t give him an accurate estimate until she spoke to Naruto.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Sakura unlocked the screen only to frown when she still found nothing from him. Instead, she shot off a text to Kakashi telling him they would be moving out soon and to find the dumb, blond idiot. Then she pocketed it again.

“I think we need to have a chat with Kisame,” Sakura continued, glancing at Itachi. “He didn’t know about this port so either he’s compromised or Akatsuki is moving in a different direction without his knowledge.”

A deep frown settled in the corners of Itachi’s mouth but he nodded his agreement. “I will contact him shortly and see if he can meet. Here. In New York.”

They packed up after that, ensuring they left no trace that they had ever been there. Sakura drove them towards the city as Itachi texted on his phone. The ride was quiet but comfortable, say for the soft, little ‘pings’ from his cell as he sent out messages. She wondered if he was texting his company or Kisame but didn’t ask. Merely navigated the roads in silence.

Eventually Itachi pocketed his phone. He peered out the window before he glanced at her. “What are your next moves?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she told him honestly. “I need more information.”

“On the port?”

“The port, Madara, Akatsuki, Kisame,” she listed. “There’s too many open ends for me to decide how to move forward yet.”

“But you will move forward?”

Sakura took her eyes off the road briefly to flash Itachi a confused glance. She caught a strange look on his face before her eyes turned forward once more. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I just get the feeling Madara is more of an inconvenience to you than a problem.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” she asked flatly, not liking the direction this conversation was suddenly going.

If he read the tone in her voice, he didn’t back down. “No.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, “I think you don’t care if he lives or dies. As long as he is out of the way.”

“Well, what about you?” she redirected with a quick glance in his direction. “You still haven’t told me why the CIA is after him.”

Itachi shrugged. “Madara is a traitor to the company. The CIA doesn’t really need much more reason than that.”

They lapsed into silence for a few blocks after that. Sakura still didn’t think Itachi was telling the truth but she wasn’t in the mood to press for more. She doubted he would tell her anyway. And she didn’t want to risk having Itachi turn the conversation around on her. She couldn’t tell anyone of her true objective. Even Kakashi didn’t know about it. Still, it weighed on her mind. Already she could feel the time closing in on when she would have to act.

“Madara’s death is simply a means to another end,” she eventually said, her voice barely above a murmur.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Itachi look at her. “So, you have another purpose here in New York than Akatsuki?”

“You’re asking rather a lot of questions tonight. Are you playing bad cop right now?” she asked playfully. Because it was the easiest way to redirect the conversation. Still, there was an edge of seriousness in her tone. A warning to not press too far.

Sakura drew to a stop at the next red light and peered at Itachi to find he was now smiling, as if he too recalled the events in that interrogation room in Tel Aviv. It wasn’t too obvious. Just a little pull in the corners of his mouth.

The look was utterly adorable. She forced herself to turn away. Both trying to hide her own smile and to stomp down the feeling in her chest. She reminded herself that night in her condo was a one-time thing. An impulse after a rough day. Still, that feeling lingered like the heat on one’s skin after a warm bath.

At least until she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw two police cars behind her.

Like a light switch, her entire demeanor changed. Her smile gone as was the warmth in her chest. And in its place cold began to set in.

Itachi noticed the change immediately. He peered in the side mirror, not understand. “What is it?” he asked.

“This is a stolen car,” she said, her voice calmer than she felt.

He turned to her abruptly. “Why the hell would you take a stolen car?”

“I needed something that would blend in. Something that Madara’s men wouldn’t take a second look if they saw us.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him open his mouth. Whether to scold her or curse, she didn’t know. In the end, he did neither. He simply inhaled slowly. “What are you going to do?”

“That depends. Can you use your CIA immunity to get us out of this?”

His answer was clearly written on his face. They were on their own. She didn’t know exactly how the CIA operated in situations like these, but she didn’t ask. They didn’t have time for the details.

Without a word, Sakura turned her sights forward, her mind racing through the options. The light was still red but it wouldn’t be for much longer. As soon as she started to move, she was certain the police would hit their lights. There were still only two cars behind her, but she could already see a third coming towards them.

Like water trickling into pool with no exits, Sakura felt her body begin to fill with quiet adrenaline. Mentally she planned her escape route.

