#Driftwood - Year 1 - Summer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunlightmurdock · 2 years ago

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Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

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You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

#jake smut #Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin x reader #Jake Seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #Jake Seresin fic #jake seresin #Glen powell #Jake hangman Seresin #top gun: maverick

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getosleftarm · 2 months ago

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A Business Proposition Sneak Peek

Pairing: Kook! Gn! Reader x JJ Maybank Summary: You're back in Kildare for the summer and your parents are pushing you to date Rafe. You've gotta get out of this somehow. JJ has taken the fall for Pope for sinking Topper’s boat. He’s gotta pay the restitution somehow. And you’re willing to help him out, for something in return. (fake dating au) Set around Season 1’s events. Midsummer will occur in this fic, but JJ already owes 30k restitution. So the events take place after s1xe4. Word Count: 1.5k Warnings: slight mentions of abuse from JJ’s dad/mentions of Luke Maybank’s “reputation.” Fast and loose with the timeline~ sarah and john b are together, everyone knows and is at least semi-okay with it. There are some allusions and microaggressions against pogues just because they’re poor. It aligns with the themes in the show, and is NOT condoned by me (just to be clear). But other than that, this is a (dialogue heavy) sfw fic~ dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

Summer holidays, Easter, your birthday. You only come back to Kildare for holidays. It’s clockwork how distant Kook royalty graces Figure 8 with their presence. A holiday house in the hills collecting dust until one week before you return and the cleaners rush to prepare the estate.

You grew up around Keira and Sarah when you were kids, but stuck by kooks when they had their falling out in 10th grade. Staying around Figure 8 was easier. It was clean, safe, and there was no reason to venture to the cut… Sure, you’re friendly with Kie still and occasionally you see her at the boneyard with other pogues, but only coming to Kildare on holidays already strained your relationship. But Kie and Sarah somewhat mended their relationship, and maybe, this summer you will befriend Kie again.

You came back for summer vacation like always, but this time things are different. Almost 3 months in paradise ruined by one sentence. “You need a date for midsummers.” Both the Cameron’s and your parents have been constantly pushing for you and Rafe to date. With your family’s foot in the real luxury estate business and Ward Cameron’s construction company, both your family’s are primed for a strategic alliance.

But Rafe Cameron? Rafe. The same guy that’s Sarah’s brother, and therefore like a second brother to you. The same Rafe that bullied you and Sarah since age 6, pulling on your pony tail on the way to the beach, purposefully drawing crude pictures with sunscreen on your back so you burned and tanned in odd shapes. The same Rafe that would point and laugh when you tripped, that claimed you lied whenever you got hurt… The same Rafe…

Yet, your parents dont see that. And if they do, they turn heads in favour of joining Kook empires.

That's how you ended up here. Sitting on a large piece of driftwood at the boneyard, you picked at the flaking wood and avoided eye contact with Kie. The other pogues setting up kegs and music. You sit on the large wood piece to stare at the ocean. Kildare feels like a dream, so far away from responsibilities and the real world. You bring your knees to your chest, tucking your chin in. Kildare is becoming a nightmare as pressures from your parents mount to give Rafe a chance.

The sky is cloudy, overcast. The sun is setting, painting the sky in orange impressionistic splotches. The sky and the ocean contrasting and drawing your eyesight to the horizon.

“You wanna run away already?” A voice pulls you out of your deep thoughts. Jumping to see JJ Maybank.

You have known JJ for years, with him growing up on the island and you coming back every year like clockwork. We have known each other forever but not well, just passing glances on the beach, in the waves or at keggers on the boneyard.

A couple drinks in and you're babbling your mouth off. He’s so easy to talk to, and laughs at anything. You sigh (a little dramatically) about how your summer is ruined because Rafe will be escorting you to all your events. None of your friends will want to be near you if Rafe is scaring them off :((

A couple more drinks in and JJ is suddenly divulging private information about his probation and the reparations he has to pay back to, for all intents and purposes, a total stranger.

“30k…”

“Oh fuck…”

“Yeah”

“Will you be okay? I know that your dad—” you bite your lip to shut yourself up.

JJ raises his eyebrows, “so gossip about my family has even reached the kooks that are only here for a tenth of the year?”

“Jayj… I didn't mean it like that. I don’t… I dunno…”

He shrugs and takes another swig.

You and JJ spent the rest of the night in silence, other than the sound of his blick lighter zipping as he tries to get the last out of its lighter fluid. Zip, zip. Light the joint. Swish his beer. Finish the joint. Zip zip. Light another joint. Offer a puff. Finish the joint. The cycle kept going the whole night.

At a luxury boutique on the mainland, your mother picks through dress options with little concern for the items’ prices, nor the mess she leaves behind her. “Honey, what do you think of this?” Your mom held up a puffy dress. A little unflattering but her heart is in the right place.

“Uh what for?”

“Your midsummer dress! Rose and I want to coordinate your dress with Rafe’s tie,” she responds as if it’s obvious.

You unconsciously pull a face, but your mom doesn't notice. She’s too preoccupied throwing dresses to the shop assistants. “Well good luck even getting Rafe to wear a tie, let alone a suit”

“Just let us handle that hon’ now the dress?” She hoists it higher as if to convince me.

“Umm. Yeah, it looks cool… maybe better on someone else though?”

She nods and puts it in the rack before trolling through the rest of the store as you trail behind her, thinking about how to bring up your concerns… You look at her from the other side of the rack. Your voice is small, conflicted on how to bring up the situation, “Hey mom?”

“Hmm?” She hums half heartedly.

“I-… I don’t wanna go to midsummar with Rafe”

She barely hesitates. “I know”

“What? Then why? Why are you making me go with him?” you plead.

She sighs and continues looking, “You’re not even giving him a chance…”

“Bullshit!” She glares at me, concerned about the public ruckus I would be making and the impact it has on our family’s image (as if she wasn’t disregarding the store’s workers) “You know that I don’t want to be with him. Or even around him! Coming back here is meant to be fun! It’s been…”

Your mom ignores you. Moving to another rack. You follow right behind her, now standing besides her.

Silence

“Mom please! You were the one who always made Kildare a prize for me. Getting good grades, achieving first in any competition, you would bring me here! It has always been a symbol of fun! A-a- a” I stutter “a reward for myself! Rafe ALWAYS made the reward sour! Please mom!”

She snaps, suddenly not caring about if the service workers who were (definitely) listening in. “Fine! Who do you want to go with then? Hmm?” This time, it’s your turn to be silent

“That’s what I thou-“

I cut her off. “JJ”

“Who?”

“JJ Maybank.”

It’s like we take time to stare at each other in shocked silence.

“Are you dating him?” She passive-aggressively places hangers on the rack.

Silence

“… yes.”

Silence

“Still no. You are not taking that pogue. It’s beneath you”

“Sarah is bringing John B!”

“He’s not Luke Maybank's son. Big John Routleage, John B’s dad, was a researcher. An accomplished one at that! Luke Maybank is a drunk and a nuisance. His son won’t be much different”

I feel my fists squeezing together for some reason. I barely know JJ. Maybe it’s the idea of anyone being like Luke Maybank.

“Let us prove you wrong”

Clanking the clothes hanger on the railing. your mom sighs, her head hung low and gripping the top of the rack. “Fine. I can’t stop you. I just… Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Luke Maybank’s son? How are your father and I meant to protect you from the… activities those types do?”

“Mom…” there’s a warning in your voice and a furrow in your brow.

“Don’t embarrass us.” For some reason, that… That felt like a threat.

~~~

Going straight to John b's place, you knock on the door wildly. You knock on the doors and windows, waiting for someone, anyone, to open up. You look through the windows and sigh, about to leave when the front door creaks open. JJ stands at the door. His blonde hair is tousled and wet, probably from being on the HMS Pogue.

“Jeez” he sighs your name, “I thought you were square groupers”

You rush back to the door, relieved he's here, ignoring his comment. “Date me”

~~~

You settle on the couch at the chateau while JJ paces around you. “Think about it! My mom’s been on my ass about a date to midsummers, and you need cash right? Thirty thousand?” he stops pacing for a moment before sitting next to you on the couch, a little closer than necessary. But it’s JJ - no concept of personal space JJ.

“Look, I’m sorry I just told her we were dating. You were just the first single person I could think of…” You pause. Your voice gets softer as you look down at your lap and pick at your manicured nails.

“I have some savings, and with my allowance… Flat fee, $500 a week, with chances to earn more if you take me out on a date, financed by me of course, I could pay you more”

“I'm not pimping myself out to you”

“It's not like that… It's more of a business proposition. You need money and I need a boyfriend. Not even a boyfriend… a distraction to keep my parents off my back.” You turn your body to him, tucking an ankle under the other leg.

“Please? I’m desperate... and!” JJ looks up at you. At your next words, he grins, “you could really piss rafe off~”

#idk if this is part 1 or just a sneak peak but...#i just needed to get something out there #just finally put something out and bite the bullet u know #or else id never do it...#i gotta stop re-reading this fic and just fucking post oml #anyway #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fic #outer banks fic #outer banks #obx #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x yn

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ransprang · 1 year ago

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thank you anon for your request! we hope you like your match-up headcanons :3

If anyone else would like headcanons this is our kofi

ALEX <3

Sfw

1. How they met (again): A wave of nostalgia washed over you as you approached Evelyn’s door – summers spent helping Evelyn tend her garden, learning to bake perfect pies, and chasing fireflies with a freckled, grinning boy named Alex. When you rang the doorbell, a tall, handsome brunette opened the door. “Hi there, you’re new,” the man said flirtatiously, his gaze appreciative as he leaned against the doorframe, an easy grin on his face. "Actually, just moved back,” you replied. “I brought some stew for Evelyn. I used to spend summers here." A flicker of recognition crossed the stranger's face, then surprise. "Y/n?" He asked. You gaped, then a smile bloomed on your face. "Alex? Is that really you?" Alex grinned a bit sheepishly, "Yeah, yeah. Grew a bit since then, haven't I?" Evelyn bustled in before you could reply, the older woman’s face lighting up upon seeing her. "Y/n! You came back! Come in!" She ushered you to the kitchen and Alex followed. The afternoon flowed quickly, as the group caught each other up about their lives, with you discovering a new side to Alex – one that still held a hint of that mischievous boy you remembered. Evelyn turned to Alex, a playful glint in her eyes. "Remember that time you tried to impress Y/n with your..., artistic skills?" Alex's face turned the shade of a ripe tomato. "Gran!" he groaned, burying his head in his hands. You doubled over with laughter as memories flooded back – a lopsided driftwood mermaid with seaweed hair and a permanent surprised expression. Alex, then a freckled, gap-toothed ten-year-old, presenting his "masterpiece" with all the confidence in the world. As laughter filled the kitchen, you realized how much you missed these summers. You left with a smile on your lips and a promise to return soon.

2. After you began visiting Alex’s house regularly with the excuse of visiting Dusty, Alex would soon enough start dropping by your house on his morning runs, with the excuse of visiting your cat Henry. Over time you both would realise they didn’t need excuses to see each other ;).

3. Dates would involve a lot of physical activity so if you weren’t physically fit already you would be soon enough. He would ask you to play catch on warm sunny days and the days the you both hang out inside, he would integrate you into his workout routine and make you sit on his back for push ups.

4. Alex would regularly compliment your appearance. He loves telling his girl she looks stunning. “Are those new jeans? They are doing something right ;)”

2. After you started began visiting Alex’s house regularly with the excuse of visiting Dusty, Alex would soon enough start dropping by your house on his morning runs, with the excuse of visiting Henry. Over time you both would realize you didn’t need excuses to see each other <3

5. You hate fishing? This man has never held a fishing rod in his life. All he cares about are sports, his dog, his grandparents and you <3

6. You and him would go on cute dates and picnics around the Valley with Dusty. You would try out new recipes and bring packed lunches for the dates and Dusty would eat them all.

7. Alex would ask you to teach him how how to cook, especially when he insisted on surprising Evelyn with a home-baked cake on your birthday. He tries to put his protein mix in the cake batter. You gently steer his hands away and prepares a backup cake. Alex’s cake would turn out surprisingly good, thus discovering his talent for cooking (thanks to Evelyn’s genetics) and the back up cake would go to the rest of the townspeople.

8. Alex is really glad that you gets along with Evelyn, especially when it comes to them both cooking together. He loves watching you take part in domestic chores. Not in a sexist way, but it warms his heart watching you bond over something with Evelyn and be all feminine.

9. George on the other hand takes a long time to get used to your presence. He’ll often look like he’s scowling at you but he’s actually just judging and observing whether you are someone who will hurt him and his loved ones. When he sees you being bubbly and genuinely having fun with his family, George will wheel up to your conversations to simply listen. Alex notices this change in George over time and that’s how he knows he found the right girl <3

10. Alex is totally cool with you coming over to his room to just chill and listen to music or whatever while he works out. He’ll disturb you every now and then, “Babe, am I looking swole or what?” He gets used to parallel playing with you so often that he goes over to the farm to play with his football in your spacious land while you tend to the crops.

N/sfw

1. Alex at first wouldn’t let you dominate him. He has a silly backwards thinking that the man has to always be dominant and take control in bed. The first time you are able to dominate him is by tricking him. You would have to plead him to let you top for a few minutes just so you can feel his hard muscles and kiss them. With an easy stroke of his ego you are able to be on top. While he is busy playing with your boobs, you grab the handcuffs that you hid nearby and cuff him to the bed. From then on Alex lets you dominate him.

2. It’s very hard to get Alex to admit that he likes being edged. He loves the feeling of you kissing your way down his neck and chest all the way down to his cock. Watching and feeling your naked skin brush against his drives him nuts. And the way you tantalizingly kisse his dick without taking it in your mouth makes him want to thrust himself in there.

3. The height difference always makes Alex feel stronger around you. He enjoys picking your small frame up easily and pushing you back to the wall as you struggle to hold on to him. It doesn’t help that he kisses the most sensitive parts on your neck making your legs shake. Listening to your whimpers and moans from just that simple act makes Alex even harder, but he forces himself to take it slowly and not fuck you right then and then.

4. Alex loves watching the view as you ride him, watching your breasts bounce while his hands are tied to the headboard. He wishes he could fondle them, but he sticks to pumping fast from beneath.

5.While he is tied up you would pleasure him in different ways, starting with a handjob getting him close, then slowly sucking on his tip with your lips and then riding him. This gets him extremely sensitive, and he cums fast and hard.

6. Alex would roll his eyes back as he pumps you with your legs over his shoulders, you get a clear view of his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

7. When Alex fucks you the bed shakes, his humping is fast and speedy as if to a beat. He

moans and grunts into your ear as well. You both would have to slow down in case George and Evelyn would hear you.

8. Alex would definitely be into fucking you in the kitchen after he innocently asks you to teach him how to cook. He would bend you over the counter and run his fingers through your hair.

9. Alex likes to carry you up bridal style after having sex outside the bedroom and lay you down gently on the bed, watching your form. He would bring you water and kiss your forehead with a smile, telling you how much he loves you.

10. Alex is big on cuddling, he’s always the big spoon and laying in this position with him is dangerous as it almost always gets him hard and turns it into a heated session.

your jocks,

admins sar, sav, & san

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jisokai · 1 day ago

Text

Ochako’s earliest memory is a warning: to stay away from the ocean, and what lurks inside it.

[mermaid AU where Ochako is from an island surrounded by sea creatures, and the only one willing to see them as anything but monsters]

part 1: your siren song (my lullaby)

uraraka ochako x toga himiko ch 1/2 | 16.3k words | masterlist | ao3

cw (includes spoilers for fic): human/monster relationship, blood, blood drinking, descriptions of corpses, illness, major character death, violence, law enforcement, cultural tensions, child neglect (ish), implied kidnapping notes: shoutout to gigi perez for sailor song and vonabel for the partial beta <3

Oh, won't you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor? And when you get a taste, can you tell me what's my flavor? I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my savior My mom says that she's worried, but I'm covered in this favor

- Sailor Song, by Gigi Perez

The ocean has a lethal sort of beauty.

Murk darkens the shore, brown sediment clouding beneath the surface. It blooms with each wave against the docks—the disturbance of a spoon dragging through a bowl of miso soup. The grains expand and disperse, swirling with clumps of seaweed and driftwood and garbage. This water is cold and unforgiving, the result of a recent storm scraping at eroded mountains. Clouds linger above, a shield against the sun.

It’s not unusual for the water to take this form, especially in the summer when typhoon season sweeps in. The clusters of islands to the south of Japan usually take the damage—monsters of weather blazing through the Philippines or Taiwan, leaving pleasant stormclouds blowing towards Musutafu. Kaone, the most recent typhoon, was the largest the town experienced in years, managing to dodge Taiwan’s coast in a line straight for Japan, an angry and swirling tirade of rain.

Today, three days after the storm passed, everything is in order when the Urarakas take their Saturday trip to the harbor. Everything but the brown of the ocean, the angry waves that jostle the docks forcefully, the looming darkness of the sky.

