#floating on your back listening to the churning of the water and sand and the seagulls and the warmth of thr sun on your skin

[cascadianights]

I ran out of tags

-riding 4 wheelers

-sandboarding

-read a book

-do some art

-kayak or canoe

-surfing

-gathering little mollusks and snails and crabs and putting them on your boogie board to watch crawl around

-catch or frisbee or volleyball

-Bob in the water and just exist

-snorkel

-kick sand up so little fish come and circle you

-find a sand bar to stand on way out in the water

-sand messages

-rolling down the dunes

-driving along to different beach outlets

Are you going to the wrong beach?!?!

[nhaaauyen]

is it casual now? ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

modern sev x reader au: after a shitty day at work, you go to the beach to release some stress, only for a certain coworker to show up.

series masterpost: floating wc: 4.2k author's note: everything that happened in this fic did actually happen with a girl I was seeing LMAOO (except for the kiss cause i was too shy) but i’ve been wanting to write an ode to this memory for so long! though the title was named after casual by chappell roan, i actually don't recommend you listen to it when you read this because this is anything but casual ~ My Song Recommendation

Sev: Why are you at the beach at 11PM? You: ? You: Why can't I be? Sev: Because it closes at 12am Sev: And you said before you don't go out past 11PM on workdays You: I didn't know you worked for the beach patrol Sev: Lol

You stare at your phone screen, watching the three message dots bounce back and forth. You know you're being an asshole, but you can't help the snappiness in your tone. Sevika never cared or talked to you outside of work before, so why does she suddenly care now?

The typing bubbles disappear and relief washes over you, but a small, masochistic part of you wishes she'd actually sent something.

Sev: Are you good?

The three-word question glares at you from the screen. 

Are you good? Absolutely not. 

But this is Sev, the woman who doesn't bother with greetings or a courtesy "How are you" despite working together for months. How do you answer a question that could unravel the emotions you're barely keeping at bay, especially to someone who's never asked before?

You: Yeah  You: I'll go soon so you don't have to stalk my location haha Sev: Alright

You stare at the tiny message bubble until the blue light stings your eyes. Finally, you shut off your phone and toss it onto your makeshift blanket.

The beach is eerily quiet save for the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow across the water and illuminating the foam as it rushes up the sand. You sit there as the incident at work replays in your mind for the hundredth time. Your head server's harsh words, the embarrassment of being scolded in public, the shame from how quick you were brought to tears - it all comes rushing back, making your chest tighten. 

The cool sand beneath your fingers grounds you somewhat and you inhale deeply, letting the briny scent of the ocean fill your lungs. 

A cool breeze picks up, causing goosebumps to rise on your arms. You shiver as you sit there, feeling small and vulnerable, and you can't help but wonder how you'll face everyone tomorrow. The thought makes your stomach churn, and you close your eyes, trying to shut out the world for just a little longer.

As you close your eyes, a new sound cuts through the sounds of waves crashing against the shore. The crunch of rubber tires over pebbles grows louder, and suddenly, a bright light washes over you. You squint, momentarily blinded by the harsh glare of headlights.

"You really had to make me search for you, Pagli?"

Your head whips around in shock, eyes wide as you see Sevika stepping out of her car. You scramble to your feet, brushing sand from your clothes.

"Sev? What are you— You didn't have to come here," you protest.

She approaches with a casual shrug. "Well, too bad, cause I was near here anyways. Had to make sure you weren't drowning or joining a beach cult."

You can't help but let out a small, incredulous laugh. "A beach cult? Really?"

"Hey, you never know," Sevika retorts with a smirk. "I don’t know what you like to do late at night."

You shake your head, trying to maintain your composure. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. You should go home."

"Nah, I think I'll stick around," she says, plopping down on the sand next to where you were sitting. "Unless you've got some secret midnight rituals planned?"

You roll your eyes, but feel your resolve weakening. "You're stubborn as hell, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," Sevika replies with a wink. "Now, are you gonna sit back down, or do I have to drag you?"

After a moment's hesitation, you sigh and lower yourself back onto the sand. "Fine, you win. But don't expect me to be good company."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sevika says softly, her tone gentler than before. "But I'm here if you want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need."

“I’m good.”  You replied.

“Fine with me.” 

As you sit in silence, Sevika reaches into her pocket and pulls out a joint. You can't help but shake your head in disbelief.

"You're unbelievable," you mutter.

She glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Do you just have an unlimited source of that or something?"

Sevika just shrugs, a small smirk playing on her lips as she places the joint between them. As she fumbles for her lighter, she catches you staring and pauses.

"Do you want some?" she offers casually.

You hesitate, fingers fidgeting in the sand. "No... uh, I never tried."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Serious?"

"Yeah," you admit, feeling a bit self-conscious.

Sevika's expression softens slightly. "Well, Pagli, I'm in a sharing mood, so..."

You shake your head quickly. "Nah, I'm gonna embarrass myself. I don't know how to..."

"It's easy," she assures you. "Just inhale, hold it for a bit, and release."

You eye the joint warily. "Uh, shit... Yeah sure."

Instead of handing it over, Sevika brings the joint to her lips and lights it. You watch intently as she demonstrates, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she inhales. She holds it for a moment, then slowly exhales a stream of smoke into the night air.

Your eyes are fixed on her, taking in every detail of the process. There's something almost mesmerizing about the way the smoke curls from her lips, dissipating into the darkness.

Sevika turns to you, holding out the joint. "Your turn, if you want."

You hesitate, your heart racing a little. Part of you wants to refuse, to play it safe knowing that you wouldn’t risk humiliation in front of your coworker when you end up messing up, but another part of you was just completely over this day.

Slowly, you reach out and take the joint from her fingers, your skin brushing against hers for a brief moment.

You take the joint, bringing it to your lips with nervous anticipation. Trying to mimic Sevika's actions, you inhale deeply. Immediately, your eyes go wide as the smoke hits your lungs. You start coughing violently, your throat burning.

To your surprise, Sevika gently pats your back. "It's okay, Pagli! Damn. You just gotta practice some more."

As your coughing subsides, you realize this is the most Sevika has ever talked to you. It's oddly comforting, despite your embarrassment. You hand the joint back to her and she casually takes a puff, with her head leaning back slightly as she exhales.

"You're not cold?"

"No, why?" you ask, puzzled.

She gestures at your outfit. "Because you haven't changed out of your work uniform."

Instead of answering - because you know where that conversation would lead - you reach for the joint again. This time, you focus intently on mimicking Sevika's technique. You inhale, hold it for a moment, and exhale. There's still a slight cough, but it's significantly better than your first attempt.

"Hell yeah!" you exclaim, feeling a small surge of pride. "I sorta did it!"

Sevika gives you a half-grin that makes your heart skip a beat. "See? You're gonna be a pro soon." She pauses, her grin widening slightly. "But you're gonna get super hungry later at this rate."

Your eyes widen as realization hits you. "Oh fuck, you're right. I didn't bring any food," you say, a slight pout forming on your lips.

"I brought something," she offers, "but in exchange, you have to tell me what's going on."

You roll your eyes, you weren’t going to fall for that. "I can deal with it."

"Fine," she shrugs, "then no more." She makes a motion as if to put out the joint.

"What? I'm still practicing!" you protest. "What happened to trying to get me to the pro league?"

Sevika just laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm. "Sorry, there's an entry fee."

You sigh, knowing you're cornered. "Fine," you mutter, then barely above a whisper, add, "I fucked up bad at work today."

Her expression turns serious. "What do you mean?"

Taking a deep breath, you tucked a stray hair behind your ear and avoided eye contact. "There was this creepy guy at one of my tables. He kept specifically asking for random things like more napkins or refills, and I knew why he did that." You shudder slightly at the memory. "I wanted to switch with a male server, but we were too booked so I just tried to bear with it.  I didn’t think he would cross any lines since it looked like he was with family too."

Sevika listens intently as you continue, "It got too far when he kept making me uncomfortable, saying he would tip well if I gave him my number." Your hands clenched into fists in the sand. "So after I came back, I... I 'accidentally' spilled water on him."

You can't meet Sevika's eyes as you finish, "I knew it was unprofessional and petty, but I was so frustrated. After getting yelled at by the head server, it kind of hit me what I did."

As you fall silent, you feel a mix of shame and lingering anger. You wait anxiously for Sevika's response, afraid to see judgment in her eyes.

But Sevika's response catches you off guard. "He deserved it," she says firmly.

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Huh? But I made a mess because I couldn't keep my emotions in check. You know there are always going to be horrible customers..."

She cuts you off with a shake of her head. "Nah, he deserved it. It's a shame you couldn't stay to watch when I kicked him out and announced that he was trying to grope one of our servers in front of his entire family and the restaurant."

You stare at her incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. "No way? You actually did that?"

Sevika shrugs nonchalantly. "What's Silco gonna do? I'm the best general manager he's got." She pauses, a prideful glint in her eye. "Though our head server might need a bit of retraining."

You can't believe what you're hearing. Sev, the Sev, actually stood up for you. A wave of gratitude washes over you, and you suddenly feel shy.

"Thank you... for that," you murmur. "It meant a lot."

She just nods in response, a comfortable silence falling between you. Sevika passes you the joint again, and this time when you take a hit, you manage to do it without coughing. 

"I did it!" you exclaim, unable to contain your enthusiasm.

"Look at you, you might get into the Olympics next." She teased.

The tension from earlier completely dissipated, and you can't help but feel a newfound appreciation for Sevika.

"Okay, you gotta slow down now. This is your first time," Sevika warns, pulling the joint away as you reach for it again.

"Nooo, give it," you whine, making a half-hearted grab for it.

She shakes her head firmly. "Nuh-uh." Sevika puts out the joint despite your protests.  Then, without warning, she announces, "I'm lying down."

"What?" you ask, confused by the sudden change.

Sevika doesn't respond, just leans back onto an apron acting as your beach blanket. After a moment's hesitation, you did the same. It's only now that you realize how close she is. You can see the rise and fall of her chest, steady and rhythmic.

You close your eyes, letting the sensations wash over you. "Do you hear that?" you murmur. "The waves sound amazing." A small giggle escapes your lips.

"It's hitting you now," Sevika observes, amusement coloring her voice.

"Shhh, Sev. Listen," you insist, your voice barely above a whisper.  If only you didn’t close your eyes at that moment, because then you would’ve seen the shy smile appear on her lips at the nickname that she only lets you use on her.

As you concentrate on the sound of the waves, you became aware that you're also following the pattern of Sevika's breathing. It's oddly comforting, this synchronicity between her, you, and the ocean.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you dare to look over at her. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize she's staring at you with those stormy gray eyes that never seem to reveal anything. The intensity of her gaze sends a jolt through you, triggering an immediate panic.

You sit up abruptly, your heart racing. Sevika follows, concern etched on her previously relaxed face. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, I'm hungry," you blurt out, desperate for a distraction.

Sevika just laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Here, I’m glad I brought this," she says, reaching into her pocket. She pulls out a colorful bag of sour gummy worms, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet night.

The sight of the candy, so unexpectedly bright in contrast to Sevika's stoic character, makes you laugh. You watch as she pulls out a gummy worm, the candy stretching slightly before she bites into it. The casual act feels strangely intimate in this moment, and you find yourself transfixed by the movement of her jaw as she chews.

"Want one?" she asks, holding out the bag to you.

Your fingers brush against hers as you reach for a candy, sending another small shiver through you. As you pop the gummy worm into your mouth, the burst of sour flavor feels like a shock against your tongue.

While you devoured practically half the bag, Sevika stretches languidly before lying back down on the sand. You followed suit, turning to face her. This time, feeling way less sober than the beginning, you don't shy away from her gaze.

You notice one of her usually tucked fringes has come loose, falling softly across her forehead. Your fingers twitch with the urge to brush it back, but you manage to restrain yourself.

Sevika's eyes are fixed on you, her expression softer than you've ever seen it. "I'm tired," she mumbles, her voice low and slightly husky. "I want to sleep... this feels nice."

A dopey smile spreads across your face at the sight of her uncharacteristic vulnerability. "Do it," you encourage gently.

"Wake me up in a bit?" she asks, her eyelids already starting to droop.

"Of course," you assure her.

As Sevika's eyes close, you sit there, taking in the moment. You listened to the rhythm of her breathing mix with the sound of the waves and the refreshing sea breeze. 

Suddenly, Sevika makes a noise that's almost like a whine. "It's cold," she murmurs, not opening her eyes.

"Really?" you ask, surprised.

"Yeah," she confirms. Then, to your shock, she says, "Come here."

Before you can process what's happening, Sevika is draping her red jacket over both of you. The action brings you even closer to her, and your brain struggles to keep up with this new development.

You find yourself studying Sevika's features up close. Her nose, which you've always thought was cute but never dared to admit, her long lashes resting against her cheeks, and the scar that runs across her cheekbone.

The warmth of her body so close to yours, the scent of her cologne mingling with the salt air, the soft sound of her breathing - it all combined to create a moment so intimate and unexpected that you feel almost dizzy with it. You're acutely aware of every point where your body is almost, but not quite, touching hers.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you're sure she must be able to hear it. But Sevika's breathing has evened out, suggesting she's drifting off to sleep. You lie there, barely daring to move, caught between the desire to savor this moment and the fear of disturbing her.

You find yourself caught in Sevika's gaze as her eyes slowly flutter open. The moonlight reflects in her dark irises, creating an almost ethereal effect. 

"What are you staring at?"

Your heart skips a beat. "You," you reply without thinking, then immediately feel heat rush to your cheeks.

A smirk plays at the corner of Sevika's lips. "Mmm... you're plotting my murder, right?"

You can't help but chuckle softly. "Haha, of course.  I’ve been waiting months for this moment.”

"Damn," she sighs dramatically, through her eyes sparkled with amusement. "At least I get a gorgeous view before my final moments."

The air between you suddenly feels charged. You fall silent, profoundly aware of every breath, every subtle movement. Sevika's hair has fallen across her face, obscuring part of her scar. Without really thinking about it, you reach out, gently tucking the errant strand behind her ear.

As you start to pull your hand back, Sevika's fingers wrap around your wrist. Her touch is gentle, a stark contrast to her usual brusque demeanor. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat.

"Don't," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the soft lapping of waves.

Sevika holds your hand gently, her calloused fingers tracing over yours with surprising tenderness. She examines each fingertip as if committing them to memory. Just as you're getting lost in the intimacy of the moment, she breaks the silence.

"You got tiny ass hands, Pagli.”

You blink, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

Sevika bursts out laughing, the sound rich and wonderful. Her head tilts back, revealing a full set of stunning teeth. The sight momentarily captivates you, but you quickly recover, determined not to let her win this moment.

"You know, I was only trying to steal the gummies," you retort, trying to keep a straight face.

Her eyebrow arches challengingly. "Really? Come and get it then."

Before you know it, you're both wrestling on the makeshift blanket. Sand flies everywhere as you tussle, laughter filling the air. It's been so long since you've felt this carefree, this alive. Your worries from earlier seem like a distant memory now.

Somehow, you manage to gain the upper hand. You find yourself practically pinning Sevika down, your faces mere inches apart. You can feel her warm breath on your skin, catching the faint scent of weed. Your heart races, and for a moment, you're tempted to close that small distance between you.

Instead, you break the tension by snatching the bag of gummies from her grasp. "I win!" you declare triumphantly.

But even as you say it, the victory feels hollow. The gummy bag hangs limp in your hand as you watch Sevika accept defeat with surprising grace. She's still beneath you, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her eyes locked on yours.

You wish you could reach out and caress her face, trace the line of her scar, feel the softness of her skin again. The urge is almost overwhelming, but you hold back, unsure of how she'd react. The moment stretches between you, filled with unspoken words and possibilities.

Sevika pats the spot next to her, inviting you back. You settle in, acutely aware of her warmth beside you. Her eyes, dark and curious, search your face.

"What are you thinking about now, Pagli?" she asks softly.

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out. "I want to play with your hair."

Immediately, heat rushes to your face. You're about to stammer an apology when Sevika takes your hand, guiding it to her hair. The silky softness surprises you, and you can't help but run your fingers through the strands.

Sevika's eyes flutter closed, a contented sigh escaping her lips. Encouraged, you begin to gently massage her scalp, marveling at how relaxed she seems.

"What does Pagli mean?" you whisper.

A smirk plays on Sevika's lips. "Crazy girl," she replies without skipping a beat.

"Huh?!" You're not sure whether to be offended or flattered.

"It's because you do crazy and bold things. I like that about you."

Your stomach flutters with warmth at the admission. Sevika leans into your touch, murmuring, "That feels amazing."

Gradually, she shifts closer, until her head is tucked against your chest. You can feel the steady pace of her breathing, the warmth of her body against yours. Without really meaning to, you find yourselves practically spooning.

As you stretch out, your feet brush against her shins, and you realize just how much taller she is. It's oddly endearing, this contrast between you. Your fingers continue their gentle exploration of her hair, occasionally trailing down to trace the curve of her neck.

The moment feels soft, intimate in a way you never expected. The sound of waves provides a soothing backdrop, and the moonlight casts a gentle glow over you both. You're struck by how vulnerable Sevika looks like this, all her usual sharp edges softened.

You want to say something, to put into words the feeling blooming in your chest, but you're afraid to break the spell. So instead, you hold her close, savoring the unexpected comfort of this moment, wondering how something so beautiful could arise from such a difficult day.

You keep replaying the moment when Sevika's strong arms practically dragged you into cuddling her. The memory sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. Your hand moves almost of its own accord, slowly rubbing circles on her back. You hear her sigh contentedly, the sound filling you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the physical closeness.

Just as you're sinking deeper into this blissful moment, bright white lights suddenly flash on, startling you both. A loud voice booms across the beach: "THE BEACH IS CLOSING IN 10 MINUTES. PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY BACK TO THE PARKING LOT."

"Urghhh," you groan.  You instinctively buried your face into your hands.

Sevika's response is even more vocal - she lets out a louder, more dramatic groan that vibrates through her chest and into yours. The sound is so unexpected and so uncharacteristically cute, that you can't help but laugh.

Your laughter seems to break the spell. Sevika lifts her head, her hair mussed from your earlier attentions, and gives you a mock glare that's softened by the smile tugging at her lips.

"What's so funny, Pagli?" she asks, her voice husky with lingering sleep.

"Nothing," you say, still chuckling. "Just... I never pegged you for a whiner."

Sevika rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it," she grumbles.

You lean in close to Sevika, whispering conspiratorially, "They can't kick us off if we hide in the sand, right?"

"Yeah, or if we stay really still," she adds, barely suppressing a grin.

You both freeze comically, trying to blend in with the beach around you. But as the final announcement blares across the sand, you finally admit defeat.

As you both reluctantly start to gather your things, you can't help but steal glances at Sevika. Her hair is tousled, her clothes rumpled from lying on the beach, and there's a softness to her expression that you've never seen before. It makes your heart do a little flip in your chest.

Just as you're about to lead the way back, Sevika suddenly grabs your hand, pulling you back towards her. Before you can react, her lips are on yours.

You were suddenly frozen, till your brain practically yelled, Fucking kiss the hot girl back you dumbass! Your hand immediately slides into her hair, and you respond back to the kiss with the same ferocity.  All the tension that's been building between you tonight finally finds its release. Her lips are softer than you imagined, moving against yours with a passion that takes your breath away.  

But the moment was short-lived when it was cut short by another blaring announcement. 

Sevika breaks away, growling, "I'm going to break that speaker."

You can't help but laugh at her annoyance, the sound bubbling up from the happiness overflowing in your chest. You lean in, giving her a quick peck on the lips. "C'mon, we can continue this later."

Sevika nods, a small but genuine smile playing on her lips. She has that look on her face, that is just so content and full of adoration that your legs practically felt like jelly.

“Race you back to the car, loser has to buy dinner!” You yell as you spirit across the sand.  

You were fortunate enough to get a head start because once Sev realized what was happening, you could already see a blur of her movement closing the distance through the corner of your eye. Your hair whipped wildly in the wind along your combined unadulterated, giddy laughters echoing in the night air.  

With her athletic build, she easily caught up to you but instead of surpassing you, her hand found yours. Her fingers intertwined with yours, fitting perfectly. The warmth of her palm against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You two slowed your pace into an amble, the sound of waves fading behind you. Every so often, you steal glances at Sevika, still hardly believing this night has been real.

When her car comes into view, Sevika gives your hand a gentle squeeze. You turn to look at her, finding her eyes already on you, soft and full of something that makes you unsure of whether this moment was a dream or not.

Sevika tugs you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "We should do this again sometime," she murmurs against your skin. "Minus the getting kicked off the beach part."

You chuckle at the joke and tuck your head into her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Thump. Thump.

"Thank you," she says quietly, her voice a small murmur above your ear, "for making a shitty day end beautifully."

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. 

"Thank you for finding me."

[stray-kaz]

To The Sea, My Love, To The Sea

A/N: For Ru, and because of her fantastic brain.

Picture taken from Pinterest.

©

The sand was fine and black and gritted between her toes. She didn't understand why there were so many warning signs along the roads to this beach; the horizon was beautiful, fine and spotlessly blue. The waves lapping at the shoreline were frothy and sweet, not even reaching her bare feet.

Looking out upon this ocean, none of the signs made any sense. Black heart of the sea? Siren Songs: Close Your Ears? Beauty is a trick? Save Yourself? Turn Back Now?

She shook her head and kept slowly padding towards the shallow waves, barely feeling the sand beginning to suck at her feet as it grew wetter.

Her name rang out, sweet and clear, over the water, and she looked up, out past the shallows to a figure treading water, barely moving, and watching her. Curious, she took another step, then another, and finally the little waves wrapped around her ankles, cold fingers drawing her further away.

She could see him now, the figure in the sea. Shining and sleek as a seal, black hair floating out from his skull, eyes dark and bottomless, red lips pulled into a smile. He was beautiful, and he captured her easily, calling to her again in that same low, sweet tone.

She stepped further into the water, until it rose and welcomed her, hugging her hips. She couldn't hear the shouts of the friends she had left behind her on the sand, she could only hear him, could only listen to that voice.

He remained, treading water, until she came within arm's reach of him, and then he backed away, water parting for him in utter obedience.

It went like that, again and again, until the sea floor was gone and the sky spun above her like a wheel and bubbles of panic caught in her throat.

She reached for him, but once more, he swam out of reach.

How was the horizon so much closer? Had she reached the end of the world?

She called out to him.

"Wait!"

He just shook his head and beckoned to her again.

"Just a little further" he said easily, his voice travelling across the water between them. "You're almost there."

So she kept going. She had no choice. She had swum too far to turn back now, and when she tried to look back, tried to find the last shoreline, black feelers danced up her legs and curled at her ankles. She had no choice.

At last she reached him, relief carving out a hollow place in her chest. A hollow place soon emptied back out and filled with bitter dread. His eyes, a creature's eyes, were black and empty, an insect-like clicking sounding from behind his teeth.

She treaded hard water, churning white foam. He lifted a hand above the black waves and bile rose freely up her throat as she saw it wasn't a hand. Long, writhing black feelers amassed at the end of a human elbow, flicking, testing the air. The clicking behind his perfect teeth rose to a clamor in his excitement and his dark eyes expanded, eating the daylight.

She wasn't allowed to vomit. He reached out to her and the twisting black feelers locked around her head, some of them slipping between her clamped lips and licking at her throat.

He met her in the water, and his smile was as savage as it was beautiful. Mute, she could only feebly struggle as he dragged her under the sucking waves, his mouth opening to sing the last words she would ever hear.