Forward was the fastest way to the highway, but she couldn’t go that way. The police were expecting her to head that direction. She’d have to try and outrun them through Old Town. It was a good thing she knew these streets. And that the police cars were Crown Vics. They didn’t handle nearly as well as the newer cars.

“I’m going to run,” Sakura eventually said, her voice quiet as if the officers in the car behind her could hear.

Itachi stared at her. He looked like he wanted to argue, but said nothing before he withdrew his phone from his pocket. She didn’t pay him any more mind as the streetlight turned green.

Like a bullet, Sakura shifted into gear and hit the gas. From the center lane, she took a hard left, cutting across the oncoming lanes. Though, this time of night, they were all empty.

Just as she anticipated, the police cars hit their lights and sirens as they gave chase. Her entire body thrummed with energy as she sped through the otherwise quiet streets. On either side of her, the buildings flew by, red and blue lights flickering off the cold, pale stone. Her grip around the wheel was tight and her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes constantly flickered to the mirror.

To her frustration, the police kept up with her. Two cars turning into three and then five, and she was sure there were more on their way. It was a serious crime to steal a car. Even worse given the fact that she was armed. Itachi undoubtedly was too.

“Wake up, I have a situation,” Itachi suddenly said in the passenger seat.

Confused, Sakura briefly glanced at him, only for her brows to furrow when she saw he was on the phone. She didn’t know what he was doing and she didn’t ask as her attention returned to the road. She took a hard turn right and then a left, cutting strategically between two, old warehouses, the alley between them barely big enough for the small Honda.

When they popped out the other side, she could already see a couple of approaching cars, their flashing lights closer than she had hoped.

“Shit,” she cursed lowly as she turned the opposite direction, her foot slamming the gas pedal.

“I’m on Broadway and…” Itachi trailed off as he squinted at the street sign as they blew through the next intersection. “43rd.  At least six units. Where are they coming from?”

Sakura half-listened as she drove, weaving through the dead streets. The closest cruiser was almost a block behind, but their engines were faster. They would catch up soon.

“Take the next right,” Itachi told her.

She didn’t question him. Simply slammed the brakes as she turned the car nearly ninety degrees to catch the turn. Whoever Itachi was talking to seemed to know what they were doing. It quickly crossed her mind that the other person could probably hear their scanners, but she didn’t ask.

Itachi told her to take another right and then a left. Down five blocks before turning again.

They were gaining some distance, but unless they lost the police completely, they wouldn’t get away even on the highway. State Patrol was likely already alerted.

A few blocks later, Sakura saw her opportunity. On the other side of the overpass, there was what appeared to be an abandoned chop shop. The long-forgotten building sat dark with peeling paint and broken windows. Beside it, old cars were piled in the small lot, parked together around chunks of old, rusted parts.

Killing her lights, Sakura went around the block before quickly circling back to it. She slipped into a narrow space between two rusted minivans, going so fast the brakes nearly didn’t stop them in time from slamming into the back of a car parked on the other side. Then she threw the car into park and killed the engine in the same second before both she and Itachi ducked down.

A breath later, they heard the scream of sirens as police cars sped down the road behind them, their lights flickering through the windows and bouncing around the roof of the Honda.

Neither of them dared to move. They barely dared to breath as they hunkered there. Sakura’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might rip out of her chest, the blood roaring in her ears loud enough that she had to strain to hear the sirens.

Only once she was certain she could no longer hear those familiar sirens did she slowly sit up again. Itachi did the same, the screen of his phone pressed to his chest to hide the faint glow.

When he was certain they were alone, he pressed the device to his ear. “We’re clear,” he said before he hung up.

Neither of them spoke as the silence stretched on. Sakura peered into the rearview mirror, checking for certain they had got away before she finally glanced at Itachi. Only to find he was already looking at her, some unnamable expression on his face.

Sakura wasn’t sure who moved first. All she knew was that in one moment she was sitting there staring at him and in the next, their mouths had found each other. There was nothing sweet or shy about this kiss. It was all tongues and gentle teeth and passion.

Somehow, she found her way over the center console and in his lap, the cramped quarters pressing their bodies flush together. Her knees on either side of him, his hips pressed against the inside of her thighs.