The stench of the sea is strongest here, carried in through lines of boats, their wireframes and decks littered with buckets and bins of fish, some still writhing in captivity. The vessels are loud—painted bright colors with blaring horns to announce their arrival, crew members jumping out with ropes for mooring. A yellow ship docks close to where Ochako stands, hand in her father’s. Wide, brown eyes watch as a man leaps from the deck to secure the ship, then drift to the engine. Liquid spills from one of the tubes, coating the water beneath it in a pearlescent shimmer—the shine of an abalone.

Her father’s hand tightens, tugging her firmly. Ochako didn’t notice in her staring that she had walked forward, entranced. He doesn’t elaborate. She takes three steps back to his side.

She knows what he’s thinking—an incident from elementary school at the forefront of his mind. Ochako’s memory is hazy, a series of flashing feelings and images: stomach plummeting as her body tipped over the dock, the blunt force of the water when she broke through its surface. She remembers a warm and sunny day, but the ocean was cold, terrifying. Consuming. It stole her breath, only let her take shallow and stuttered inhales as she writhed in its grasp.

(There was a glimmer of something beneath her, a faded gold smeared across her vision in the chaos of her flailing. Something alien, terrifying. Something pulling her deeper.)

She remembers the onlookers above her. They laid safe on the deck, anchored on their stomachs while reaching for her. But nobody would dare join her in the water.

Standing here years later, Ochako still doesn’t know what happened. The memory hasn’t faded with time, but it was never more than a fuzzy collection of images to begin with.

Her father worries that she’ll trip again, or stand too close to the edge. Ochako understands enough to know that falling was no fault of her own. She was pulled by something beneath the surface—something calling to her. She knows that if it were to happen again—if whatever song that lured her in the first time is sung again—her father’s hand won’t be enough to stop her.

Disappearances aren’t common in Musutafu, but they happen enough for locals and visitors to be aware of, to speculate. No one lost has been found, posters with names and contact information stapled over one another, faded on bulletin boards. Oftentimes they display the faces of children, kids the adults assume are lost to the ocean—to the monsters some believe lurk beneath the surface.

Ochako has heard the stories time and time again, words inscribed in the depths of her memory. Tales of writhing beasts in the water, ones that claw through the exterior of fishing boats, tear through nets, and wrench open metal traps. To steal the prey for themselves. To steal people.

But they only exist in stories. Ochako has never even seen a photo of the supposed monsters. There is no evidence of their reality. She has only the mental images of half human, half sea creature amalgamations. Her father says they’re ugly things, deformed and mangled and lesser than—akin to old depictions of ningyo in traditional paintings: twisted faces, bodies almost entirely fish, with bony arms and claws for hands.

They’re horrifying, enough to make adults shudder. But Ochako’s fear leans more towards curiosity. Fascination. When she opens her books and traces her fingers over scale patterns and wispy fins… She dares to think these creatures are beautiful.

She’s wondered before—what it would take to see one.

“Higa-san,” her father greets as the boat unloads.

The man stands at the edge of the dock, wide shoulders on sturdy legs. One of his crew passes wire boxes of fresh catch. He grips the handles tightly, slamming them against the wood with a thump. The fish inside are slender and grey with darker coloration at the top. They jostle from the movement. One wriggles above the others, still alive.

“Uraraka.”

Ochako’s hold on her father tightens, eyes trained on the fish. Its body inflates slightly, gills flaring desperately. Is it suffocating? She wonders. Is it in pain?

“The water treating you well?”

Higa grunts, heaving a large crate. Ochako recognizes the fish inside this one, the patterned edges of mackerel. None of them move. “Still not normal. ‘S murky out there, choppy. Full moon ain’t helpin’.” His slanted eyes move to Ochako, her own glued to the corpses before her.

What would happen if she set them free, if she tipped over that box and put them back into the water? Would they come back to life, righten like zombies, and swim home? Or would they float like buoys on a line, surrendered to their death.

“—grabbed our net today ‘n tore it. Had such a creepy grin, all teeth. A nasty thing. Was the first time one came s’close to the boat, figured we shoot ‘n haul it. But as soon as the spear hit, bloody thing turned to seafoam.”

Ochako blinks as she tunes back into the conversation.

Her dad makes a sound of surprise. “Seafoam?”

“Awful foam. Red as blood with a nasty stench. Miya was yackin’ for ten minutes at least.”

“You should report it to the Coast Guard,” Uraraka insists, knuckles white from gripping Ochako.

“You ‘Matonchu wouldn’t know what to do with the information,” Higa scoffs. “Would just give ya a reason to interfere with our fishin’. Like hell we’re tellin’em. ‘S a matter for the Musu.”

The Musu people were the dominant group of the Musutafu township for centuries, even long after the Yamato, or Yamatonchu—the people of mainland Japan—expanded to the east. They're recognizable by a difference in features: thick hair as straight as a blade, freckled skin, striking eyelashes. Higa is a descendant of the Musu, a member of one of the few remaining families on the island.

His eyes narrow, irises darkening as they train on Uraraka’s face. A warning. “So ya better keep yer damn mouths shut.”

Ochako doesn't know much about the Musu, her knowledge limited to brief mentions in school. She knows they don't fear the sea the way Yamato do; instead honing understanding from years of navigating canoes on the open water, so skilled they could reach smaller islands off the coast. They had a relationship with animals that was lost over time: one built from reciprocity, responsibility. But it changed when the Yamato came.

When she stares at Higa-san’s angry face, his stern voice ringing as a warning to stay out of his business, she wonders if the Musu ever dream of going back.

The rest of the outing is a blur. Strung along by her father’s hand, Ochako wades through rows of markets, eye level with piles of catch. She passes the glistening scales of mahi mahi, the slippery skin of eel, smooth shells of mussels that clack like stones rolling through a current. Her parents stop several times—at the most affordable stands—to purchase carefully weighed portions of seafood.

Their last stop is at a table filled with shellfish. The woman at the stall shovels handfuls of shrimp in a bag with dark fingers, each addition making a wet plop. She ties the crinkly bag before murmuring a warm thank you, passing it to Ochako’s mother while taking the bills and coins.

A boy sits on a stool behind the table. His eyes are wide and carefully watching the exchange, curtained by thick and dark bangs. When his mother turns to wave at the Urarakas, he swipes a raw shrimp off the table, the head held between his fingers while he bites the meat and legs and tail. Ochako watches with fascination—and disgust—as he chews quickly and swallows, shell and all.

“Hanta!” the woman chides while Ochako’s father makes to exit.

The boy laughs, mouth stretching into a grin plastered crookedly across his face. His eyes meet Ochako’s and his delight somehow grows further.

“That’s that boy I was telling you about yesterday,” Ochako’s father mutters, pulling her attention back to the faces of her parents.

“The Musu boy?” her mother asks. “Who’s always in the water at the southern beach?”

He grunts in affirmation. “They’re crazy—all of them. Who lets a kid in that water? By himself?”

Ochako’s eyes return to the market table. The boy is still grinning on the stool, bare feet swinging while the woman—his mother, Ochako assumes—softly sweeps at his bangs with her fingers. She smiles fondly at her son.

Ochako thinks he looks loved.

Ochako is loved too, in a different sort of way. Her parents have a love that inspires protectiveness. They worry about her, for her.

“You’re precious to us,” her mother says, fingers caressing the plush of her cheek.

Ochako knows this. And she knows the message buried beneath those words: that she’s important but small, and too young to understand what her parents know. The adults make decisions for her that she’ll come to appreciate when she’s older.

But Ochako sees other types of love around her—love like that: a boy and his mom who gives him freedom and choice, and she wonders what sort of love is the best. Maybe certain types of love work for some people and not others. Maybe some people only know one way to love.

Maybe people only ever know the love they were given.

Ochako considers this one the longest. She worries too—about her parents. The image of their faces twisted in a grimace, murmuring about the bills, is a reminder burned in her memory. They don’t discuss these things when Ochako is present, but the kitchen is halfway down the hall; she catches glimpses through the door and slivers of conversation on the way to the bathroom.

Her worry sits uncomfortably in her chest. During particularly restless nights it rises above the skin, a crushing weight.

It’s the kind of worry that makes her feel small, that makes her say I don’t want any, or I don’t need it. It’s the kind of worry that she can’t say aloud, because she’s not supposed to be aware of it in the first place. It’s the kind of worry that makes her parents worry back, because their sweet girl never wants anything. Never makes a fuss.

So Ochako listens to her parents. She heeds their warnings, even when curiosity stirs within her body, pulling her where she desperately wants to be but can’t go.

The only water she’s allowed to play in is the stream behind their home. It’s a conservative size, just deep enough to reach the bottom of her calves, and with a width barely greater than her wingspan. There’s hardly a bank, just clusters of grass that flatten into sparse river sand. The current is gentle and the forest is quiet, deemed safe enough for Ochako to explore alone—so long as she stays within the confines of the Uraraka property.

(Borders are an imaginary thing, a mental image of a gate or line drawn across the yard. Ochako doesn’t understand why people are the only beings restricted by them—the water and fish and birds don’t have any sense of these territories, instead guided by the divots in the ground, the wall of the shallow bank.

But Ochako listens. She confines herself to the section of stream and forest her parents allow her, and she enjoys her time here, playing away from watchful eyes.)

Even in the darkness of the settling dusk, she kicks through the water on her own. Red rays of light skim the surface of the stream, kissing the skin of her legs. Her feet stomp quickly, chasing a frog on the bank. She inhales when her hands gently trap it, fingers cupped against the wet dirt. She lifts it carefully towards her face, wide brown blinking with delight.

Her pointer finger lifts to press against the back of the amphibian, tracing slimy ridges of skin. A loud croak sounds from its throat, underbelly jerking with the vibrations, and Ochako makes a sound of surprise. Her hand jerks and the frog leaps directly for the water.

It lands with a splash, ripples radiating in a disfigured circle. Another blooms when the frog hops downstream, concentric shapes overlapping. Ochako follows carefully, her footsteps another disturbance on the surface.

The frog pauses at the imaginary border: the edge of the stream before it crosses the neighbor's land. Ochako halts. The amphibian croaks again, an overtone song that smothers the buzz of insects. The girl giggles softly at the sound, eyes narrowing as she prepares to catch it once more. Her hands open carefully before they dart forwards. She huffs in disappointment when they cut through water, missing the frog as its legs stretch to launch through the gap between her palms.

Her eyes lift to watch its escape, bounding and croaking down the stream. Her breath catches in her throat.

A trail of lights flicker on the surface.

Ochako cranes her neck to peer at the trees. Littered along the lower branches is a line of fireflies. Their dancing light trails through the woods, bobbing gently upstream. It’s too weak to illuminate the forest, but the blinks of gold marble along the water.

Ochako steps forward without thinking.

Her steps sparkle when she crosses the border—that arbitrary boundary. The rapid shuffling of her feet comes to life, illuminated swirls of ripples. She breaks into a run, frog forgotten as she now chases the light.

Her foot catches on something sharp. She falls with a yelp, arms stretched to catch herself as she lands against a pile of rough stones. The result is painful: scraped skin and a litter of future bruises. Standing is a challenge, arms shakily hoisting her body, knees wobbling as she shifts her weight to her feet.

She stands in darkness.

Ochako sighs, staring along the water as if conjuring the light to return. It doesn’t, the only glow is now the house at her backside. Her arms pebble from the cold, drenched clothes clinging to her skin. The aches of her fall start to register. She trudges back home.

Her mother tucks her into bed, leaning over her small frame to press a kiss on her forehead.

“I love you.” Her voice is quiet, face half illuminated by the bedside lamp.

Ochako’s response is a ritual, a whisper of, “I love you too.”

(What does it mean to love someone because you’re supposed to, Ochako wonders. How do you distinguish love from attachment, from comfort and familiarity and habit?

Are those things even considered love?)

Ochako thinks her mother would be sad if she said these thoughts aloud. A crease would form along her forehead, familiar wrinkles of confusion and worry. Maybe even hurt.

Instead, in Ochako’s silence, her mother wears the slope of a smile. She reaches to tuck loose hair behind the girl’s ear, and then to turn off the lamp. Darkness envelops the room, her mother now nothing more than a dark figure.

When she exits and Ochako is left by herself, she hurries to toss off the covers that were so neatly arranged over her body. She sits on her knees and turns towards the window.

The stream is visible, a small dip in the ground that sits in the transition from yard to forest. Dim moonlight flickers atop the water, but that’s all.

The following weekend, she sees the Musu boy again. This time while his mother efficiently manages the market stand, he sits on a low stool, a bag of peanuts open on his lap as he talks excitedly with another kid. They both have a thin braided band around their ankle, one yellow and the other red. Even in earshot, Ochako has no idea what they’re saying—or at least, what the black haired one is saying. The other sits quietly, nodding along.

The former beams when his eyes catch Ochako. His grin engulfs his entire face and he stands, grabbing the bag of peanuts and stretching his arm out. He says something loudly, but Ochako doesn’t understand.

The woman behind the table interjects with more unfamiliar sounds. It’s a musical speech, one that dips low at times, rolling like the tide. The boy's eyes flicker with clarity, turning back with the same grin.

“Have some!” he says this time.

She nods and grabs a fistful in her small fingers. They’re good—gently roasted with a touch of salt, the sweetness of the sea. She smiles.

“I’m Hanta!” he continues, wide eyes watching her eat. He points to his friend. “And that’s Koji.”

Hanta. Koji. Their names ring with song. She tries to repeat them but they fall flat in her voice. She doesn’t know how to make their sounds.

“I’m Uraraka,” she replies.

They eat their peanuts together quietly, scooping handfuls into chubby cheeks. It’s mostly quiet, with Hanta swinging his legs and grinning, asking questions like, “Do you like shrimp?”

Ochako nods to most of them.

The other boy—Koji—sits quietly, never saying a word. But he watches, eyes trailing between Ochako and Hanta as they talk. His gaze falls when she looks his way. She notices his long and dark eyelashes.

Ochako wants to ask her own questions. About the Musu people—who they are, what that even means. She wants to ask about Higa-san, if they know anything about the sea monsters. She wants to know how this boy has gone into the water by himself and come out alive.

She wonders if he knows anything about the fireflies.

A tug leads her away before she’s ready. She whips her head towards her mother, free hand still cupping a sprinkling of peanuts, face twisted in an uncontrollable plea. Ochako doesn’t want to leave.

Her mother pauses, eyes softening with a guilty smile. “We need to go,” she says gently.

Ochako’s eyes fall in disappointment, then lift to Hanta and Koji. The former smiles brightly and waves. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“See you!” He cheers. Koji timidly waves beside him.

She pouts the entire walk home, but neither of her parents notice. Instead they talk in soft voices, murmurs of words like budgeting and expenses. Normally Ochako would listen carefully, matching their worried expressions, but now an ugly part of her thinks it’s fair, that they’re all unhappy together.

The disappointment doesn’t leave with time. Instead it grows, festers like a mold that sits heavy in her chest. There’s a heat in her cheeks, a tightness in her stomach. Does she have to wait until next week to see them again? Will it be for the same amount of time?

She heads straight to her room, sparing no parting words. Her parents don’t mention it, voices drifting to the kitchen where they continue to talk in increasing volume. Ochako huffs, kneeling on her futon, hands grasping the duvet in tight fists. Her teeth are clenched as she swallows back tears. Part of her wants to stomp back to the kitchen while sobbing, loud noises that can’t be ignored. The other knows that her parents wouldn’t like it, that she’d regret it later.

Abruptly she stands, turning to reenter the hall. The voices carry through the house, louder without the door as a guard. Ochako takes softs steps to the kitchen, listening as she approaches.

“—think moving is going to give us the most opportunities,” her mother murmurs. “It’s becoming more expensive than the mainland.”

Her father grunts. “It would take months to get out of our contracts. Besides, there’s no guarantee we’ll find similar positions.”

“We could stay in Mie. My parents would happily host us until one of us secures a job.”

“And give Ochako that kind of instability? She’s still so young.”

“You think it’s worse than living here?”

The air is still as several moments pass. Ochako tries to imagine the faces they’re making, her mother’s pinched brow, her father’s pursed lips. She wants to crane her neck to look through the doorway. She wants to know why they said her name.

Footsteps sound, her parents shuffling. Ochako panics, starting swiftly and quietly to her room. Her heart gallops as she closes the door and stands behind it, taking ragged inhales. When her breathing calms, her chest is still tight with something unsettling. Her parents' voices start again, muted sounds behind the wall.

She exits into the hall again, this time jostling the handle and deliberately thumping her feet across the floor. Her parents’ conversation halts. They watch expectantly when she enters the dining room. She doesn’t say anything.

“Ocha-chan?” her mother probes.

The girl’s heart is uneasy. Her body is still swirling with disappointment, with now additional curiosity.

“Can I play outside?” Her voice is small.