"To the sea, my love, to the sea..."

Tagging: @writingmysanity

[counterpoiise]

The circumstances that led up to this were… Really, probably the gods’ fault. Whatever he and this Roman guy had done to piss them off, Ethan wasn’t sure, but that was so not the priority, here, so he let it go in favor of taking another shot at calming the dude down. 

“Okay, uh– Your name’s Frank, right? Frank, listen to me: it’s the same principle as drowning. If I try to pull you out from here, the ground is likely to give way and pull me in, too, and then I will be able to help you even less. Which–” Ethan emphasized, “I am doing. I am here to help you, and you are going to be okay. You need to breathe, and stop moving. We have luck on our side.” 

The son of the revenge goddess felt a stomach-churning tug in his lower abdomen as he poured as much of his ability into giving fortune to Frank that he knew how to do; because, with any luck at all, it would help the other demigod cool it. 

“Now.” Ethan crouched as close as he could to the edge of the sand pool, while still being certain that he was on stable ground. Next, he took out his sword, stabbed it into the dirt almost to the hilt, and used it to brace himself. “Have you ever floated on water before? In a pool, a lake? It’s the exact same process– take big breaths, let your limbs untense, and slowly lean onto your back, until you’re sort of… starfishing on the surface. Okay?” 

For the first time in a long time, Ethan was grateful for the insane wilderness training courses he’d done at camp as a kid. (He could never, ever tell Chiron that, though).

“While you’re doing that, tell me about your favorite animal. I heard you’re, like, some kinda nature lover, or something? Is that right?”

@counterpoiise asked: "None of this is okay. But it will be." -to Frank?

“uhhhh, i appreciate the optimism! but now feels like a really weird time for a change of pace!” frank’s voice was shrill with panic, a fact he would lament on later when he was not actively sinking into the mud. he thought briefly of changing forms, but worried that if he tried, he would end up in a worse predicament than he already was. he had once believed quicksand to be a thing of movies, not real life. a moron he had been, clearly. and it turned out, in real life, it was significantly more horrifying.

“pull me out!” frank cried. “i cannot be the first roman praetor to die of quicksand!”

[someonestolemyshoes]

Yo, saw your post about levihan prompts:

How about Hange discovering Levi’s secret hobby (of your choice)

Feel free to do whatever you feel like

And I love your work! 💕 have a good day

Hello! So sorry for the delay in this one, but thank you so much for your patience 🙏 I got stuck for such a long time in the middle of this ksksks but it is finally done! I also played around a little bit with the whole...discovering a secret aspect, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! And I hope you're ready for some sweet sweet childhood friends levihan~

**

Levi likes photography.

This, in itself, is no great secret. Hange can barely remember a time he wasn't following after her with a camera strapped around his neck, or packed into his bag—always within reach, should something striking catch his eye. A little neon plastic toy, at first; each click of the shutter cycled through preloaded images, expert shots of famous landscapes, places they could only dream of seeing. And then, a polaroid—still a toy, in essence, still plastic, still gaudy, but this one took real pictures in real time, and spit them out into their eager, shaking fingers within seconds.

Hange remembers them ruthlessly wafting the little laminate squares and watching with bated breath as black mottled into foggy grey, as the blurred silhouette of the park bench faded slowly into being. It was a fascinating thing, at the time. Magic at their fingertips. The picture turned out fuzzy and overexposed in places, where the sun had glared in over the corner of the park bench, but Levi had settled the little square on his little palms and looked at it like he held the whole world in his hands.

There were innumerable disposable cameras, too. Light little things with reels of film, never enough for Levi's insatiable desire to snap pictures of every single thing he saw. They spent half their childhood in the chemist, sitting in the hard plastic chairs, wriggling anxiously as they waited for the film to develop. Kuchel always handed them the envelope, fat with prints, with a small smile curling the corner of her mouth and a fond twinkle in her eye, and Levi always took it politely, while Hange gave a boisterous thanks, and the pair of them delved greedily into their spoils.

He was older, in his early teens, when he was gifted his first real camera. It was heavy, compared to all the others, a case made of metal with buttons and gadgets and a fancy screen on the back, to preview each picture he took. Levi was wholly enamoured with it. He spent hours adjusting it, figuring out what each button and knob did, how they affected each picture; took countless shots of the same rock in the park until he'd tested every combination of settings he could think of.

He had cycled through more cameras since then. Grown a small collection, each one a little different, a little more suited to particular shots. Hange understood the concept in theory, but the particulars were lost on her, and Levi never took the time to explain. Not that she minded—Levi's pictures were beautiful, breathtaking in the way he could capture even the most mundane details and make them something wondrous. Perhaps for the first and only time in her life, Hange had no desire for the magician to reveal his tricks.

He has an eye for things that Hange simply cannot see. She is observant—to a fault, at times, intensely analytical and endlessly curious. Everything is a question, an opportunity to research, to learn, but she doesn't see the way Levi does.

Wild daffodil. Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Hange sees a perennial flowering plant, native to Western Europe, classified by its pale yellow petals and elongated central trumpet. She sees phylogeny with a rich taxonomic history; subspecies originating all over the globe, some larger, some smaller, some more vibrant and some more muted. She sees anatomy, science.

Levi sees the way the evening sun rusts the buttery petals until they blush; sees the way dew drops hang like pearls from the tips of the leaves in the early morning, when the light is still smoky and thin. He sees a moment to be captured.

It should be impossible for a picture to hold so much detail. Hange can look at Levi's daffodil and feel the way the spring wind blows gently on her skin, the sun warm but the breeze a little biting, a remnant of the fading winter. She can smell the pollen heavy in the air, feel the tickle of short grass on her ankles, hear the trill of songbirds in the branches of distant trees.

His proclivity for photography grows with them. Hange's interests spear out in a thousand different directions, from physics and chemistry to botany, to engineering, to literature and mathematics, to history, languages and landscapes—life is a limitless source of information and Hange chases it every which way, insatiable.

And wherever she goes, Levi dutifully follows, with his camera in hand.

Until now.

Now, they are eighteen. The summer is lazily drawing to a close, and tomorrow, at 8:45am, Hange will be boarding a plane that will take her to the other side of the world to attend the university of her dreams.

And Levi will be staying here.

Despite Levi's perpetual scowling and indiscriminate grunting, their last evening together had overall been a pleasant one. Levi and Kuchel had worked hard on their meal, and it had been nice in a warm, filling kind of way, to spend her last night at home with the two of them.

Now, she and Levi are holed up in his bedroom, while Kuchel had insisted on doing the clean up herself. Hange's mind has been churning non-stop for weeks now, ramping up with each passing day, and tonight, her thoughts are unstoppable, and they spill from her with giddy, jittery excitement.

"The university is huge, but my course is pretty small—only like, 30 places. It'll be easy to get to know everybody."

"Nn."

"And did I tell you? There's a museum right on campus? They've got a huge collection, and I heard students can access it after the first semester."

"Hm."

"And there's a flower garden, too—they've got species from all over the world, Levi. They'll have plants I've never even heard of."

"You said."

"Oh! And—my accommodation isn't all that far from the coast. The water looks beautiful in all the pictures I've seen—look, see?"

"I know. You showed me already."

Hange looks up from her phone, where the screen is lit with a bright, sunny beach, tan sand and a stark blue ocean. Levi flicks his gaze over it and offers a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder. Hange frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, you know."

Levi gives her a deadpan stare.

"It looks...warm."

Hange sits back with a thump, and kicks weakly at Levi's shin. She pouts over at him. "Better than nothing, I guess."

They sit at opposite ends of the window bench in Levi's bedroom, legs tangled haphazardly together in the space between them. The window was thrown open in some vain hope of tempting in a breeze, but the air is thick, and the soft wind that does blow is still stiflingly warm. It sways Levi's fringe against his brow, but does little to stave off the oppressive heat.

The sky outside is dark, but it is alive with stars. They cast bright sparks on an inky black canvas, and there is no moon in sight. Already, Levi has snapped pictures of it, twisted dials and pushed buttons and switched lenses until he was satisfied.

It is a beautiful sight. Infinite.

Hange lets one leg dangle out the open window. Levi gives her a sour look and wordlessly closes one hand around her other ankle. She has a long history of behaving carelessly—Levi has borne witness to one too many slips and stumbles to trust her entirely. It would be just like Hange, to miss her flight in favour of a trip to the emergency room.

His thumb strokes back and forth absently. There is a callus there, rough and catching, that scratches against her sensitive skin.

Her predominant feeling is one of excitement. Studying abroad had been a dream of hers for almost as long as Levi had owned a camera—to travel beyond the bounds of their small rural town, to see more, learn more, fuel the relentless hunger in her. But there is an undercurrent of something else, some squirming discomfort that refuses to settle. It intensifies with every sweep of Levi's thumb against her skin until it sits heavy in her gut.

She looks over at him. His gaze is trained out the window, a small frown furrowing the skin between his brows, but his eyes are glassy, with none of their usual sharp, unwavering focus. Whatever he is looking at, he is not really seeing it.

It would be a lie to say that his silence had not troubled her. He had been quiet throughout dinner, opting instead to listen to Hange and Kuchel's companionable chatter as he pushed his food around his plate, and he had barely said a word since they had cleared the table and retreated to his room. He had hardly even looked her way.

Irritation bubbles within her. Levi is always more subdued than she is, content to sit quietly while Hange babbles endlessly, about anything and everything. But he usually has something to say. His silence, today of all days, makes her angry. They have one night left like this—one more night to talk, face to face, before they will be separated for who knows how long, and Levi is offering her nothing.

"Levi," she says, before she can think. Something in her tone must startle him, for he blinks rapidly, as though pulled out of a daydream, and rolls his eyes to look in her direction. His gaze settles somewhere near her shoulder. She bristles. "Can you at least—"

"Levi?" Kuchel's voice is distant, floating up from the bottom of the stairs. Levi looks at the door instead. "Can you come give me a hand for a minute?"

Hange clamps her jaw shut. Levi casts her another sidelong glance, and ticks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He squeezes her ankle once, then pushes himself to his feet. "Don't fall, idiot. I won't be long."

Hange feels distinctly like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. It's immature, and perhaps it's unfair of her, but she had assumed that Levi's invitation for dinner might, at the very least, come with a little conversation.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. They never fight, not really—they bicker endlessly, poke each other's cheeks and pull each other's hair, childish rough housing that they never grew out of. But they don't fight and as grumpy as Hange feels about Levi's near silence, she doesn't want to start now. She runs a hand back through her hair and sweeps her eyes about the room, counting long, even breaths as she does.

Levi's room is immaculately neat and tidy. Everything has its place, on clean, dusted shelves, or stacked in straight, neat piles atop his desk. It is a level of organisation Hange has little energy for; she herself is a hurricane, picking up and dropping off detritus everywhere she goes.

But Levi's borderline obsessive cleanliness makes it easy to spot something that is out of place.

Hange's gaze falls on a drawer in the desk.  The drawer itself is as immaculate as everything else, gleaming wood and a reflectively polished brass handle. What catches her eye is the corner of a glossy piece of paper, caught when the drawer had been closed.

Hange is a curious creature. Rarely can she hold herself back from exploring an unknown, and now is no different. She unfolds herself from the bench and stretches to stand, then crosses the room on light, tip-toed feet.

Levi is, by and large, a rather private person. He does not share much of himself openly, hides behind an impassive mask, guards what is dear to him close to his chest. Hange is an exception to this rule, whether Levi wanted her to be or not.

As such, she has no real issue prying the drawer open, and is unsurprised by the predictable contents within.

Photographs.

Of course it was photographs.

Her lips tug up in a fond smile and her eyes roll, but it is as she is reaching in to flatten out the rumpled picture that had been poking out of the drawer, that she notices what they are photographs of.

Her.

Hange picks out a stack and sits cross-legged in the desk chair. She flips through them, eyes growing wider with each new picture she uncovers. Every single one is of her. Some recent, some not so recent—some must be from the very first real camera, for she is still in her braces, all thin, gangly limbs and scruffy hair and taped up glasses.

There are pictures of her in the winter, mitten-clad hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, blowing steam into the chill air. She can see in stark clarity, the red tip of her nose and the chill bitten over her cheeks; she can almost feel the cold, taste the cocoa on her tongue.

She finds a picture of her from an autumn years gone by. She remembers it as though it were yesterday—they had spent the whole afternoon raking fallen leaves in the courtyard behind Kuchel's cafe, scooping them into a terribly tempting mound beneath the shedding tree. Hange had been unable to resist. Levi had captured her moments after her dive into the pile, sitting up with her weight propped back on her hands, dry leaves clinging to her messy hair and sticking to the fibres of her cardigan. The sun was low, and it cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the vibrant red and orange of the fall foliage around her, drawing out the auburn undertone in her hair and the amber of her eyes. Her smile is almost blinding.

Another shows her in the spring, laying on her belly in the long grass beside a row of blooming daffodils. There is a book spread open before her and she is, as expected, engrossed in it; Levi has snapped the shutter as she was turning the page, the thin edge of the paper caught between the delicate tips of her fingers.

Hange has never considered herself to be particularly pretty. She is just...Hange, a little bit of wild, a little bit of manic, a lot of clumsy and dirty. Being attractive has never been of much concern.

But there is something in the way Levi has photographed her, time and time again, in the way the light catches her, the candid ease of each new picture, that looks....beautiful, in its own way. Somehow, he has made her mess into a masterpiece.

Levi likes taking pictures of things. Plants, rocks, rivers, landscapes and skylines—he likes capturing the mundanity of everyday life and turning it into something spectacular, but he has never done the same thing with people. As far as Hange was aware, Levi had taken very few pictures of anybody at all.

And yet, she holds this pile in her hands, and there are plenty more pictures littering the drawer before her.

There is a strange feeling brewing on her as she stares at them. She had been so excited about moving away to study, so eager to explore the world beyond their quiet countryside home, that the reality of leaving had never truly sunk in. She feels it now though, acutely; a hollow ache in her chest that grows with each picture she flicks through.

Levi has been her shadow for as long as she can remember. There are few memories that he is not a part of, few moments that she can recall in which Levi was not by her side—he has been a constant for her. Something certain and dependable.

And from tomorrow, he will no longer be there.

Hange had known this. She had known it from the moment she had accepted her offer, and she had known it as they looked through her options for accommodation together, as they explored the local area through pictures and videos and maps online. She had known it as they had prepared her visa, organised her finances. Booked her flights. Every step of the way she had understood, logically, rationally, that studying abroad meant leaving Levi behind.

But the weight of it is only hitting her now. The reality of it is like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut—it leaves her shaken and breathless in the worst way.

From tomorrow, Levi won't be with her at all.

Her grip tightens on the photographs hard enough to wrinkle the glossy paper.

She had done a pretty good job of not getting too emotional about the whole thing. For the most part, Hange had been overwhelmed by her own excitement—there had been no time for sadness between all the loose ends she’d had to tie up in order to make the move a possibility. Now though, all that is left is to head to the airport and board her plane. No more distractions.

Hange doesn’t realise she is crying until the bedroom door opens again, and Levi steps into the room, coming to a sudden halt halfway over the threshold.

Hange can't tell if Levi's look of shock is because of the open drawer and the pictures still clutched in her hands, or the tear tracks on her cheeks. He stops dead in the open doorway, fingers still curled around the handle, and for a moment he stares at her with eyes wider than Hange has ever seen them, but then his brow dips low and his lip curls, and his grip tightens around the door handle. Hange holds the pile of photographs close to her chest.

She is expecting anger. She doesn't suppose she could blame him if he lost his temper with her, then. She has a terrible habit of bulldozing into everything, after all, and perhaps this was the one thing Levi had longed to keep secret from her. Her snooping, on top of his already sullen mood—perhaps this is the final straw.

But instead, he turns his face away, staring resolutely into the corner of the room. Starlight spills through the open window. Even in the thin, muted light, Hange can see a vibrant flush colouring the skin high on Levi's cheeks.

Hange sniffles, and wipes clumsily at her cheeks.

"I didn't have you pegged as a closet pervert, Levi," she says, waving the handful of pictures at him. Her voice comes cracked, and weaker than she'd hoped. Levi's knuckles turn white.

It's a funny thing, seeing Levi embarrassed. His emotional expression is usually limited to small twitches, here and there—a slight furrow of his brow, a wrinkle of his nose, a soft twitch of his lip. Hange can count on one hand the number of times she has seen his feelings show so completely. It's almost painful to witness.

"I don't mind," she says. Levi doesn't look at her. Hange looks down at the pile again. "They're nice."

Levi finally releases his death grip on the handle and pushes the door closed. His eyes are still downcast and his cheek is still cherry red, but he hasn't run away and he hasn't snapped at her (yet). Hange takes these things as good signs.

"I didn't know you took pictures of people," Hange says.

"I don't."

"Are you saying I'm not people, Levi?"

Levi lets out a disgruntled sigh. He crosses the room, and plucks the pile of pictures from Hange's hands. His cheeks are still pink, and his brows are still furrowed, but he has composed himself some.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a creature. You’ve got snot all over your face.”

Hange laughs wetly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and rubbing the mess on her pants. Levi gives her a look of pure disgust, parking his hip against the edge of the desk beside her and skimming through a few of the pictures. There’s a curious expression on his face, a softness in his eyes that Hange isn’t used to seeing.

“Stalker,” she says. Levi kicks at the desk chair without looking up. “If you wanted a photoshoot, you could have asked.”

Levi scowls. He straightens the edges of the pictures with care, and sets them carefully on the desk. “If I wanted to take pictures of you posing, I would have asked.”

“Wanted to capture me in all my natural glory, huh?” Hange braces her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in both hands, grinning cheekily up at Levi. It must look ridiculous, with her watery eyes and the red point of her nose, but Levi isn't even looking at her to notice.

Levi says nothing. His gaze lingers on the pictures for a little longer, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Hange nudges him with her elbow, smiling. The pictures are...sweet, in a way. There's something flattering about it. She slumps back in the chair, her smile wavering where a fresh wave of melancholy tugs at the edges of her lips.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” Hange’s voice cracks humiliatingly as she speaks. Levi looks over at her. Hange curses the wobble of her bottom lip and wipes at her eyes beneath her glasses. She isn’t expecting much; Levi is terrible at expressing feelings at the best of times, and so it’s more than surprising when, after a moment of consideration, he nods at her.

“Same.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. Hange presses her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, ease the sting there. She doesn’t want to spend their last evening together crying, but now that the tears have begun, Hange can’t seem to stop them. A lump builds in her throat, aching beneath her tongue and she can feel her chin wobbling, lips pulling down at the corners. She sniffles pitifully, draws a shuddering breath.

“Oi…” Levi says, though he doesn’t sound angry, or even uncomfortable like she had expected. His tone is gentle. It rips a sob from her.

Hange feels him move closer. He jostles the front of the chair, and when she opens her eyes to look at him she finds him standing right in front of her, between chair and desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. It’s different to his usual scowl—his brows are a little upturned in the middle, exposing some kinder emotion; something like worry, or concern.

Hange tilts forward until her forehead presses into his chest. Levi’s hand comes up quickly to the back of her head. His touch is familiar, comforting, and Hange cries a little harder when his fingers tunnel into her messy hair, cradling her against him.

She cries until she feels spent, sniffling and gulping empty air. Her fingers twist into the hem of Levi’s shirt as she composes herself, mumbling, “you’ll keep in touch, right? You won’t forget about me?”

Levi clicks his tongue at her. “Stupid,” he says. “As if you’d let me.”

“I’m serious.” She sits back and looks up at her. Her eyes are burning, raw and wet, and the skin of her cheeks stings from crying, but she looks at him with as much determination as ever and says, “call me. Every day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Just once, every day. Even if it’s only five minutes.”

Levi flicks her between her brows. “You won’t have the time, dumbass.”

“I’ll make time.”

Levi scrutinizes her for a moment, then says, “I’ll text.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

Levi curls his lip and pulls at a lock of her fringe, muttering, “brat. Why don’t you call me?”

“I will,” Hange says plainly. Levi’s eyes widen a fraction. “I’ll call as much as I can. But you need to call me too, okay? I wanna hear from you a lot.”

There is a long pause, and then Levi turns his eyes away. The light in the room is pale and muted, but it is just enough to highlight the pale flush gathering anew on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost cute.

“Fine. I’ll call. Happy?”

Hange grins at him. “Very. And I’ll send you photos of everything, all the time.”

Levi leans down towards her, pinching her nose between his thumb and forefinger and giving her head a little shake. “On your shitty phone camera?”

Hange nods. She bats his hand away and cranes herself up into his space, smiling something wicked. “You’ll hate it. They’ll be all blurry and I’ll have my thumb in the corner of every picture.”

“Pest.”

“Lots of selfies, too. So you won’t forget what I look like.” Hange blindly swipes up a picture from the desk, holding it up between them in front of her mouth and nose. Between Levi dipping down into her space and Hange stretching up into his, they are so close that Levi has to cross his eyes to get a look at it. “Not that I think it’ll be a problem.”

He rolls his gaze up to look at her over the top of the photograph. Up close, Hange can see just how bright the blue of his eyes is, how dark his lashes are; she can see the shadows they cast on his cheeks, the deepening flush bruising the skin red. Levi has always been a pale thing, but now, Hange can see the smattering of light freckles across his nose, barely visible in the low light. He looks pretty. Her heart stutters in her chest at the sight.

Hange has never fully understood Levi’s drive to photograph everything. To preserve any given moment, bottle up every minute detail. She sort of understands it, then—it’d be nice, she thinks absently, to save this particular view for forever. The thought makes her face grow warm.

“I won’t forget.” Levi’s voice is quiet, caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty. He sways closer, rocks back, hesitates. And then he leans down and lets his forehead drop against hers. Hange can feel the press of his nose against her own, separated only by the picture between them.

Hange is used to being close to him. She’s a clingy person by nature, always grabbing him and hugging him, smooshing her cheek against his or shoving her face into his hair, but she is always the one to initiate such contact. Levi is tactile, in his own way—small, non-invasive touches, his fingers on her wrist or his palm at her back, always delicate, understated.

To have Levi enter so wholly into her space like this is new. It’s nice. Hange finds herself feeling very, very thankful for the paper between them, for the urge to lean forward and kiss him comes unbidden, so suddenly she isn’t sure she’d be able to resist the impulse if there hadn’t been a barrier in her way.

“Is it my dazzling good looks?” she says, acutely embarrassed by how breathless she sounds. Levi makes a small, noncommittal noise. His fingers find hers where she��s holding the picture, gripping it and pulling it until it slips out from between them. For the smallest moment, Hange feels the skin of Levi’s nose against hers, and the warm puff of breath on her lips, and then Levi straightens up, flipping the picture for her to see it.

“I’ve looked at your ugly mug every day for long enough. Don’t think I’d forget it so easily.”

It’s a truly unflattering photograph. Hange has her head tipped back, laughing boisterously at some thing or another, with her eyes pinched closed and chocolate sauce smeared over her lips, a drop of cream stuck to the end of her nose. Hange is sure she has looked better, but the thing is—despite her state, the picture still isn’t bad. Hange can hear the lilt of her own laughter and feel the tacky syrup, savour the sweetness of the cream on her tongue. There’s something so...animated about it, about the way the light dances over her skin and in her hair, and the way the background blurs around her, drawing her into sharp focus.

It’s nice, in a strange, unreserved kind of way.

But she’s still a mess. Hange snatches it and slams it down on the desk, glowering up at Levi.

“Why would you take that,” she whines, petulant. “You’re supposed to take pictures of nice things!”