Sakura knew how dangerous adrenaline crashes were. To be so high only for nothing to come of it. They could make one think they were invincible. Take a bullet without any pain or consequence. Start a fight one couldn’t possibly win. Make decisions they wouldn’t normally make.

But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was Itachi’s hands were on her. Under her shirt, on her skin. His warm touch set her body on fire.

She tugged him closer, slanting her mouth against his. Letting him give and take as much as she did. He groaned low in his throat when her own hands found their way under the hem of his shirt. Itachi was of lean stature, but she felt nothing but muscle under her fingertips. Her hands smoothing over the firm ridges of his stomach before moving over his ribs where his shoulder holster kept his gun secured.

Sakura thought nothing of the weapon now. She didn’t even think of her own as his hand slipped over the one on her hip to grab her thigh just under her ass to pull her closer. A soft gasp escaped her at the sudden pressure, but there were too many clothes, too many barriers, and she pulled away just far enough to drag his jacket off his shoulders.

In the confined space of the passenger seat, it took a bit of struggling to get it off, but once it was, his hands returned to her, slipping her own jacket down her arms before tossing it aside. One of the sleeves landed on the center-console, the rest fell on the driver’s seat, forgotten.

Somewhere, so far in the back of her mind in nearly didn’t exist, Sakura knew she shouldn’t be doing this. But she gave it no thought. Only ground against him harder, wanting him around, against and inside her as heat and desire pooled low in her stomach.

If Itachi had any of the same, fleeting thoughts he didn’t show it as his hands gripped her hips, pushing her down harder, her name echoing out in each of his gasps. The simple sound did delicious things to her insides. She kissed him harder, her hands going for his belt.

That’s when Itachi grabbed her wrists. Not hard but with enough force to make her flinch at the old bruises still lingering there. His grip immediately loosened.

“Sakura, wait,” he murmured, his lips so close they nearly brushed hers with each word. “We shouldn’t…”

Sakura pulled back before she went completely still, not sure she understood. She could see the want and lust lingering deep in his onyx eyes, but something else as well. Something that made that little voice in the back of her mind come forward, reminding her of who she was and who he was. She knew he was right. They were just feeling the aftereffects of their adrenaline. Still, she couldn’t help the little sliver of rejection that embedding itself into her chest.

Closing her eyes, Sakura inhaled slowly before letting it out again. When she finally opened them again, she stared past Itachi to see the windows had begun to fog. Maybe that would have embarrassed her if she wasn’t so conflicted. So frustrated at stopping, so startled by wanting him so badly in the moment.

Itachi’s grasp on her wrists loosened to hold them gently, almost more of a caress as he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead. Such a juxtaposition from the hardness she could still feel through his jeans. Where it pressed into her center. Aching and throbbing.

“Not here,” he said against her brow. “Not like this.”

Something Sakura couldn’t quite name swelled in her chest. She didn’t know what to say to that and so she said nothing. Simply met his gaze wordlessly before he maneuvered out from under her and slipped out of the car.

Sakura took that moment alone to gather herself. She inhaled deeply, forcefully stomping the still-smoldering embers of her arousal down, as she smoothed her fingers through her hair. She reached for her jacket as Itachi pulled the driver’s side door open, but didn’t bother putting it on. She still felt hot all over. Like his hands had seared her skin in the places he had touched.

They didn’t speak as Itachi started the engine and pulled out on the main road. Simply let the silence fill the space between them.

to be continued…

#itasaku #itachi #sakura #hollow point #chapter 23 #lime #(are we back to using those tags??) #crime au #car chase #saria writes #don't forget to leave a review #because I will stop posting if the lack of feedback continues #final warning

[written-rebellion]

Perfect Distractions

A/N: hellooo!! Would you believe this chapter is late partially bc I was baking (or trying to) this weekend too? With similar results to Claire haha ^_^"

This chapter is also a slightly tweaked version of this anon request: Jamie has a crush on the 75 year old girl next door (her casserole tasted exactly like Mam's)"

Jamie makes a friend, Claire goes into battle, and as always, the facts of this fanfic are contrived specifically to make fluffy university/modern-day au scenarios. Please let me know what you think!