Her mother smiles, shoulders relaxing. She glances at Ochako’s father with an expression the girl doesn’t understand. He nods curtly and she answers, “Okay honey. Just remember to stay inside the yard.”

Ochako bobs her head, eyes averting to the floor. Something else gnaws at her chest, not a tightness this time but a sting. She scurries to the genkan, hastily strapping on her shoes before heading out the door. When she reaches the creek and turns around, her mom waves from the window. The sting eases.

The water is cold against her skin, rushing along her sandals as she steps into the stream. It runs to her calves, washing away the itchiness from stalking through the grass.

There are no fireflies.

She pouts, standing and craning her head to the sky. It’s a royal blue, deep while bright, the quilt of late afternoon. Streams of fluff slice through the fabric, clouds stitching the atmosphere together.

When she brings her head back down, turning to the window, her parents are gone. Her pout pulls into a scowl.

She runs.

It starts with jagged steps, tripping through the water before she returns to the bank, and bolts along the stream. Her heart pounds in her chest when she crosses the boundary into her neighbor’s yard, and then the next neighbor, then the third one. She doesn’t look back, eyes trained forwards as the water curves into the forest, turning perpendicular to the neat line of houses.

The ground is forgiving despite her sandals. She runs with ease, next to the rushing water. It stops shortly, disappearing just before an incline. The trees thin out as she climbs the hill and stands at the crest, overlooking a sunny break of canopy. The light streams along a wide river, a plane of green and brown. Its body snakes in a lazy curve, a weak pulse pumping the current.

Ochako’s side of the river has a gentler slope, transitioning from water to land via a sea of pebbles. They’re bright white, bleached under the sun. As she inches down the hill and towards the bank, she notices that they’re smooth ovals, sprinkled with occasional sharp stones—like fragments of coral or bone. A few large stones sit in the water, ripples wrinkling around them.

She has never been here, hardly knew there was a river so close to home. It’s a quaint stretch of land… a secret. Warm with bright light but also shrouds of trees, the sun dappling through. The hum of water strolling downstream. The call of birds she has never heard.

Her heart slows, steadying as she takes in the serenity. Ochako wishes she could play here, where it’s calm and wide and with more to explore. Her parents might let her, since it’s a river: a pretty river with stones and soft grass. A river that—

That smells rancid.

The scent is an ambush, flooding her nose with a horrible kind of sweetness. A fishy sourness that springs tears in her eyes. Her stomach turns, face twisting further with each shallow breath.

A morbid curiosity takes over. Ochako turns her head towards the source, reluctantly breathing in. She takes a hesitant step downstream, stones rolling as she walks. The pungency strengthens.

She freezes after passing a clump of driftwood, wide eyes locking on a figure behind it.

It’s long and motionless and clearly the source of the smell. Despite the dread pooling in Ochako’s stomach, a heaviness and nausea, she walks closer. She wants to see.

An animal, a sea creature with slippery skin. It has a bulbous head and a long mouth—a dolphin. A beady eye stares straight into the sky. Ochako can see her own reflection in its blackness.

Two small holes puncture the animal’s body, smeared faintly in red. Crusted blood lines the openings. Along its stomach are gashes. Not long, but deep, like claws were stabbed violently through the flesh. Similarly, there are no blood stains, only faint dried clots and light smears.

Ochako gawks openly, completely frozen. Her heart continues to drum, to thump, thump, thump between her ribs. She struggles to inhale, throat and chest tightening.

It’s… it’s terrifying, naturally. A large creature, longer than Ochako’s own body, splayed out along the bank, sucked dry by some other animal she can’t imagine. But as dreadful as the sight is, she’s filled with an inexplicable wonder, that persistent curiosity. Pure awe at encountering something this rare, this impossible. The still-fresh skin is grey, a storm stretched taught along muscle and flesh. It fades to yellow at the edges of the fins and mouth, aged like paper. Ochako feels the urge to reach for it, to run a finger along the slippery surface.

The body suddenly twitches. Ochako’s heart drops, body leaping to take two steps back.

Its mouth parts, revealing the pink of its tongue. “Hnngh,” it moans.

Ochako yelps, body moving on instinct as she turns to sprint away. Panic floods her veins, icy, as her mind flashes with images of the creature somehow chasing after her. She doesn’t look back, head jerking to find the spring and follow it home, fueled by fear.

The journey is longer than she remembers. Low branches swipe across her shoulders, twigs grasping her clothes like hands. Her father’s worries race through her head, pictures of something ugly and unfathomable sinking teeth in her neck and leaving her drained on the shore. His warnings thump through her head, spinning on repeat.

Stay away from the water Ochako.

Relief floods her system as she catches sight of the neighbor’s home. She’s close, so close. Only a minute later and she’ll be safe. Safe in the stream, safe in her backyard. Safe with her parents. She wants to cry in their arms and hear their soothing voices, their gentle hands cradling her hair and cheeks.

When she crosses the final imaginary border, relief swells so heavily in her stomach that she halts. She heaves, lungs burning as she sucks in air. Mud and scratches splatter her legs, stinging. Her eyes burn as they fill with tears.

Her parents are right: she should listen to them, to keep herself safe. This worry they have, these limitations and rules, are to protect her, because they love her. Ochako’s heart hurts. Guilt claws at her stomach.

When her breath settles she anxiously turns to the house, ready to run inside.

Her parents are still out of sight.

The guilt in her gut hardens into something she’s never felt before. Something heavy, and dreadful.

The week is hard for Ochako.

Confusing feelings swirl inside her—a typhoon of feelings that scare her, make her want to do things she knows are wrong. She doesn’t understand what she saw, what her parents are whispering about, why she’s too young to know.

(Will she ever get to know?)

Nobody is safe enough for her to share these questions. Instead she sits quietly with this storm inside her chest, raging winds and murky water pounding against the cage of her flesh. If it’s lucky it will find its way to the surface of her skin, emptying itself through her lashes. She doesn’t notice when this happens.

Her parents do. They catch the faraway look in her eyes, her subdued attitude, a lack of focus. They worry, brows furrowed when they ask if she’s okay. Their expressions make her stomach turn—do they know she disobeyed them?

“Ochako, do you want to go to the mochi stand tonight?” her father probes. His voice is soft.

She recalls hushed voices in the kitchen, discussing work and money. She frowns and says, “No,” in a quiet voice.

Her mother’s face falls. Ochako feels worse.

When the weekend returns and her dad asks if they’re ready to go to the market, her mother offers to stay home with Ochako.

The girl shakes her head, mumbling, “I want to go.”

The adults trade glances, confused by her attitude. Her mother watches her daughter’s face carefully.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Ochako nods quickly, and that’s enough to convince them.

She walks through the markets with a hand in her mother’s. Her eyes skim along the lines eagerly, brightening when they land on Hanta and Koji. They sit on the same stools as the previous weekend. She waves when they notice her.

Her mom tugs her arm. She started towards them without realizing it.

“C’mon Ocha-chan.”

Her round face lifts, eyes widening in a plea to stay. Her mother’s breath hitches, chest freezing in apprehension. She looks nervously to the table, the boys sitting on their stools as the older woman bags orders of fish.

Another second passes. Ochako lowers her gaze, turning to follow where her father walks ahead.

Her mother folds. “We can go say hi,” she offers.

Ochako beams, eyes sparkling. She misses her mother’s flicker of guilt as she turns and barrels ahead.

“Hi,” she says, breathless, when she stands before Hanta’s grin and Koji’s reserved interest.

“Hi!” the former replies. He stretches his arm to offer a bag of sunflower seeds.

Ochako’s mother releases her, letting the girl take a handful and work them open with her teeth. The shells splinter easily, falling into her palm to be discarded in a bag by Koji’s feet. Ochako relishes the nutty flavor, audibly humming. Her mother smiles.

She likes this table, the company of Hanta and Koji. They’re kind and carefree. Hanta does all the talking, but Koji nods along, occasionally making hand gestures that Hanta translates with words. She giggles at one of his jokes and turns to her mother to see if she caught it too, then pauses when she sees her talking to the woman behind the table.

“That’s my mom,” Hanta says plainly. “Your mom is nice.”

Ochako nods immediately. “I love my mom.”

Her eyes avert to the ground as soon as she says it, brain pausing. Not in apprehension or uncertainty, but in question. Why do they love each other?

“Me too,” Hanta responds. He chews the seed shells and swallows them. “I love lots of things.”

Ochako straightens. “You do?”

He nods, humming in affirmation.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” he asserts. His eyes lift in thought. “Ma says we have love for everything inside us.”

Ochako stares at him with bewilderment. “Really?”

“Mhm. Everything comes from love, so we love everything. She says when we do things for love, that’s when the best things happen. Like the fireflies.”

Ochako’s breath halts. “The fireflies?”

Hanta grins. “You haven’t heard?”

Ochako shakes her head. She wants to say she has only seen them, but the words catch in her throat.

“A very long time ago one of our oldest grammas was in love. But granpa had to go away, and they were both very sad. He left on a boat by the river next to their home, so gramma waited every night for him with a torch to help him find his way home. The people and animals called her the ‘Lady of Fire’.

“She stood there every night with her torch, finding ways to keep it burning even in heavy rain—until there was a typhoon. But even when the wind and rain blew it out, gramma stood there waiting. She cried and cried, only wishing for granpa to come home safe. Her love was so inspiring that the moon herself came down to light the way. She turned into a million twinkling bugs that could fly in the rain. Granpa came home that very night.”

Ochako’s mouth hangs ajar as she listens, eyes full moons. She’s never heard such a beautiful story.

“That’s where fireflies come from,” he reminds her.

“Wow,” she breathes.

Hanta nods, grinning. “Yup. And Koji can talk to them!”

The smaller boy jolts at the mention of his name, but he doesn’t make any gesture of disagreement.

“Really?” Ochako asks in amazement.

“Mhmm! People from old gramma’s family can do things like that when they love.”

Something in Ochako’s chest expands at his words, like it’s grown. Then it clenches in envy. Urgency.

“Is that something I can do too?” she asks.

“Ma says anyone can do it,” he answers. He parts his lips to speak, but no words escape. They pull into a frown and Ochako thinks the expression is out of place. “… You can lose it too, like Higa-san.”

The brunette blinks in surprise. “Higa-san? He lost it?”

Hanta’s wide eyes dart to his mother, then to Ochako. She is captivated, clinging onto every word.

“His love.”

“Oh.” Ochako frowns. She thought he would say more.

“Yeah,” he answers with a shrug, swinging his feet.

Ochako wants to probe but she doesn’t know how to navigate thoughts like these. Where does she start? What sort of question makes sense for this?

“What did he love?” she tries.

Hanta frowns again.

“The ocean,” he says flatly, as if it’s the only thing worth loving.

Ochako doesn’t understand. She knows love as a feeling for people: for family members and marriage and maybe a cat. Even so, love isn’t openly shared, instead kept for private conversations and the gaps in speech. How can you love something so big, so vast, so… inanimate?

So terrifying.

“Ocha-chan.”

She blinks, turning to her mother’s voice.

“We should go now.” It’s a command disguised as a suggestion. “But we can come back next time, okay?”

Ochako turns to Hanta, questions brimming at the base of her throat. She wants to know what it means to love the ocean, how Hanta knows that Higa-san lost his love, how he knows that the man had it in the first place.

She wants to ask Hanta and Koji what their love feels like.

Her mother’s hand slips into her own. It’s warm, and Ochako grasps it on instinct.

“Next time,” she repeats.

Ochako nods, mindlessly shoving the remaining seeds in the pocket of her jacket as they turn away. When they walk along the dock and her dad raises a hand to Higa unloading his boat, something stirs beneath the surface of Ochako’s subconscious.

Her parents watch her wander through the stream under the falling sun. They sit by the window absorbed in conversation, but focused enough to occasionally glance her way. Ochako finds it burdensome. Part of her wishes they would leave again.

She busies herself with her bucket and net, grinning triumphantly when she catches a minnow. It circles the bottom of the net, darting within its cage. Ochako giggles as she lifts the mesh, minnow flopping in the air. Her chubby hand traps it and she laughs again at its slippery skin. It writhes in her grasp, along the tunnel of her palm.

Brown eyes peer through the opening. Its small head comes closer, inching towards her thumb. Without warning it slips through her hold and leaps into the air. The girl shrieks and lifts her opposite arm to catch it in the bucket.

The fish lands with a plop, splatting against the empty bottom. Plop, plop, plop follows as it thrashes against the plastic. Until it stops.

Ochako’s smile falters as she stares at the creature. Its tiny body is motionless. Stripes of silver and green shimmer in the light. Its eye is a black bead, small but swallowing her whole.

The dolphin flashes through her mind, and she moves quickly, dipping the rim of the bucket under the water for a second before raising it. She stares into the shallowness, holding her breath.

The minnow twitches, jolting to life, and Ochako exhales.

She pours the water back into the stream, watching closely as the fish darts upstream to the bank. A mix of guilt and relief sits inside her chest.

“Ochako,” her father calls behind her.

She turns to see him standing half outside the door. He waves.

“Dinner’s ready.”

The girl nods, understanding the order. She gives the bucket a final shake and walks up the bank. Red seeps into the sky from the horizon, dusk creeping in. When she finally reaches the door she steals one final look at the water. A white heron swoops in, standing in the shallows. It steps slowly, then jerks forward to thrash its beak into the stream.

A faint flicker of yellow bobs above it.

They have tuna for dinner, sashimi on rice with pickled plums and stringy cucumber. Ochako eats slowly, letting the softness of the meat melt over her tongue. She wonders what the fish looked like when it died, if it thrashed in a bucket.

“Ocha-chan,” her mother interrupts her thoughts. She speaks gently. “What do you think about going to Mie soon, to see baachan and jiisan?”

The girl looks up to her parents’ faces. They’re uncertain, almost nervous.

“Okay,” she answers easily. Her mother relaxes until she adds, “For how long?”

The adults trade glances. Ochako is not given an answer.

When night falls and Ochako is tucked into the covers, she is restless.

The water calls for her, floods her ears with the ghost of its song. Her mind is powerless to her body, watching as she rises from her futon and makes for the bedroom door. The house is silent, her parents in slumber. She shuffles to the genkan without a sound.

The night is alive, loud as despite its darkness. Humidity thickens the air and buzzes with the call of insects. A dense cluster of yellow twinkle above the stream, and Ochako’s breath catches.

Fireflies.

They breathe along the water, one entity dancing through the branches. Their trails smear behind them, illuminated strokes of a pen. They are the only light littering through the woods, miniature lanterns tracing the stream back to its source.

Ochako follows obediently, walking the trail of water through the neighbors’ territories, through the thick wooded land and up the hill to the river. Her heart is steady, mind too concentrated to let unease seep through her skin. In an instant she is at the top of the hill, stepping down towards the bank. The fireflies thin as she nears the water. They flicker for a moment more, then fade away just as the moon breaks over the trees. The river stones bathe in its gaze, bands of brilliant white creeping along their surfaces.

The night is quiet here. Ochako’s never stood in such darkness alone, never even considered it. She thinks she should be scared, filled with jitters to run, to get away and get safe as fast as she can. Instead she’s calm, at peace. The night has a special sort of serenity.

Or it would, if it weren’t for the stench of death.

It’s the same smell from last time, sourness that pulls her attention to the carcass on the shore. There the same dolphin rests, tipped on its side and properly rotting. The flesh is a patchwork of black and grey, body half decayed to reveal the skeleton beneath. A spine rests in the center, attached to an unbroken cage of ribs. The skull is partially visible, skin peeled from its mouth. Even in the darkness, the bones shine like pearls, like the stones along this shore, bleached from time in the sun.

It almost looks human, Ochako muses, with shorter arms and a misshapen head.

Human, with a tail.

She thinks of Koji, his ability to speak to animals. Would he have understood that last dying breath she witnessed? Would he be able to talk with it now, with its body half gone and more bone than flesh.

Ochako wishes she had such a gift, something to connect her to the world she inhabits, to make life clearer. To make it her’s.

A splash erupts from the river.

She turns, heart racing. The water ripples, waves echoing from the cluster of jagged rocks. The wrinkles gather moonlight in a woven pattern, scaly slithering skin. Something is lurking, dragging its body through the shallows.

A limb appears, breaking through the surface. It’s scrawny and withered with a misfigured hand attached to the end, sharp claws hooking into the divots of the rock. It tenses, weary muscles twitching to heave itself upwards. Another gurgled sound passes as it fails to lift itself. Ochako steps away from the bank carefully, wide eyes trained on the creature’s arm.

Her heart leaps when it rises above the rock, a face coming into view before it slumps over, grunts and wheezes shuddering through the air. Strangled sounds.

The rest of its body is as withered as its arm, flesh tight to the bone—

Human bones, Ochako thinks. Human mixed with the remains of the dolphin beside her.