“Because it’s very...you,” He says, neatly slotting the pictures back into the drawer, and moving back to sit on the window. Hange follows, drops herself onto the ledge opposite him with a pout.

“What, disgusting?”

Levi shrugs. “Messy. But...not bad.”

“I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, I guess? That’s almost sweet coming from you, Levi.”

Levi scowls over at her. She dangles one leg back out the open window, dropping the other heavily into Levi’s lap. He adjusts it until he is more comfortable, his hand wrapping again around her ankle, but does not let go once he has settled. He keeps a hold of her, his fingers tracing thoughtless patterns on her skin. The space between them is warm, comfortable. Hange leans her head back and breathes it in—the peace, the quiet, the simple pleasure of spending a tender evening with her favourite person in the whole world.

It’s nice. A small, frightened part of her doesn’t want it to ever end.

**

Hange has been set up in her student apartment for three weeks when the package arrives.

Moving had been harder than she had anticipated. She’d accounted for common issues—problems with her visa, her plane tickets, and had checked multiple transport options from the airport to her accommodation in case problems arose—but she hadn’t put all that much thought into what would happen once she settled at her apartment.

Unpacking had been boring. Her roommates were nice enough, the studious, bookworm-y type, but unlike Hange they weren’t overly sociable. They kept mostly to themselves in their rooms, perfectly content with brief conversations in the kitchen before retiring again, and with classes still two weeks away, Hange was finding the lack of social interaction difficult. She had explored some, but the city was vast in a cluttered, claustrophobic way. Hange had always enjoyed travelling, and had talked relentlessly of every adventure she could take herself on in a whole new country and all the new places she could explore, so much so that it was almost embarrassing, the way she had found herself so unwilling to stray too far from her accommodation without a companion by her side.

She’d felt a little homesick in the first couple of days, lonely and isolated. She missed the small comforts of the country, things she hadn’t even realised she had taken for granted. Quiet nights. Star studded skies. Long grass and trees and the fresh, earthy smell on the breeze. The city was unbearably loud at times, and even when the wail of sirens or the beep of car horns quieted, there was an unidentifiable hum beneath it all that never ceased even for a moment.

She felt Levi’s absence most acutely. Hange had known she would, but she hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt to be apart. She felt silly for it—it was ridiculous, to miss her friend more than she missed her own family, even. But Levi’s presence had been more constant than anything else, back home, and without him, she felt like a small part of herself was missing.

He called, as promised. Once a day, though oftentimes it was very late in the night for him, and he sounded tired. If Hange were less selfish, she might tell him to get some sleep instead—but she missed him. Hearing from him was the best part of her day.

It was about an hour before their designated call time when the post came. Hange answers the bell with a frown, which only deepens when the delivery driver hands her the package.

She takes it into her room, settling cross legged on the bed and inspecting the mystery item. It's a decent size, like a large shoe box, wrapped neatly in brown paper with her address lettered in tidy, familiar handwriting in one corner. Hange’s stomach lurches—she’d have recognised the writing anywhere, but her suspicions are confirmed by the return address. Levi’s.

She rips into the paper quickly, snatching up her keys to tear through the tape on the top of the box. It is stuffed full with packing paper, an envelope with her name on it sitting on the top. Hange picks it up and with trembling fingers, she opens it and unfolds the short note inside.

Hange,

Sorry things have been kind of shitty. This stuff might help or it might make things worse, but I figure you can just throw it out if it’s no good. Or give it away. Whatever. I don’t even know if all of this shit will make it through customs, so if you get an empty box it’s not my fault.

I don’t get how you eat half this junk, but I hope it makes you feel better, anyway.

Look after yourself. Eat real food.

Levi

Hange presses the note to her chest, grinning. Her heart aches, but having Levi go to this much trouble for her...it feels nice. Knowing he is still thinking of her. She’d never have admitted it out loud, but Hange had been concerned that perhaps Levi would forget about her after all, without her there to pester him all the time.

She pulls out some of the packing paper, and smiles widely at the rest of the contents.

Levi had put together what Hange can only call a care package. There are packs of her favourite snacks and sweets, things she’d complained she hadn’t been able to find in stores here; crisps, chocolate, hard candy, little mini boxes of sickeningly sugary cereal. There are tea bags with blends Levi knows she likes, each neatly labelled with instructions on what temperature to brew at and how long for. Levi had also packed some of the soaps Hange likes, the ones he uses but she refuses to buy for herself. The lavender scent drifts up out of the box and Hange’s heart squeezes tight in her chest. There’s a shirt in there, too—Hange recognises it at once, as one of Levi’s old, worn tees, thin grey cotton that feels impossibly soft in her hands. It’s far too big for either of them, and had always been the go-to item Levi would chuck at her when she decided she was staying over for the night and had nothing to wear to bed. Hange pulls it on quickly, savouring the soft feel and the smell of it.

In the bottom of the box, there is another envelope. This one is thicker than the first, and Hange knows what it contains before she even opens it.

Photographs. A small pile of them, depicting places she and Levi had frequented from when they were children right up until this last year—her favourite part of the forest, where the trees thin out and the river pools at the foot of a small waterfall. The great, open fields, sometimes full of long grass, sometimes clipped short and striped with windrows. Kuchel’s cafe, with umbrellas raised to block the sun on the tables outside, or else warm and low-lit and cosy in the cold winter. Hange settles back on her pillows as she flicks through each picture, a soft smile on her face. Looking at the images of home hurts, but it isn’t a terrible pain—she longs for these old times and these familiar places, but each recovered memory makes her happy.

In Levi’s pictures she can vividly recall moments in each and every location. He works some kind of magic with a camera, to trigger so many sensory memories—the scent of freshly cut grass, the feel of hay, dry and sharp, poking into her back through her clothing, and the gentle trickle of the river water, the splash of it as it runs over the falls, the feel of it cool on her skin. The tangy zest of fresh-pressed orange juice in the cafe, peach fuzz on her lips and the soft flesh of ripe fruit bursting between her teeth, sticky nectar coating her fingers.

Hange looks at each picture in turn, until she reaches the bottom of the pile, and there she stops abruptly, eyes widening at the last photograph Levi has packed for her.

It is one of Hange, taken in the window of Levi’s bedroom. She was looking out at the night sky, her elbow braced on her bent  knee, chin in her palm, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. The starlight haloed her, shining from her hair and illuminating the jut of her chin, the curve of her nose and the slope of her brow. Behind her, Levi had captured the bright glow of the stars like jewels on a deep velvet canvas. She looked peaceful. Happy. For lack of a better word, beautiful.

Hange grins widely. Her eyes sting and her throat aches, but the picture—the whole box, really—makes her happier than she's felt in weeks. She brews her favourite cup of tea from the blends Levi had sent her and settles into the corner of her bed, lifting her phone to snap a quick selfie. She sends it to Levi, complete with a caption: thank you for my presents 😊 all ready for your call!

Levi responds almost immediately, first with a simple you're welcome. And then, after a minute, you look good. Speak to you soon.

Hange sinks deeper into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her face, masking the pleased flush on her cheeks with the heat from the steam.

**

Hange keeps him longer than usual, today.

There is a simmering warmth in her stomach as she listens to Levi's voice over the line. It comes tinny through the speakers, low and rough in the late hour, and his dark, grainy image looks tired, lamp light casting him half in shadow. They talk of everything and nothing, same as always—Levi tells her about his day, about the cafe and Kuchel, and Hange pouts as she tells him how little progress she is making in befriending her new housemates. Levi never voices any concern for her aloud, but Hange can sense it in the dip of his brows as she talks. She gives him a genuine smile when she reassures him that classes will start soon, and she's confident she will settle better after that.

Levi seems reluctant to leave, but after a little over an hour of aimless, comfortable chatter, he is yawning and blinking heavily, the lower half of his face nuzzled into his pillow. In the end, Hange makes up some watery excuse about visiting the coast while the sun is still high, if only to let him get some sleep.

"Sure. Have fun."

"I will! Sleep well, Levi."

Levi hums. The view shifts, blurry and indistinct, the mic muffled by the rustle of sheets, and when everything settles he is laying on his side, fringe mussed and falling over his eyes. He covers another long yawn with his fist. "I will."

"You'll call tomorrow?"

Levi rolls his tired eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a fraction of a smile. "Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Hange grins. Levi watches her for a long moment, eyes scanning over her face. Then he holds up a hand in a tired wave. "Night, Hange."

"Night."

Hange stares at the screen for too long when the call ends. That terribly selfish part of her would have loved to keep his company for the rest of the day. Maybe, with a little travel sized Levi in the palm of her hand, she'd have been brave enough to explore some more, enthused about all the new things to see with somebody to share them with.

Sighing, Hange drops her phone to the desk and stands from the bed, stretching. There are still things she can do—she has plenty of recommended reading to get through, a small mountain of books at her disposal, and she has mapped the route to her campus often enough that she isn't feeling too overwhelmed by the prospect of the journey.

As she heads for the door, Hange notices something on the floor beside the bed. A neat, rectangular piece of paper; one of the photographs Levi had sent her, laying face down on the ground.

She picks it up again and brings the paper close to her face. Levi had written something on the back of it in small, quick letters, less tidy than his usual practiced script, as though he’d scribbled it as an afterthought, or else that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to read it.

There is a date, the same night she had found Levi’s secret photo stash, followed by Hange’s name, and the location of the shot. And beneath that Levi had scrawled a few words. Hange squints to read them, and then her eyes grow wide, blinking owlishly down at the note. Her heart swells almost painfully and something solid balloons within her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her lips tremble into a smile as she props the picture carefully on the bedside table.

The day is still young. Hange brews herself another cup of Levi’s tea and settles on the bed with one of her books, content to spend the next few hours reading—though she finds it strangely difficult to focus, with the words Levi had written on the back of the photograph swirling round and round in her head. Hange doubts they will leave her any time soon. They left her feeling more homesick than ever, but there is a soft, giddy kind of comfort in them all the same. It's a feeling that Hange will savour for as long as she possibly can.

It's weird here without you. Come home again soon x

[tweetracer]

Hi! I love your writing, and completely understand if you don't feel like writing this. Could you do something where the reader loves Halloween and dresses up as a vampire as a joke to surprise the boys at the boardwalk or at a Halloween party in the cave. You can decide what to do with the story, I just thought that would be cute.

LOST BOYS  x  S/O HALLOWEEN COSTUME

DAVID

When you jumped out from behind a display at Max’s video store, fully decked out in a Dracula-esque cape and plastic fangs, David thought it was the cutest thing in the entire world.

Not like he’d ever tell you that, though.

He only rolled his eyes, trying to hide the little pull of a smile on his lips by pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long-suffering sigh.

��This is borderline offensive, kitten”

Despite all his fussing he still stuck his arm out to you, pressing a kiss to your temple and letting you lead him around towards the various attractions and food stalls- all decorated for Halloween.

The whole night he was staring at you, expression turning exasperated anytime you made eye contact while he scrambled to cover up the adoration in his gaze.

When you’d finally dragged him up into the ferris wheel (”Kitten I can fly. This is like going paragliding with a pigeon”) he quieted down, opting to lean back into his seat and watch you watch the crowd below.

That stupid cape hung loose off your shoulders, the faux fangs long since abandoned after getting stuck in a candy apple. Your hair was a tangled mess from all the rides and the festival lights cast a halo around you.

God he was whipped.

Just as the little cart you were in came to a rocking halt at the top of the wheel he extended his hand to you, pulling you close and pressing an unusually tender kiss to your lips. His hands held either side of your face, foreheads together as he pulled back to look at you, gaze soft before a mischievous grin pulled at his lips.

“You know, kitten. If you really wanted to be a vampire all ‘ya had to do was ask”

PAUL

"Doll you should totally be a vamp for Halloween”

When Paul had suggested it and offered to buy steal a costume for you, you were all too happy to have someone equally willing to have fun on your favorite holiday.

And the fact that you were going as a vampire-  with an actual vampire? So cool- the coolest. It was going to be a hilarious inside joke for just the two of you (and also the other vamps of course.. and also probably the Frog Brothers).

When Paul strolled up ten minutes before you needed to meet the other boys at the boardwalk with something that could only loosely be called clothing, let alone a costume, you were disappointed but not surprised.

The skimpy leather shorts, the straps along the chest and the despicably studded ‘cape’ combined with a set of fake plastic fangs read less as ‘vampire’ and more ‘vampire-themed lingerie’.

You stared, slack-jawed at the revealing outfit, not entirely sure if Paul’s insistence of “Babydoll you’re gonna look so good in this-” was actually encouraging you or not. Short on time and low on shame (after all, it was Halloween- most people are going to be either too wasted to notice or wearing even less than you) you quickly geared up.

Paul was all wolf-whistles and flirty pick-up line, his hand inching just a bit too high remain PG before you’d swat it away.

When you finally arrived at the boardwalk Paul’s mood quickly went downhill.

Like.... he knew people were going to look at you- after all you were totally smokin’ in that vampire getup. But... well he didn’t expect so many people to actually have the balls to come up and flirt with you. Especially when he was right there.

The whole night he was snappy and frustrated, progressing from just wrapping his arm around your waist to practically hanging off of you while the two of you listened to the loud music from the Halloween concert.

Finally he’d had it when some dude in a shitty store-bought wolfman mask groped your ass.

Paul went full vamp, snarling and growling as he decked the guy in the face, picked you up like you weighed nothing, and climbed up and over the crowd- charging till the two of you were alone at the beach.

He was still growling and clung to you like a lifeline while you tried not to laugh, burrowing his still vamped-out face against your neck and mumbling bitterly.

You rolled your eyes and let yourself be held, running your hands through his hair and pressing chaste kisses to his cheek when he finally sat back- giving his face a little squeeze.

“You wanna go home?” you offered gently, letting him run a hand down your back- feeling his calloused palm stop at the hem of those obscenely short shorts.

His gaze went from pouting to mischievous when he glanced up at you, all fangs and yellow eyes. You could see something formulating in his mind when he finally spoke up.

“Hey babe”

“Yeah?”

“You make a fang-tastic vampire”

DWAYNE

Dwayne stared at you for about twenty seconds, expression impossible to read before he covers his face with his hands, the tiniest hint of redness creeping up on his cheeks behind his fingers.

You laughed as he stood there, having a genuine conniption because oh god this is so adorable, before finally threading your arm through his and dragging him off to wander around the boardwalk.

Your nights were usually a balance of silence and conversation, easily drifting between enjoying each other’s company to chatting about whatever came to mind. Tonight, however, he was almost dead silent- following behind you while he held your hand, giving that tiny little smile that he only shared with you as you bounced from one carnival game to another. 

The two of you wandered around the boardwalk, toting an absurd amount of stuffed toys from the games all the while still squeezing Dwayne’s hand as he followed behind you.

With the concert’s blaring music in the distant background he watched as you hung on the edge of the railing, cape falling around your shoulders as you peered down below at the slowly rising tide.

Gripped with emotion he wrapped his arms around your waist, squeezing you into his chest till you turned and he could press a tender kiss to your lips.

He picked you up, grabbing the back of your thighs to wrap around his hips and holding you as tightly as he could. With a step, Dwayne floated up to stand with impossibly skilled balance on the rickety arm rail. His laugh was low and rumbling where you were pressed against his chest. 

You held on tighter to him as he fell forwards, the two of you dangling upside-down on the bottom of the boardwalk and the ends of your cape getting wet from the gently churning water below.

Despite your slight dizziness you laughed, pressing your face against his chest and holding on for dear life even though you knew he’d never drop you.

Hanging here, wrapped in his arms and feeling the occasional ocean spray on your cheeks was better than any ride.

MARKO

Marko was a whirlwind of energy on a normal day- but on Halloween? The coolest holiday of the year? Where he could wander around fully vamped out and not have a single person look at him weird?

He was unstoppable.

The two of you were dressed to the nines in ‘classic vampire’ costumes, Marko’s bright leather jacket and boots exchanged for a truly dashing three-piece suit with a long sleek black cape and his wild mane of curls braided elegantly along his back.

Frankly? He looked hot as hell. And he seemed to share the opinion, the whole night he had an arm around your waist- baring fangs at anyone who got a little too close or stared a little too long. You two were the power couple of the boardwalk.

Brain addled with the adrenaline of walking around vamped-out and an obscene amount of sugary candy, Marko was practically bouncing off the walls.

He dragged you towards every ride and event, hollering at the top of his lungs and swinging you into the air if you were going to slow- laughing how you’d yelp and scream every time.

Things were going great until some guy in a Robin Hood outfit tried to get a little handsy with you- a palm inching up against the bare skin of your back as attempted to corral you away from the contortionist you were watching.

One second Mr. Robin Hood was on his feet attempting to pull you away from the crowd and the next thing you knew he was on the floor, jaw almost certainly broken with Marko standing over him, blonde hair coming loose from its braid to fan out around him dramatically.

The scary music, the sharp fangs, the long cape billowing in that Santa Carla breeze.... Marko looked like a vision of death as he snarled, eyes yellow and fist raising to give another hard blow to the man’s face.

While you would’ve been content to watch your Gorgeous Boyfriend rip this guy a new one, the sound of police sirens getting closer told you it was time to get going.

“Let’s dash, babe” Marko’s voice was a low breathy rumble. He grabbed you by the hand and charged back towards his bike, leaving the chaos behind as you laughed your asses off.

The two of you collapsed on the sands of the beach, laying side by side and laughing at the full moon- tears streaming down your cheeks as the height of the moment began to fade.

Your silly cape was scrunched beneath you and you could feel sand start to slip into your boots and under your shirt.

The moment was perfect.

A gloved hand slipped into yours and you felt Marko scoot closer, flipping onto his stomach to watch you through lidded eyes.

When you turned to look at him a red blush was patched across his face, his lips were open as he watched you, moving slow to lean in and kiss your cheek, hovering there a moment before he began peppering your face in soft kisses.

When he finally kissed you on the lips you swore there were fireworks going off behind your eyes. His lips were chapped and soft, the hand that ran delicately over your cheek was cool to the touch as he pressed himself impossibly closer to you.

He tasted like sugar.

When he pulled back he was still staring at you with that pure, unadulterated adoration that made your face go red and your heart do that silly little flip-flop.

Reveling in your embarrassment, he pressed another series of soft kisses down your chin, giving your collar bone a rough bite that made you gasp in surprise, your hand flying up to rest on his chest.

You could feel his pleased hum vibrate against your neck when he mumbled out a sultry

“Trick or treat...”

[ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa]

Footprints in the Sand

Part 10: Start a War

Summary/Author's Note: TWO MONTHS. Two fucking months Oberyn was silent in my head and y’all suffered for it. I just knew everyone would stop caring about this fic because I let you all down but I posted that it was coming back and my inbox and DMs have been BLOWING UP all fucking night. I love you guys and I am very emotional. Enjoy. 

We had to have just a little drama but of course I would never keep our main three from going to Dorne. Oberyn knows perfectly well that there will be consequences to his actions--he does not care. We are officially in double digits people?? This is unreal. Also, please listen to this song to get the feeeeeeel of what’s going on. 

Pairing: Oberyn x Ellaria x Lannister!Reader Word Count: 4.1k Warnings/ratings: 18+/R - Distress, Sad!Oberyn (this was hard to write but I fixed it), murder, throat slashing, Oberyn is angry and reckless.

[Parts] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]  [MASTERLIST]

The waves crashed against the rocks with as much gentleness as was possible for the crags of King’s Landing. The air was cold, but the sky a crisp blue as the sun started to peak over the water. It was a good day for sailing, a good day for travel, and most importantly a good day for going home. Oberyn leaned on one of the posts on the boardwalk leading out into the waters as he watched his soldiers ready the ship. He held the slip of parchment in his fist, torn between crumpling it, re-reading it for the hundredth time, or throwing it into the ocean. 

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this.’

Six words. After this week was that all they meant to you? The note was signed at the bottom with your name but he couldn’t believe it. His guts churned with the idea that what the three of you had shared in the brothel could be summed up in such a small note. He crushed it in his fist again and swallowed the lump in his throat as he tossed it into the sea. He watched it float down to the surface before getting swallowed by a wave and wished it was the sorrow he felt instead.

“My love?”

Oberyn looked over his shoulder as Ellaria came to stand behind him and put her hand on his sleeve, the other gripped his bicep as she bowed her head to kiss his shoulder. Her eyes were red and despite the stern, stoic way she held her body he knew she had spent most of the morning with silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She had put most of her energy into ignoring their existence, and he didn’t dare bring attention to them.

“I thought she’d come,” Oberyn said flatly as he looked back out onto the horizon.

“So did I,” she whispered against his cloak.

He knew it had been quick, a passion spurred on by spite and excitement, but he thought despite the amount of time, there was a certain kinship between you. The idea of not belonging in one place, of wanting to see what wonders the world held--they could give that to you. That and so much more. All it required of you was a leap of faith and yet you were choosing to stay with the Lannisters.

Looking back to the city, looming in the twilight of the morning, it was as if he was waiting for you to come running over the hill. If it was possible, he would stand here and wait as long as he had to.

"I vow to worship your body with my mouth, hands, and cock, every night once we're in Dorne." “Promise?”

He had made you that promise against that table in the library with his cock buried inside of you and you had called him your prince. Had it all been for nothing? Was it just a pretty sentiment said in the height of ecstasy? The thought made a twinge of pain blossom in his chest and he pushed it deep into the background of his subconscious. If you truly didn’t want to go to Dorne, if you didn’t want Ellaria, if you didn’t want..him--he wanted to hear it come from your own lips.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he rubbed his beard in thought. “Who did you say brought the note?”

“I don’t know,” Ellaria answered honestly. “Your men said the messenger was wearing Lannister colors.”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Oberyn stood up straight and walked towards the plank ramp that was leading up to his ship. He stopped the captain of his guard with a gesture of his hand and the man stood at attention with his hand on his scimitar. “Change of plans.”

“But, my prince--” the man looked startled as he faced him. “We’re almost ready to set sail.”

“Then you’ll be ready when I return.” Oberyn held up his hand and stopped another of the guards from walking one of the horses up the ramp.

“Return?” Ellaria spoke up and turned Oberyn to face her instead. “What are you doing?”

“She didn’t write that, Ellaria--”  

“Oberyn--”

“Someone else did.”

“Listen to yourself--”

“My gut is never wrong. She’s in trouble--”

“Oberyn!” Ellaria grabbed both of his upper arms tightly, digging her fingers into the fabric of his yellow sleeves as she fought the urge to shake him. “I thought she would come, as well. I’m heartbroken that she--” She shook her head and swallowed hard. “That she doesn’t want us. But what are you going to do? Storm the Red Keep with a handful of men? And what if you’re wrong--what then?”

“I’m not wrong. And I don’t need a handful of men--I have me.” He gave her waist a squeeze in return and leaned forward to capture her lips and kiss her hard. It was brief, but it caught her off guard just enough to release her hold on him as he walked around her to the horse.

“Don’t do this,” Ellaria pleaded once she recovered, but it fell on deaf ears. Oberyn was many things, but with his fearlessness often came a stupidity that Ellaria knew was going to put her in an early grave.

“Captain,” Oberyn addressed the man from before as he undid his traveling cloak and tossed it to one of the other soldiers.

“Your grace?” The stoic man stood up straighter and gave a nod of attention.

“No one, except myself, is allowed on this ship. You are to stay with my paramour and keep her safe at all costs, do you understand?” Oberyn gave him a very serious gaze and the other man nodded.

“I’m coming with you,” Ellaria protested, but Oberyn shook his head as he grabbed the horn of the saddle and hoisted himself up onto the animal with a swing of his leg.