Part One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] | Part Two: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Three: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Four: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Five: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Six: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eight: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Nine: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Ten: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eleven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twelve: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Thirteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Fourteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] Part Fifteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Sixteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seventeen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eighteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Nineteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Twenty: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twenty-One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twenty-Two: [Chapter 1]

Part Twenty-Two: Here, There and Everywhere | Chapter 2

She squinted up at the roof against the midday sun, half-expecting to see the silhouette of a vengeful Scot yelling expletives at the hole that had thoroughly assaulted his honour.

No dice. There wasn’t any sign of him and the ladder was folded, resting haphazardly next to the front door, but Claire found her disappointment was quickly replaced with bubbling excitement.

She clutched the shopping bag tighter. All the better for a surprise if he wasn’t here to see the work in progress. And she supposed there might be a great many.

And what’s all that defeatist talk I hear? she imagined Sir Nicholas scolding as she past him in the sitting room, sounding distinctly like Uncle Lamb in the back of her head.

“Jaaamie!” she called, enjoying the way her voice echoed through the empty halls.

Smiling to herself when no voice answered back, she strode to the kitchen and dumped her bounty onto the counter.

She’d read, and reread, and re-re-read the recipe on the bus ride home till she knew it as well as she knew the human cardiovascular system.

But just in case, she sat her phone down next to her – wrapped in saran wrap so it wouldn’t get dirty, just like all the life-hack videos told her to do. Then she lined up each ingredient and measuring cup like finely trained soldiers.

With a snap of her hair tie and a glimmer of determination in her eye – a captain by every measure – she mentally saluted her troops and set off into what she expected to be a messy battle.

And when the war was done, both the pie and the scent permeating through the house was slightly charred but, she considered with a tired but mindful eye—

“Not bad, Beauchamp,” she sighed, setting the pie aside to clean off her battlefield and send silent prayers up to her fallen soldier, otherwise known as the cracked measuring cup she’d knocked off the counter with her elbow.

Just as she’d got the kitchen back in order, sliding the pie into the oven to keep warm, she heard the front door opening and sped to the front hall.

Jamie was bent over, retrieving the tools left lying to one side of the door, but straightened as he heard her coming.

“Fixed the roof,” he said triumphantly, and Claire rolled her eyes at him.

“And bought yourself take-out to celebrate?” she said, gaze flickering to the plastic bag hanging from his wrist.

“Ah, right!” he said, as if just noticing it. “Do ye ken a Mrs. Bug, Sassenach?”

“Mrs. Murdina Bug?” She blinked at him. “Does she still live down the street?”

His eyes lit up.

“Aye, she does. And she was wonderin’ if ye still remembered her.”

“I do,” she said with a smile, leaning her shoulder against the wall and turning up her chin at the rush of memories. “She’d always have little snacks to sneak into my carry-ons before we left for wherever.”

She could see Jamie almost inflating, smile widening, as she spoke. She gave him a quizzical look.

“How’d you run into Mrs. Bug in the first place?”

“I was comin’ down the ladder when I caught the smell of something baking, so I followed it,” he explained simply, knowing all-to-well the litany of dog comparisons running through Claire’s head and actively ignoring her smirk. “And there the auld woman was, lettin’ her pie out to cool on her windowsill, like something right out of a cartoon.”

He triumph crested as he lifted the plastic bag up next to his grin.

“Grabbed ye some. It tastes just like my Mam used to make.”

“Mm, Mrs. Bug did make the best—” The word caught in her throat as she registered what Jamie had said a beat too late.

“Everything alright, lass?’

He tilted his head at her, a shade more concerned, but she recovered quickly.

“Yes, sorry, I’m fine! I just thinking if I missed anything on the shopping list this morning.”

She hurried towards him and stooped down the retrieve the rest of the tools lying on the floor, careful not to let him see her face lest he – in his inexplicable way – saw right through her hastily made excuse.

Thank God she’d cleaned up before he arrived. She nearly chewed her lip to oblivion as she stumbled ahead of him to the shed in the backyard.

Competing with Jamie’s thoughtfulness was one thing, but in a bake-off between sweet Mrs. Bug, whose pie just happened to taste exactly like Ellen Fraser used to make—

Claire sighed, feeling woefully outranked but not wholly discouraged. Sir Nicholas’ – or Uncle Lamb’s – voice egged her on.