It has a human face, at least, but its body is akin to a ningyo. Sharp fins creep out the side of its head, darkness pooling at the edges. It has something like hair, something matted and mangled with tufts of feathers slicing through the scalp, jutting out as if placed by force. The torso is gaunt, skin tight against a hollow stomach and quilted with the skin of other creatures: more feathers, slippery dolphin skin, the hard shell of shrimp. They’re scattered along the body, dipping down the length of a withered tail.

Despite the fear shooting through Ochako’s veins, pure ice frosting her blood, she can’t move or look away. She is enchanted by this creature, drawn to its angles and curves, the slices of fins that sprout from its arms and tail, matching the webbing between its fingers. It’s mangy; it’s starved.

It’s something she never knew existed.

“It’s hideous,” her father would shudder.

In one hand—one claw—is the squelching body of an octopus. It splats against the rock, tentacles lolling into the water as the body slides between hasty fingers. Under the moonlight, the faintest tint of red is visible.

The ningyo lowers to its prey, lips parting to bare pointed teeth. They lurch forward, sink into rubbery flesh, hands clenched so tight that fingernails pierce through the cephalopod. Dark liquid dribbles down: blood, a blue hue, splattering on the rock. The skin immediately loses color.

This is a hunger Ochako does not know. Every movement strikes a tremor through the ningyo’s body, hands shaking as they struggle to hold their meal. Its face, almost human (almost girlish), is smeared with fluids, a long tongue lapping the excess. A twisted face, sharp and angled and boney.

An honest face, a lively face that Ochako can read. When claws sink into the octopus for a second time, tearing open its body to drain every drop of fluid, the creature’s eyes soften. Jerking movements smooth, now reduced to lazy mawing. Its mouth curves into a crescent moon—a grin—and Ochako is captivated, paralyzed by fascination and fear. It looks happy, almost euphoric. Ochako has never seen such a pure expression of joy.

When the ningyo finishes it drops the scraps of its meal in the water. A slithering tongue laps over its hands and arms, boney things splattered with scales. In the unreliable light of the moon it almost looks like its forearms are darkening, the underside spotted with growing suckers.

Ochako has no choice. Her feet carry her forwards without permission or warning. In an instant she is ankle deep in the water, wide eyed under the spotlight of the moon.

Her steps splash loudly. The ningyo snarls, twisting its face into a glare before jerking its body off the rock and into the water. A tail breaks through the surface, glinting before thrashing downwards, splattering Ochako with a quick pelt of rain. In the next moment, the water calms and the girl is once again alone on the shore. Alone except for the skeleton laying behind her.

Standing in the water, in occupied water, Ochako is no longer cold with fear. There is no warning repeatedly blaring stay away, stay away, stay away. She is still and quiet, frozen except for the one thing she can process:Whatever this creature is, it’s beautiful.

No fireflies blink along the stream the following day.

Ochako stands in the water, chest vibrating with an urgency she’s never felt before. Despite the lack of light, she trudges forwards to the river. When she arrives she is left only in the company of the rotting dolphin.

She yearns for another glimpse. Somewhere in these strange sights and terrifying encounters lay answers. Answers about living, about love. They’re at the edges of her fingertips but still too far away, an insect flying just out of reach.

The fireflies don’t glow for two more days. The following night they return, but fade moments later. Still, the girl slips from her bedroom to the genkan, and then up the stream. Five days pass like this, with each visit the dolphin fading further to bones.

The next night she leaps the instant her parents quiet, pacing down the hall and past the kitchen. She stands at the entrance of the genkan, peering out the window of the door to the stream. It’s dark, her eyes needing time to adjust before the forms of the trees become visible.

“Ocha-chan?”

The girl jumps, body tense with caught, caught, caught as she faces her mother.

“What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t know what to say. Even though this is her mother, something in her stomach yells that she can’t be trusted. If she speaks honestly she will be scolded, or worse banned from playing outside altogether. If she is dishonest, she will have to carry the weight of her guilt, of deceiving someone she loves—of someone who loves her.

Silence, she quickly learns, is another poor choice. Silence makes room for suspicion. It grows in her mother’s eyes with each passing second.

“I was looking outside.” It’s the best answer she can conjure.

“Oh,” her mother says plainly. Ochako can’t read the tone of her voice. “Do you want to play in the stream? It’s late.”

Ochako shakes her head honestly. She doesn’t want to play.

“Did you see something?” her mother tries again.

The girl nods. It is also honest, but delayed. Does it hurt her mother to keep secrets like this? Her parents do the same, having hushed conversations that Ochako never hears about, discussions with her name spoken softly, secretly.

“What did you see?”

Ochako’s chest flares with something prickly and tight. She doesn’t want to answer.

“I don’t know,” she answers, and that’s the end of it. She returns to her room.

The next day when night settles in, she can hear her parents murmuring in the kitchen when they would normally be in their room. Ochako, for the second night in a row, is forced to stay inside. She sits under her covers, staring out the window towards the stream.

The fireflies dance again.

Excitement vibrates through her veins when the family leaves for the docks, Ochako teeming with questions she wants to ask Hanta. But her dad’s grip on her is tight while her mother exchanges bills and coins for today’s purchase—a bag of crab legs, long and orange with spikes stretching the plastic.

“Ocha-chan, we don’t have time to stop today.”

Disappointment floods the girl and her instinct is to pout. Why didn’t they say anything ahead of time? Why tell her now, when they know her sparse conversations are the best part of these trips?

Her dad furrows his brow. “Do you need to tell them something?”

She turns to the boys perched on their stools. Hanta is watching curiously, eyes wide as ever, searching her face and what lies beyond it. Those questions she wants to ask, but questions that can only be shared in confidence: Do you know what I saw? Is it the same thing Higa sees, what everyone else is so afraid of?

Hanta follows her example, silent as he holds her gaze. Something in his expression shifts, something subtle, like the glint in his eyes.

Will she come back?

Koji clutches his friend, a hand to the wrist. Hanta’s head twitches, offering the tiniest nod. Ochako inhales, brightening.

The stream is calm, capturing Ochako’s gaze through dinner as the yellow blinking of fireflies settle along the bank. Her parents tuck away in their bedroom when it’s time for bed, and finally she can run along the water, through the forest, up the hill to the steady river.

The moon isn’t present except for the bugs holding the remnants of its light. Ochako’s eyes adapt, allowing her to trace the silhouettes of the river bank, the skeleton, the large stones in the water.

The creature strewn atop them. Feasting.

Ochako’s heart pounds as she watches sharp teeth sink into a fish, the wet smacks of its tail sounding against the stone. The predator growls, almost a high pitched hiss. Ochako steps forward unconsciously.

This time when their eyes lock, neither are shocked. The ningyo halts, eyes darkening. Fins flicker, glinting under nonexistent light. Ochako holds her breath. She can feel her blood pulsing through her skin, pounding against her ears.

The creature lowers its head to resume its meal, but its gaze never falls. When it finishes and drops the corpse into the water, it cleans itself, tongue tracing every smeared remnant of blood. Ochako takes one step forward, fascinated.

The ningyo hisses before disappearing into the water once again.

Days pass. Ochako slips away every night dutifully, wanting to catch another glimpse. She wonders if she visits often enough, just to watch it feed, will these moments eventually add to an entire conversation? Could fragments of standing at a distance in careful observation lead to flickers of understanding—could she learn to distinguish its sounds and motions, grow to know what each one means?

But she wants more than distance. She wants to take one step and then another until her skin is pressed against the ningyo. She wants to run her hands over scales and fins and the slivers of other beasts nestled into the skin. She wants to hold the creature’s face close and stare into its eyes. She wants to whisper questions between them: to ask what inspires it to make such complicated faces, faces that look like love while draining a life of everything it had.

If Ochako steps forward she will instead witness the twist of a horrible glare, a growl, and loneliness for the remainder of her night.

“Hanta,” she says firmly, though breathless. She rushed through the markets to reach him, her parents bobbing through the other tables as they make their way over. “How—how do I get closer to the water?”

He blinks and looks at Koji. The latter averts his eyes.

“I want it to trust me. How…”

Hanta hums, turning his gaze to her again. “You have to give.”

“Give?”

“Mhm. Every time you take from the water, you ask for permission and offer something in return.”

Ochako frowns. “What do I give?”

“Depends,” the boy answers plainly. “I sing before each dive and I leave flowers where I catch mussels. Stuff like that. Koji braids the grass.”

Ochako wonders what she has to give. Her eyes fall to the bins of shrimp and oyster, the piles of sleek fish shimmering on the table. But the ningyo only takes blood, and Ochako is not sure if it will eat prey from the Uraraka refrigerator. Maybe she can catch a frog—though the thought makes her stomach queasy. A flower is easier to start with.

Koji nudges his friend with an elbow, glossy eyes dancing as if to communicate on their own. Hanta gasps, a grin spreading across his face as he digs into his pocket.

“Oh yeah! Here.” He stretches out his arm, his fist clenched.

Ochako raises her palm to receive the gift. It’s a soft and small bundle of thread. When Hanta’s arm retreats, she sees a band of braids. The width is the same as the anklets the boys wear, only the string is a deep pink.

“You’ll be safer with that in the water, especially with a Kono. We can make a different color if you don’t like pink.”

“Kono?” The girl holds the bracelet carefully. “I like pink.”

Hanta’s grin grows. “Perfect. Put it on your right leg, ‘kay?”

Ochako nods dutifully. A promise.

The fireflies do not shine for several days.

When they finally light again, sparks flickering in the trees, Ochako leaps with excitement. A feeling deep within her says that this time will be different, somehow. The touch of her anklet is barely noticeable as she hurries along the creek, whispering thanks to the miniature lanterns for lighting her way.

When she arrives, the ningyo is not present.

The girl frowns, turning to the woods where the fireflies still bob. She inches towards the water to get a look, stones shifting with each step. Maybe they just missed one another. She sighs.

The river is cold against her skin when she dips her feet into the shallows. A shudder rattles up her body, raising the hair along her arms. Only the thrum of bugs carry through the night. Ochako’s stomach sinks in disappointment. Maybe the creature could sense she did not find anything to give.

Something lurches from the water.

It’s just in front of Ochako, a roaring splash against one of the larger stones. A tail whips through the river while spindly arms grip and heave. Droplets scatter through the air, pelting Ochako in a moment of rain. Her chest blossoms with hope.

The feeling tightens when she is met with hissing and growling, voice holding the coarseness of a thunderstorm. A voice of thirst and a voice of fear.

Back away, Ochako can hear it scream. Your kind are not meant to come this close.

She swallows the onslaught of tears that threaten to spill, stinging her nose with something close to shame. Why is she always forbidden from the places she wants to be? Would she be welcomed if she had something to give? But what does she have to offer? Her eyes dart along the creature—the marred face of a bird protruding from its shoulder, amphibious legs twisted within its skin. She thinks of Hanta and his eagerness to share, whether he is offering snacks or jewelry or knowledge. He gives what he has, whatever Ochako might want.

She moves without thinking. With empty hands, she stretches out her arm.

The beast reacts with a flinch and a hiss, backing away as if threatened. Then it pauses, fins flickering while its eyes dart skeptically.

Ochako nods. She takes one step forward and rolls the sleeve of her nightshirt. Her chest and stomach ache with nerves but she does not move.

A growl erupts from the belly of the creature while it bares its teeth. Ochako’s breath hitches as it lurches forward, moving erratically to latch a claw onto her arm. It stings, but brown eyes don’t waver from the ningyo’s glare. The air stills, as if the insects are holding their breath in anticipation.

This is all I have. The words are buried at the base of Ochako’s throat.

Gentleness is not what she would have expected, but when the creature leans forward, the first thing Ochako feels is the featherlight touch of lips against her skin. They’re soft, ghostly, careful. Until they curl back to unleash sharp fangs. The pinch against her forearm is painful when they puncture the skin. Blood begins to trickle—only for a moment before soft lips return. The slippery wetness of a tongue laps along the trail, saliva like a balm that turns the pain to a buzz.

A thrill runs through Ochako as the ningyo drinks from her. Part of it comes from the novelty and the risk—this adrenaline of disobeying, doing that she wants. But the other part is something much deeper, something inexplicable. Watching the creature’s face soften as it eats, sucking at the life running through Ochako’s arms, blooms a warmth through her body.

Being relied on and having capacity to give—Ochako has never experienced this before. This is intimate beyond her imagination.

Maybe this is how love begins.

When the two finally part, the ningyo slipping away unceremoniously, Ochako is left lightheaded under the first glow of the moon.

The trek home is both endless and instantaneous. The forest stands still and dark when Ochako turns to take one final glance back. She enters her home with trembling legs.

When she lays to sleep, she presses two fingertips against her arm, imagining them as pointed teeth. Her vision suddenly bursts with flames of static and her body goes limp, trapped beneath the weight of the blankets.

When the sun rises and morning arrives, she is too weak to wake.

Two days pass. While fevers wrack her body, Ochako is plagued by visions of the water—of dark fins and a bright tail, of a smile like the crescent moon. Her parents fuss diligently, clouds of worry spilling from their bodies and gathering by the bed, ready to suffocate and swallow Ochako whole. But as she slips in and out of consciousness, eyes heavy with exhaustion, she fixates on the bedroom window.

“Ocha-chan?” her mother asks after the girl mumbles something incoherent. Lines run through the skin of her forehead—an unending tide. “Is something wrong?”

The girl groans. “Hngh…f—flies.”

“Ocha-chan?” Her voice rings with the pitch of panic.

“Fireflies,” the girl manages, gasping. Her vision is too unreliable—smearing every color and shape together—to see if the bugs are dancing through the trees.

“What about them sweetie?”

Heat courses through her body, swallowing her brain. She whines, breath quickening as tears of futility pool in her eyes. Everything feels so urgent, and she is imprisoned in her bed.

“Ocha-chan… Ochako!?”

The girl sighs in defeat, losing to the force of her eyelids. Like a wave against the shore, sleep washes over her with ease. She has no choice but to surrender.

But she can’t stand the thought of the ningyo waiting for her, alone.

When Ochako is finally strong enough to stand, she spends her day feeling restless, anxiously waiting for the sun to fall and darkness to seep through the sky. She routinely lifts the sleeve of her shirt to stare at the markings on her arms, a finger running over two small, dark scabs. During dinner, her eyes focus on the window, waiting eagerly for a spark of yellow.

“—chan? Ochako!”

She jolts from her trance, turning to face her mother.

“Are you still not feeling well?”

She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

“Really? You still seem out of it…”

“Try to eat more,” her father encourages. “Meat will help you regain your strength.”

Ochako nods as her eyes descend to her bowl, watching shrimp wontons bob through a thick soup. The meat is sweet on her tongue, chewy and coated in salty broth. Her stomach tightens when she imagines the animals in front of her, long and spindly bodies skittering out of the bowl and across the table. They track soup along the floor as they make their escape, leaping when they reach the stream. Skinny legs shuffle through the water, leading all the way to the river she yearns to return to.

“Ocha-chan—” her mother’s voice tears her from the window once again. “Are you sure you’re okay?Her spine straightens as she nods, spooning another dumpling into her mouth. This time as the flavor floods her tongue, she has the morbid curiosity of what she tastes like.

She is not the first to arrive at the river.

When she crests the hill she immediately looks for the water, searching for the stones standing in its darkness. A figure rests on the one closest to the bank. Ochako’s heart stirs as she descends to the shallows, itching to run but restraining herself. Heated excitement boils along her skin when she finally stands before a slippery tail and sharp fins. Her eyes shine as they trace claws and teeth and scales.

“Hi,” she whispers, a reverent breath.

The ningyo inhales, eyes rapidly scanning the girl’s skin. It leaps into the depth of the water.

Ochako blinks, swallowing the disappointment rising in her chest. It floods her lungs while a weight sinks in her stomach, plummeting somewhere deeper than she knew existed. Her eyes water, brown lakes of hurt and confusion. Should she have tried to return sooner? Was that enough to lose her merit, her trust?

The water stirs.

A head slices through the surface, ripples circling pale hair. Ochako’s breath catches. It’s too easy for her to hope, her heart switching between guilt and glee with commitment she is not prepared for, rocking her like a ship through a storm. The ningyo inches closer, carving through the water until it begins crawling along the bank. Its stare is enough to beckon Ochako forwards.

Yes, she feels the answer nestled in her chest. Always yes.

The two meet in ankle deep water, where a stone is wedged into the sand. The ningyo heaves itself on the flat surface, dragging with it the writhing body of an eel. It’s long, longer than Ochako’s legs, and wide enough that the beast's fingers don’t touch in their grip—instead digging sharp nails into the flesh. The animal wriggles desperately, tail slapping against the rock and water in protest.

The ningyo extends its arm. An offering, Ochako realizes—for her.

She immediately shakes her head, hands raising in gesture for the creature to take it back. Her eyes scan spindly arms and visible ribs, the hollowness of the creature’s cheeks. “I don’t need it.”

Pale eyes twitch, furrowing in a glare. The ningyo’s lips part, exposing teeth as they lower to piercing the slippery skin. The head of the eel squirms violently, beady eye twitching as fins flare, making futile attempts to breathe—or maybe scream. Blood pours from the puncture wounds, a line of crimson. The ningyo extends its arm a second time.