“No,” He said curtly, rubbing his hand along hers on his knee to soften the sting of his words. “You are correct in saying I will not be able to take the Keep by force. I’m going to go get her, and come back unseen--I need you ready to sail the moment our feet touch the deck.”

“This will have consequences.”

“Everything we do always does.”

She bit her lip and lowered her dark eyes at him. There was no arguing with him. He had clearly made up his mind. “Be careful.”

He grinned and gave her a nod. “I always am.”

“If that were true, I would worry less,” She said. He chuckled before clicking his tongue and spurring the horse forward back across the dock and back into the city.

--

It was early enough in the city square that barely anyone was in the streets. The shops and carts were still closed and the morning air was the cold, crisp kind that seemed to permeate one’s lungs and make them feel clean. The metal shoes of the horse clopped softly as Oberyn turned the reins and clicked his tongue again leading the animal down an alleyway.

The shadows swallowed him as he moved along the wall and pulled the animal up short, dismounting gracefully. He moved the reins up over the animal’s head and tied the leather straps to a beam that was protruding from the stone walls.

He knew the tower that held the servants quarters and the one that had held the bedchambers for the Lannisters when Elia had been queen. Ellaria would have skinned him alive if she had known that was what he was basing his entire plan off of--a memory of the castle layout that was the better part of a decade old.

He ran his hand along the damp stones of the wall that led down the alley and around the larger part of the tower. There were no guards to be seen, as they were no doubt guarding the doors, but he wasn’t looking for a door--he was looking for a window. He looked up, carefully pulling a bit of the mortar that held the stones in place from the wall and crumbled it between his fingers. Humming his approval, he pulled his dagger from the sheath on his side and reached up as high as he would and started digging one of the bricks loose.

He put his dagger away and grabbed the self-made foothold tightly before hoisting himself up to the metal sconce that held one of the Lannister banners on the side of the wall. With careful, meticulous planning, he found something to hold onto, one right after the other, up the side of the tower. A gap in the bricks, a stone that was slightly larger than the rest, it all served the same purpose. His arms and shoulders ached with the repeated motion of pulling his weight up but he pressed on.

He climbed to where the tower met one of the breezeways of the garden and used it as an opportunity to take a break and reassess. His boots dropped down on the roof of the apex of the tower and movement caught his eye. 

The window directly above him, where he was betting your bedroom was was open. But what was odd was the rope that was hanging down from it, blowing gently in the breeze. No, that wasn’t a rope, that was a long line of bed linens knotted together. The realization made him smirk as he searched the courtyard below for signs of movement.

“Clever woman,” he chuckled quietly to himself.

Staying low, he walked the spine of the roof along the perimeter of the courtyard until he got to the end and looked over into another dark alley. Whatever gods were looking down on him that day, were doing so favorably because just like he had hoped, there you were. You hugged the wall of the alley much like he had, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Not only were you not wearing a dress, leather riding breeches took the place of lacy skirts, but your hair was tucked carefully under the dark hood of your cloak. To the average person walking by, you looked ordinary, easy to miss, unless someone was really looking.

He turned his back to the alley and gripped the edge of the roof, lowering his body down as far as it would go before releasing his grip. His boots made a firm thud on the cobblestone behind you and he moved swiftly, putting one arm around your waist and the other over your mouth. Just as he expected, you tried to scream against his hand but he was quick to speak against your hair.

“It’s me, it’s me--”

You turned in his arms and he loosened his grip enough to let you. The look of utter relief on your face was enough to make his chest tight. He grinned and tucked a strand of your hair back into the safety of your hood.

“Oberyn..”

He let out a grunt and braced his knees as you threw your arms around his neck and put your face against his shoulder. His arms wrapped tightly around your back and he dipped his head to kiss you softly.

“It’s alright. You’re alright,” he said, quietly.

"How did you know to come? I thought you were supposed to sail this morning before dawn. I was worried I would be too late."

“We are--but I knew something was wrong. I knew you didn’t send that note.” he rubbed his hands up and down your arms as if to keep you warm and convince himself that you were indeed real.

“What note?” You asked, a flash of fear crossing through your eyes followed quickly by realization. “Cersei--she said that she was going to send word to you and Ellaria that I had changed my mind.”

“She did,” he nodded. “But it wasn’t very convincing.” He winked and you gave a sigh of relief and hugged him again. "If you don't wish to go to Dorne, I expect to hear it from your own lips."

"No--" you blurted out and put your hand to your mouth, looking around the alleyway for any signs of another person. "No, I want to go--I want you, and Ellaria."

He smiled then and let his large hand cup the side of your face, allowing you to lean into his touch as he backed you up against the stone wall and kissed you deeply. "I was hoping that's what you would say." He whispered against your lips and you put your hands on his chest, gripping his tunic. He allowed himself to indulge for only a moment before he pulled back and said to the space between you, "We need to go. Ellaria is waiting and I fear the longer we wait, our odds of getting caught only increase."

You nodded quickly. "Cersei gave the order that if anyone wearing Martell colors came to the castle, they were to be killed on sight--especially you and Ellaria."

"Did she now? Well, that might make things interesting." He chuckled, but it held no joy, it was a noise of spiteful entertainment. "Come on," he grabbed your hand and walked ahead of you, keeping the majority of your body behind him.

The two of you hurried along the wall and you let Oberyn guide you down the alley and around the corner as he clearly retraced his steps. He stopped abruptly, almost causing you to collide with his back as he spotted his horse, now being inquisitively observed by two of the king's guard. They carefully untied the beast from its tether to the wall and looked at one another in confusion. Two against one? Those were favorable odds in his eyes.  

"Stay here," he said, planting you against the bricks with a firm hand on each of your arms.

"Oberyn--Obr--fuck." You tried to protest but he was already gone.

He moved like his nickname implied, swift and silent, like a snake in the sand. He grabbed the hilt of his dagger and pulled it from his belt, his hand wrapped securely around it as he reached the two guards. They never stood a chance as the prince grabbed the taller one by the back of the helmet, jerked his head backwards, and wrapped his arm around the front of him to run the blade across his throat in a dramatic display of red. The horse whinnied and reared back, taking a few steps away from the group of men.

“Stop!” The other guard yelled, as his comrade fell to his knees and then face down, unmoving on the stone.

The command didn’t do any of good, as Oberyn rushed him before he could pull his long sword. The Prince raised his knee and kickied the long sword from his hand with a clang. Oberyn used the momentum and slammed him up against the brick stones, the man tried to scream and he drove the blade of his dagger into his open mouth, through the back of his head, pinning him against the bricks. Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling an involuntary noise of shock as you watched the man’s body twitch, resembling a butterfly pinned to a board in a Maester’s laboratory.

Oberyn leaned in, gripping the man’s hair as blood poured down his chin and he fought his body’s urge to close his mouth around the blade. Any screams he may have made were strangled around the steel as he looked at his attacker with horrified eyes.

“You can keep the dagger,” Oberyn said quietly, close to the man’s face, as he traced his finger down the detailed snake on the hilt. “I want Jaime and the queen to know I was here.”

He looked back at you, expecting to see horror on your face, disgust, regret, anything that would have you second guessing your decision to go with him now that you had seen such a thing. But you were a Lannister, and when he extended his hand to you, you took it willingly. He pulled you behind him only dropping your hand long enough to hoist himself up onto the horse and reach back down to lift you up as well.

You put your hands in the mane of the animal as one of his arms came around the front of your body and held your back tightly against his chest. He dug the heels of his boots into the haunches of the horse and it bolted, thundering hooves against the stone. It was no longer about being quiet. It was about being quick, and putting as much distance between the you and King’s landing as possible.

The two of you rode hard and fast through the streets of the city. People waking up for the day and starting to open up their homes and shops looked at you with curious speculation but you moved too swiftly for much else. Oberyn’s arm was a comforting weight along your stomach and you put one of your hands over it, leaning back into his chest to ground yourself against the jerking of the horse as it galloped.

The minute the docks came into view you felt like you could breathe again. Your chest ached from the anticipation of being unable to see your destination but it was the image of Ellaria standing tall at the edge of the ship that made you want to burst into tears. She looked absolutely stunning, in her burnt orange robes, soft dark leather bodice and matching riding trousers. She was a siren on the water, and she was waiting to call both of you home.

“Sails!” She yelled, over her shoulder to the men behind her and Oberyn’s captain nodded in agreement before moving to make sure everyone within earshot followed her orders.

Your body jerked as Oberyn steered the stallion up the ramp to the ship and jumped it over the edge onto the deck with a loud thud. He let the animal slow to a trot as its chest heaved from the exertion and it blew loud breaths through its nostrils. He pulled up on the leather reins and came to a stop just as the ship shoved off from the port and Ellaria picked up her robes and came running down off of the quarterdeck.

No sooner had Oberyn released you to slip from the saddle and to the ground did she have you gathered in her arms. Your hood fell and she put her hands in your hair and kissed you. “Thank the gods,” she breathed against your mouth and you smiled, a few tears of relief forming in the corners of your eyes.

Oberyn swung his leg and jumped down, handing the beast off to one of his men before turning a fond grin upon the two of you. “I do believe I told you so.”

“Not now,” she chastised him with a smile and a shake of her head but she kept her gaze on you. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Ellaria--” you swallowed hard and took her hands in yours and gripped them tightly. “I didn’t--I would never have left..”

“I know, I know, sweet girl,” she brushed your hair back from her face and nodded. “Oberyn knew. You’re safe.” She kissed you again and drew you into her body, resting her chin on your shoulder and looking at Oberyn standing behind you. “What have we done?” she asked with a smile, her tone saying full well that the consequences didn’t matter.

“With any luck,” he shrugged and rubbed his chin as a smirk overtook his face. “We started a war.”

--

You had no idea just how long you had been on the open water, the days all seemed to run together. The sun rose, the sun set, and as far as the eye could see was just blue water that blended with blue skies. Your fingers twisted idly in the chain of your mother’s necklace that sat nestled between your breasts inside of your bodice--the only worldly possession you had made sure to grab when fleeing the Red Keep. Your lovers had assured you that their first task in Dorne would be to buy you everything you needed, but none of that seemed to matter that much.

The whole feeling of getting further and further away from your old life in King’s Landing seemed surreal. The idea that you didn’t have to return to Casterly Rock didn’t feel like it could possibly be true, but it was. As you stood on the bow of the ship with your hands on the railing and the wind in your hair, you knew that it was true--there was no going back.

Solidly strong arms slid around your waist as sun kissed skin nosed your neck and you leaned back against the solid chest of Oberyn Martell. You had been so caught up in your thoughts, that you hadn’t heard his boots on the planks behind you.

“How is she?” you asked quietly and he spoke as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“She’s fine,” he heaved a sigh when you reached back to put your hand in his hair. “Finally asleep--hopefully she stays that way for a while.”

True to what she had told you in the brothel, as soon as the ship broke the waters of the open ocean, Ellaria had become almost violently sea sick. She had spent the majority of the trip with her entire body over the wooden rails, Oberyn and you taking turns holding her long, dark curls out of the way as she emptied her stomach until there was nothing left. She refused to eat, and when she finally caved and allowed even the smallest morsel to pass her lips, it wound up back in the water a few hours later.

“I feel awful for her.”

“It happens every time,” he said, trying to ease your concerns. “It is a small price to pay to see the world--her words, my dear, not mine.”

You nod and keep your eyes on the horizon as he moves your hair to the side. The action bares your neck to him and your eyes close slowly as you feel his lips start a trail at your shoulder.

“Did you ever send word to your family?” You asked finally, putting your hands over his on your abdomen.

“No,” he answered flatly. “I thought I’d let it be a surprise.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.” Your voice was chastising and it made him nip your neck and chuckle when you jumped.

“I’m a Prince of Dorne,” he continued. “You need to get used to that. You don’t need to ask permission anymore.” He kissed up to the shell of your ear and whispered. “What’s our rule?”

The action caused you to shiver and you squeezed his hand. “Don’t apologize.”

“Exactly. Most people spend their entire lives making excuses and apologies for the things they truly desire--we are not most people.” One of his hands slid up from your waist to cup your breast through your bodice as he licked a slow, wet line down the side of your throat.

“Oberyn…” you bit your lip and let out a shaky breath before briefly glancing over your shoulder to make sure none of his men had their attention on the two of you. “Stop--” you moved his hand from your breasts and back to your waist.

“As you wish,” he grinned against your skin and went back to resting his chin on your shoulder and looking out at the water. “But the second we get settled in our chambers in the palace--you and Ellaria are both mine.”

“Our chambers?” you asked, turning your head to smile at him and he hummed in agreement.

“Of course. Unless you’d rather sleep elsewhere?” he teased and chuckled as you shook your head. He was quiet for a few moments before he squeezed you gently, moving one of his arms to point across the horizon. “Look, my love.”

Your gaze followed his arm and your heart raced as the horizon broke to show that there was indeed land on the other side of the world. The smile that broke across your face was so wide that it almost hurt. Unlike the shore of King’s landing and Casterly Rock, there were no cliffs, no crags, no ragged edges to dull the beauty of the waves and darken the landscape. No, this was very different. The sandy beaches were warm and inviting, the foam from each crest of the waves broke against the shoreline and rolled back to let the sunlight sparkle off of the surface. You wanted to jump into the water, to feel the sand against your skin, to immerse yourself in what was to be your new home.

As if sensing your thoughts, Oberyn lowered his voice and spoke against your hair, “Welcome to Dorne, Lioness.”

--

[Next Chapter]

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[seizethecarpe]

Know By Hart || Solo

Timing: Current Summary: No matter how practiced he was, Dave had never been good with grief. Triggers: Somehow… none. Contains grief.  Author note: Before you read this, I want us all to remember that I’m completely innocent please file your complaints to the local mime ungulate 

In 2004, José De Nueves had walked into Dave’s life. He’d had an easy smile and slightly glassy eyes. It had taken a rusalka, a Swedish fortune teller, and three drinks for José to hold up his hair and reveal in true depth the feathery scars that framed his face. He grinned with two teeth missing as he’d explained the tendril like creatures he’d hunted for one night. “Made me the perfect soldier,” He’d said with a laugh as he downed his whiskey glass. “I don’t give a fuck about anything.”

When Dave had followed his scent to a crypt a year later, he’d found a spawn chewing on José’s drained neck, a stark reminder of how the smallest mistakes could make even the routine hunt a death sentence. He’d wondered that night if José had even cared as they’d ripped his guts out in front of them, felt anything at all as they’d dragged it out of him until his intestines had torn all over the cemetery lawn. Or if he’d screamed and begged for his family anyway, right at the end, his soul returning to life only when it was too little, too late.

Unsure which fate was worse, Dave’d raised a glass in the man’s memory, and chose to forget. 

——- 

In ‘11, there had been Jasmine. Her honey warm skin highlighted the feathery scar that tucked under her jaw. Her bar, her spare room and her bed had all been Dave’s home for a little. But she’d always been clear that when push came to shove, he wasn’t her priority, he wasn’t human enough to risk her life for. All the same, they’d talked for hours under the thick cover of clouds as they waded up mountains to find the monstrous beast contaminating the local springs, they’d talked through her thick cigarette smoke, outside the fading wooden sign of her bar. They had talked more than Dave had spoken to anyone in years. She bared his soul, little by little, and in turn one day she told him about the nest nearby that she sent her friends too when they had lost one thing too many. Dave had listened intently, harder than he’d listened to anything, until the glass in his hand had shattered. 

Not too long, she’d warned. You could lose too much of yourself too fast, and end up more ghost than man. The next day Dave had hiked five miles, peering into the edge of a dried out lake, and saw the silvery creatures there, languidly floating through the air with a dozen tentacles. Dave thought of José, all light gone from behind his eyes, and Jasmine whose grief sometimes sounded wrong, like an untrained actor on the stage. Dave turned and left, hungry tendrils chasing after him fir half a mile.

Two years later, Jasmine had insisted she was retired at forty two, but there hadn’t been another slayer for a hundred miles, so she had come when he’d called anyway. Some cruel unnatural winds had extinguished their fires, and when the aipaloovik wrapped its arms around her and pulled her underwater, Dave made just one attempt to get her free before he told himself there was nothing he could do. 

The white polyps she’d told him about haunted his thoughts longer than she did. A quiet, gentle what if. 

——-

Last year, Dave had met a boy wearing a grin like armour and who considered his enhanced healing another weapon in his arsenal. Dave had saved him from drowning, the kid had saved his life with the penance for the murder of Winn Woods. And then the saving had happened again, over and over, until it became as routine as the wise cracks and eye rolls. 

He loved you. It rattled around in his head. When he’d seen the words on his phone in what had obviously been a final goodbye, Dave hadn’t let them ring any more true than the promise that they’d go fishing with beers. Now, the caster’s voice was stuck in his head, sneaking up on him when he was elbow deep in the bowels of his van’s engine, as he garroted a fish to eat in his human form, when he covered his body with slime to slide into his seal pelt. Sixty feet of ocean above him and he still wasn’t safe from Nell Vural’s voice. Thanks for that, Adam.

It was worst in the mundane moments, like folding laundry, because his mind churned while his hands were busy. See, Dave found it easiest to associate with hunters because he always knew they were destined to die. Everyone agreed there were things no one talked about because there was the deep undercurrent of knowing that Dave probably broke most of their codes, but as long as they didn’t know, it could go ignored. It was an emotional barrier that suited everyone just fine. Until now, apparently.

Dave smoothed his fingers over the edge of a shirt that had seen better days, folding it down as tight as he could before putting it away in a drawer that clipped into the wall of his van. His van was a mess, fishing gear scattered across the floor, seaweed drying on a bucket he hadn’t cleaned out, photos hanging skew on the wall. He wasn’t ever perfectly neat because how humans took care to keep their possessions perfectly in line was alien to him (the sea was never tidy), but he damn well knew he could do better than this. 

Humans considered it a sign of intimacy to show someone their living spaces. Dave couldn’t remember the last time he’d let anyone in here that he wasn’t giving a ride elsewhere. Adam hadn’t known him, not really. Hadn’t seen the emptiness in Dave’s heart, that the fire that kept him going ran on fumes. Who the hell was he to speak of love, when Dave hadn’t let him deeper than his second skin? That there was so little left in Dave worth loving. 

He looked down at the shirt he was folding, the collar pressed down skewed and the sides lined up at angles, and realised at some point he’d picked up the wonkyphoto from the wall, and the cracked, bloody compass Nell had given him that Dave had put on his bedside table and not looked at again. In the photo, three toothy sharp smiles were yellowed with age, teenage boys tussling in the sand. The photographer’s shadow stretched across the sand beside them, and even twenty five years later he could see the impatience behind the boys’ expressions at the doting woman behind the camera. The brass of the compass offered no such warmth, and filled the interior of the van with the scent of the last blood Adam had ever spilled. He flicked it open, and saw it pointing south west again. How could he forget, his home wasn’t a house but an underwater grave.

Fucking ironic, that each grief pointed so sharply to the other, blurring the lines of his most defining pain. Dave didn’t know how long he stared between one and the other before he returned to folding his shirts, and putting them away. He hung the photo back on the wall, and carefully put the compass away along with the rest of his fishing gear, tucked into fabric so that the scrapes it had taken in Adam’s final moments would be its last. When he was done with the laundry, Dave’s mind was set. 

His grief had always been a call to action.

--------

In the hours of hiking since Dave had set out, White Crest becoming a distant blip on the horizon, Dave hadn’t changed his mind. More doubts should have crept in, but they hadn’t once, his mind clear of thought and feeling already. Just one step past the other, past the purple heather fields and overflooded lily pad ponds, under canopies drooping with pine needles and summer chirping birds. 

White tiny flecks began floating past his face through the trees, which slowly grew as he walked deeper into the heather moors. White floating tendrils extended out, brushing against his clothes and hair. The deeper he walked into the cloud, the more the air felt like water, as if the trees had become kelp forests and he was swimming through clouds of chrinoids. The only thing that made the masses of them different than a mist was that Dave could not feel his way through it. They pulsed around him like Jellyfish, glowing under the setting sun.

In the densest part of the mist, he turned instead to an ethereal white creature at his side, as large as an old TV. Its mass of white tentacles fluttered against Dave’s skin curiously. Shame prickled in his veins, flinching away from those delicate touches. The sick, sinking feeling that this was wrong finally set in, worse than most vices that people leant on for their grief. If Adam could see him- but Adam couldn’t. He wasn’t a single damn person’s role model, and didn’t owe anyone his grief. Not even for a good man whose connection to him had been skin deep and yet reached him to his core. Dave swallowed, and turned back to the town for the first time since he’d made this choice, but all he saw was the clouds of white as he weighed the same thing as so many others had before him. 

Grief had always been a call to action. He stepped a little closer, and didn’t flinch as the tendrils brushed against the side of his face, then latched on.

The tendrils were as gentle as a kiss. He’d expected it to be like the time he’d gotten tangled up in an octopus, suckers bruising his skins for days, but if he hadn’t felt the white static encroaching on his mind, this wouldn’t have been unpleasant at all. Tendrils which hadn’t attached traced over the planes of his face, lulling his eyes closed. Peace spread from those pinpricks deeper into his mind, and he could see the appeal of staying here for eternity. Let them clear him out, until there was nothing left except his mission. 

Dave sighed quietly as he felt himself become lesser. He pulled away, and the tentacles let him, and Dave couldn’t even feel the absence of whatever they had taken. That was good, feeling the loss would have been too close to more grieving. The flickering tendrils of the hartvlinders trailed after him as he hurried away, through the clouds of gentle creatures until he burst out into the dying of the sunlight. 

Dave tested a memory like he might tongue at a broken tooth. Deep in a swamp with the rotting corpse of a giant fish clogging up his nose. Dave gave a countdown before lowering Adam into the cleanest water they could find, working quickly to wash off the last of the acid gunk. Adam had been weak kneed and badly burned after his adventure in the monster’s stomach, but he had shut his eyes dutifully and held his breath as Dave washed the worst of the acid out of his hair with exceeding care. As soon as he was out of the water, he’d cracked a joke filled with post hunt exuberance, one after the other while they waited for their stamina to return, until holding back his grin made his cheeks hurt. They hurt again now, hot tear tracks prickling his face. Dave sagged against a tree, and then down onto his knees. Something was gone, he was sure, but not this. The hartvlinder hadn’t been so goddamn kind as to take away his newest, sharpest grief. Or even what he’d really wanted gone: the regret of words left unsaid, the guilt of outliving another kid, the shame of envying a good man for a life where he’d completed his mission and saved everyone.  

Dave would have to learn to wear it until it became another ropey scar on his heart, another line on his death-weighted net. 

[cupidcreates]

akdsfjkdksj I wasn’t expecting you to churn all this content out so quick (´∀｀)♡ omgosh you went above and beyond with the love language ask!! I love to see your interpretation of these characters so what do the cast consider the perfect date to be? low key vs high key? local vs out of town? -😌✨

Thank you! I’m glad you liked the love language post, sorry it took so long lol. As for their favorite dates I think I’ll do the same characters here:

Katsuki Bakugou

Rock Climbing/Hiking Dates

Canonically one of Katsuki’s favorite things to do is go rock climbing so he’d definitely want to bring a SO along every so often. If you’re an athletic person and enjoy being outdoors this will be a very fun date! If you’re not a very athletic person (as many of us aren’t) Katsuki will settle for just going for a short hike along a trail. Katsuki gets super talkative on hikes as well, as you’re walking he’ll just be talking about literally anything! From Hero work to his friends/family, to things that have been bothering him lately. Whatever is on his mind he’ll share with you while you’re both out, which is incredibly helpful as he doesn’t ever discuss his feelings at any other point in time. Plus it gives him a chance to show off how fit he is in front of you, which you both always consider a plus.