Buck up, Beauchamp. The war’s not over yet.

Read Chapter 3

#outalnder #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire #perfect distractions au #wr writing

[erethesilverking-blog]

End Haven - Chapter 3

hAhA i’m soooooooooo tired

Notice: This chapter is LONG! Over 3000 words (I... I think)! So please wait until you’ve enough time to start reading. And are mentally prepared.

This was a real ordeal to get through. I’d appreciate feedback, if you’ve time even more time, as well as sharing this with any you know who would appreciate it. Please continue to read and support my work!

WARNING: If YOU are easily disturbed by themes of death and referring to limbs as separate entities, please read at your own peril. If you are unsure, please read in the proximity of someone who’d be willing to comfort you. Thank you.

Chapter 3

The Walk; The Stream

The forest was dark at night. Admittedly, this was not a new revelation for Pieter. In the small village that he’d grown up in, he was familiar with how dark night times could get.

This memory of his village acted as a key, unlocking a rush of old memories in Pieter. They swirled and gusted about his head, making themselves known by stampeding behind his eyes and bouncing off his temples and screaming into his scalp. Pieter ignored them for as long as he could, focusing on his journey ahead of him.

“The hardest kind of journey,” he wheezed, “is the kind with no exact destination.”

This was, actually, a quote from the best-selling novel The Ice Hare’s Lament, as one could hardly expect such memorable words from a dying man. Though, to his credit, Pieter was the one to write the quote some twelve years earlier. He’d written it hours after being given directions to a nearby shopping center in no specific terms. He was exhausted after walking three of the “couple of streets down” and was willing to give anything to know how much father he had to walk. Luckily, a kindly police officer had picked him up and driven him to the store, a whopping seven kilometers away.

Unfortunately, there were no police officers in the forest. No lights either, and it was very dark.

It was the kind of dark that you’d read about in dime novels. It was “pitch” black, it was “coal” black, black as the “ace of spades.” But these were not the kinds of blacks that Pieter wanted. He wanted it to be black as velvet; Velvet was soft and fuzzy, and Pieter felt his mind was much too sharp to be dying.

And it was this sharpness that kept him alive yet, to his dismay. He would push his staff forward and place it onto the ground in front of him, then lift his foot to bridge the gap between it and his footing. His cloth-wrapped sole would swing like a lethargic pendulum and kick the base of his walking-stick, then plant itself firmly into the soil. From there, its brother would be dragged through the dust to meet it, and Pieter would be free once more to shove his stick away from him. But sometimes, during the arc of the first foot, Pieter’s slow moving toes would encounter some obstacle hidden in the inky, hard blackness. The foot would snag itself on this thing, and Pieter would have nowhere to put his weight. He would prepare to go and strike the ground, open to the inevitable fall that would surely kill him.

But his thin frame refused to fall at speed, instead seeming to drift downward. The very forces that brought all things down seemed to discriminate exclusively for Pieter, allowing itself to be lulled to disservice by the weakness of the man. With no gravity to pull him down, Pieter would instinctively grip the staff and attempt to finish the step, helped along by more than one hundred years of practice in walking. The foot would drift over the hindrance and take root in another place; Pieter would be left to stagger on. Had his mind been soft, he may not have even noticed the falling motion; That would have been the end of Pieter.

So he continued his trek, with nothing else to do but that, trapped in the dark shadows of the evening and morning. He wandered past the pines and over the oak leaves, around the ashes and about the aspens. He looked blindly at rabbits and tottered past ravens. Pieter was almost senseless to these wonders, as he could not see the rustling boroughs, or the snuggling ivys. He was blind to the hollows in the dirt, that looked not unlike the home of some elf from his stories, perhaps Treeline Dance. He wrote that twenty years ago. Rock outcroppings, jutting into the air and piercing the sky like a dwarven fortress from The Pearl Hill, passed his noticed. He’d written of such twenty-nine years ago. Little rivulets of barely muddied water, he stepped over, never recalling them to be like those of  The River Maid. Amilia the Maiden he created forty-five years ago. And what would have filled him full of wonder the most would be the cry of some wild cat, calling out its supremacy in the night, had he heard it. Actually, he did happen to be thinking of Cat’s Tongue, as the final scene continued to play in his mind.