Panic bubbles in Ochako’s chest as the liquid rolls down the side of the eel, threatening to drip from the bottom of its belly. Without thinking, she reaches for it, cupping the animal where it’s bleeding before it can be wasted, and pushing her hand towards the ningyo’s mouth.

“Take it,” she insists. “I’m okay.”

Hesitantly, the creature obeys, finally lowering its head. It refuses to break her gaze as it drinks, lips touching the slippery flesh before sucking. It laps hungrily, hurriedly, claws digging to keep the animal still. Eventually the eel goes stiff, unmoving as the last of its life is drained. Ochako watches in fascination, stomach twisting the way it did at dinner.

This feels different than the shrimp, somehow.

When the eel is discarded, thwacking against the stone before sliding into the water, Ochako’s hands are all that remain between the pair. They are still smeared with scarlet, precious blood.

The ningyo reaches for them, clutching her softness between careful claws. Its tongue laps through her fingers and the lines of her palm, tracing every bump and curve and wrinkle. Ochako is frozen, watching with bated breath as if this moment will end if she makes the wrong move. Her eyes dart with greed, roaming with the intention to memorize every detail of this creature—the sharpness of its eyes, the softness of its lips. Wet hair clinging to its face. The occasional flicker of fins.

The creature’s touch is warm despite the chill of the night. Heat radiates from her hands until it nestles into her chest. This feeling blooming inside her, this buzz, is like the warmth of the sun. Something divine. Something like love.

“Himiko.” Ochako breathes the word like a prayer, a promise. She doesn't know why she says it; what depths it bubbled from. But it rises with urgency, like a secret impatiently waiting to escape its confines and make itself known.

The ningyo pauses, Ochako fears from displeasure, until a moment passes and those lips (so, so, so soft) curl against her skin.

Something akin to a purr rumbles through the chest of the ningyo—of Himiko. It—she—grins while nuzzling her face into Ochako’s palms. A hum sounds, high and clear, the trill of a bird's sweetest song. Ochako’s skin is alive, hands searing as she dares to press them firmer against Himiko’s cheeks.

“Himiko,” Ochako repeats, this time louder. Confident.

Himiko’s head shakes, burying itself further in Ochako’s hold. Another sound releases from the ningyo’s lungs: a high pitched babble. Ochako’s grin grows uncontrollably, cheeks tight with glee. Her heart is warm, so warm.

A sudden pressure captures two fingers, a firm but dull row of edges and points. A bite—soft and playful. Ochako watches with awe as Himiko scrapes her teeth over skin, the vibration of giggles accompanying the rough sensation. The girl is reminded of a cat: their flickering ears and affectionate gnawing. Himiko’s eyes flutter closed and open again, holding Ochako’s gaze. Her irises flood with the blackness of the sky, and her mouth pulls sharply into the curve of the moon.

Ochako’s chest tickles, and all she can think is—

Cute.

The remainder of Ochako’s summer break flies by, passing like a riptide—all at once, exhilarating. The night becomes her ally, the fireflies her friends. Her parents’ sleep and lack of attention a source of peace.

Himiko waits for Ochako as dutifully as Ochako waits for the evening. The ningyo perches along the stones, fins flickering with anticipation. The human finds a special warmth in knowing someone is waiting for her—someone who counts on her making an appearance, who will sit with the anticipation and the urgency for her.

One night, Himiko offers a return gift: a handful of pearls. They’re perfectly smooth, shining like tiny moons in her palm. Ochako inspects them under the lamp in her room, marveling at the variety in color. Cream, pink, gold. A single black one. They make soft clicking sounds as they roll through the divots in her hand, and Ochako is taken by their perfection. Afraid of what her parents will do if they find them, she keeps them in a bag under her pillow.

On nights when the insects take longer to light, she rolls her hands through the pearls while glancing out the window, urging the clock to hurry.

Ochako wants to know if Himiko’s heart also hurts when the time moves too slow. Does she pray the sun will fall faster, plummeting the sky into darkness just so they can meet a few minutes sooner?

The cynical part of Ochako’s heart—the one weathered by her parents’ view on the world—says yes, but only because of what the girl can offer. It says Himiko’s grin is only a display of sharp teeth eager to sink into her flesh, to taste and to drain her.

(The desperate part of her heart says she doesn't care. That this is an exchange where she can feel needed. Why should she care why Himiko waits and grins under moonlight, eyes shining like the moon itself?)

But Himiko takes from Ochako sparingly, spaced out by days and in small quantities. The hopeful part of Ochako’s heart assumes this is a form of consideration, for her small body that fell ill days ago. During the nights in between, Himiko eats from Ochako’s tender hands, letting the human watch as the ningyo steals life from other creatures, breathing them into herself before discarding them to the water.

How many corpses live in this river, Ochako wonders. How many skeletons line the murky floor? All these stones that cover the bank, sun bleached and brilliant white—are these pebbles the smoothed fragments of bone? Is Ochako sifting her feet through a cemetery every night, walking along a graveyard where the deceased are never buried? The skeleton of the dolphin is still in sight, greeting her every time she visits.

Now, she finds its presence comforting.

After each meal, Himiko will clean Ochako’s hands and steal any evidence of their encounters. Ochako places those hands on Himiko’s cheeks, runs fingers along the fins that sprout beneath her temples. Himiko’s eyes flutter, mouth stretching into a smile that Ochako can only describe as sweet before the creature’s head shakes to latch her teeth onto fingers, gnawing down chubby knuckles and grasping the plush skin of Ochako’s palm.

Ochako feels a rush every time she gives herself to Himiko. The sting of fangs pierce through her skin and tear through the scabs attempting to heal, but the pain brings a rush of heat through her body, settling in her stomach and chest. She loves the feeling of being relied on, not coddled and fussed over. This is a love of need. Ochako is used to a love outlined by borders—limits on what she can do, what she can give, what she can take. But Himiko takes and takes and takes. And Ochako wants her to.

Ochako lets herself be greedy in return. She pulls Himiko closer, runs her eyes over her body, touches her skin and nails and teeth. Fingers thread through the creature’s hair, prodding at the clumps of other animals that are forced into her flesh. Himiko lets her, happily preening under the attention and the touch. It makes Ochako greedier, hungrier to know this unusual being.

Ochako learns that there is a part of her heart she did not see before, one that clings and aches and yearns. One that wants to spear inside of Himiko the way the ningyo sinks teeth into Ochako’s arms.

It scares her.

“Ocha-chan, are you picking at your arms? Those cuts aren’t getting any better.”

The girl’s heart quickens, instinctively running her opposite hand along the scabs—scabs that have not faded in a week. Luckily they’re small and easy to keep out of sight, but with her mother holding her hand as they walk along the dock, she scrutinizes them closely.

Ochako doesn’t answer.

“What’d you do to hurt yourself, anyways?” her father interjects. “They’re weird marks.”

She shrugs on instinct, frowning at her arm in a manner that convinces the adults of her ignorance. Ochako has learned that this is her failsafe, the best way to avoid outright lying or telling truths that will take important things away from her.

“Try not to make them worse,” her mother adds softly. “You’ve never had this problem before.”

The girl nods, only half listening as the trio enters the market. Brown eyes spot her friends before glancing towards her mother, pleading.

“Can I talk to Hanta?”

The response is as usual: an apprehensive nod. “Don’t leave their table, okay?”

Ochako bounds over, openly grinning when she stands before the table. She turns to wave at her parents before shining eyes meet wide, black ones.

Black eyes that drop to her arm.

Her heart stutters, hesitating at the shock on Hanta’s face. He’s never looked so surprised.

“Woah,” is all he says.

Koji doesn’t share his disbelief. Ochako watches them both, brow furrowing.

“You… the yellow one? At the southern shore?”

Her frown deepens as she shakes her head. “The river in the woods. I don’t know what color she is.”

“The river…” he trails off, turning to Koji.

The shorter boy responds with a nod and series of hand gestures. One includes him opening a balled fist, like sunrays flaring, or a blooming flower.

“That’s Musu land,” Hanta says, watching Koji’s hands as they continue dancing. “And freshwater. The Kono live in the ocean. Maybe she swims upshore for food, to avoid the boats.”

Kono, that word again. Ochako repeats it. “Where… where do they come from?”

Hanta shakes his head. “They’re people. Lost people.”

“People?”

“Usually kids. Younger than us.”

Ochako frowns. “But they become—” monsters, her brain continues. Beasts that incite fear and inflict pain. Though, only if you see them that way, if you choose to be afraid. “They become Kono?”

Hanta nods.

“Why do they change?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the water is the only place you can go.”

Her frown deepens. What circumstances would force someone to the water, for it to be their only solace? What happened to Himiko for this to be her life—darting between river and sea, no choice but to drink from animals, to be reduced to skin and bones.

“Do they…” her eyes widen. “Can they turn back into people?”

Hanta blinks, processing the question. He doesn’t know.

Ochako wishes she could sit here forever, sharing questions with Hanta and Koji. They answer her freely, honestly. They admit when they don’t know. She wants to share more, to share the beauty she was shown, to ask if they have seen it too. Admiration waits on the tip of her tongue, descriptions of Himiko’s smile, the unexpected gentleness hiding in her claws and teeth.

She thinks they already know.

“Thank you,” she says instead, voice low and soft. “For teaching me.”

Hanta shakes his head. “You already knew.”

Ochako has hardly a moment to consider what that means when a commotion stirs at the entrance of the markets. A deep shout, followed by a thrum of voices chattering at once—panicking. Ochako frowns as the crowd shifts, people rushing by the table and forcing her closer to the boys. A hand finds her arm, her father materializing to lift her on his hip.

“Sorry kid. It’s getting busy, so we’ll have to leave sooner than usual.” His voice is level, but he looks troubled.

“What happened?” she asks quietly, shifting in his arms. The crowd is thick around them. Her eyes don’t travel far.

“Just Higa-san causing some excitement. He got something strange today.”

Ochako’s heart jolts, eyes scanning furiously. Her stomach sinks with the heaviness of an omen. Her father’s hand cups her hair—an attempt to redirect her attention. Her unease grows.

“I wanna see.”

“No you don’t.” His reply is rushed, unconvincing. Irritating. “We need to go.”

Ochako cranes her neck, wriggling in her father’s arms. He grunts, voice hardening. “Ochako—”

She sees it. Past the tables lining the square, towards the exit on the docks, stands a swarm of people. With her hand pressing on her father’s shoulder, she has the leverage to skim her eyes overhead and catch the center of their attention—Higa-san, face twisted in a victorious grin. It’s sinister, sending chills through her veins.

In his hand thrusting triumphantly in the air is an arm: mangy, green, coated in scales. Purple fins protrude along the side and claws hang from the end. It’s been severed at the bicep, a loose tangle of flesh and skin, stringy muscle with the sharp splinter of bone.

Ochako panics, breaths turning to the staccato of panting. The air doesn’t fill her lungs, leaving her chasing for more, hurried.

“Ochako—”

She screams, a blood curdling sound. Harsh and high, raspy, one that floods any adult with fear. Heads turn towards the sound, eyes catching her twisted face, reddening furiously and flooding with tears.

Her parents move, attempting to calm her with soothing words that she can’t hear. Her father runs a hand along her back as he continues for the closest exit, people freely parting to let them through. But it only pushes Ochako further, pulling another round of wails from the depths of her throat, spilling from the sickness in her stomach. The cries are broken and unrelenting. Hands touch her face. Her mother’s mouth moves to catch her attention, but Ochako misses every word, deafened by her own screams.

“---be okay. There’s—safe, only—in the water. … protect—”

Ochako’s face crumples further, eyes squeezing with pain. She knows what her mother is trying to say: that she’s safe, the danger is only in the water, that people are here to protect her from whatever that was.

Ochako wails, but not from fear.

Or at least, not the fear her mother thinks she feels.

She cries herself to sleep and wakes in her room, staring out the window as soon as her eyes flutter open. The sun hangs low, casting orange through the clouds. The smell of cooked fish rises from the crack beneath her door.

Ochako hardly eats before returning to bed. She waits as the moon’s fullness lifts above the trees and dots of yellow blink above the stream. As soon as her parents close their bedroom door, she runs into the night.

There is no flirtatious dance with the shore. Ochako stomps through the water, charging straight to the stones where Himiko usually waits. The ningyo is present, pressed against her usual rock. She freezes at Ochako’s erratic movements, alarmed. Before the creature can react, small hands and arms engulf her shoulders and torso.

Only now is the unease in Ochako’s stomach settled. Himiko is here, alive and in front of her.

Himiko’s head jerks, nuzzling itself into the nook of Ochako’s neck. The girl sobs.

Red fins flicker against the brunette’s skin. The ningyo shifts and Ochako panics, arms tightening on instinct. Himiko stills. Ochako continues to sob, one hand shakily moving to Himiko’s forearm, tracing the skin, squeezing the flesh. She’s intact, whole. Both arms. Skin and bone and fins.

Confused, Himiko mirrors her actions. She runs sharp nails over Ochako’s skin, scraping as they squeeze in return. The pain is stabbing, sharp, but Ochako welcomes it, leans further into the touch.

Himiko is here.

The girl’s cries don’t wane for a long time, but the ningyo never protests or makes for an escape. Instead she lays pliant, easily held as if she welcomes the worry.

A sharpness grazes Ochako’s collarbone, the base of her throat. The girl doesn’t flinch, one hand raising to nestle into pale strands of hair. Encouraging. When the teeth finally pierce her, the sting comes with a wave of relief, body falling limp with relaxation. With Himiko wrapped in her arms and buried in her flesh, Ochako is reminded that she has something to give.

When Himiko finishes she runs her tongue along the skin, lapping until the runs of scarlet are fully cleaned. It tickles, pulling giggles from the girl. Himiko makes a throaty sound in response, the vibrations running along Ochako’s throat.

Bodies still wound in a tangle of arms and legs and tail, Ochako finds the strength to pull her head from Himiko’s. Under the full strength of the moon, she sees details that were previously secrets: the touch of gold that seeps through Himiko’s skin and scales, shimmering in her irises and every strand of hair. The fins lining her body are deep crimson along the edge, like blood seeping from her veins. Himiko—true to name—is the embodiment of light. Ochako is lost in the way Himiko’s body shimmers under the moon, illuminating the growing plush of her cheek, the point of her teeth.

Then Himiko blinks, and something sparkles.

Pink sprouts from the center of Himiko’s irises, blooming to settle in the rims. Rosiness dusts her hair, runs along the veins that trail from flesh to fin. When Ochako finds the will to look away from Himiko’s face, she finds the sparkles trail down to her claws, clustered in her nails. They run along her tail, fluttering through scales and pooling in her largest fin.

The sight is beautiful, impossible. Here by the water with the Ochako’s blood running through her body, Himiko glows. Her light holds its own against the strength of the moon, her own lantern to navigate wherever she yearns to be.

Ochako thinks she is witnessing magic.

Is this what everyone fears—so much they won’t even skim their fingers over the water? Himiko grins, the glint of a knife, before yanking Ochako’s arm to drag her deep into the darkness. Ochako does not resist, does not know how to resist. She only hopes that Himiko will not let her go.

Ochako bursts awake, sitting upright with a gasp. Dreams and reality dance through her mind, still hazy with sleep. A hand reaches for the base of her neck, right beneath the collar of her shirt. The raw skin stings beneath her fingers. It’s sticky, the residual ooze glistening when she pulls away.

She flops backwards with a sigh. Memories of Himiko bloom behind her eyes: her pretty grin, her tight embrace, the pink bioluminescence that scattered along her body. Her teeth, piercing through the skin of her throat.

Ochako exhales, hands fisting the blanket.

Eventually she stands, stealing a glance out the window while she tugs up her collar and makes for the kitchen.

Her mother prepares an omelet, laid neatly across fried rice at the base of the bowl. The egg unrolls perfectly when cut.

“Did you sleep okay Ocha-chan?”

She nods.

“You’ve been waking up later than usual,” her father notes. “Try not to stay up so late. You start school again this week.”

Ochako nods again.

“I’ll be working again,” her mother adds. “So we’ll both be gone when you come home. Are you interested in any clubs? Maybe it’d be good to have something to keep you at school.”

Ochako pauses, considering. Nothing comes to mind. She isn’t particularly interested in sports, and the other clubs usually have fees or requirements to buy supplies. She shakes her head. She would rather spend that time elsewhere—with Himiko.

“That’s fine,” her father answers. “The neighbors will be around if you need anything. Just stick to the usual rules, okay?”

Stay in the backyard, Ochako thinks. A promise routinely broken. She nods.

Her mother frowns. “Are you sure you don’t want to try anything? I don’t want you to get lonely if we get back late.”

Ochako watches her parents trade glances, uncertain what they mean. Her father is uncharacteristically relaxed. Her mother is unusually stressed, pushing.