Izuku Midoriya

Movie Dates

A Classic, perhaps a little plain even, but Izuku absolutely loves to take you to the movies. He loves everything about the date, from discussing what you’re about to watch, to getting the snacks, to whispering in the back row (if you’re the type to get annoyed by talking during a movie he’ll keep this to a bare minimum). He loves being able to snuggle up next to you and hold your hand while discussing the finer points of the plot (If you’ll tolerate talking of course). Don’t think he’s being innocent here though, he definitely uses the darkness surrounding you as cover as he runs his hands up your thighs. Unbeknownst to most, Izuku is actually very much a horndog. He conceals it very well but he’s only barely capable of keeping his hands to himself when it comes to his SO. Any chance he gets to touch you he’ll take it, more than likely this is why his second favorite type of date is usually a stay-in date...

Shoto Todoroki

Dinner Dates

Another Classic, Shoto loves to treat his SO to expensive treats with his favorite being food-related dates at lavish restaurants. Not a week goes by that he doesn’t take you out on the town for the night at some place you’re sure you couldn’t even afford a glass of water at. It’s almost never the same place twice either, Shoto is actually a foodie and enjoys trying new types of cuisine whenever he can. He’s got a whole list of places he wants to take you, and if they require reservations he’s already got them locked down. If you love eating Shoto is your man, he’ll make sure you’re set with a wide variety of foods to choose from and always remembers any place you happen to be partial to.

Denki Kaminari

Amusement/Water Park Dates

Denki is a fun-loving guy through and through, he knows how to have a good time and wherever you happen to go he makes sure you do too. That being said, his absolute favorite place to take you is to an amusement or water park. It’s not often you two get to go, as you’re both very busy with your respective hero work most days, but when you do it’s a day-long affair. You’re there from the minute the park opens to the second it shuts down, riding as many rides as you can manage, eating greasy garbage food, and making sure to strike the dumbest poses for any rides that take pictures. You’ve got a whole scrapbook of these photos by now, their ridiculousness increasing with each new one added.

Eijirou Kirishima

Beach Dates

You wouldn’t expect Eijirou Kirishima to be a Thalassophile (Def. Person who loves the ocean) but he is. He adores being on the beach and it’s his preferred location for a date. You’ve spent many a sunny afternoon seaside with Eijirou, building sandcastles, chasing crabs, and just enjoying the ocean. One memorable afternoon you found yourselves right next to a sea turtles nest and you got to watch the babies pop out of the sand and scurry towards the ocean, assisted by Eijirou as he chased off the seagulls looking to make them a meal. Eijirou also enjoys surfing, and if you know how to do so he’ll get you matching boards so you can ride the waves together. If you’re not partial to surfing he’ll be sure to pull out all his tricks while you watch him, he’ll even let you onto his board with him so you two can just float together by the shore. Of course you two can’t go to the beach year round, but when you can you’re both sure to make the most of these sunny days, even if he does get an awful sunburn by the end of it. 

Hitoshi Shinsou

Gaming Dates

Hitoshi isn’t what one would call ‘social’ when given the choice between going out for a night and staying home he’ll almost always choose the latter. So it’s expected that his favorite type of date is one where you two can stay inside and enjoy each others company. You both work so hard as Heros, why not spend your days off relaxing with one another? He can spend hours alone with you, preferably kicking your ass at Mario Party or some other multiplayer game. He doesn’t need anything except you, his consoles, and a pile of your favorite snacks to have a good time. That being said, if you want him to go out for a date the best way to convince him is to take him to some kind of arcade, especially if it’s a VR arcade. He feels a kind of nostalgic joy for these places and won’t hesitate to return and feel like a kid again. Plus it’s always nice to repeatedly prove to you that yes he is the champion of Dance Dance Revolution and you will never usurp this title from him.

Tamaki Amajiki

Park/Picnic Dates

As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, Tamaki loves spending time outdoors; surrounded by and in awe of nature and it’s complex inner workings. He enjoys just taking time to appreciate the world around him, so dates where you can both relax outside and enjoy each other’s company are his favorite kind. He has a specific hill at his favorite park he likes to take you, bringing a lunch of all your favorite foods he sets you both up under the biggest shade tree for an afternoon. You both lay back on your worn picnic blanket and just cloudgaze, talking for hours about anything and everything. Much like Bakugou, Tamaki gets very talkative on these dates, discussing his week with you and anything new he might have learned over the course of it. He’s so very endearing on these dates its easy to fall silent and just listen to him for hours.

Mirio Togata

Crafting Dates

Mirio likes to have memorabilia from your dates, so you can expect a lot of dates to center around making things. More than just your average painting classes Mirio has also taken you to sculpting, woodworking, and glass blowing classes to name a few. At the end of your dates you both exchange what you’ve made and Mirio absolutely adores anything you craft, regardless of its quality in your eyes. He puts his heart and soul into making you something and more often than not it turns out spectacularly. Mirio wasn’t as good with the ceramics class, but you love the warped vase he made (even if it was technically supposed to be a cup at the start, we’ve all been there). Mirio’s kept everything you made him and even has a shelf in his house just dedicated to what you’ve made, it makes him so happy to come home after a hard day of work and see physical memories of his time with you.

Keigo Takami

Aquarium/Zoo Dates

Underneath Keigo’s charming and charismatically upbeat personality lies a bitter and broken man, drained by his role in Hero Society and left an empty shell of his former self. Underneath that personality lies a kid who never got to have a proper childhood and desperately wants to make up for it. He now uses his dates with you to do just that; not that you mind of course, dates with Keigo are always fun and lighthearted and you love to see him truly enjoy himself for once. Keigo’s favorite places to go are definitely large and intricately designed Zoos and Aquariums. He loves to look at the painstakingly accurate and detailed natural habitats, make fun of the stranger animal names you find, and learn new information about foreign bird species. Loves to mimic their calls too, much to the irritation of the birds and the zoo employees. He makes it a point to always get you a stuffed animal at the end of the date, ensuring that you now have a massive collection of them sitting all around your room. You’re always kept up to date on any Zoo or Aquarium events thanks to Keigo, as he has a calendar dedicated to all the unique events they have going on throughout the year.

Touya Todoroki

Crash Dates

Dabi is...well he’s unpredictable at the best of times and it’s very rare that you two have time for anything even resembling a date (being an S class villain does make it hard to exist normally in society and do normal couple things but it ees what it ees). However, when he can take you one a date --well the term “date” is generous here- it’s never a dull one. You’re not sure how he does it but when you go out you always manage to end up somewhere Dabi could never get into naturally. From sold-out concerts, to stand up shows, to parties at lavish houses belonging to people you’ve never even heard of let alone met before; dates with Dabi are always somewhere you two definitely shouldn’t be. One memorable morning he took you to a country club where you got to each fancy exclusive rich people food and play a horrible facsimile of golf before you were eventually found and chased out. It’s always fun to see how long you two can crash an even before being found out.

Tomura Shigaraki

Cemetery/Haunted Places Dates

Tomura Shigaraki is a man who enjoys his space from other people, in his opinion the only good person is a dead one (unless he’s talking about you, of course). So it’s not abnormal for your dates to be in a place far away from others. Again the term “date” is being very generous, more often than not he’ll approach you, tell you to follow him, and you’ll wind up in some abandoned building or graveyard. Normally this would be cause for concern, as this is exactly what happens in horror movies before someone gets killed, but Tomura has a soft spot for you so your safety is ensured. Tomura loves to see a place reclaimed by nature, vines growing over a run down house or worn out gravestones breaking apart into chunks of marble with barely legible words on them. He doesn’t talk much on your dates, but will often give you a random bit of insight about him; like on one date where you both walked alongside abandoned train tracks at dusk and he told you about the dog he had as a child. He seeks no pity from you, and these dates are not the conventionally romantic type, but you enjoy being able to be with Tomura in a way no one else ever has or ever will.

[moonbeamsung]

CRΣΣKS

Love, a second glance, it is not something that we need.

member: jeno

au: guardian angel in disguise!jeno x gn!reader, guardian angel au

word count: 3.4k

genre: angst

warnings: character death/loss, profanity, no happy ending, mentions of religion, questioning/loss of faith

recommended song: 715 - CRΣΣKS by the nor’easters

author’s note: Please be very careful with volume when listening to the song (above) that inspired this story! But even without reading the lyrics/listening, the fic will still make sense, and happy reading :)

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @starryktown

The wind is whistling, weaving in and out of the tall river reeds like an invisible needle and thread, stitching itself into each and every crevice of the world’s gift called nature.

Another one of its many gifts is the young boy that’s resting beside a rushing brook, toes dipped into the cool water and face illuminated by the sun as it beats down onto the earth with celestial strength.

Well, a gift from the heavens, that is.

Sent from the endless skies above, Jeno is your guardian angel, assigned with posing as a humble peasant boy in the village, all to keep a watchful eye on you from afar. In his human form, he spends his days wandering the cobblestone roads and narrow alleyways between the quaint buildings, with no family to return home to at dusk. A sunny meadow on the outskirts of town becomes his home, and he takes refuge in the shelter that the overgrown grass provides.

Everything is going smoothly, and he’s doing his job just as he should be. It’s routine now, waking up and rising from his earthen mattress, curtains of copious plant leaves letting in the sun’s rays. He finds you, observes at a comfortable distance, and that’s that. At its core, being a guardian is really an easy job. A predictable one.

A monotonous one.

Until one day you approach him, youthful eagerness in your eyes piercing and nearly painful, even to his invulnerable body. He’s never seen you up close before, only on the near horizon as you’ve gone about your daily chores, tending to the housework just like any obedient child should.

“...Who are you?”

Now, Jeno is faced with a decision more challenging than any that us mortal beings have to make in our entire lives. Engaging with one’s assignment is an extremely dangerous path to take. Unimaginable punishments await, should the guardian make a wrong choice. But Jeno was careless, and he had allowed himself to be discovered by the only human on Earth that the divine forces permit him to be seen by.

He makes the fatal error of answering you, ultimately shattering a future he’ll never get to live out, one that he doesn’t even know he would’ve had. Like a sharp rock being thrown at a church’s stained glass window, the meticulously carved pieces of his worldly existence fall to the ground with a deafening crash, broken beyond repair.

“I’m Jeno,” the strikingly majestic cadence of his words is like that of angel trumpets, the sound ringing in your head and making you dizzy with both fascination and infatuation.

And just like that, in three short syllables, you’re both fated to fall before you can even spread your wings.

From the moment you hear his name tumble from those beautiful lips, you’re hooked, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you look at him, in the way you act, the way you talk. A child experiencing a first and a forbidden love all at once.

It breaks his heart, because he knows it can’t, and shouldn’t last. The churning rapids of the creek nearby weep for him, for they know that in a matter of just a few short years, their waters are destined to mix with the salty tears that will steadily cascade from your trembling chin.

Jeno remembers, although vaguely, the brief amount of time he spent living amongst the clouds, being prepared by the heavenly elders for this expedition of a lifetime, quite literally. He remembers the scriptures, the strictures, and all the times he’s been warned of the severe consequences that come with immorality.

But even the purest of young angels aren’t infallible, still susceptible to compulsions that lead them to sin and defy their creator.

Relishing in the fading daylight, you join him by the water’s edge, listening to his soothing tone as he answers your ceaseless inquiries with harmless little lies as white as heavenly robes and cherub wings.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. The first sin.

It’s interesting, he thinks, that despite looking after you in the endeavors of your youth for quite a while now, he knows next to nothing about who you truly are. Actions may speak louder than words, but how can he know that if he’s never heard your voice to begin with?

As the quiet, languid conversation shifts from his purpose there to yours, Jeno learns that you’re very content with your life, taking pride in helping your family with daily tasks as well as assisting your neighbors in the close-knit village with theirs.

Just then, all the smears of dirt and scattered scratches adorning your face catch his attention, gained after hours of hard work. No amount of water is ever enough to scrub them off of your skin at the end of the day, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, you feel tears prick your eyes as you try to fall asleep at night, frustrated with your lowly appearance and how it never seems to match your relatively optimistic outlook on life.

But Jeno doesn’t care. You’re breathtaking even in his eyes, the eyes that belong to an actual angel. If that fact alone isn’t enough to boost your confidence, he doesn’t know what else possibly could.

Like a fool, he lets himself drown in your sublimity for a moment, marveling at the ethereal glow of the sun on your smooth, ageless face. The faint noise of wisps of air blowing gently through the meadow and rustling the flora makes him drowsy, but the sight of a pure white heron landing gracefully on the opposite side of the riverbank brings him back to full consciousness in an instant.

The bird, an omen of sorts, had been sent down from Heaven, conjured up from a fleeting idea and into a physical reality, by the holy beings looking down upon the earth, indicating that they’re well aware of the threat he poses and just how close he is to making an irreversible mistake in regards to you, his assignment and assignment only.

The heron abruptly unfurls its delicately feathered wings, as if frightened, before taking off and floating away on the breeze, both of your gazes inexplicably drawn to it as it flies until it’s out of sight altogether.

It warns him of just what he’s messing with, exactly.

This is not a part of the creator’s plan for you, for him. Falling in love with the one an angel is supposed to guard is an appalling crime to commit in the eyes of the elders that inhabit the sky, in the eyes of God. Though it doesn’t explicitly go against a commandment or biblical law, it’s just an understood rule. It’s wrong.

Jeno tells himself this, and continues to do so over the many years that he looks after you, never acting on his emotions, only acknowledging them before sending the less-than-acceptable thoughts into the depths of his conscious mind. He only wishes he had a key to lock them up and forget he even felt them in the first place.

Even as an angel, he ages just like anyone else, the both of you going from kids to teenagers and then nearing the young-adult stage of life, with you remaining blissfully unaware of Jeno’s true identity all the while. It’s a miracle he’s managed to keep his secret for this long, honestly, but like grains of sand in an hourglass, your time together is running out, whether you like it or not.

Not even a year before your entire world, your entire reality comes undone before your very eyes, Jeno feels as if his has already done just that. Because you’ve found someone. And that someone isn’t him.

He hates the feeling of jealousy, despises it with every fiber of his heavenly being. But he can’t shake it, can’t bear the way it clings to him like an unwelcome visitor. An unrecognizable emotion, one so foreign that he can’t even put a name to it, is stirred up at the sight of you in their arms, so pure and so unworthy of this person. Boy, if he didn’t know any better, Jeno would swear that you were the angel.

With each day that passes, he begins to feel the final shreds of both his dignity and his self-control slipping away, lost to the familiar breeze that whips through the village, stronger than ever these days. He can no longer contain it within himself. He wants you.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods. The second sin.

How ironic that a Sunday, of all days, is when everything falls apart.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, just barely grazing the horizon with its bright beams of warmth as it steadily rises, bathing the world in a soft yellow glow. You can also see the moon leftover from the night that ended not so long ago, fading fast but visible nonetheless. Two complete opposites, so close but prevented by the laws of nature for coexisting in the same space, at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, if you knew just how much you had in common with the celestial objects above, you would have clutched the hand of Jeno a bit tighter yesterday, intertwined your fingers a little more closely with those of someone who had become the closest thing to a best friend that you had ever known. You admit that you wish he could be something more, but you know better than to push your limits.

You got tired of waiting to see if he felt the same way, choosing to fill the void with someone else that you liked, yes, but who just wasn’t the same as the boy who had always been there, waiting in the meadow every morning without fail. Still, your emotions are ever-alert and always searching for any sign of reciprocation within Jeno.

He’s nowhere to be found when you reach the water’s edge, the edge of the creek where you wasted away endless summer days and frosty winter nights, colorful spring afternoons and brisk autumn evenings.

This morning would seem no different than the rest if not for his absence. The knot in your heart loosens, but not by much, when you spot him at the forest’s edge, looking weary.

Jeno notices you and calls out your name with a smile, but something about it isn’t genuine. It’s pained, desperate, like he wants to hold onto this moment forever, unwilling to carry out the plan he’s already regretting. It’s too late now, he thinks to himself, but he’s wrong.

It’s been too late for years.

“Jeno?”

“This way!” He chokes out. It’s somewhere between a sob and a plea, but there’s no time to figure out which is the more appropriate term. He disappears between the trees and amidst their mossy branches, blending in with the shadows cast by the thick canopy of leaves, and you break into a sprint, afraid of losing him to the merciless wilderness and what lies within.

Thankfully, he’s not too far gone. A small clearing greets you less than a dozen strides in, and in the very center of it stands a glass gazebo, run-down and covered in so many twisting vines to the point where the small structure is almost fully consumed by the nature surrounding it.

The scene is beautiful, so much so that it makes you uneasy. What’s going on? Why did he bring you here? Why does he seem so sad? Jeno is never sad, maybe he could be described as brooding or solemn on the rarest of occasions, but never this melancholy, never so utterly hopeless in his expressions and his aura.

None of these questions are answered, even as he takes your hands in his own and leads you inside of the gazebo, its see-through panels catching the light with elegance and ease.

“I need to tell you something.” Just like it did the first time you heard it, his voice still shocks you like a bolt of electricity, your blood pressure and heart rate skyrocketing. All of this is heightened, though, by grim tone he’s speaking to you with.

“What is it, Jen?” There it is. The nickname you made up for him that, although simple, makes him feel like he’s on top of the world. Actually, scratch that: it makes him feel like he’s floating in the sky, up past the clouds and even further away from this cruel planet than the heavens are from Hell.

You’re only making this harder for him. He might as well just spit it out, because all this waiting is agonizing for the both of you.

“We... we can’t be together.”

The sentence that leaves his lips is two declarations wrapped up in one singular statement, the first being that he wants to be with you in the same way you want to be with him. It’s much too hopeful, misleading your emotions down a path of elation instead of dread. The second is unpleasant, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue once he says the words.

“...Yes, yes we can, Jen, because I don’t really love them and all this time it’s been you—”

“You don’t understand,” he tries to stop the confession spilling out from your heart before it overflows, drowns you. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Stunned to silence, he gives you a moment to drink in the implications of his words. “...I’ve known you for over half of my entire life, and you’re trying to tell me I have no idea who you really are? Not a chance,” you laugh softly, shaking your head and glancing down at the wooden gazebo floor, old white paint peeling under your feet.

“But haven’t you ever wondered why I’m always there by the creek every morning? How I turn up throughout your day at the perfect time? How I’m suddenly right by your side when you need me the most?”

You have wondered. Many times, in fact. But the possibility of him being anything other than human was not at the top of your very rational list.

“...Don’t you see? I’m your guardian angel.”

He sees you blink, realization dawning on your face like the sun and stretching your features. “There are laws—” He begins, but your reaction is not the one he anticipated you would have to that information.

Too overwhelmed, you can’t respond with anything other than physical actions, no matter how unreasonable, and you press your dry lips to his soft ones, sealing your fate. Standing there, with beams of golden light infiltrating the space and illuminating your unsteady figures, Jeno is petrified not by your kiss, but by the fact that he doesn’t push you away, and his hands hold onto yours even tighter than before. Nothing has ever felt so right in his entire life. Not when he was in Heaven, and not in all the years he’s spent on Earth, either.

You’re his Heaven, this moment is his eternity. Jeno has endured enough temptation, the undeniable thrill that a deliberate sin promises has become too much for him. If he pulls away now, everything would still be okay, you could both go back to normal and pretend this never happened. But alas, he was doomed to kiss you back from the beginning, and so he does, and you have no idea what the universe has in store when you feel his lips finally respond to yours in the most unholy way possible. For the first and last time, you indulge in each other’s touch and taste, and it does not please the ones watching from above.

The third and final sin, one sin too many for him to remain in this world without consequence.

Several things happen all at once. A clap of thunder sounds overhead, though there are no clouds in sight. Jeno is painfully ripped from your grasp and thrown out of the gazebo by some invisible force of nature, into the grass and dirt on the forest floor.

And inside of you, a piece of your soul is torn from your being, bile rising up in your throat as you comprehend the excruciating sensation that racks your body with pained whimpers.

Stumbling to his feet, Jeno heaves, hunched over and close to tears. Suppressing the agony you still feel, you hurry over to him only for the boy to charge away, heading back towards the open meadow. With a broken shout of his name, you follow.

You didn’t notice before, but now the blinding light reveals the condition he’s in. He looks almost normal, but the edges of his form are becoming fainter by the minute, blurring with the rest of the world around him. He’s fading away before your eyes, and it’s all your fault.

It’s a torturous experience, watching him slowly meld with the emptiness of the air. Making him disappear into thin air in an instant would have been an act of mercy, a mercy that’s apparently beyond the capabilities of the spectators in the sky.

Struggling to maintain your composure, you force a question out. “What’s happening?” You ask, though you know he doesn’t have an answer himself.

He’s obviously panicked, though he tries not to show it. “I... I don’t know, I knew that it was forbidden for us to fall in love but I didn’t think I’d be robbed of my existence like this...”

“What?! No, Jeno, please don’t go...” You beg the gods and angels above, if any exist. You don’t know anymore.

If there is a God, how can he be good if he’s taking Jeno away from you like this, depriving you of the one constant source of joy and comfort in your life?

It’s far too cruel to bestow such a kind and generous heart upon someone who isn’t allowed to love in the first place.

Even Jeno’s touch is faint, making you feel like he’s not there at all. You just barely detect the pads of his fingers smoothing over your cheeks, trying to stop the water spilling from your eyes. He smiles sadly, “Don’t cry for me. I’m not worth the tears.”

“You’re everything to me, Jeno. You’re worth every drop.”

“Remember me like this, okay? By the creek,” he gestures to the turbulent waters a short distance away. Walking slowly, he begins to take steps in its direction, but as he speeds up you’re no longer able to match his pace. “Jeno, turn around...”

Glancing back at you for the final time, he whispers a goodbye that the breeze carries away with it, the sound something only the two of you would hear, one that could never be replicated.

“Goddamnit, Jeno, don’t you dare leave me!” But you know you can’t hold on, you’re not strong enough. A greater force wants you two apart, unable to be overpowered by one human, a relatively insignificant being in the grand scheme of the universe. He vanishes completely.

You fall to your knees, the pain from the pebbles digging into your legs and feet underneath the surface of the creek numbed by your sorrow. The water drenches your clothes, splashing up onto your skin and becoming one with your relentless tears. You’re left all alone, with only the cattails to keep you company. You wish the waves would just swallow you whole so you don’t have to feel this suffocating isolation.

In an unnecessarily harsh trick of the light combined with the dancing shadows generated by the water, you swear that you see Jeno again for a second, sitting on the riverbank like always. You sob louder.

It takes forever for you to find the strength to stand up again, water running over your soaked shoes and threatening to topple you over. You wouldn’t mind if it succeeds.

Inconsolable even to your closest friends and family, you reluctantly return to the village, unwilling to leave behind what you’ve just been through and unable to explain just why you’re crying so hard. Maybe if you stay there forever, spending each day and night waiting among the reeds and the flowers and the grass, he’ll come back someday, but no. He’ll never return, but you simply can’t bring yourself to accept this fact.

You’re never quite the same after that. Part of the curse that haunts you for the rest of your life is this: no matter how hard you try to retain your memories, you’re destined to forget Jeno eventually, leaving vast gaps in your brain when it comes to the years of your youth.

You’re left with only a feeling of inexplicable nostalgia at the sight of the meadow and the creek running through it, the waters still as violent as they were on the day you lost him.