There stood Ursilda, her golden locks soaked with the river’s wrath. She stood defiantly, facing Calwored the Long-toothed. “You’ve taken my mother,” she cried. “My father and sister beside. My lover and my teacher as well. But by Volkmare, you shall not take me!”

But Calwored only snickered. “You claim that, Tail-Cutter, but look now! How can you slay me when the very ground you stand on crumples under the water’s onslaught?”

“I need no earth,” she growled, “I need only fire and steel, much like the day I took your tail from you.”

This was too much. Calwored could not hold his purring facade any longer, and he snarled his lips. Bunching up his hind legs, the demon prepared to leap across the roaring river separating the opponents and tear the offender to shreds.

He flew through the air like an arrow loosed from its string, claws outstretched. His vicious cry was matched only in ferocity by Ursilda and volume by the roaring banks of-

It was the river that did him in. Pieter was murmuring the conclusion to that fateful encounter when his mind, fuzzed by his own day-dreams, neglected to realize that the ground was once again coming up to meet him. He never heard the dull clunk of flesh on root, and barely registered the pain, whelmed as he was by the sounds of running water.

The river- more of stream, in actuality- was shallow. It was maybe thirty centimeters at its deepest, but it made up for that by being more than twelve paces wide. That is, twelve paces for a young adult, not Pieter.

The water of the stream burbled cheerfully. It fizzed and foamed, swirling about itself. It picked up pebbles and twigs, spinning them about, and made ferries of leaves and lillies. Forget-me-nots and cattails periodically dotted its banks, nestled in what ever patches of soft loam could be found on the rocky shore. Between the flowers waited toads and frogs of the sort, all hoping and hopping for a meal to fly close. Their little mouths would open from time to time to croak out a challenge on entreating rivals, who’d come a waddle too close to their territory.

Of course, the amphibians were not only rivaling between themselves. It the shallows of the stream swan fish, of the freshwater variety, of course. They circled each other in a dance of glittering mail, hoping that some insect would dare to fly close to the surface of the water. Though none ever did, none were discouraged, as the water-treaders were more than enough for their gasping mouths.

It was further upstream that a mother doe was watering her child. The fawn shuddered on uncertain legs, but drank from the stream all the same. From under heavy lids the doe watched, proud yet wary. Its tail was held aloft at all times, a spark of white in the waning darkness, and showed the anxiety that she held for her dearest child.

So it was when a clunk echoed from downstream, bouncing over the water, the mother gave a warning bray and nudged the fawn out of the river, and back to the herd, back to safety,.

The stream was maybe thirty centimeters at its deepest, but it made up for that by being more than twelve paces wide. That is, twelve paces for a young adult, not Pieter.

It really would not have mattered to Pieter; He was is no state to be making any paces, adult-sized or otherwise, across any river, or stream. The glistening blood on the lower roots of a tree trunk testified to that. The morning light reflected off of the dark streak, and landed firmly on Pieter, sprawled across the ground. He was, at the moment, dead to the world, which was exactly as he’d hoped to end up.

~~~

But, Oh! That does not seem to be the end of Pieter.

Darkness. Watery, deep, incomprehensible darkness. It was the kind of oblivion that one should only hope to find in the months before birth, when the senses aren’t yet orientated enough to know how unpleasant it is to leave it... There was something about it that suggested a  warm and caring maternity, and to be held, and loved. And it was a warmth that was followed only by a brief shock of cool air, then once again back to being held and swaddled in heat and embrace.

But Pieter was not being reborn again as an infant. And it would have been quite difficult for him to even connect these emotions to a mother figure, as his own had died some hundred-twenty years before and there had never been anyone to fill that void. He simply understood, on a most primal level, that he was in a place of comfort after a long period of not being so. So he rested, and allowed himself to be wrapped in darkness for many hours.

But eventually, the heat turned on him. It started to prickle his leathery skin, then scorch him down to the bones. The sun shouted to the man, demanding that he remove himself from her sight. From his depths, Pieter was first tugged, then pulled, then yanked toward the light; It was unpleasant, to say the least.

Everyone has gone through a first birthday, though only few claim to remember the happenings of the day. But to be born an adult, especially as an ancient one, was not at all comparable to the birth of an infant, as one has the senses for feel it when grown. A comparison that Pieter would later make (to his great displeasure) was such: You are walking through the pouring rain, no, sleet. It is cold enough to curl the toes on your feet and freeze the spit in your mouth. Despite all the leagues you travel, hindered by your heavy pack, you’re blood never warms you.

Finally, there! A heated, comforting house. You are allowed to place your effects onto the ground, shed your wet clothing, and sit next to a fire, a roaring blaze that smiles and hisses. Contentment. You are handed a blanket. As your arm stretches out for it, the cover is suddenly upon your head. It is wet! Arms wrap around you. Pinned!

And then, Pieter would muse, you would be tossed into the air. And just as it began to whistle in your ear, Splat! Wrapped in a wet blanket, you have just been thrown, naked, into the cold snow.

Horrible business, really.