“Let her do what she wants,” her father’s voice is firm. His brow furrows before his eyes widen. Ochako doesn’t know what that means, but her mother sighs and nods.

The air has a tension Ochako is not used to. She prods, curious. “Why are you working late?”

Her mother smiles tightly. “Just changes in the company. Don’t worry about it.”

The tension thickens.

After her first day back at school, Ochako returns to an empty house. The neighbor waves as she walks home, letting the girl know she can call if anything happens. Ochako hurries after nodding, running inside to drop her bag and change clothes. There is no hesitation as she treads outside, beyond the boundary of her home. No fireflies light her path—this time wandering under the heat of the sun.

Inexplicably, Ochako intuits that Himiko knows she is coming. She crests the hill, panting and flustered. Brown irises scan the rocks, the water—water incredibly blue.

A head bursts from the plane, scattering ripples across its surface. Himiko, hair like starlight and eyes molten gold, bobbing towards the shore. Ochako grins, racing forwards.

They no longer rely on the moon to meet, neither the darkness she rests in or the bugs that carry her light. Himiko is a ritual to Ochako, now under the sun.

Ochako thinks this is how it was meant to be, that Himiko was made to be seen in her fullness, in the confidence of day. She’s easier to understand, to watch, to know. The depth of her colors are apparent, the flashes of gold and flushes of pink. She internalizes that light, shines it along her scales and fins when she leads Ochako through murk and shadow.

Maybe Himiko is a star, a sun. A source of light and warmth.

(Of love.)

Ochako knows she should return home when red blooms along the horizon; her parents will be home in less than an hour. She turns to Himiko’s delicate frame, her soft face.

“Thank you.”

She struggles to elaborate. This is a thanks that holds weight in its ambiguity. She wants to add, For depending on me. For trusting me. For sharing with me things that are special to you.

“Thank you,” Himiko parrots, words coated in the scratch of thirst.

Ochako swallows. She can’t tell whether Himiko understands the words or not, if this language means anything to a creature of salt and claws and blood. But Ochako thinks she understands what Himiko has buried in her speech.

For seeing me. For taking me under your care. For coming back, time and time again.

Himiko’s body fills out with time, flesh over bone thickening with sturdiness and strength. Smaller animals still find their way into her skin—the sharp curved shell of a horseshoe crab, the spots of flounder. But her face remains soft, kind.

One afternoon, when the sun hangs hot at an angle, Ochako only has a moment to appreciate the sight of Himiko before the ningyo pulls her from the bank of the river. They fall into the crystal of water, clear aquamarine. Himiko holds Ochako tightly, the girl squeezing with equal strength as she kicks her legs.

Ochako’s gaze follows the now familiar floor of the river: large stones smoothed by time, white and banded and broken. Like bones of an unfathomable giant that used to roam the earth. Tufts of grass peek through the cracks. Fish dart through the hairs, small and silver, glittering when a ray of sun catches their scales.

They pass banks Ochako knows, stones that she holds fondness for, pockets along the shore that she recognizes as homes. Her eyes light with familiarity, catching sight of other creatures she has come to love.

The river is a second home.

Himiko leads Ochako further than they’ve been before. When the river widens as it winds around a hill, the stones grow into boulders. They line an opening beneath the bank, a set of ancient teeth framing a mouth of darkness. Himiko carries forward without pause. Ochako does not resist.

A minute stretches slowly, rolling like a stone against the current. Light shortly fades to blackness as the pair is swallowed by the cave. The water squeezes Ochako’s temples, ears popping when she adjusts her jaw. Stone wraps around them, faults and fragments jutting just out of reach. Ochako’s heart races, lungs tightening.

Darkness claims her vision for an instant before it blooms with pink. Himiko’s body glows, dust sparkling along her form. It illuminates the walls, the shadows of figures dancing as they carry forwards.

Himiko is the light—she is Ochako’s compass and way.

The water shifts, heavier against their bodies. A chill rushes over Ochako as Himiko twists through the channels. Her lungs start to burn.

Before air comes, Ochako has her first taste of sea. Salty, sweet. A light streams ahead and brown eyes widen, catching a rush of colors blooming beneath her.

They slip through an opening, one that overwhelms Ochako with blue. Blue when she takes her first glimpse of the open water, blue when Himiko drags her through the surface to breathe. Ochako gasps, heaving deeply as she clutches to the ningyo—her lifeline. Her heart races, fueled by her desperate breaths, and rooted in the warnings she remembers before anything else: Stay away from the water.

Danger, danger, danger, blares through her mind, punctuated by each erratic heartbeat.

Himiko adjusts her grip, wrapping an arm around Ochako’s waist. The calamity quiets.

Ochako’s breaths slow and her body relaxes, eyes roaming with wonder. The pair float next to a cliff: a slab of dark rock jutting between sky and ocean. Though she’s never seen it from this angle, Ochako knows cliffs like these only exist in the south of the island. The face of the rock curves around them, hugging Himiko who holds Ochako. Along its surface are blooms of coral, lengths of kelp, seagrasses woven together. The rocks are a second shore beneath the surface, a forest for fish to bury themselves in, before dropping straight down.

Ochako’s stomach sinks, falling through the abyss below her. Heights have never been an issue, but floating here, above a depth she cannot fathom, her body buzzes with a fear she did not know she could feel. She latches onto Himiko for life.

The ningyo holds her steady. Her tail sways to propel them around the face of the rocks—slowly, to let Ochako take in the force of blue, the lives that drift within it, depend on it. Wonder swallows her and steals every sense in her body, coating her eyes and squeezing her ears. Something aches in her chest, hollowing out her heart in a yearning to understand, to learn. Himiko’s touch helps to soothe the sting, but the pain lingers.

When they round the corner, they glide over reefs—rooted in an ocean floor. Ochako’s stomach eases at the sight of sand and stone beneath her.

Her stomach drops again when she looks up. A figure bobs in the water ahead of them, a notable distance from the proper shore.

In a panic she clutches Himiko and kicks her legs. It’s a futile attempt to escape, to protect the ningyo from being spotted. The creature doesn’t budge, her tail much stronger in the water than Ochako’s legs. The human struggles, eyes wide in fear and confusion.

“Himiko—” she wails, breathy. Doesn’t she understand that she’s in danger?

Himiko looks at Ochako with equal confusion, head cocked. The girl frowns, sparing another glance at the figure in the water. Her breath catches.

The figure is Hanta, floating on a surfboard. His dark hair sticks against his head, lean frame covered by a sleeved shirt she does not recognize. His head twitches before turning towards the pair, large eyes meeting Ochako. He freezes, then grins. The contact only lasts another second before he paddles through a wave, board sliding against clear blue and towards the shore—where Koji sits in the sand, Ochako realizes.

A heaviness tugs at her heart. Her lips twist in a pout as she rests her head in the crook of Himiko’s neck. Her stomach hurts with something. Something like envy.

When the ningyo returns her to the bank of the river, Ochako soaked in her day clothes, words bubble up her throat without warning, spilling with urgency.

“I love you.”

Himiko’s fins flicker against her head. Her lashes flutter twice before a grin spans her face. All sharp, bright teeth.

“Love you,” she echoes, voice the smoothness of a pearl.

Ochako’s eyes pool with tears. Her chest and stomach hurt. She wants to hear Himiko say it again and again. Himiko’s voice makes the words mean something she’s never known before.

“Wish I could stay,” she whispers, searching for an answer. A lump forms in her throat.

“Stay,” Himiko whispers back.

But she can’t. So Ochako walks home, that lump in her throat never settling.

“Ocha-chan,” her mother starts at dinner—this one rare, before sunset. Alarm bells had blared through the girl’s body during the afternoon, alerting her to come home just in time for their arrival. “Your dad and I are planning a trip to Mie for winter break.”

She nods, scraping the rice at the bottom of her bowl. It's a tradition for their family to visit the Ise shrine. “For New Years?”

Her mother hums in affirmation.

Ochako frowns, pausing mid-bite. Will Himiko be okay alone for that long?

“Ochako?”

Round eyes turn to her father’s wrinkled face.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, just—will we be there the whole break?”

“Mhmm. Your mother and I need to take a couple trips to a couple cities we haven’t been before: Kameyama and Suzuka.”

Her brow furrows further. Her grandparents are in Matsusaka; they only ever visit the south of Mie or east, where her other extended family live. “What’s in Kameyama and Suzuka?”

“Some businesses we need to visit for work,” her mother answers. “But we can also visit some of the historical sites. I’d like to see the neighborhoods, too.”

“Okay.” It sounds boring to Ochako, and she doesn’t get why a neighborhood would be worthwhile to see. “Why do you need to visit for work?”

They make a few comments, but none of them feel like an answer.

The last time Ochako runs along the stream, she doesn’t bother changing from her uniform. After dumping her backpack by the door she makes a run for the woods. Urgency pulls her, a fish reeled along Himiko’s line.

She bursts from the thick of trees, shoes sliding against the pebbles as she slows. Her eyes dart anxiously across the shore, feet stuttering when they catch pale gold glimmering above a stone. She steadies herself, marching forwards while Himiko clutches the rock in tense arms. Ochako grins as the ningyo pulls itself to shore—

Ochako nearly slips down the bank. Her feet freeze while her eyes grow to full moons.

Himiko walks.

They’re shaky steps on unpracticed legs, but she rises. The ningyo—or now human—stands. Her figure is bare except for the water rolling down her skin. It glistens in the sun, daytime stars raining against her body. A human body. A body like Ochako’s, with sturdy legs and a round face.

Ochako’s heart stutters, lips parted as Himiko inches closer, soft feet pressing sharp rock. She carries herself with uncertainty, alien in a body that she once knew well. The brunette takes one step forward, encouraging.

“Himiko.” The sound is hardly a breath, lungs emptied in awe.

Is this what love can do: transform creatures, let them take the parts of one another that bring them closer together? Ochako’s every step, her diligence to return—is this the result of her careful questions, her patience? It must be her blood running through Himiko’s body, her flesh covering her bones. Every taste of Ochako’s blood was a pact, the whisper of a swear.

A promise that brought them here.

Himiko continues with the shake of a fawn. Ochako watches carefully, stepping slowly. Patiently, always patiently waiting for her. But her heart thrums, buzzing all the way to her fingertips as she imagines meeting Himiko’s hands. Their fingers can interlace into a basket of tenderly woven flesh, letting Ochako pull Himiko along her own world—through grass and trees and sky.

Ochako can bring her home. She can bring her two homes together.

She holds her breath for Himiko’s final steps, speeding her own so they can meet in the middle. Her hands raise, palms facing the sun—facing Himiko’s reaching for her.

A sharp snap sounds from another part of the woods. A spear releasing, shooting across the bank to pierce Himiko’s back. Ochako flinches and Himiko screams, teeth bared and eyes shrunken in pain. The sound is cut a second later when her flesh dissolves midair, cells bubbling into red liquid that bursts, coating Ochako’s front and splattering the ground before her. She stumbles, arms still stretched as she collapses, knees bruising against Himiko’s stain.

Sounds erupt from the side, chaotic but muffled while Ochako’s lungs tighten. She heaves, half gags and half desperate gulps of air, as she frantically shoves her hands against the stones. The world is split, torn into two as she wails. Saltwater floods her vision, splattering against the spill of Himiko.

Commotion follows. A hand grasps Ochako’s arm and she screams, thrashing in the hold of someone wearing two shades of blue—a police officer. She catches similar figures scattered throughout the shore, surrounding her.

Her cries are deafening. Under the scorching light of the sun, her body is hot, too hot. The sizzling crack of lightning. She doesn't want to be touched. She wants Himiko. Himiko’s flesh, her own flesh, a body she had yet to understand and love in its entirety.

She blinks through her storm, vision clearing enough to spot Higa-san by an officer. He holds his speargun in hand, face twisted in that sinister grin of victory.

For all her questions about love, all her curiosities and her doubts, Ochako is certain when she sits atop Himiko’s melted remains. Staring at Higa-san through her pinched face, all Ochako knows is that this feeling in her chest and stomach—this tightness and sickening void—is her first experience of hatred.

#FINALLY #jiso.fics #bnha #togachako #toga himiko #toga x ochako #ochako uraraka #anglerfish #mha

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freezerbunny-sims2 · 20 days ago

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I consider rotation 1 of Driftwood uberhood done. There are some families I barely played or didn't post much about, but it's okay.

I'm going to reset every household to the first season (summer) and try to keep better track of them from now.

I will play each household for one season (four sim days) in each rotation. University households will be played for four semesters in each rotation, because my aging mod is set to 1 real life year = 2 sim days.

It took a few years to build the lots and finish rotation 1. I'm a slow sims player, so don't expect frequent updates.

#sims 2 #sims 2 driftwood uberhood

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burekforsatoru · 2 months ago

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4/ parallel play

sebastian (stardew valley)/sunny (original character) | read it on ao3 sincerely, sunny masterlist<< part 3 << part 4 - the luau is cut short for sunny as a rogue gridball finds its landing spot on her head. wc: 2.4k

day 11, summer, year 1

“sunny, catch!”

they’re alex’s famous words she’s not a stranger to hearing. whenever he practiced at the beach, and especially now in the summer, alex made it a point to test her athletic abilities. unfortunately, she has none. she was a proud idiot, telling him she could catch. pfft, just ‘cause i’m a girl you think i can’t play? no, sunny, you cannot play yoba damned gridball. that time he threw the ball a little too far, so she ran to get it, tripping over a piece of driftwood and ending up splayed over the hot sand. she had sand in her nose for a week. it seemed to amuse him greatly, that sunny showed absolutely no improvement in the sport, or even the simple act of catching. her ducking away from the gridball never failed to make him go into a laughing fit. unfortunately for both of them, when she walks past the luau pot after dropping in a few gold quality potatoes, she hears her name with that wonderful command and the only thing she can catch is the ray of angry summer sun in her eyes. it is an unfortunate coincidence that that is the moment the ball decides to land.

“ouch”

before she can even land on the ground, Gus’ hands stabilize her and gently lower her onto the sand.

“hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. oh that was a… that was a good… i mean a hard throw.”

there’s a shuffle of many feet as the villagers gather around. fuck, she thinks, now everyone’s gonna see how much of a cry baby i am . tears are already filling her eyes, so quickly over the initial shock of the impact. muttering and whispering all around her. shadows covering her half-lying form, there are too many people, way too many of them. sunny’s breathing quickens, she tries to keep her eyes from leaking, tries to hold it in.

“alright, give her some air, move.” harvey’s voice reaches her as the crowd parts, making space for his mustached face as he leans in closer, apologizing profusely as he turns her head to the side to see where she was hit. “can you see well? is your vision blurry, how many fingers am i holding up? follow my finger with your eyes…”

way too many instructions, her head spins. too many words. too much , too busy . she blinks away a few tears looking up, there are only three faces in her sight now. harvey is joined by a very shocked and distraught alex, hands gripping his hair as if he’s about to rip it out in anguish.

“shit, shit i’m so sorry, i thought you were gonna–”

“give her some space, you’ve done enough.”

the venomous tone spilling from sebastian’s mouth directs itself at alex, who’s panicking already, not needing chastising from anyone else.

“sebastian, please, no need to–”

“doc, he could’ve hurt her more, what the fuck am i supposed to s–”

“i’m sorry, okay?! she always ducks, i thought she would duck!”

she groans, sitting up and immediately locating the painful spot with her fingers. harvey takes her arm, helping her up while sebastian glares at alex.

“ugh, everyone shut up.” sunny holds onto sebastian’s arm while trying to stand up and the action seems enough to make everyone keep quiet like she asked. lightheaded. a little blurry-eyed. but she’s otherwise perfectly fine, apart from a little bit of a headache where the ball hit.

“she needs to go to the clinic.” sebastian insisted, looking at harvey while the mustached man nods.

“i’ll go ahead and open, you okay helping her walk there?”

sebastian nods, shooting alex another dirty look despite sunny’s protests.

“can you stop, please, it’s not his fault.”

“i’m so so so sorry, sunny” alex pleads, looking like he wants to do something, anything , with his hands. instead, he just fidgets with his fingers, looking nervous as all hell. sunny squeezes sebastian’s arm in warning, turning her head to alex.

“i’m fine, really. i don’t even need to go to the clinic.” sebastian rolls his eyes at her stubbornness.

“yes you do, don’t try and be a hero.” completely unimpressed, he tries to get her to start walking towards the clinic.

she huffs, trying to murmur something about not even needing help, but her efforts get undermined immediately by her nearly tripping over her own feet if sebastian didn’t hold her up. she feels him sigh next to her, his grip loosening a little as they walk away from the beach and the crowd goes back to their luau duties. thank fuck, soon enough the chatter is behind them. both of them let out a sigh of relief, struggling not to laugh at the way their shoulders simultaneously relax.

“thanks, but i really don’t need to go to the clinic, i’ll be fine regardless.” she gives up on arguing, instead just making sure she doesn’t end up too needy. too much of a hassle or a burden.