[mimiplaysgames]

Terraqua Week Day 7 (Night Sky)

Summary: They don’t know it’s called love. Terra and Aqua dare a night out in a storm. || Word Count: 4,511

Read on AO3

A/N: @terraquaweek AAAAAAA it’s over!! It’s been a wild ride. This particular fic I feel is my weakest of the collection - I literally ran out of time to make this one special in my eyes. It’s just a soft and tender fic. I’m sorry I couldn’t give a stronger conclusion, but I hope you take something you like out this one regardless!

~~~~~~~~~~*

Wayfinding

The sky over Destiny Islands is beautiful. Like the mountains in the Land of Departure, we’re isolated here, an audience to pinpricks of light blinking down at us with secrets from far away. 

Kairi’s been begging us to visit for a couple of nights to stargaze with her and her friends. She says we’ll be blown away. Tonight, storm clouds blot the sky in clumps, leaving us breaks in between to guess constellations. I do believe you could see stars from Destiny Islands you can’t see anywhere else, even though we all share the same sky. It’s special.

Ven points to a nebula, millions of miles away. “Hold on, is that—” 

“The star system of Montressor, yep.” Terra takes a swish of water.

“It’s so much closer here.”

“What’s Montressor?” Sora crushes melted marshmallow onto chocolate, his fingers coated. 

We’re sharing a fire, camping out on the beach and listening to the waves crashing. The beach overwhelms the senses in a way that grounds you. I can’t see the ocean through the darkness, but I can smell it. I can feel it by the humidity that drapes over my skin. There’s no mistaking where I am. The beach in the Realm of Darkness smelled like nothing. 

And yet, if I walked into the water, I’d walk forever. The horizon vanishes at night.

The cloudy weather lately has made it difficult for us to see everything, so Terra has asked if we could stay longer. This is our third night.

“It’s a cluster of its own stars, like a galaxy.” Terra denies chocolate with his s’more. “The people there travel between different planets with their skyships.”

Kairi snorts. “The adults told us that a god sneezed millions of years ago and that’s his celestial booger smear.”

Sora gapes. “That sounds cool, I’ve never been.”

“You’re missing out,” Riku says, smirking as he chews.

“Wait, when did you go?”

Kairi plucks a marshmallow from the basket. “We can schedule a trip together. It will be fun.”

Terra cocks an eyebrow. “If you enjoy getting mugged by sky pirates.”

Sora leans forward, eyes wide at Terra’s nose. “Sky pirates? There’s such a thing? Oh, I’m in.”

They’re lovely kids, self-trained and their technique shows it. I take a sip of water out of a straw from a coconut that Riku had broken in half by smashing it against a boulder. 

Terra eyes me from across the fire, holding my gaze as he drinks. We chose not to sit next to each other—no one else needs to know—but I admit that from this angle, I get to enjoy the way he looks at me. It was only last night that he held my hand and brushed his lips against mine, tucked behind a palm tree where no one saw us. I came back to the hut with fire on my cheeks. I still feel it in my stomach.

I can’t help my smile. I want to look at him longer but I don’t, so I cross my legs. 

Paopu fruits hang on the trees nearby. Ven has mentioned (in front of everyone else) that Terra and I should share one. I told him to shut up, and he hasn’t brought it up again since. 

“If we’re lucky,” Sora says, “we could see a meteor shower.”

I choke on my drink but keep my lips sealed.

Ven opens his mouth to reply but Terra hands him a warning glare.

Every star in the sky is a world. When worlds fall, the sphere that holds them together breaks into pieces, like the glass that shatters when the lantern is dropped. That is a meteor shower, but I wouldn’t want to break anyone’s heart if they believe otherwise.

“Don’t you wish upon them?” I ask, forcing myself to swallow. The thought of wishing upon the harm of others, even unintentionally, churns me. “Is that the tradition?”

“You mean you don’t?” Kairi asks. 

I shrug, desperate for an answer. “We… don’t wish upon much. There’s little use for it when you’re training for the Keyblade.”

Terra turns away to hide a smirk.

“That’s so depressing,” Sora says and I frown.

The wind is warm and moist. It’s so peaceful, of course the only stories you’d ever hear about the stars are the good ones.

Ven jumps up, pointing at the sky. “Look, look!”

Two shooting stars fly straight across. May they be blessed.

“Okay.” Sora slaps his hands together. “Wishing time. I wish…” He closes his eyes, and for a second, a solemn smile darkens his face. “I’ve been away for so long. Any minute Donald is going to ring me up and take me somewhere. I just want to stay home for a while, just a few days. You know, take a break, be with you guys, my best friends. I promised my mom I’d help with her gardening and stay one night for dinner.”

Riku nods to himself. 

“I’d like the same,” Kairi says, laying on her stomach on her blanket, gazing at the fire. 

“You’re not supposed to be wishing on them,” Ven blurts out, covering his mouth too late.

Sora’s eyebrows furrow. This is not a look I like to see on him. “Why?”

If Ven could kick himself without anyone seeing, he would.

Terra holds onto Sora’s shoulder. “A shooting star is someone traveling between worlds. Their heart is reaching out to someone to comfort or protect them. You don’t want to wish for something selfish, you want to wish the best for them.” 

The expression Sora gives can only be described as horror. “Oh, well, um, safe travels buddy. I hope you find your friend.”

“Is it too late to take the wish back?” Riku asks. I think he’s asking on purpose considering how much more fraught Sora becomes and how much Riku is enjoying it.

Terra notices. He nods his head to the side. I love the way he does it. He’s beautiful. “Probably.”

“But I really do want them to be safe,” Sora whines, defeated. 

The wind picks up, clouds floating across the sky at a speed where they swallow the stars. It smells damp and it feels hotter.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Riku says, dumping the pail of water next to him onto the fire. He kicks sand over it for good measure. Sora and Kairi don’t hesitate to stack baskets and fold blankets. 

“What’s going on?” Ven asks, moving slowly when he folds his chair, as if unsure.

“Monsoon season.” Riku steps on the last embers. “We didn’t expect a storm to come out this soon but you never know.”

“Maybe it wasn’t supposed to come tonight.” Kairi eyes Sora suspiciously.

“No way—” Sora starts.

“Nice job, Sora.” Riku says. “You’ve doomed us all.”

“I didn’t wish for a monsoon!”

“You wished to be locked up here with us. Congratulations.”

I interrupt. “What do you need me to do? Where do we go for shelter?”

Kairi points to their treehouse, which connects through the cavern and which, from my understanding, stood there through their entire childhood. “My dad—the one you’ve met before, Papa—fortified it with extra wood on the walls and the roof. It’s always been safe.”

By the time we have everything packed and are going up the ramps to the treehouse, it’s pouring. At least it’s not the iciness of mountain rain.

The door bangs when Kairi swings it open, the wind throwing it back and forth as if it’s juggling it between two hands. Ven waves his arm in a circular motion—his magic redirects the wind for as long as he can hold it, letting everyone inside before he lets go and the door slams behind us. 

Inside, we dry ourselves with rags, our shoes and socks warming up under the lanterns. We have fresh blankets and sacks of food, in case the storm lasts all night. 

Except in terms of blankets, we’re one short.

Ven hands Terra the last blanket and (pointedly) says something to him. 

The last blanket is the largest, so I’d have to share it with Terra. I adore Ven to pieces (and I won’t protest sharing any space with Terra), but when Ven gets difficult, I sometimes have to suppress myself. Judging by the way Terra wraps it around our shoulders and nudges close to me, he doesn’t care what the others think anymore. 

Kairi quickly looks away from us, rolling her lips inward like she’s witnessed a scandal.

Rain beats onto the roof, a million patters like the fingers of thousands of people asking to be let in. Thunder rumbles in quickly, soothing then unsettling. Terra and I sit in front of a window, the water so thick that it blurs the screen. Under the blanket, he rolls a finger over my wrist, stroking my palm. I smile at him. 

“We should have brought real fruit,” Ven says, chewing on dried mango. If by real fruit he means paopu, he’s smart for not specifying it. 

“You need finer taste,” Kairi says, chewing on the same.

“You need culture,” Sora says, swallowing something I don’t recognize.

The idea of a spontaneous camp-in might have been exciting the first several minutes, but hours later, it becomes agony. 

All this time, I can’t talk to Terra about anything too personal, though we’ve snuck a few passing whispers here and there. 

He asks me an indistinct question that anyone can misinterpret out of context: When did you know? 

My answer is just as vague. I was fourteen. 

There’s not much we can do to explore touch. I tend to listen more to the way he takes finger by finger. Terra will intermittently say one sentence with minimal effort, but just enough so that the others know we’re still with them. I worry that if I laugh a certain way, it would expose us. 

But no one asks, too busy chatting about building bigger boats for the one dream they’ve never been able to accomplish. 

At some point, Terra challenges Riku to a rematch.

“So what you’re telling me,” Riku says, a mock-smirk that fits perfectly on his face, “is that you’re very impressed and you want to be foolish enough to lose to me a second time so that everyone else knows how impressive I am.”

“We all know, Riku,” Sora says.

“But Terra wants to remind you.”

Terra laughs as if he’s not interlacing his fingers with mine. He squeezes my hand. 

It’s when everyone’s eyes are closed, drifting away to sleep, that Terra wraps his arm around my waist and I rest on his shoulder. One lantern is still on. The storm has quieted for now, but we’ve been told to expect another onslaught. 

Terra cranes his head back, looking out the window. He’s done this twice per hour, but the sky has been black, the clouds smearing everything.

“What are you looking for?” I whisper. 

“I have this very,” Terra starts, pausing, “vague memory of looking up to the stars, looking for home but I could never find it.”

So not his memory, but Xehanort’s. Blurs and images that make no sense, as if from a dream. Castle Oblivion never shined, so of course Xehanort couldn’t find it for the last twelve years. Terra is lucky that’s as much as he remembers. I don’t know how he could possibly deal if he woke up with a history of every crime Xehanort has committed in his body.

“And I feel like,” Terra continues, his eyes lost, his voice hushed. “I’ve—or he—tried over and over again.”

“Ah.” I sigh. “You were looking for it these past few nights.”

“The Master told me that home is the brightest star in the multiverse. You could see it through the clouds. It would always guide you back if you were lost.” 

“I never heard that story.”

Terra looks at me and holds me closer. “That was before you came.”

“Whether it’s true or not, it’s out there.”

He frowns, leaning his head back against the windowsill again. “The idea that home was gone at some point… that’s the one thing that haunts me still, even though I know it’s just a trip away and I could always go back. But knowing that doesn’t suffice.”

I rub his stomach. “We can find it together.”

He goes quiet, the hand on my waist tensing up. The wheels in his mind turn. “Do you want to find it tonight?”

I look up at him. 

“The storm has stopped,” he says.

“For now.”

“Then we come back before it starts again.” He pulls me closer, nearly settling me on top of his leg. I feel his smirk in my hair.

I glance out the window. “But the clouds are too thick.”

“Well, if the story is true—”

“If.”

“Then we’d take some time for ourselves.” He nudges my nose, and I wish he’d kiss me. “We’re Keyblade wielders. A monsoon isn’t impossible to manipulate.”

I stifle a laugh. He has a quick answer for everything, and to any given person, it’d be infuriating. I once found it so when I was younger. 

“I am obligated to remind you that it’s dangerous,” I say, wishing I could get away with tasting his lips. I come close to.

“I feel like I’m about to scream,” he says, brushing my hair. “I need to do something loud. Yell. Throw myself into the ocean. Touch you—I don’t know. It’s too suffocating in here. I’ve suffocated for twelve years. I’ve had enough.”

I don’t know why my heart jumps at the idea when it’s so reckless. Terra is not a bad influence, he’s just as responsible as I am, yet I find myself yearning for the thrill. 

I haven’t tasted something like this in years, when thrill was something to be avoided in the Darkness.  

“Okay. But we come back in no less than twenty minutes.”

We blow out our lantern and Terra takes precious, long seconds to turn the doorknob. 

Ven stirs, his bright eyes blinking open in the dark. “You guys are leaving?” he whispers. 

“We’re coming back,” Terra says.

“Is this going to happen a lot?” 

My heart sinks. It’s usually the three of us, never disconnected except when we’re bickering. I look to Terra for what to say when he replies with, “Do you want to come with us?”

Ven looks at me. “Nah. I’m tired.”

I bend down and pet his head. “You’ll come with us next time.”

“I know.” Ven wiggles in his blanket and gets comfortable. “Just don’t drown.”

Terra gently takes my wrist. As much as I’m compelled to stay with Ven, Terra’s smile is a reminder that there’s little to worry about with him. We leave the shoes and socks behind.

Outside, the wind howls strong, my sashes beaten in fury. The sand is warm when we step off the ramp, loose swirls of dust devils skidding across the beach. It’s dark without the moonlight, the ocean waves crashing onto the shore so hard that all I see are white bubbles. My heart races, but this feeling is nothing like the constant race of fear in the Dark Realm. No, this is familiar yet foreign. The slap of salty air in my face makes me gush with something jittery. 

Terra cups his hands close to the ground and jerks them forward near the base of the giant tree where the treehouse stands. The sand buckles—he’s moving earth and boulder against the trunk of the tree, compensating for years of erosion, creating a natural scaffolding to fortify it further.

The river nearby spills out of its bank, small streams skittling towards the ocean. I bring my hands together and wave them back inland, redirecting the water away from the tree so there is less risk of flooding. 

I hear Terra calling me. The wind ruins his hair—he looks more charming this way. When he walks, his pants flatten and blow open like balloons. He gathers bunches of my hair in his thick, large fingers, holds it off of my face, and kisses me. He’s firm and pulsing, strong but gentle, the touch of his lips igniting a flame that rides up to my heart. By the way he breathes through me, he’s been wanting to do this for a long time. 

A gust of wind bashes against our bodies. Water splashes on our knees and I nearly topple down.

We laugh into each other’s shoulders, my legs caked in wet sand. He’s holding me up by my arms, taking me towards the nearest palm tree.

“This is the most insane thing I’ve ever done,” I say, my voice raised to compete against the roar of the wind.

“I needed this,” he says, nodding. 

My heart sighs in agreement. 

Terra trembles from adrenaline, his smile glued on his face. He gestures in a way to call something down from above. A palm tree bends over, giving its head to us. “I want you to meet my new best friend, Leafy.” 

I snort. “What is this for?”

Terra giggles before grabbing a paopu fruit. “Thank you, my friend,” he says to Leafy, bowing.

“You’re talking to a tree.”

Pointing that out melts him into hysteria. “I don’t know how to describe it. I am so happy right now.” He gestures like he’s about to rip his skin off, something inside about to explode. “And I don’t know what to do with that feeling.” He turns to me, holding out the paopu fruit. “I want to share this with you.”

My cheeks hurt. “We don’t know how it works.”

“Will you accept it anyway?” 

No second thoughts. 

It has the consistency of an orange, the taste of a grape. The legend of the fruit claims that it binds the destinies of those who share it together, intertwining their hearts and fates so they’re a part of each other’s lives forever. It could be a symbolic gesture—I certainly thought so when I made our Wayfinders, embedding my magic into them to make sure they work that way. 

I don’t know what I think of the future—I stopped planning for it the day I fell to Darkness—but I would be okay so long as Terra stays somewhere in my life.

Terra leans forward and bites the other side of the fruit, right out of my mouth. It catches me off guard, shuddering me into a chuckle, and I lean to meet him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He tastes of warmed juice. My heart pounds at the slide of his fingers on my forearms as he pushes my sleeves away. I lose the paopu fruit somewhere when he pulls me in.

I realize now what it is: I’ve been numbed. The Realm of Darkness hushes it all inside, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts. When you can’t take much more, you wish for it to be over. Then, you are soothed, a sick, cold honey that drips over your skin. The numbness makes you keep walking so you keep living, until you can’t take the numbness anymore and you go back to despairing. Only to be soothed yet again. The only real emotion that lasts for more than a moment is the sudden whiplash when Heartless attack and you have to survive. The wrong kind of thrill.

Terra has been cut off from all senses for twelve years.

I’ve been quieted. 

So I need him. I need him to brush his fingers on my skin, I need to taste his tongue, I need to run in the rain, laugh at stupid jokes, get scared on purpose, for reasons that don’t truly threaten me. Terra reminds me of the morning when we raced in the ravine as children. He reminds me that there’s more to the way my heart beats than keeping my hands to myself. 

Terra sighs into my neck. “I wish I was strong enough to be a shooting star for you,” he says into my ear. “I’m sorry we waited twelve years to do this.”

Does he not remember that he came to me in the Darkness? He told me not to give up.

He told me that I never stopped lighting his way back. I must have flown in the sky too, without knowing, for other children to see. Maybe I’ve done so many times. I hold him tightly.

An unnaturally strong gust targets at us, loose leaves slapping us and nicking my face. Terra looks up and bursts into laughter. “Stars, he’s watching us.”

Ven sits at the window, waving his arms in circles, as if to slap our wrists with rulers for such behavior. 

My instinct is to remove myself from all scrutiny, but I bump into Terra’s chest. I laugh. I don’t know what else to do except to take his hand and run to the other side of the beach. I think about how Ven must have been worried, and opened that window to see what we were up to, only to witness what he did, and— 

—I cover my mouth and snort. “I can’t believe we were caught.”

“We’re being sloppy.”

I can’t stop laughing. It hurts, but in a good way, better than the victory after a Heartless attack, better than even seeing my friends again after so long, when I couldn’t stop crying.  

Water washes over my feet faster than I can step out of it, my toes sinking like I can be erased in a heartbeat. We all could, at the precipice of Darkness. I could laugh right now, I could mourn tomorrow. The thought chokes me.

“Aqua, are you okay?”

Storm clouds have suffocated everything, dark paint dabbed with a sponge layer after layer so that everything under is hidden. I lean back, but I don’t step away. It’s dark but not Dark, I tell myself. We’re alone, but I’m not. We’re nowhere close to home, but with him, I am. Small reminders for large steps forward. 

“It looks like it goes on forever.”

Terra squeezes my hand, and it says so much. He understands. “We’re facing west. Home would be this direction.”

I’ve faced the darkest enemy and survived. I’ve been running—it’s my instinct to—but I don’t have to run anymore. 

Yet I don’t know what else I could do with all this energy. I face the black ocean now. I want to do something crazy.

“We could try to find it,” I say.

Terra jerks like he’s about to torpedo himself into the sky. “We’ll fly.”

I swallow. “The ocean looks bottomless.”

“It’s not.”

“I know it isn’t.” I look again. The star isn’t there. “But that doesn’t make sense to me. Dark is dark, kind is kind, and the things that hurt me hide.”

“There’s nothing out there that can hurt you, only whales. And I know for a fact that you’re stronger than any shark I know.”

I pause, a mix of childish giddiness and sudden tears wrestling with each other and I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. “We don’t fight sharks.”

“We don’t.”

“You don’t know any sharks.”

“You’re right.”

My body gives up and I laugh and cry at the same time. “That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

Terra wraps his hand on my waist, leaning against my forehead. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you fall. Ever again.” 

“I know.” I place my hand on the center of his chest. Sometimes lessons are learned too late. Sometimes the consequences are more than what we’ve prepared for. “Let’s fly.”

He summons his Keyblade and commands it to transform into his glider, helping me on with the guidance of his hand. Neither of us want to break contact. His glider isn’t designed to carry two people, the curve of its engine forcing me forward so I lean onto him. His back muscles are well-formed, sturdy under my weight, his waist so thick that I have to grip his shirt to hold on. 

When Ven sees us take off, he makes frantic arm movements, grabbing fistfuls of air. It calms the fury of the wind around us, giving Terra a smoother path ahead with mild turbulence. We leave the beach behind, and ride into a world of nothing. 

I grip harder into his stomach and contain a meep. Terra slows to a stop. We haven’t gone far.

“I’m okay,” I say onto his neck. It’s quieter out here, without the waves and the trees.

Terra palms a hand over mine, gliding it up to his chest like he wants to feel his heartbeat through both of our hands. It’s hammers, like he’s running away, or towards something.

Or nowhere, really. We’re running just to run, just to remember what it feels like. I kiss the back of his neck, where it meets his shoulder.

“Look,” he says softly. His grip tightens on the handlebar, and he shudders under me. He’s about to cry.

There is one star through the clouds, brushed over in fog. Terra reaches up as if to grab it, measuring our home in the pinch of his fingers.

“To think our beds are small enough to fit,” I say, smiling into him.

Terra takes my hand from his chest and kisses it. 

A gust of wind knocks his glider, and he revs it up to stabilize us, holding a solid kick onto the pedals. Ven is either too far away or too tired to keep helping us.

Rain prickles onto us, and starts to build. I tremble. For some reason, I don’t want to go back into the treehouse and sleep it off. I feel cut off, trapped in a bottle where I can’t move. 

I look behind me. There are now four heads on that window, four worried faces gawking at the scandal. “The others are awake.”

“Let them have a show.” He turns over and holds me close, taking my lips with his. Again, again, again. 

I shiver. He tastes like springwater. I don’t know why I don’t find our predicament threatening. We’re hovering over darkness—but I’ve won against the Darkness. We’ve hovering in a dangerous storm, and yet it seems miniscule. I’m grateful.

“I can make the water dance,” I say.

“I know. That’s why I’m not scared.” He smiles. It’s like he’s asking permission.

I nod. “We wouldn’t be falling.”

“We’d be flying.” 

He dismisses his Keyblade. He falls first, relaxed, his arms open like he doesn’t mind landing into the turret of waters, like he’s about to fall on a feather bed. 

I call for my Keyblade and let it shine. The rain around us swirls, bursting into bright pellets. Terra catches me with one arm, hooking it around my waist and keeping me close. We twirl like we’re caught in a tornado. We kiss. We laugh, our legs wrapping over each other. The light spreads, tiny pinpricks of asteroids and firecrackers that shower Destiny Islands.

I can’t be crazy. I can’t fall. I’m safe and sound with the earth beneath my feet.

[xo-phile]

Tides (M!Mer x Fem!Reader) p2

╔═════ ∘◦ ☟ ◦∘ ══════╗

Excerpt: “Why are you telling me this now, Willow?” you asked, chewing on your straw.

“I can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

You glared at your friend and she snickered under breath, elegantly swirling her drink with a perfectly manicured hand.

“I just want you to be happy. And I don’t want to see you missing out on a good thing.”

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: thalassaphobia, situational anxiety, some spice

Author’s Note: To the readers who left such sweet messages, liked, followed, reblogged, and to the person who sent me my first ko-fi ever... YOU LIVE IN MY HEAD RENT FREE ಥωಥ. Life has been crazy with job interviews and school starting soon, so I appreciate your patience! If you would like to be tagged so you get notified for the next update please let me know!

Part 1 ✦ Part 3 🍋

╚═════ ∘◦ ☝︎ ◦∘ ══════╝

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Ancient skeletons of long dead trees haunted the sands of Driftwood Beach. Petrified branches bent in all directions, reaching toward the sky, celebrating that even in death, their bodies served as an organic playground and haven for the living. Children and adults alike climbed along the writhing branches of trees fallen centuries before. Even in death, the haunted were kept loving company by the living.

You stood at the edge of the water, relishing in the way your toes pressed further into the sand as the cool water rushed past your ankles. The sun was low, coloring the skies a soft sorbet pink and orange. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Teddy victimized the seagulls making their way inland for the night.Your eyes drifted toward the open water of Lake Obsidian, its deep blue darkening as they day neared its end. From your point of view on the beach, the water was calm. Inside, you felt a tumult in your stomach, churning at what Dresden could possibly have planned when he asked to meet you.

Suddenly, Teddy was yapping at the water and in the distance you saw a familiar, finned form waving in the distance.

"You gonna stand there all day? We're gonna lose sunlight!"

You shuffled your feet in the sand.

"I was thinking we could start small! Here seems like really good progress already!"

Even from yards away you could see the exasperation on Dresden's face. You turned to see Teddy run head-long into the crashing waves, doggy-paddling toward Dresden, big brown head bobbing happily in the water.

"You're really gonna let your beast show you up like that?" the merman chided.

Show off, you thought ruefully. You stripped yourself of your jean shorts and jacket, down to bikini bottoms and rash guard. Despite the buzz of anxiety in your stomach, you picked up your paddle board and made your way out into waves. With every step you took the water rose higher and higher, until you stopped in your tracks. Waist deep in the water, your body refused to take a step further, muscles locking up in place.

"You're doing great! Keep coming towards me!" You looked up to see Dresden’s lopsided grin cheering you on.

"Dresden, I can't do this," you blurted clutching desperately at your floating paddle board, "I want to go back."