~~~

And awake, at last! Pieter was sprawled out on the ground, spread over the roots of a nearby oak and the dust in between. The sun beat down on, in all senses and on all his senses. His eyes, nose, and mouth were dry in the burning light and itched something horrible. These feelings prompted Pieter to run his mind, like questioning fingers, over his body.

His right arm was tucked underneath him, the elbow jetting out like a bird’s wing. The wrist was at an awkward angle, bent up towards the breastbone, making the fingertips just brush the breast itself. As he thought of this, Forefinger twitched, but made no distinction on the ridged root it sat atop. The other Four sat still, to drained to move for just a passing examination.

Next was the left arm. It had landed on the ground in a protective embrace of its owner, bent at the shoulder and extended across Pieter’s face. It extended onward, happy to have done its job, and traced the upper tendrils of the tree with the bony base of the Thumb.

Legs, both right and left, were united by more than the meeting at the waist. They were both fully extended behind Pieter, and the toes were extended to reach across the ground. The Hallux on the left was missing a swatch of skin and had long scabbed over. Little wonder, as that very foot rested on a particularly high-reaching root that had pulled down the angel to the forest floor.

And everything itched. It was the itch of lying on the ground all night in a unnatural position, of landing in dust that sought the little creases of the skin, of being unmoved in a forest full of hungering insects, and sitting in the sun; The last itch was twofold: The skin was both dry from the heat, and yet lightly perspiring, or at least trying to.

By the time Pieter had finished this examination, he was starting to sweat. The midday sun had been blocked by the boughs of the oak, but was now she was descending and peeking around the dark green leaves. Her eye would soon be fully upon Pieter, and that would surely kill him within the hour

Very good, one would think, as that’s what he has been waiting for.

But, curiously, Pieter’s body seemed to disagree.

Motherly Left and Coddled Right reached out in front of him. They looked like willow wands that had been soaked in the very water that they reached for; They pulled their frame across the roots of the oak, and Legs were dragged along for the ride, bumping over the uneven surfaces and sending tremors throughout the body. They went up one root and peaked, only to fall a few centimeters down and be pulled over the soil. Until, they began to to bend at the joints as Waist was hoisted over another root. And Legs began another climb.

Shfff…-dnk!...Shfff…-dnk!...Shfff…-dnk!...Shfff…-dnk!... And suddenly: -dnk!...shff...fff...fff...fff...fff… Then: tuh tuh tuh...tuh tuh tuh...tuh tuh tuh...tuh tuh tuh…

And Pieter was suddenly on the shore of the stream. His hands reached forward again, but, when they landed, touched gentle, cool water. Pieter could not, under any circumstance, raise his head to look at what his fingers had encountered, but he did so anyway. His shoulders strained and elbows bent. His hands were pulled back and met the delicate point where water met earth, and they grasped. With another heave, Pieter’s face was over the trickling stream.

The light of the sun, now inexplicably dancing on the treeline, landed on the water and twirled into Pieter’s eyes. It dazzled him. His chin, with wispy hairs, kissed the surface of the water, which came up the meet the skin in return. And as Pieter dropped his head at the neck, his stream came up to kiss his lips as well. The water was as sweet as a lover, and he greeted it with gusto.

His parched tongue lapped at the gentle comfort and fled back between his teeth. It shared the news of its discovery and before long had Pieter inhaling the waters.