“i know.” she could swear there is some mischievousness in the way he smirks and the words he says. “but… you don’t wanna stay for the soup. trust me.”

with a hand gently guiding her through the door of the clinic, he steps in behind her, guiding her through another set of doors until they’re met with harvey again.

“just sit down here, sunny.” the doctor motions sunny over to the seat in front of him, leaving sebastian to cross his arms leaning against the door. harvey gives her a quick check up, making sure her eyes are following his finger properly. she has no issues apart from a little bit of a headache, but there’s a sneaking suspicion nagging at her that maybe she should… play it up a little.

“i’m feeling a little dizzy as well. i don’t think i’ll go back to the beach.” she speaks softly, playing into the role of a suffering patient. harvey nods, standing up as he gives her a cold compress to hold against her reddening forehead.

“yes i think that’s for the best. go home, rest. make sure you keep this on your forehead.” he sighs, tilting a cold, half-finished cup of coffee to check its contents before emptying it into the sink. “and you keep an eye on her, make sure she’s not walking funny or talking nonsense.” he instructs sebastian, eyes narrowing slightly as the snarky boy scoffs at his words. yeah, as if talking nonsense isn’t her normal setting.

“on it, doc.” he pushes himself off the door frame and walks up to her, unnecessarily helping her stand up as harvey ushers them out of the clinic, murmuring his disappointment about having to go back to the luau. and then, just like that, it’s just them two.

“we’re free, i guess.” she starts, taking the cold compress off and shifting it in her hands.

“i guess,” sebastian smirks, satisfied with himself for managing to slip out before the big event, “you’re welcome, by the way. you really don’t want to taste the soup.”

sunny narrows her eyes, looking him over as he takes out a cigarette from his jeans, offering her one before putting the pack into his pocket again.

“don’t tell me…” she starts, only to be interrupted as he chuckles and exhales the smoke.

“the less you know, the less you can spill to lewis when he inevitably starts questioning everyone with remotely any sense of fun. come on” they walk towards the farm house, as per the doctor’s orders, but she can’t shake the odd feeling. it’s like taking a boy home for the first time (technically it is exactly that), but there’s nothing to worry about, right? they’re going to… hmmm. sit on the porch and enjoy the easy breeze? will he want to come in? watch a movie? should she offer some snacks? did she have any food in the fridge?

“hey, stop stressing, you look like you’re gonna pass out. and if you do, harvey’s gonna give me a bollocking…” sebastian’s voice carries a little bit of humor, but it’s hardly enough to stop her spiraling. she looks up at the farm house rising in the distance and gulps, all of this is getting way too real.

“we can just parallel play.” he finishes the cigarette, discarding it into his pocket tin, and lets her go through the gate to the farm first, following her to the porch as she jiggles the key to open the huge front door.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

sunny spends the first half an hour sitting up straight, not letting herself relax. she wanted to sit on the sofa and let sebastian take the couch, but he wouldn’t have it. you need rest, that’s his final word before he stares her down, making her sink into the soft cushions. she gives him the green light to look at the books she brought over with her. a tiny part of her collection, but the suitcase was full of other, more useful things. her parents were promising to send her some of her favorites, but they have been too busy to do much else than check in occasionally, offering a weak bit of praise, not taking much interest in any of the issues she’d been encountering with the farm. sunny grew tired of it, so she just dropped the whole thing. but now, sebastian is picking up a couple of books and humming in satisfaction, taking them with him to the sofa as he settles down.

“you read all of these?” he opens one book, observing the map on the inside before turning a few more pages.

“hm? oh yeah, these are my favorites.” sunny takes the other one he brought over, flipping over to somewhere in the middle where she stuck a piece of paper in between the pages. “I could only bring a few with me when I came here.”

he takes another moment to read through the first page before answering, lifting his gaze almost reluctantly from the book.

“okay if I borrow this?” his words snap sunny out of her musings, stopping her overthinking just as she starts.

“oh… yeah, of course. you wanna read it?”

“sounds interesting.” he hums as he flips another page, leaving them both in somewhat of a comfortable silence.

the air is filled only with an occasional chuckle, crinkling of paper, and bodies shifting on the couch and sofa. a cohabitation of two people that would rather be alone in almost every other instance, finding comfort in avoiding a crowd at the beach. sunny looks at the clock on the wall behind her out of habit, but sebastian catches her movement.

“you feeling okay? want me to go?” he offers, giving her an easy end to their little gathering, harvey’s instructions to keep an eye on sunny echo in his head, but it's been a couple of hours already. time simply flew by as they sat in silence, reading together… but apart. sunny can't remember the last time she felt this at ease with another person in her space without the need to jump to any excuse to get rid of them.

“yeah… I mean no, you can– I mean if you want– I'm…” she’s stumbling over her words, trying to pick the right ones to not sound needy, “you can stay. if… if you wanna.”

sebastian doesn't miss the little hint of smile on her face as his eyes lift from the pages of the book in his hands for a moment. he chews on the inside of his cheek, silently accepting her offer before deciding to voice it.

“yeah… yeah sure, okay umm… yeah.” almost as if trying to not seem needy himself, as if he is trying out his voice for the first time.

“I think there's some… strawberry juice in the fridge. if you want.” her small voice makes him pause reading, he looks behind him, toward the kitchen.

“from your strawberries?” he askes.

“yeah, I managed to save some to make juice. maybe next year I manage to make some wine, you never know.” sunny chuckles a little, finding it a little silly how she’s already planning her next year, when this one is barely half done. half done and not very successful. the few tomatoes she managed to grow are sitting in the fridge, waiting for her decision on what to use them for.

“you stay there, okay? I'll… I'll find it. you want some?” he gets up and places the book on the side.

sunny nods as he starts turning towards the kitchen, suddenly wondering if she has cleaned the kitchen lately. he comes back soon, two glasses of sweet red liquid in his hands, and places them on the coffee table in front of them. they keep quiet, the rustling of pages fills the silence once more.

sunny blinks and an hour has passed, shifts on the couch and another is gone. the sky has changed colors, the golden light has given way to orange and pink as it spills through the farmhouse windows into sunny's living room.

“how are you feeling?” sebastian closes the book, sticking a stray piece of rizla from his pocket in between the pages to not lose his place.

“yeah… good, not feeling dizzy or anything.” she nods, looking at the clock again. the luau must be finished already, people must have gone home.

“uh… good, that's good.” he seems almost surprised at the way the sun makes the space look warmer, as if he also didn’t expect time to have flown by so fast. maybe he doesn't want to leave just yet, doesn't want to abandon the cozy atmosphere they've created. “I should…”

“yeah… sure, I'll–” sunny pushes herself off the couch as he does the same, holding her favorite book in his hand, “thanks… for staying with me. keeping an eye on me and all.” she smiles, walking with him to the front door.

“ah, I guess someone had to make sure you didn't start talking nonsense and whatever else harvey said.”

“walking funny,” sunny adds, recalling the doctor’s words just before the two of them got out of participating in the luau, “I'll tell him you've been great help.”

“see, you must be feeling good if you can remember his nattering.” with a smile, sebastian steps out onto the porch, glancing once more at her before he leaves. “oh and… don't worry about lewis tomorrow. when he asks you about the soup just tell him your truth, you won't be in trouble.”

sunny wants to ask, but he has already waved and walked away, his shadow dragging across the ground as his figure gets smaller.

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biscuitblinkeu · 1 year ago

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I Speak for the Trees [Pt 1]

Jennie x Fem!reader

Word Count: 5471

Prompt: Jennie never planned to stay with her mother for seven months. She didn't plan on her mother and father divorcing either, and because of that, her relationship with her mother has always been rocky. They move to a new state, and that means a new town, new neighborhood, new school, new life. Her mother believes this will be a fresh start; Jennie believes it’ll be a disaster and hates everything about it, but when she befriends a strange girl everything gets a little brighter.

A/n: I do switch between point of views I believe— In Jennie’s POV reader is referred to as she/her/they, in your own POV it’s always you. But in short it’s because I’m too lazy to fix it. I’ve been writing this for awhile, enjoy! There’s also a second part that’s 3500+ words and unfinished, but I wanted to post this already…and I wanted to give you guys something while I’m finishing up one shots and chapters 😭 #lazyme

Jennie felt like a poor, unfortunate soul. Under her nose, it’s been decided she would fly out to see her mother. She didn’t know what possessed her father to agree, or what made him hide it from her till the day of her departure. Jennie felt betrayed almost. She felt like a piece of driftwood, trapped in a relentless storm where the sea pushed and pulled her as it liked, regardless of what she wanted.

Jennie didn’t want to go to New Zealand, and that much was clear with the heated debate she was having with her father. She was never one to protest this adamantly, however, it was called for as it was the summer before her Senior year.

“But Dad,” she said desperately. “Please, it’s my last year of highschool, I can’t leave when I’ve been at this school since the beginning— what about my friends? My job? My accomplishments? I don’t want to leave so suddenly.”

“That's completely understandable, but there’s something else, I know there is.”

They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, and Jennie scowled.

“Fine, I’ll tell you,” she quipped. “It’s because I don’t want to leave you alone here. I can’t! Not like mom did! I am not like her — I won’t be like her — and I don’t want to see her! Why now does she want to come back into my life? We were fine. I was fine on my own; and now? Now she wants me back right when I was content,” she huffed, tone on the verge of a growl. Tears swam in her eyes and her nose twitched. “I hate her—”

“Jennie! You will not go there.” Her father interrupted sternly, a deep frown on his face. Jennie flinched, gaze snapping to the floor. How her father still held her mother in the light made her distressed. She’d ask him ‘why’ and he would say ‘it’s love.’

Although his warning made her want to surrender, to give in and welcome the despair, Jennie still had some fight left in her. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, defiance shining in her eyes. A fire of resentment burning in her chest. “But you know what she did to us. I have every reason to loathe her.”

Us.

Her father let out a drained sigh, running his hands down his face. He looked her straight in the eyes, and Jennie knew she was taxing him with this arguing, and she knew she could be in the wrong. But she didn’t want to accept that when it felt like she was right her whole life. She wanted it to stay that way.

“Jennie, you don’t have to fight all my battles. What happened with me and your mother is a thing in the past,” he began, and Jennie felt hurt. “I have forgiven her and…”

“You forget.” Jennie snapped, unable to help herself. He ignored her.

“I forgave but I haven’t forgotten. Jennie, I have forgiven. You continue to live in the past, and that is why you light up about this topic. Back then…I regret involving you in so much of my problems, I should’ve shielded you from them. It’s only my fault you feel this way about her.”

Jennie shook her head no.

“Yes,” he said. In the past he was so absorbed in his grief he didn’t realize quickly enough that Jennie was beside him, feeding into his emotions, growing resentment for her mother when things were complicated back then. Jennie was stuck to an ‘us’ when it’s really just a ‘him.’ Jennie wasn’t left behind, and she was too young to understand that. Now she’s too old to want to understand.

“Well, I still don’t want to go,” she said stubbornly.

“Look, you’ve never had trouble making friends before, I’m confident you’ll be at the top of your class at any school, and you’ll have no trouble finding a job, so what is it? Besides your…issues with your mother.”

Well that’s just it, Jennie thought sarcastically. She didn’t want to see her mother. But most of all, she didn’t want to leave her father. He would be alone in this big, empty house. They had no pets. The maids only come every other two days and he rarely goes out as it is.

Jennie looked around the room at the drawn ivory curtains, the small, black sofas, the mahogany desk with papers strewn about, and to the bed, where her father sat elevated. Beside him on the nightstand were pill containers with prescription medicine and drugs. Her father had countless health problems, thankfully none serious, but who would take care of him? He was a workaholic.

What if all the maids got simultaneously sick, and they couldn’t clean or take care of things her father couldn't? What if the chef decided to go tour five-star restaurants to further his own culinary skills and her father starved to death? (Not that he couldn’t cook for himself, but still.) What if he slipped down the steps and hurt himself? Her eyes watered, and she clamped her bottom lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling.

Her father knew what was going through her head just from the way she was staring at him. “Oh, Jennie…” he murmured, and she ran to his side and threw her arms around him, wailing.

“Dad,” she cried, voice watery and wavering. “I don’t want to leave youuuuahh.”

“It’ll only be for seven months, dear.” He said, stroking her brown hair.

“Seven months?” She snapped her head up, missing his chin by a few centimeters, tears brimming in her eyes. “That’s— That’s so long; that’s more than half a year!”

He chuckled. “It’ll go by quickly, and you can call me as much as you like. And if you’re really having trouble I’ll tell her to send you back.”

She sniffled, thinking it over. “…You promise?”

“I promise.”

Jennie sat up, rubbing her swollen eyes. “I haven’t packed my bags.”

“The maids did it for you.”

“I haven’t quit my job yet.”

“Jennie, you work for me: the company.”

Jennie pursed her lips. “I haven’t told my friends. I can’t leave without telling them….face to face, they’ll think I’m dead.”

“You have two friends, and I’m sure they’ll be fine with a video call,” he reassured, raising a knowing brow. “Besides, you have plenty of time to do so.”

“Okay,” she said defeatedly. “When do I leave?”

…

Ladies and Gentlemen, Korean Air welcomes you to Auckland, New Zealand. The local time is 5:47AM. For your safety and of those around you, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened and keep the aisles clear until we are parked at the gate.

As a result of turbulence, Jennie had to peel her fingers off the arm rests one by one. She was glad her father booked her a seat with privacy because she didn’t need anyone to see her like this. She ignored the finger-shaped dips in the arm rests and looked out the oval-shaped window. The sun was just beginning to rise.

Jennie exited the plane with a yawn just as her phone dinged with a notification from her mother. She’s had her mom’s number all this time but she hasn’t used it to call or answer any of the texts she was sent for years. Jennie opened it reluctantly.

Mom: Jennie, I’m at the East gate, just outside it. I’ll see you soon.

She didn’t have to ask for any directions as her boarding gate was nearby. She walked with her carry-on luggage, a medium-sized suitcase with a minimum amount of clothes and items. She would have to buy more, she couldn’t travel with her whole closet.

Jennie was reaching the E-Gate, and outside the glass door was her mom, waving at her from the curbside and shouting her name as if the sign she was holding up wasn’t enough. Jennie blinked, feeling warmth spread across her face. Must she do that? She couldn’t bring herself to stand there and stare at her mother incredulously, it’d only delay things further, and she was tired.

Jennie let out a long, depreciating sigh, gripped her suitcase’s handle so tight her knuckles turned white, and walked to her mother. The closer she got, the more butterflies fluttered in her stomach. The kind she’d rather not experience. Her mother was the carbon copy of herself, her father would say. She hated it. Jennie reached her.

“Mother,” Jennie greeted coldly.

Her mom sighed, her smile looking a little dimmer. “Hi, Jennie. I don’t even get a hug? A ‘Hello, I missed you?’” She joked, trying to make light of their situation. It wasn’t working. “You’re not happy to see me?”

“No, not really.” Jennie answered. “I assume you feel the same?”

Not responding, her mom took Jennie’s bag and put it in the trunk of her car and they got in. Her mom pulled out of the parking space and began to drive. “I know that I’ve been a bad mom…and I’m sorry. I really am. And I know that’s not enough right now, but this summer I’ll try and make the most of it. I’m in the process of moving, so we’ll be going to that house. It’s a fresh start for both of us. You still like the ocean, don’t you? The house is by the ocean—“

“I’m tired.” Jennie interrupted. “Can we please talk later?”

Her mom gave a nod. “Yes, get some rest.” Jennie closed her eyes.

When she opened them, a few hours had passed and it was brighter outside. She raised her hand in an attempt to block the sun. They were driving slowly down a street lined with houses. It was a pretty lively neighborhood, with lots of people and animals. There was a slight salty smell to the air from the ocean.

The car began to slow as it turned down a corner street, and Jennie kept an eye out, trying to guess which house her mom had bought. Her mom had a taste for a clean and modern look, so any house on the street could fit. But some houses had different designs, some more simple than others. Jennie was baffled when her mom passed the house she thought she would have picked and pulled into the driveway next to it. In the end it made sense since there was a moving truck parked on the curb. The house itself was white, a type of smoky brown, and gray, with two floors and a nice garage and porch, but the front yard was hideous. Horrendous. Horrifying. Heart-stopping?

It was extremely overgrown. Wildflowers and weeds sprouted from the tall grass and it grew somewhat over the sidewalk and touched the lower walls of the house. She wouldn't be surprised if there were a few snakes living there. It was an eyesore, really, almost like the previous owners didn’t care at all about the land. The house stuck out like a sore thumb among the mowed lawns on the street.

They got out of the car, Jennie slower since she was still groggy from waking up. A tall man walked out of the house and waved at her mom. He was the help, Jennie guessed. But when they hugged each other she knew they might be friends or coworkers. “Tom, I want you to meet my daughter. This is Jennie.”