The water around you ebbed and flowed, swaying you with a force you weren’t familiar with and there was a gentle push at your back that you resisted. If it weren't for the death-grip on your board, your hands would have no doubt been shaking. Even when you were a kid, there was not enough candy or promises of gifts in the world that would have cajoled you into swimming in deep water. This was the farthest you had ever been and the newfound sensations were overwhelming.

"Wait wait wait! Just wait for me! I'll come to you, don't move!" He dove below the surface of the water, his flukes flashing before disappearing completely. Moments later, his head resurfaced in front of you.

"How're you feeling?" Dresden asked, eyeing the no-doubt panicky expression on your face.

"Like I'm about to crawl out of my skin."

He let out a little chuff at which you glared at.

"You're making jokes. That's good," he laughed. You held his gaze, trying to ignore the vast expanse of water around you. But also out of sheer resentment.

"I feel like if I say anything else, we won't be friends anymore," you ground out through gritted teeth. A stray current, made another push at your back and you clenched even tighter to your board for what little semblance of stability it could find.

"Okay, well I swear on our friendship that I won't make you go out any farther today. Climb on your board."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but you still clambered on, lying on your stomach like a surfer would. With your body out of the water, the overwhelming apprehension subsided. The board still rocked as it floated in the gentle water and your body tensed nervously. Dresden was beside you now, a large hand on the nose of the paddle board keeping you from floating away.

“Good, now take a deep breath and close your eyes," he said. You looked at him, aghast.

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you," he promised.

"Dres, I don't know about this," you faltered. He considered your expression for a moment and instead of acquiescing, his bigger hand took yours and wrapped around it tight.

"The worst that will happen, is that you feel a little stupid.”

You looked at him once more with doubt but promptly shut your eyes, laying your forehead down on your arms. The board's unstable rocking made your stomach turn and the occasional wash of water sent shivers up your spine.

"Okay, now tell me everything you're feeling right now," came Dresden's calm voice. You gripped his hand tighter, the only source of stability you could feel.

"Scared. I'm really scared. I don’t like that everything’s moving.”

"Okay, that's okay. Tell me why."

“I-I feel like, I’m gonna get washed away. Or that I’m gonna get pulled under.” At your words, Dresden’s hand tightened in yours and you let out a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. Self-consciousness washed over you at your admission. Dresden was right, you did feel stupid. You felt stupid for your irrational fear, for coming out onto the water. You should have stayed on land where things didn’t move beneath your body and the world wouldn’t threaten to swallow you up.

How lame.

“You know it’s okay to be scared right? There’s nothing wrong with how you’re feeling right now.” Dresden’s voice was much closer now, his breath ghosting your ear and calming your unwelcome thoughts. Now all you could hear was the crash of the waves on the shores behind you and your heart thumping in your throat.

“Okay, now take a deep breath in. Three-two-one.” You inhaled through your nose, the rush of cold air of the dusk filling your lungs.

“Deep breath out. Four-three-two-one.” You pushed out a controlled breath, your diaphragm straining. Your heart was not not so loud but there was still a pit in your stomach.

"Now I want you to name three things you can smell."

You hesitated at his words for a moment but focused on finding any scents you can trace. With your head buried arm, you smelled the faint coconut scent of your sunscreen. In the air, a soft sharpness of pine wafted through the breeze. Finally a scent of clean, crisp water filled your senses.

"Sunscreen, Pine Trees, and Water."

"Okay, now what can you hear."

Blood was rushing through your head and your heart was still loud, but you pushed past the sounds of your anxiety to listen to the sounds of Driftwood Beach. Beneath you, water lapped against your board, causing a soft hollow knock against plexiglass to echo under you. Above, you birds called out to each other as they soared overhead, crying into the open sky.

"Water under my board and birds."

Despite the darkness behind your lids, the world around you came into clear perception through your senses. You lifted your head and opened your eyes to find Dresden watching you intensely, mossy green of his eyes darkening faintly.

The moment between you twisted like a knot tightening with every quiet second that passed.

“You’re not gonna ask me what I see?” you murmured softly. Dresden’s hazel eyes went and wide blinked, snapping out of his reverie. He let go of your hand, and for a moment, you mourned its warmth.

“No-no, I think that works,” he stuttered, a faint blush warming his sharp features. “How are you feeling?”

The sky above you both was now fiery orange set behind the darkening green of sequoias. The water around you moved with calm purpose, still but teeming with a quiet life. A faint sense of calm overtook you and you allowed your body to feel the gentle rocking of the water with the board between you.

“Better. A lot better.“

A comfortable silence settled and you sat up on your board, admiring the white moon in the sorbet sky. The idea of leaving your board still terrified you but your gorgeous surroundings were a welcome distraction and made a mental note to come back with your camera and a sketchpad.

From the shore, you heard aggravated squawks and a sudden burst of flapping wings. You and Dresden turned to see a sopping wet Teddy, galloping across the sand chasing a flock of irate seagulls.

"I better get back. If I don't feed Teddy soon, one of those seagulls might turn into dinner."

"Right, we wouldn't want that…” the merman averted his eyes, nervous to look you in the eye. “This was probably a lot for today, so I was thinking we could meet up again in a couple days? Whatever works-"

"No let's meet again tomorrow," you blurted, "This really helped a lot." Your face reddened. Your mouth had spoken before your mind had a chance to process what you were volunteering to do. Still, Dresden’s face lit up in a big grin.

"Okay, great. I'll see you tomorrow."

The two of you said your goodbyes and you made your way back to the shore. You could feel Dresden's eyes on you as you paddled towards land. It wasn't until you were standing on the solid shore did you see him wave from a distance and then disappear under the water.

You replayed the last half hour in your head. You had always known Dresden to joke and laugh at the expense of other people and you weren’t used to the care that he took with you and the warmth of his large hand in yours.

As you walked to your car, with Teddy in tow, you wondered how you never noticed that the soft curves of his boyish face turned into angles and edges.

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Despite every ounce of fear screaming at you, you spent each sunset with Dresden, wading out into the water, pushing yourself farther and farther from the shore. And like the tides, your fear ebbed and flowed. On bad days, you would be paralyzed, muscles stiffened as you lay on your paddle board. Dresden would always hold your hand, his grip firm and solid with a silent pledge to keep you safe. His voice, coaching you through the worst of your panic, would be uncharacteristically gentle.

On the better days, you two would work through the breathing exercises and then spend time reminiscing on childhood memories or talk about your respective work. You would sit on your board, mindfully allowing yourself to drift on the water, and talk about your growing frustration with your paintings and the inescapable deadline of the gallery opening. Dresden would then tell you about how his work mapping the underwater caves of Lake Obsidian was going with the local university, complaining about one particularly grumpy selkie lead researcher and the various ineptitudes of the doctoral students.

"Wait, wait so even the mer don't know how deep the lake is?"

"Nope, at some point it gets too dark to even see. Makes it dangerous. You lose your sense of direction." The thought of endless darkness and thousands of pounds of pressure on your head gave you a full-body shiver. Dresden laughed.

"Still it's not a bad gig. Helps with relations with the land folk and sometimes, you find cool stuff you can keep for yourself."

You thought about the fossilized ammonite that sat on the mantelpiece in your living room. The opalised fossil shimmered in the light when the sun beamed through your curtains, and you would stop to admire it when the stress of emails and showing dates overwhelmed you.

You tried not to think too much about how Dresden saved something that special just to give it to you.

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

It was an early Sunday morning, a misty fog was just dispersing as the yellow morning sun warmed the chill in the air. You were wandering through the stalls of Talon Point's farmers market, admiring the vast variety of produce. Some you recognized: bright red and orange tomatoes, plump as a baby's cheek, broccoli and sprouts green and freshly picked, but there were also other varieties you didn't recognize, bright purple and magenta spices that sat in a pile as tall as you were and some sort of blue fruit perfectly cubed and shiny.

Even with your giant grocery tote filled to the brim with your usual fare, you still liked to wander through aisles, admiring the strange sights and shiny crafts of the local artisans. With a sudden pull, Teddy tugged you by his leash towards the specialty bakery that made treats for humans and non-humans alike. Warm smells of fresh croissants and chocolate eclairs wafted through the air and he made a dead stop just outside the door plopping his giant behind in an obedient sit, knowing better than to barge into a doorway without your express permission. You had to chuckle lightly at his polite adamance.

"Alright, but only one today. You're starting to look a little fluffy and I don't mean the fur," he seemed to harumph in protest but stood his ground. Inside the bakery, you saw a vast array of baked goods: doughnuts, croissants, tiny cakes, and even dainty cake pops. Behind the glass counter was an orc with an immense frame, balancing two gigantic trays of honey buns in both big arms.

"I'll be with you in a moment, miss," he gruffed, sidling his way through what looked like tiny walkways.

"That's okay, take your time. Just browsing." The orc let out a soft grunt in response and made his way to the back kitchen. As you made your way down the aisles, you started to realize the variety of baked goods was immense: green pandan waffles, taro puff pastries, and Mexican conchas in a variety of colors lined the trays in the glass case. Finally, you came upon some pastries in the shape of fish with ogling eyes.

"Any questions, miss?" You looked up to see that the orc had returned and was waiting patiently behind the register for you to make a decision.

"What are in these fish pastries?" you asked, shyly. He made his way over to you to check the display.

"Ah, those are taiyaki. Normally made with red bean paste inside, but this batch has Nutella." You smiled to yourself, wondering if Dresden had ever tried chocolate before.

Can merfolk even eat chocolate? you wondered, absently, already coming up with ways to make fun of him for having the hazelnut paste stuck on his teeth.

"Can I get two of those and one dog treat, please?"

You watched the gigantic orc as he packaged your pastries, large chords of muscle sliding under smooth green skin, delicately placing your order in a crisp paper bag.

Behind you, you heard a familiar voice call your name and you turned to see Willow dressed in a baby blue sundress and gigantic sunhat.

"Fancy seeing you out and about, stranger," she smiled and pulled you into a hug. Before you two could even make conversation the orc behind the counter cleared his throat and you turned sheepishly to pay for your order. Willow smiled up at the orc coquettishly, and requested an order of a dozen cheese croissants, and then proceeded to brazenly leer at his admittedly toned behind when he bent over to pick out a cardboard box.

"Thanks, Gil," she winked as you two exited the shop. The aforementioned orc rolled his eyes at Willow and gave another huff before making his way to help out another customer. Your ears warmed and you hid your face as you exited the store.

"Excuse me, I seem to recall that you have a whole-ass husband," you chided, teasing her as you made your way through the main street, passing shop displays filled with antiques and other handcrafted arts.

"I'll have you know Romero and I have a mutually agreeable 'look don't touch policy'. Like window shopping!"

You rolled your eyes but smiled at her antics. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” You chuckled softly when her lips formed a pout at your chiding.

“Maybe you ought to consider shopping around, yourself.”

“I really don’t think I need more clothes.”

“Okay, now you’re being obtuse on purpose,” Willow huffed exasperatedly and you couldn’t stop the smug smile from tugging at your lips.

“Will, I already have the exhibition breathing down my neck. I don’t really have time to entertain any gentlemen suitors,” you sighed, stretching the tell-tale tingle of anxiety out of your neck.

“Who said anything about dating though? A fun little romp does the body and mind wonders. It’s a wonder how you stay sane when you never leave the house.”

“I leave the house! I walk Teddy all the time and me and Dresden-”

You clapped your hand over your mouth before the last of your words could tumble out. But it was too late. Willow didn’t miss your words and she honed in on you like a hawk.

“You and Dresden? You two have been hanging out? How?” Willow probed, a wickedly gleeful expression on her face.

“Oh my god, Willow it’s nothing like that. He’s been…” you sighed, trying to find your words, “We’ve been doing exposure therapy out on the water. He’s been helping me after the accident.”

Willow studied your face thoughtfully and smiled like she knew something you didn’t. You grabbed her by the elbow to look her in the face.

“Willow, what?”

“Nothing! I just didn’t think he had it in him to make a move.”

You sputtered, ears warming again with embarrassment.

“He’s not trying to make a move!” you cried indignantly. Willow smiled at you like a child who still believed in Santa.

“He looks at you like you put the freaking sun in the sky. Like, he’s literally had a crush on you since we were children.”

She smiled wickedly at your stunned silence. Despite her deceptively air-headed appearance, you knew Willow to be highly perceptive. And blunt. Willow pulled you by your wrist to the nearest cafe and sat you down in a chair of a patio table. A young tiefling waiter rushed out with menus and a water bowl for Teddy and Willow ordered two iced coffees while she waited for your brain to reboot.

“I feel like I would have noticed,” you quavered, still processing this revelation.

“You’ve been hung up on Micah for years. We didn’t think it would matter.”

The young tiefling came out with your orders, setting the sweltering cups on the table before, making his way back into the cafe. You and Willow took several silent sips.

“Why are you telling me this now, Willow?” you asked, chewing on your straw.

“I can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

You glared at your friend and she snickered under breath, elegantly swirling her drink with a perfectly manicured hand.

“I just want you to be happy. And I don’t want to see you missing out on a good thing.”

You looked her in her icy blue eyes, earnestness shining through.

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

All through the ferry ride back, all you could think about were Willow’s words. How could you have possibly missed something so huge? Your relationship had always seemed so simple and easy…

Or so you thought. Your mind wandered to all the sunsets you two spent together out on the water and the soft looks of concern he gave you on your worst days, when you couldn’t handle the anxiety.

You thought about the day of the accident, when he pulled you out of the water and held you shivering and wet, murmuring reassurances that you were safe. And then you thought about how angry he got at Micah, his oldest friend.

“Why else would he have gone ballistic like that?”

Willow’s words echoed in the back of your mind as you unlocked your door and made your way into the kitchen to put away your groceries. As you put away the produce you’d found the white paper pastry bag holding the Nutella taiyaki you had bought for Dresden and you eyed the crumpled paper bag cautiously.

Dresden would probably laugh when he saw the funny looking pastry. Maybe his dimples would show and the coppery fins that framed his face would twitch as he tried it.

Your thoughts halted to a stop. Why were you daydreaming about your friend? Instead of letting your thoughts whir along, you decided to do what you did when you couldn’t feel at home in your own head: you painted.

You padded to the art studio and rifled through your things for an empty canvas and acrylic paints. Instead of your usual set-up with an easel and a stool, you set the 18x24 on the ground and squirted paint onto a plastic palette. You started with a soft sand color, not unlike the sands of Driftwood Beach at sunset, and let your arm guide itself across the blank canvas. Lately, you rarely ever let yourself waste paint and a canvas without a plan, but right now you didn’t feel like thinking anything through.

You added purple shadows, painting in subtle planes of an angular face, detailing in soft cheekbones and an elegant jawline. Blues showed soft shadows cast by dark curly brown hair and a proud nose, while reds added depth and dimension to a clever face. For a playful arch of dark brows, you added grayish black to brown and touched up the curve of a playful smirk with pink an white.

When you started work on the eyes, your mind wandered to strong hands gripping tightly at your hips and back, keeping you from getting swept away. You remembered how warm hazels watched you, dark with concern and then intense with yearning.

A pleasant shiver ran down your spine at the memory. His inner irises were a rusty brown that glittered when he laughed and outer irises flashed a brilliant coppery green when serious.

You painted his facial fins to match with eyes, a uniquely striking coloring.

By the time you finished the piece hours had passed and the sun was lowering in the sky and you cursed to yourself before changing quickly and rushing out the door.

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

You made your way out into the lake, this time paddling out on your knees, carefully balancing the bag of pastries on the tail of your board. It had been a few weeks and you weren’t scared to navigate your way farther and farther from shore anymore. Still, fear overtook you whenever you tried to swim out so you settled for adventuring through the water safely on your board. As you waited for Dresden, you straddled your board, letting your feet kick gently in the water, an accomplishment won once Dresden convinced you that plesiosaurs didn’t survive past the Cretaceous Period and wouldn’t try to take a bite out of your calf.

You watched as idly as the soft clouds rolled through the pink sky, noticing how the breeze shook the tips of gigantic redwoods. The final days of summer were flying by and soon Autumn would be upon Lake Obsidian. As you mused quietly about another year passed in this bustling little town, you saw a flash of a shimmering tale and a hand ghost up your ankle and calf. A surprised yip escaped your mouth as you flinched. Dresden popped up on the other side of your board shaking water out of drenched curls.

“Jesus Christ, Dresden, give me a heart attack why don’t you?”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. You didn’t faint. I’d take that as a win.”

The merman smiled up at you with a big lopsided grin and you couldn’t help but notice the soft divot of dimples in his cheek. You looked away before you could get flustered, remembering your earlier conversation with Willow.

“I was in town earlier today and I saw something you might like.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the way the merman lit up and your ears warmed at his adorable expression. You reached behind you to grab the white pastry bag and reached in to hand your friend the little fish pastry, “It has chocolate in it though. I wasn’t sure if mer can even eat hazelnut spread.”

He hung onto your board while he observed the fish-shaped confection, turning it every which way before taking an eager bite.

“It’s wonderful,” he moaned, mouth full. You giggled as you ate yours, enjoying the crisp outside and gooey inside. You two munched in comfortable silence and you folded up the white paper bag and tucked it into the shoulder strap of your bikini under your rash guard to throw away when you got home.

“You humans are creative, I’ll give you that. Bring me more of those. I’ll consider it compensation for my services,” licking the remnants of chocolate off his lips.

“Excuse me?! This was your idea!” you cried, indignantly.

“And yet, you reap the benefits and get to enjoy the pleasure of my company,” he smiled up at you cheekily. Like you predicted, chocolate had dripped down onto his chin and you let out a soft snort.

“Pleasurable company with questionable table manners. Dres, you have something here,” you pointed on your own face where his face was dirtied and Dreden swiped on the wrong side of his own. You let out a little giggle at his confused expression.

“No, other side,” you tried again, laughing even harder when he wiped his arm across his jaw and made an even bigger mess. Dresden pouted but smiled nonetheless at your laughter.

“Why don’t you come down from there and help me,” he teased, splashing some water up at you making you shriek indignantly.

“Catch me then!” Before you realized what you were doing, you swung a leg over your board and pushed yourself off, awkwardly hopping into Dresden’s surprised arms with a big splash. Your hands found purchase on his broad shoulders as you got used to the chill of the water, and you enjoyed the way his arms instinctually wrapped around your waist and under your ass to keep you from sinking in the still waters. Your legs wrapped around his waist, steadying you in the gentle current.

“Good catch,” you joked teasingly, although you felt your heart rabbit in your chest a mile a minute. Still, you couldn’t help but grin at the dazed expression on Dresden’s handsome face, eyes wide in confusion and mouth agape. You reached up to his face with a wet hand and wiped at the chocolate staining his chin until it was clean.

“Thanks,” he murmured softly. You looked up to see his hazel gaze locked on yours, waiting in anticipation for your next move. Your fingers moved on their own, tracing the sinewy muscles under the smooth, tanned skin of his shoulders and you found them making their way up to a strong neck where they traced the delicate slits of flattened gills. At your soft touch, the merman let out a low moan that sent molten heat straight between your legs. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against a hard torso in an iron brace. You gasped softly, a whimper threatening to escape your throat.

Dresden dropped his head onto your shoulder and let out a deep shuddering breath. With strong, wide hands gripping your hips, he gently hoisted you back on your paddle board and pushed you to arms distance.

Embarrassment and self-consciousness crashed down around you, shocking you out of your haze.

Was Willow wrong? Did you make a mistake? He doesn’t actually want you like that.

“Oh god, Dresden, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…” you tried, but the merman was already shaking his head, a warm flush flooding his face.

“We should take a break for a couple days,” he ground out firmly. Your heart dropped to your stomach at his words.

“O-okay… Dresden, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay. I’ll see you around,” he blurted, before diving under the water and swiftly swimming away.

You didn’t remember paddling back to shore or making your way back to your car. All you felt was the sting of rejection and the burn of tears as they filled your eyes.

༻✦༺　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

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[catflorist]

The Time Being (ao3 / ffn) catflorist Summary: Time-slipping is a side effect of wielding the Rinnegan. When Sasuke slips through time, he always goes to Sakura, whether he wants to or not. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

pt 5: sakura

After Sasuke left, Sakura woke up alone on a bench just as the sky began to lighten.

She rubbed the goosebumps on her bare arms. The aching pressure of a sob churned in her chest, but she could not cry.

Someone sat next to her. She recognized the line of his shoulders before she recognized his face.

Sasuke's jaw was sharper, his hair tied back and long enough to graze his shoulder blades. Mismatched eyes—red and purple—met hers before fading into their familiar dark.

He frowned. "You're cold." His voice was quieter, deeper than the voice of her Sasuke. He shrugged the cloak off his shoulders and offered it to her.

Sakura accepted, too stunned to speak. There was no need to voice the obvious. He was not the Sasuke she knew.

"I always wondered how you knew I was leaving," he said.

Sakura burrowed inside the cloak, still warm from his body. The fabric was soft, sun-worn, and smelled like salt. "Because I know you," she answered.

Sasuke smiled, and Sakura's head cleared. He had left, but he was here again. That had to mean something.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice trembled, but the knot in her throat was loosening.

The first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, lighting the treetops in gold. "I need to tell you something."

As dawn rose, Sasuke told her about his time-slipping, about the Rinnegan, that she should expect more appearances in the years to come. Sakura listened in a rapture. When he revealed the truth behind the massacre of the Uchiha clan, her tears finally fell. In the morning light, the village appeared ghostly, like bones bleaching in the sun.

"Will you ever come back?" Sakura asked, when everything was said.

"Yes," Sasuke said.

She dried her eyes on the collar of his cloak. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he said. "We'll meet again soon."

"How long?"

"Five years or so, for you." His brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. You'll need to be patient with me."

"I'll be here when you're ready," she said.

Smiling again, Sasuke tapped the center of her brow with two gentle fingers. "You're with me right now."

A rush of questions flooded Sakura's mind, but they were out of time. Sasuke frowned, rubbing his temples, and Sakura took this to mean he was about to leave. She passed the cloak into his lap.

Sasuke slipped away like ducking underwater, leaving behind a quiet ripple of his presence.

When Naruto and Kakashi found her, the village had already woken up. Traffic clattered from the nearby main streets, and curtains fluttered from open windows. Someone nearby was grilling fish for breakfast.

"He's gone," Sakura said.

For a beat, Naruto and Kakashi said nothing. They searched Sakura's expression, giving her the opportunity to grieve, if she wanted to. But Sakura's breathing remained calm.

Kakashi lifted the hitai-ate obscuring his left eye. His gaze shone with regret. "This is my fault." At this, Sakura's lip started trembling.

Naruto's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I'm going after him," he snarled.

"There's no need, Naruto." Sakura gripped the stone of the bench. "He'll come back one day."

.

.