With this new discovery, that water was sweet and delicious, Pieter would savor his life for a while longer.

And somehow, as the she sank under the horizon and Moon leaped up to trace her route, Pieter would become stronger. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted, but anything else would be welcome to descending into the water darkness again and wondering if he would be pulled out.

He drank from the water, ignoring the stars that shone white and bright, and the eyes that stared yellow and dark from the trees. He ignored the swaying trees, because how could they compare to the life-giving waters? And he ignored the growing pit in his stomach.

But he did not ignore the rising sun. She licked the back of his neck, a warning for later heat. And Pieter, outraged, found himself standing.

But where to go? Why stand if you’ve nowhere to go? The answer was obvious: to escape the harsh Sun but stay close to the River, Pieter simply stepped forward and placed his foot in the water.

The first step is always the hardest, especially if there is no destination in mind. So Pieter sharpened his eyes and focused on a certain stone. It wasn’t special by discernible traits; It was round and gray and smooth, just like every other pebble around it. But Pieter stared it down all the same and took a second step, this one towards the stone. A third.

The forth was a difficulty, and Pieter would have fallen again had he noticed. His foot, wrapped in now-soaked cloth, had plunged into a depression in the bed, but he continued onward without even blinking at the disruption. And it was so that that forth step meant nothing to those scraps of a man. So a fifth step took his insubstantial weight forward. A sixth.

And there he suddenly was, at that stone. In his mind, Pieter saw himself stoop to grab it. His arm went back and then forward, the stone sent whizzing off on an all new adventure in the forest. Pieter’s eyes followed the imagined path.

The stone landed in the bushes, rustling them as it crashed through. Pieter’s eyes stayed behind, though, to stare widely at the little shapes that dotted the leaves. He could almost count them, and felt a growing excitement. He leaned forward and began to splash through the water, kicking aside his sweet lover to clamber onto the opposite banks. Pieter fell to his knees before the bush and stretched a hand forward, caressing one of the hundred sweet berries, all black and blue and red and ripe for the picking. His bony finger tensed and pulled back, convincing the fruit to come back with it.

He stared with a boyish wonder at the little morsel, turning it over with his fingers. It left traces of juice in the creases of his fingers and almost popped in his weak grasp. So, not wasting any more time, Pieter brought the berry to his lips, then thrust it into his mouth.

He could not even describe the flavor and would never again recapture that specific brand of pleasure, but he was one of the few people to ever experience it, and he was happy.

By the coming of dusk, Pieter had stained his hands with the juice, smearing it on his cheekbones and thin shirt. He was sprawled out on the stones and loving the warmth that they had taken in during the day. His eyes drifted open and closed again with sleepy sluggishness; he was full of sweet fruit and the yawning pit in his stomach was filled, for the time being.

For the time being. Pieter sat up, disturbed in his rest. The swallows in a nearby tree looked down with passing interest as a rattle was just heard over the giggling stream.

“You’ve put your foot in it, Pieter! You came here to grow weak and pass, and yet here I am, full and feeling like a quick nap stands between me and a hearty hike up the mountains.” The swallows continued their conversation.

“But there’s nothing to do about it now,” he cried. “Nothing to do but take that nap and take that walk. I suppose I’ll find a less tempting spot to… settle down.”

And Pieter did exactly as he said he would. He laid against the the shore and quickly fell into a dreamless slumber. He would not stir, not until the Sun frolicked to the top of the other treeline. From there he would stand and set out into the woods.

The river- more of stream, in actuality- was shallow. It was maybe thirty centimeters at its deepest, and it was more than twelve paces wide. And the stream giggled and burbled, and it was cool and bright, it gave a place for mother deer to bath their fawns and cattails to grow, it gave frogs a place to sit by and an old man water to drink. It had nothing to apologize for.

And that’s that. For the moment. Yeah.

I feel I’m getting the hang of the imagery stuff, yeah.

I’m a little frazzled and tired, so I hope this looks as good as good as I think it to. Curious of what music I listen to, to keep me working? There’s this and this.

Taglist, for those who’ve shown interest:

@cawolters , @cookiecuttercritter , @the-violet-writer , @magiciswritingnow , @royalbounties , @phahbiyah 

Thanks in advance.