He turned to her, grinning with slightly crooked bottom teeth. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Tom. I’ll be helping you and your mom move everything in these next couple days.”

Jennie nodded at him. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Before her mom and Tom got into conversation, Jennie asked if she could explore the house. Her mom said she should find which room she wants.

Inside, just through the front door, there was a foyer room, and further there was an open space that was most likely going to be the living room. The kitchen was just across that, and it was a pretty big kitchen space, dark marble counters, stainless steel fridge, and other things. There was an entrance to the basement, and a hallway with a bathroom, two rooms, and one closet. She didn’t want a room on the ground floor.

Jennie made her way upstairs to find which room she would claim. She didn’t need the largest one, but there had to be a medium-sized one. On the right of the top of the stairs there was a larger bedroom. She walked further down the hallway and entered a room on the left, because if she went any further down it would just be a bathroom, and decided she would take it.

The room’s walls were painted a light gray, and it had two windows, allowing plenty of light to come through. It was sized perfectly and would fit her needs. There was still a twin-sized bed in the corner; hopefully Tom would move it out. Jennie turned in a circle, mentally planning out where she would have her things and how she would design. There was already a closet built in the room, so she wasn’t going to need any large dressers. She would make the room look different from the one at her father’s— fresh start, her mom had said.

Jennie made her way to the windows and pulled open the old curtains, fully expecting to see an overgrown yard with weeds and sticks hidden between the tall blades of grass, but that wasn't what she saw. The backyard was mowed, landscaped, and overall very nice compared to the front yard. But something was off, something was out of place. There was someone in her yard that was definitely not supposed to be there. Jennie pressed her face to the wire screen, scrutinizing the figure.

It was a girl, and she was sitting on a thick branch of the big tree in the middle of her backyard, sipping a juice box and swinging her legs childishly as if she had no care in the world. Eventually, the girl’s leg-swinging pace caused her to lose balance and fall backwards. She fell first on her neck and then flipped onto her back. Jennie winced.

“That was so mean of you!” The girl yelled.

She unmistakably said that to the tree.

“What the hell?” Jennie murmured, brows knitted. She watched the girl with something akin to frightful fascination as the girl scolded the tree, her hands moving wildly in the air. She climbed back onto the branch a moment later, and Jennie’s gaze shifted to the juice box lying forgotten in the grass. (Litter.)

Oh. Oh. There was a stranger in her yard.

Jennie promptly ran to the doorframe of her soon-to-be room, leaning forward. “Mom! There’s someone in our yard! Mom!” She waited, rolling her eyes when she didn’t receive an answer. Her mom must still be outside flirting with Tom. Jennie quickly ran back to the window to check if the strange girl was still there, and after confirming she was, ran down the stairs and out the house.

Outside, her mom was being handed a basket by Tom, and as Jennie got closer she saw it was filled with treats of sorts. Jennie stopped short of her mom. “Mom, someone is in our yard sitting on the tree.”

“That’s nice honey. Why don’t you bring these boxes to the kitchen for me?” Her mother answered distractedly and she frowned. She was still making goo-goo eyes at Tom— and probably wasn’t conscious of it. (Yuck.)

“No– ugh. You're not listening to me. I said there's a literal stranger in our yard.” She told her again, then remembering how yelled at the tree like it would verbally respond, she grumbled, “A real weirdo at that.”

Her mom raised a sharp brow. “Yeah? How about you give them some of Tom’s baked treats? Maybe you could make a friend,” she suggested, smiling as she opened Jennie’s palm and putting a small treat-filled baggy in her palm. Jennie stared at it, the silly characters on it smiling at her mockingly. She scoffed and turned on her heel, making her way back upstairs with the goodie bag still in hand.

She flopped on the twin-bed mattress, coughing when a cloud of dust flew into the air. Jennie rolled onto her back and stared at the ugly, off-white popcorn ceiling.

She didn’t want to have to make new friends. She never wanted to live here. She never wanted to leave her dad. Yet she didn’t have a choice.

Jennie closed her eyes and sighed. She laid there for a good ten minutes before she decided she would go back downstairs and find something to do. Anything to keep her mind off the fact that she was thousands of miles away from her family and friends. Downstairs, there were more boxes on the floor now, and Jennie groaned knowing she would have to help unpack. She found herself wandering to the kitchen, where the door to the backyard was. The strange girl was still there, staring past the top of the fence at something.

Jennie sat on a stool, resting her cheek on her palm. She looked out the window at the girl, sulking. Numerous questions ran laps through her mind: Who was she? Why was she in the backyard? Does she go to her new school? Does she live around here?

“Hey, what are you looking at?” Jennie turned to see Tom was holding a stack of boxes. She could barely see his face. With a huff, he dropped them in the middle of the room before angling his head to the window. “Oh, I see you’ve met the neighbor’s daughter.”

“The neighbor's daughter?”

“Yeah. I think she lives next door. I heard the old owners of this house let her in their yard a lot. I heard their daughter and her were close.”

“You live around here?”

“You could say that,” he answered with a shrug. “Word travels fast in this neighborhood.” (Translation: Everyone is nosey.)

“Oh, okay.” Jennie replied. She doesn’t know if she should worry about seeing him around a lot or not. Tom walked back outside to get another round of boxes. Jennie left through the back door and could hear the strange girl now humming a song.

“Excuse me!” She yelled as she approached the base of the tree.

The girl continued to sing and hum and swing her legs. “Hey!” She yelled louder.

The girl paused in her movements and sound-making, head lowering. “Oh, hello!”

“Yeah, hi. You can't, like, sit in a tree in your own backyard? Or in someone else’s yard?”

“But I like yours,” she responded.

“What?” Jennie said dumbly.

“You have such a nice tree,” she said. “Don’t you want to come up here?”

No she does not. She is not a monkey, or squirrel, or possum, or any animal that likes trees for that matter. “Who the hell are you?” Jennie demanded, moving her arms uselessly by her sides.

“(Y/n),” the girl responded easily, legs picking up their swinging again.

“(Y/n),” Jennie repeated densely. “What the hell are you doing?”

You said nothing and began humming a song as you looked above the fence again.

“This is great—just fantastic.” Jennie muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “You mind getting away from my house, (Y/n)?”

You stopped and finally looked down at her. Jennie was momentarily stunned, she hadn’t expected you’d be so pretty. Even so…

“Your house?” You asked, tilting your head oddly. “You live here?”

Jennie fought, very bravely— might she add— the urge to slap her forehead. Did you not see or hear her come out of the back door? “Of course I d–”

“In a tree?” You asked with wondrous eyes, sounding awed. “Really?”

Jennie backpedaled. “No, what? Just, no, I–”

“I’ve never met someone who lives in a tree. Is it nice? Where do you put your head when you sleep? Do the animals tell you bedtime stories?”

“I don’t live in a tree! I live in that house,” Jennie told her, pointing to her house when she shouldn’t need to.

“Oh,” You said, seemingly disappointed. (Jennie didn’t care.)

“Yeah. So are you going to be leaving soon?”

“Am I going to be leaving soon?” You repeated like a parrot.

“Yes, are you?”

“Am I?” You asked again.

Jennie sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. This was going absolutely nowhere. “Why are you just repeating…nevermind. I don’t have time for this. Goodbye.” Jennie said, turning on her heel to walk back inside.

“Bye! It was nice to meet you!” You shouted after her, grinning.

What a complete weirdo, Jennie thought, slamming the screen door shut behind her. She walked through the kitchen, intending to go back to her room and entertain herself with her phone, when she noticed her mom at the front door saying goodbyes to Tom. Jennie realized there were a lot more boxes sitting around now.

The door shut and her mom turned around, eyeing the cluttered floor. “I guess we should start unpacking,” she murmured, hands on her hips. She looked at Jennie, seemingly hesitant. “You can rest if you’re tired, Tom managed to get the couches inside. They’re comfortable,” she offered.

Jennie found herself shaking her head no. “I’ll help. It's a…” she yawned. “A lot of boxes.”

Her mother raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said, kneeling to open the first box in front of her. “I assume where Tom put the boxes is what room the things inside go in?”

“Yes, but don’t open the ones with green tape, I have to buy furniture for them tomorrow.”

So, in a slightly awkward silence, they unpacked the boxes, placing items in their respective places. Hours passed, and the sun sunk into the ocean and the moon emerged— as did the creatures of the night. The tree leaves blew with the wind and the ocean lapped the shore, a peaceful sound.

Jennie was currently in the kitchen, organizing the plates and bowls into cabinets when she looked out the curtainless window to the backyard. It was pitch black save for the nightlights, and the strange girl was gone.

“Jennie, why don’t you finish up there and we’ll call it a night,” her mom called from down the hall in the bathroom.

“Okay,” she responded distractedly.

The juice box was tucked in a hole in the tree.

…

Jennie was woken by gentle shaking of her shoulder. She blinked groggily, sitting up slightly. The face of her mom came into view. “What time is it?”

“12:26pm,” her mom told her.

Jennie yawned. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”

“I figured you were jetlagged. And you’re probably hungry, so I ordered brunch.”

Jennie ate her french toast, listening to her mom tell her what the plan of the day was. They were to go grocery shopping to fill up the empty fridge, to IKEA to buy some more furniture, and Jennie would have some time to walk around the neighborhood before sunset.

After she ate, Jennie went upstairs and dug through her suitcase's options and was surprised. The maids really did know what she liked, and she found it hard to pick an outfit since all of them were good. Finally settling on baggy blue jeans and a cropped, beige camisole with a matching jacket, she slipped into white flats and grabbed her wallet before heading downstairs. Her mother was already dressed and seated on the ivory couches scrolling on her phone, waiting.

She looked up when Jennie approached. “You look nice. Ready to go?” she asked, standing. Jennie nodded at her and they walked out the door together.

Jennie was in a particularly good mood after having food in her stomach until her mom brought up school in the car ride to the grocery store. The topic soured Jennie's mood considerably. She had hoped they would avoid any discussion about it till (at the latest— a stretch, really) the night before her first day of school. The idea of going to another school hadn't quite seeped in yet.

“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” her mother tried, glancing at Jennie before returning her eyes to the road. “I’ve heard great things about the highschool from Tom; his friend’s son goes there.”

Tom, again. Tom this, Tom that, Tom said this, Tom did that. “Speaking of Tom, what’s going on between you two?” Jennie pried. Did her mom think she didn’t notice the subtle flirting and touches they had as they were unpacking? Something was going on, and she was going to find out.

A mask of indifference settled on her mom’s face. “Nothing. And don’t change the topic. You never know, you might love the school.”

Jennie rested her forehead on the window, watching the outside speed past. “We’ll see,” she whispered.

Shopping for groceries went by relatively quickly, and they were on the way to IKEA in less than two hours. At IKEA, they ended up purchasing two tables, a TV stand, shelves, bed frames, and some rugs. Most of it will be delivered to their house from tomorrow to the next few days.

When Jennie got home, she changed into black biker shorts and a lightweight, baby blue hoodie due to the temperature rising quite a bit. She decided she would walk around the neighborhood.

“I’m going on a walk!” She yelled, sliding her shoes back on.

“Is your phone charged?” Her mom’s head peeked out from the kitchen, brow raised in question.

“76%,” she responded, waving her phone in the air.

“Okay, don’t go too far and get lost, and be back by…let’s say six.”

Jennie was out the door shortly. She paused at the end of the driveway, her thoughts conflicted on whether to go in the left or right direction. (She chose left.) Mid-afternoon, the neighborhood was infested with crawling newborns on lawn blankets and buzzing families. It was a cosmopolitan melting plot, inclusive and close-knit all at once. She felt slightly overwhelmed.

It didn’t go past her that she was on the receiving end of curious onlookers. Did she stand out that much? Nonetheless, she ignored them.

She mentally noted there was an ice cream shop further down the street she walked, right next to the park. Jennie made her way across the street to another block of the neighborhood, and it was obvious the people living on this street were more well off. The houses were practically mini mansions, and their lawns fenced in.

Jennie heard a shout from behind. “Hey!…Hey, wait up!”

Jennie glanced behind her and quickly snapped her head back forward. Jogging up to her was (Y/n) again— the tree girl— waving her hand in the air wildly as she willed Jennie to slow her pace. With a groan, she slid the hood over her head and pulled the strings so tight she cut off her air supply till she relented. She began to gradually speed up her pace, almost breaking into a jog. You don’t know me. Go away. The footsteps got closer and Jennie eventually gave up, walking normally again.

Panting, the girl fell in step with Jennie. “You walk so fast!” You wheezed. Jennie fought back a devilish smile.

You were wearing something similar to Jennie, except you had on a jacket instead of a hoodie. You had stickers all over your face, however, and Jennie felt slightly offended, being a sticker collector and all. That’s not how you use stickers!

“How’d you know it was me?” She asked.

“That’s easy; it’s like you have a big target on your back,” you laughed, poking her back to emphasize your point.

She slapped your hands away. “A target on my back?” Jennie murmured, face scrunched in confusion.

“You’re new, is what I mean, like a shiny new toy.” You elaborated, hands moving animatedly. Then, your voice falled to a low murmur. “Everyone more or less knows each other here.”

“And that’s a good thing? You don’t sound happy about that at all.”

With the absence of your answer she noticed the weight of snoopy eyes had dissipated since you came, they were no longer burning holes through her. She also noted that the surroundings were quieter, like some of those outside moved to their backyards or went inside. She didn’t dwell on why.

“So…” You dragged out. “What made you move here?”

“Oh, I’m just visiting for a couple months.”

“Visiting relatives?”

“Just my mom.”

A sign that had the image of a wave and underneath, directions to the dock was coming closer. The salty smell of the ocean was also more prominent.

You hummed. “Do you like pengui—” You paused.

“Do I like what?”

She stopped walking after noticing you had stopped before the sign. “What is it?”

You fidgeted in place. “I can’t go that far.”

“Why?”

You looked nervous— and Jennie thought it was a strange look on you. “I’m forbidden, they don’t want me to find the treasure… they want it for themselves.”

“Huh?”

You smiled so bright Jennie had to squint. “Did you know penguins poop every twenty minutes?”

What in the world?

Jennie’s face scrunched up. She was feeling lightheaded from the way you talked. Her head was spinning in circles. Everything you said was completely random— nothing connected.

She ultimately decided you weren’t worth the headache and continued walking forward. Like she thought, you stayed rooted to your spot, a pout making the corners of your lips fall.

Before she turned to enter the gate that was a part of the metal fence around the shoreline, separating homes from the sand, she heard you tell her to wave at the ocean for you.

Good grief.

…

It’s been a few days since Jennie had an encounter with (Y/n), and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t somewhat curious as to where she was. She refused to dwell on the idea that she missed the loudness that came with her. She didn’t. Why would she? She likes quiet. The peace and calm—

At the sound of loud singing, Jennie practically fell off her bed and scurried to the open window. (Leaving it open is a habit of hers now). Her eyes widened. You were sitting in the tree again, a regular pastime for you apparently, another juice box crushed in your hand. This time, however, you had brought three pillows, and she watched as you threw them down at the base of the tree.

Safety measures in case you fell again?

She found herself throwing on some sweats and leaving her room.

From the base of the tree, you blinked down at her, your hair falling around you. Then, comically, you waved wildly at her. “Hi, you!”

“Hello… You’re looking at the ocean again?” She wondered why you seemed so entranced by it, why you looked at it with such wonder. It was just water. She wondered why she even bothered talking to you; wasn’t she trying to distance herself?

“Yes! Want to see?”

“I don’t know, I’m good down here. I’m not good at climbing,” she shook her head, recalling the time she injured her ankle after an attempt to climb a tree after her cousin.

“You’ll be fine! I’ll help you,” you hopped off the branch, landing on the ground next to her. “I’ll be down here to catch you if you fall.”

Jennie bit her lip and looked to the side, imagining the pain she’d go through if she fell. “But…”

“But- you’ll be just fine! C’mon, start climbing up. You can use that wedge there…”

Sitting in the tree, Jennie wondered how she let you coerce her into doing it. The view was pretty nice though. Clear waters stretched out, white sand, and the sun.

“See, I knew you could do it,” you said when you sat next to her. Jennie merely hummed. You shuffled about before your face brightened up. You turned to her, eyes practically sparkling. “Hey, did you know that…”

Hey. You. Hey, you. It’s then when she realized you’ve never called her by her name. It was always “you” or “hey” in place of her name.

Jennie tilted her head at you, cutting your fun fact off. “Wait, do you even know my name?”

You paused, and it was clear you were searching through your (possibly glitter infested) mind for it. The effort was clear on your face and Jennie let out a quiet scoff, a sign of her amusement. She knocked your shoe with her own. “It’s Jennie.”

You gasped. “I totally knew that, you didn’t let me remember.”

“Sure.” Ignoring your pout, she carefully climbed down the tree. “Make sure you don’t forget it.”

#biscuitblinkeu #blackpink x reader #fanfic #blackpink #fem reader #jennie x reader #jennie x fem!reader

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