Sakura trained under Tsunade and grew strong. She learned how to tear open the earth and to mend bones. How to store her chakra drop by drop, so one day it would become a vast ocean under her control.

Two years passed before she saw Sasuke again. It occurred in her own time. He perched on the rim of the cliff outside Orochimaru's hideout, wind lifting his robes. A purple obi ensnared his waist. With the sun at his back, he looked more shadow than boy. His eyes held nothing when he looked at her—neither interest nor contempt.

Then he said, "Sakura." He exhaled her name like a breath, like he didn't even realize he was saying it.

It still hurt when they failed to convince him to return, even if it was what Sakura expected.

The trip back to Konoha was solemn. Naruto was shaken and quiet, and even Sai wisely held his tongue. They traveled through the night until Captain Yamato constructed a temporary wooden shelter with four separate rooms.

When she was alone, Sakura held her head in her hands. She tried to fit the Sasuke she just saw into her knowledge of him. He was longer her teammate, and he was far from the man who had chosen to tie his hair back. He was somewhere in between, somewhere lost, with a long way to go.

"Sakura?"

Sasuke, exactly as she remembered from their genin days, inspected her wet face. All his questions stopped. He grasped her hand and looked stubbornly away, daring her to state what they both knew. It was not his way to freely offer a comforting touch.

Sakura closed her eyes. Sasuke had promised to return, but she never would have doubted it on her own.

.

.

"The daimyo wants to drain a lake to build another summer palace, and the council says they have the funds to spare," Tsunade spat, shoving a mountain of paperwork in Sakura's direction. "But there's nothing in the budget for the civilian guilds?"

Sighing in sympathy, Sakura pulled her favorite chair to Tsunade's desk. She flipped through the paperwork, signing a perfect copy of the Hokage's signature on each page. Tsunade filled two glasses with amber liquid, set one beside her student, and settled behind her own tower of paper. This was their evening ritual.

Signing her name with angry flourishes, Tsunade muttered, "Three years as Hokage and I can't get anything done."

Each day, Sakura watched Tsunade fight the council tooth and nail to implement her vision for the village. Each day, the council blocked her every move.

Sakura's pen stilled. Tsunade did not know the truth of the Uchiha massacre. Was it right to tell her?

"Tsunade-shishou…" she began, then the words froze on her tongue.

Her teacher raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out," she urged.

"Have you ever thought that the council might be doing more harm than good?"

This was a radical view. Many citizens of Konoha supported the council in their decision-making. The village was prosperous and powerful. There was no reason to ask deeper questions.

Tsunade was silent for a breath too long, revealing her answer. Teacher and student gazed at each other with a new understanding.

Sakura's hands shook. "There is something you should know."

The council met in an imposing structure set behind the largest gate in the village. Since few windows penetrated its thick walls, the building's interior remained cold and dim no matter the season. When darkness fell, Tsunade and Sakura snuck inside and entered the archive.

After undoing a genjutsu, breaking the ninjutsu seal on a wooden chest, and snapping a plain lock in half, they uncovered the file detailing plans behind the Uchiha massacre.

The scroll was thin. It did not take much space on a page at all to massacre a clan.

Sakura read it first. It was one thing to hear the truth from Sasuke. It was another to see it confirmed in writing, signed by the leaders of the village, and stamped in approval. When she saw the Third Hokage's signature, her heart panged. Sarutobi-sama had always been kind to her. Yet he had known and approved of this plan. Was it a betrayal, or a requirement of his position? Which was worse?

"This village is rotten to the core," Tsunade muttered after closing the scroll. "Is this why your teammate left?"

"No," Sakura said. "He doesn't know the truth yet."

"How did you think to look for this?"

"I was close with Sasuke," she offered, not meeting her teacher's eyes. "I had a suspicion."

Tsunade did not push further. She pressed her lips together, rubbed the space between her eyebrows. For once, the ageless face of Sakura's teacher looked tired.

"We carve our faces into the cliff as if we have something to celebrate," she said. "As if we owe our greatness to the world. But it's all a lie."

Huddled next to Tsunade, surrounded by the archive's chilly secrets, Sakura swore to make the village a better place by the time Sasuke returned.

.

.

"No surprise, Sakura. They denied your plans." Tsunade stamped a document hard enough to shake her entire desk. "Danzo told me personally."

Sakura clenched her fists, but she was not surprised. Last week Tsunade refused to shut down an investigation into the Hyuuga clan's use of branding. Now, the council had coincidentally tabled Sakura's sensible proposal to construct a pediatric wing of the hospital.

This was not Sakura's first roadblock. Last month, the council canceled their first meeting with Sakura's newly-established civilian board, citing scheduling conflicts, and dodged all attempts to reschedule. Not long before, they implied that unless Tsunade agreed to spare three extra jonin for the daimyo's entourage, they might not find funds to spare for Sakura's medic training program. Each time, Danzo delivered the news with a modest smile, as if he were pouring her a cup of tea and expecting gratitude in response.

The more Sakura's plans fizzled out, the more she feared Konoha could never change.

Sometimes Sakura imagined herself leaving the village. She thought about it the same way she thought about embracing the next Sasuke she saw. It was not a real possibility, but the idea floated in her head, and sometimes hurt to think about.

She could live alone somewhere. Maybe by the ocean. Her brain conjured all the details: fresh, salty air. Seabirds screeching and plummeting into the water. The temperamental sand shifting under her feet. There would be nothing to fix. Nothing would require changing. Maybe she would find peace.

Sakura worked hard to improve the village, but she did not buy the plant Ino suggested would flourish in the morning light of her bedroom. She stored every scrap of chakra away for her future seal. She did not spend money except when her friends dragged her to dinner. She thought about the Sasuke who smelled like salt. She dreamt about the ocean.

.

.

When Sasuke appeared next, it was at the worst possible time, and that's what she told him. She had a village to defend and to heal.

Sasuke was closer, somehow. He wore the obi, but his eyes were brighter. He did not hesitate to approach her and to call out her name. Sakura wished he had stayed long enough for her to heal the wound on his head.

The battle worsened. A hoard of Katsuyu's summons under Sakura's command saved the hospital and the old Uchiha compound from destruction, but Pain's attack leveled much of Konoha to the ground.

Tsunade sank into a coma. Shizune and Sakura tended to the wrecked village.

Captain Yamato was reconstructing Konoha by himself when Sakura stepped in. In his patient voice, he taught her the basics of woodstyle. At first she could only summon twigs and vines. Her wood produced too much foliage, inhibiting its use as a building material. She persevered. By the end of the month, she was by his side, reimagining and rebuilding Konoha, coaxing the surrounding forest to regrow.

Sakura and Yamato faced the empty land where the council building once stood.

"I have an idea," Sakura said, "though it isn't traditional."

"By all means," Yamato said.

Sakura pressed her hands together. Wood coiled into the air and formed a new type of building. It was small and modest with an unadorned facade. A large window opened upon the council gathering space. Where the gate once existed, she created a square for the citizens of Konoha to gather. The council's discussions could no longer occur in private, outside the public eye.

It was no trivial responsibility to possess the skills to rebuild a village. If she could carve out a window when before there was none, create a new space for people to breathe, she would.

.

.

"Sakura, you have too many jobs," Ino complained.

"I am a simple student," Sakura denied, though Ino was right. In Tsunade's absence, Sakura's role in the village took on more of a political nature than ever.

After the council appointed Danzo as the temporary Hokage, she and Shizune fought to maintain Tsunade's policies and legislation under his strict rule. During council meetings, she served as Tsunade's representative. In between these responsibilities, Sakura squeezed in training and shifts at the hospital.

This meant Sakura did not have time in her schedule to eat dinner with both Ino and Naruto in one week, so she requested they meet together. Her two friends disrupted the peaceful evening of every Konoha resident with their public debate over where to eat before Ino finally threw up her hands.

Naruto slurped his Ichiraku's ramen. "You're a student, a shinobi, an architect..."

"...a medic, a politician," Ino picked up. She considered. "A large-forehead-bearer."

"Pig," Sakura responded fondly. She eyed Naruto. "Dobe," she said, using Sasuke's word without thinking, and the cheerful mood dampened.

Ino set her teacup on the table with a soft clink. "Have you heard anything?"

Naruto sighed. "The teme is up to some shit."

Sakura chewed her lip. The last they'd heard, Sasuke had formed a team and joined the Akatsuki. Five years or so, Sasuke had promised. Over four years had passed since that day.

Just as a lump formed in Sakura's throat, Ino squeezed her shoulder. "Let's walk to the square, later," she suggested. "It's great, but I think it could use a few more places to sit."

They walked to the square. Sakura twisted wood into benches and placed them according to Ino's vision.

"Beautiful work. But what about trees? Some shade would be nice," Ino said. "Don't you think, Naruto?"

"Eh? But it's night––ow," Naruto gasped, as Ino elbowed him in the ribs. "I mean, absolutely. Could use some greenery, and all that."

Sakura's hands flew through the signs. Trees sprouted in each corner of the square, growing taller than the nearby council building, than any building in the village.

The transformation was immediate. Soft murmurs of rustling leaves replaced silence. A bird landed upon a branch. From where they were standing, the newly born foliage obscured the faces carved into the Hokage Mountain. In the silver wash of the moon, it appeared as if they grew over the mountain itself, a tangle of wood and leaf and stone.

Without speaking, the three of them sat together on the nearest bench, inaugurating the new space.

"This was a good idea, Ino," Sakura said.

Ino and Naruto raised eyebrows at each other.

"Do you feel better, Forehead?"

Gazing at the treetops, Sakura found herself smiling. She felt better.

.

.

Sakura was listening to a council meeting with detached resentment when news broke of Danzo's death.

Tsumiki Kido, Danzo's closest confidant on the council, called for a moment of silence. As councilmembers bowed their heads, Sakura's heart raced. She and Shizune shared a careful glance.

When the moment was done, Tsumiki shook his head. "It is clear Uchiha Sasuke has outgrown his usefulness."

"He is a criminal and an enemy," another voice chimed in.

Sakura already knew there was a future waiting for Sasuke. He would live to meet her on that bench. Still, her blood ran cold.

"The boy has shown his true colors," Tsumiki replied. "Who will his next target be? How else will he terrorize our beloved village?"

As evenly as she could manage, Sakura said, "Konoha will never be the same after Danzo-sama's loss." She lowered her head, and faces around the table followed suit. "He displayed the Will of Fire until the end. It is evident he made a great sacrifice for the village, a sacrifice we must not undermine."

Tsumiki frowned and opened his mouth.

"Don't you see?" Sakura interjected, meeting the eyes of each councilmember. "Danzo-sama could easily defeat any enemy. In his wisdom, he understood that Uchiha Sasuke's continued wellbeing is in the best interest of the village. The Uchiha clan's doujutsu, the Sharingan, is a valuable tool. Only Sasuke possesses this skill, now that his brother Itachi is dead."

When several heads nodded, Sakura frowned and looked to the ceiling. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, as if in thought. "I'm happy to volunteer to look through our archives on the Uchiha clan. I'm certain I'll find useful information that illustrates how having an Uchiha in service of the village is beneficial. Perhaps I'll uncover other skills, other histories, that are useful to know. We keep good records, after all."

The younger members of the council did not blink, but Sakura watched key faces twitch. Their eyes bored into her, wondering if the words archive, Itachi, records, all said in the same context, were a coincidence.

As silence fell, the public square outside remained lively. Two elderly civilians took a seat upon one of the newly crafted benches. A shuriken thunked against the large window overlooking the meeting space. Children's laughter sounded, then a group of young Academy students raced to retrieve their object.

Tsumiki's lips pressed together in a thin line. "That won't be necessary."

All talk of retaliation against Sasuke ceased. Discussion turned to Danzo's funeral preparations, then to candidates for the next acting Hokage. Sakura suggested Kakashi. The council grumbled, but it was a good suggestion.

"You spoke well, but that was a risk," Shizune said later. "They will be upset."

.

.

Sakura was scrubbing her hands after a surgery when she heard that Tsunade was awake.

She burst into the room. Shizune lifted her tear-streaked face and smiled. Tsunade sat upright in her bed, young and fresh as ever, as if awaking from a catnap rather than a deathly coma. Her teacher was not physically affectionate, but she returned Sakura's tight embrace with no reservations, and brushed the uncombed hair away from her face.

"You've both been busy," Tsunade said, after Sakura and Shizune explained everything she had missed. She eyed Sakura, inspecting the dark circles under her student's eyes. "Don't give too much away. You can't heal or fight or fix this damn village if you don't keep anything for yourself." .

.

Sakura was on the battlefield. She saw his shadow before she saw him, that familiar line of his shoulders. .

.

.

.

Up next: Sasuke and Sakura meet again.

Notes: double cliffhanger...don't be mad? :) though i hope some of your questions are starting to be answered.

also, we're more than halfway through now! this chapter through the end were the hardest to write--thank you for following along with me!

[lindstromm]

"2. Cherik faey" for the WIP ask game please!

That idea came from the image of James McAvoy in Dune:

He needs pointed ears and fairy wings. In my WIP, the humans move into the faey’s valley, and Charles accidentally rescues (mistaken identity) one of the humans he’s supposed to fear:

Even before the waters closed over his head, Erik could someone shouting: “Let go! You have to let go!” That was probably true, but Erik was incapable of letting go. His life force, every desire he’d ever had, tethered him and he could not let go. He was going to drown, and that was a small price to pay. He must do this.

The lake he would drown in was not deep, and already the seaweed floated around his bare feet, caressing and tickling him. Drowning wasn’t all bad, no more than falling asleep while knowing you were about to have a dream so glorious that it put the waking world to shame. That’s why it was such a shock when someone kicked him in the back, and then an arm wrapped around his chest. 

You can’t. You’ll drown. You have to let go. 

Erik ignored the voice in his mind. He already knew everything it was saying, but the voice was wrong. He didn’t have to let go.

I know what this means to you, but you’re going to die. 

It was the empathy that fractured his single-minded concentration. He knew what this meant to him? And it was less important than dying? The man in the water pulled against him, his feet kicking Erik’s legs as he tried to swim them both to the surface. 

Please, calm your mind. 

Something snapped inside his head, as if a cloth had been pulled away from his eyes. The vision of beauty he’d been willing to follow to his death disappeared in the churning water and a creature all teeth and claws came at him. The naiad screamed at him, the whoosh of watery sound pounding at his eardrums. Erik quit fighting against the man trying to pull him to the surface, and swam with him instead. 

They broke the surface in a gasp and a splash that filled Erik’s mouth and nose with water. He sputtered. 

“Go! You mustn’t let her touch you!”

The man’s spoken voice had the same odd tinge to the sounds that Erik had noticed when the voice was only in his head. It was musical, crisp, and as entrancing as the naiad’s song, though without the compulsion that had dragged Erik into the lake. In fact, Erik had no desire to do what the voice told him to do, since it appeared that the man intended to put himself between Erik and the naiad, and deal with those teeth and claws himself.

Erik pulled the knife sheathed at his belt and dove back under the water, trapping the other man’s ankle in his grasp to keep him from accidentally kicking Erik in the head. He flashed that knife in the naiad’s direction. She jerked back, her green-tinged skin blending into the waters of the lake so well she was more suggestion than shape. Erik wouldn’t be able to see her at all, if not for the movement. He’d heard enough stories to know how to counter a naiad, now that the spell she’d cast on his mind was broken. Naiads hunted by deception; they moved in for the kill only when the prey was drowned and weak. A show of strength would drive her away.

I said not to let her touch you! 

The crisp voice was in his mind again, angry and exasperated. The foot that Erik was holding twisted out of his grasp, and the man doubled over to push Erik away. The man did something; light flared in a watery bloom, and then the naiad fled, water churning in her wake.

You bark-brained fool! First, you get enspelled by a naiad, and then you try to fight her with a belt knife! Your brother said you were smart! Wishful thinking, is it? Shall I weave you to a baby board to get you back to the Clantree so you don’t walk into a sprite hollow or eat the nuts from a dryad’s tree? 

Erik sheathed the knife and kicked towards shore. He’d been in the naiad’s thrall only a few seconds, and it wasn’t long before the mud of the lake bottom sucked at his feet, and then the two of them staggered onto the sand. Once they were out of the water, the mindtouch disappeared. Now that he had a second to think, Erik realized the naiad was not the only faey he was encountering.

The encounter had winded both of them, and they stopped, water still covering their toes, to catch their breath. Erik looked over at the faey, his glance barely touching the woven green sandals that laced up, criss-crossing over his calves and tying just under his knees. Then the breeches, made of the same woven green grass as the foot coverings, ended in a fringe of grass just above his knees. His torso was bare, trim waisted and well-muscled through the shoulders and chest. He would have to be, or he wouldn’t be able to fly.

Erik’s gaze fastened on the dragonfly wings that sprouted from each shoulder blade, enormous gossamer wings that waved gently in the sunset light, and then shivered suddenly, flicking off water in a spray that created a rainbow shimmer around the faey. Wet, dark hair clung to his head in a cap, short and thick. His hands wrung it out, which exposed delicately pointed ears. Erik reached out to touch the faey (it was good luck), and the motion pulled him close to the faey’s woodland smell - rich dirt and dewy grasses. He smelled like a spring morning.

An elf, he was close enough to touch an elf. Not only had he escaped a naiad, he’d touched an elf. Of course all the stories were true, but Erik only heard them third and fourth hand. Now he had stories of his own to tell, stories that would raise him in the esteem of his listeners and their listeners. Stories were better than riches, and now Erik would have the best stories of all.

“Leave off, yeah?” the elf said, shaking his arm to dislodge Erik’s hand.

Wondering at his good fortune, Erik put his other hand around the elf’s waist, holding him more firmly. Where Erik had expected the fragility of a creature not entirely bound by gravity, the elf was as warm and solid as a human.

“If you’re that close to falling over, then sit down,” the elf said impatiently, and turned to look at Erik for the first time.

Erik had never seen eyes so blue or a mouth so red. A face so beautiful should never show such fear. 

Erik sprang back as the elf’s mindtouch erupted full force into Erik’s mind, all panic and images of trees, elves and a wisp of song by starlight. 

“I won’t hurt you,” Erik blurted out.

The elf froze a second longer before the mindtouch ended so raggedly that it left Erik gasping, and then he was gone across the meadow. Those shimmering wings began to beat, until the faey was half-running, half-flying across the meadow grasses, moving so quickly he reached the trees and disappeared from Erik’s sight within seconds.

The grasses that waved in the wake of the elf’s passage stilled, the tips touched orange in the last light of the sunset.

Erik let go of the breath he was holding, rubbed his eyes, and brushed water off his face. He’d gone into the lake fully clothed, and he was soaked through. The late summer night wouldn’t chill him, and he lingered, watching where the elf had disappeared, and then turning to look at the footprints next to his in the mud, already filling with water. They’d be gone in the next few moments, the only evidence he hadn’t imagined the whole encounter.

-----

Anyway, I got a few more scenes written and then I fizzled out. It’s all plotted out, but that’s as far as I got.

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!!  chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying.  “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

*

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it. 

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

*

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors. 

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself.  The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

*

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on. 

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath.  “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re  clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.  

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

[thedailycourtney]

Some Vacation Notes

Ixtapa is a really special place. Not much has changed since I was there 20 years ago. I met so many people who have been going annually for 15, 20, 25 years. There were only a handful of people from the States, which I loved. It’s a tourist spot for sure, but nowhere near the levels of Cabo, Cancun, Playa del Carmen, Puerto Vallarta, etc. Not that those places aren’t also lovely… but Ixtapa just holds a permanent place in my soul. I can’t wait to go back again someday.

Aside from the U.S., Mexico is the place I’ve visited most. Not counting Matamoros and Tijuana, border towns that were day trips on other vacations, I’ve been 11 different times. I love it there. If I ever leave Columbia - which I also deeply love - I could see myself living there someday. Maybe in a different life.

I turned on the television in my room exactly once, and thought “why” so I turned it off immediately and listened to the waves instead. Solid choice. 

After literally two minutes of balmy humidity, my skin was screaming “THANK YOU!!!”

Apart from wearing wedges to dinner one night, and Birks down to breakfast twice, I was barefoot for over a week. 10/10, highly recommend.

I also was braless and pantsless for the entire time I was there. I wore 12 swimsuits, and slept in a king size bed with six pillows. Heaven.

My balcony had a hammock I spent at least an hour in every morning and evening. My backyard hammock is the best $60 I’ve ever spent.

I’m really tan. I’m recharged. I’m addicted to that D. (Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m obviously referring to the vitamin.) (Though sadly and unfortunately and to my constant consternation, I like the other kind as well. Sigh.)

I am so thankful I don’t have any sort of motion sickness. The waves are intense some days, and being on a boat is better than not being on a boat.

We saw several humpback whales, which was unexpected, but amazing.

I have not been to every beach in the world. But my Top 3 are: Rose Island, Bahamas, Rum Point, Grand Cayman, and Playa Las Gatas, Zihuatenejo. In no particular order.

I am a water person, no question. I spend my entire summer near a pool or lake. But if I have to choose, give me beach. I don’t mind sand everywhere. I don’t mind finding it in my bag, or hair, or water bottle, or my butt crack, hours later. 

I think a lot about the elements, and which I relate to most. Not fire, really. Aside from loving hot weather, I’m not quick to anger, and I prefer calm to passion, in most situations. Earth for sure, in that I love the feeling of connectedness*, walking on grass, barefoot, and definitely the smells of different seasons. Right now, it’s rain, and newness, and green, and so good. On a related note, I took my pouch of my most favorite crystals with me, the ones I feel are most beneficial: tiger’s eye, and rose quartz, and moonstone, and obsidian, and fluorite, and amethyst. One can use all the protection one can get, traveling during Mercury Retrograde. 

I always thought I was Air, because I NEED space, and room, and not being confined or restricted, like I need, well, air to breathe. But I’m also Water… getting out past the breakers and just… floating, or treading, or whatever that feeling is, when you’re behind the chaos, and the noise and churning are gone, and life is content, and peaceful? That’s me, for sure. 

That’s not to say that it’s always that way, or that some days aren’t more difficult to get past the breakers, if you will, and I’m fully aware that this is such a clunky and cliched metaphor, but here we are.

Tell me you’re not singing that Everclear song in your head now. Go ahead. Swim out past the breakers. Watch the world die.

I was awake after 9 PM exactly twice. (I was in the same time zone as home.)

A former acquaintance of mine was in PV last week. She posted a pic on Facebook of her riding a horse, that someone behind her took, wearing a Trump 2020 t-shirt. Despite my Don’t Engage With Idiots on Facebook Rule, I commented something along the lines of it wouldn’t be the first time Trump’s been associated with a horse’s ass. Other people chimed in and I skedaddled right on out of there, even though I started it. Not sorry. She ended up blocking me, I think, which is the easiest out I could hope for from ever hanging out with her again. The only reason we were friends in the first place is because in another lifetime, aka 10 years ago, I could openly hang out with my married boyfriend around them. Shrug. Not a time of my life I am proud of, but it is what it is. (Just full of those cliches today, aren’t I? LOL)

Seriously though, the thought of someone I know wearing a Trump shirt, in MEXICO, after the way he’s disparaged the country/people, is so grossly disrespectful, so abhorrently classless, that I was almost shocked by it. Not to mention, she and her husband own a cleaning company that employs mostly Mexican immigrants. Talk about the trash taking itself out. Good riddance.

I missed my dog like crazy. 

*absolutely a word