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photogirl894 · 3 months ago

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"Sun and Rain Part 2: Age of the Empire"

Chapter 39

"Hard Hits"

A "Bad Batch" fanfic!

Pairing: Hunter x fem OC, Echo (more best friend pairing)

A/N: Well y'all...you knew this was coming 😅

Today is my last day of summer break before going back to work and what a better way to show my despair at going back to work by posting a chapter full of angst?? 😜 If you like angst, then you're gonna have a heyday with this one! I've had one scene in this chapter written for a looooong time now, so it's great to finally put it out there!

Also, there's a fun Kimber/Hunter moment I threw in based off of this art I got commissioned a while ago 🥰 See if you can spot it!

Hope y'all still enjoy! (Just don't hate me at the end of this one 😅)

Taglist: @the-sad-batch , @nimata-beroya , @intrepidmare , @legolkenxbi , @tech-aficionado ,

@ladykatakuri , @d1n0-dan , @sammi9498 , @darthzero22 , @scarlettrose9901 ,

@thebadbatchscyare , @chxpsi , @ilikemymendarkandfictional , @4pplecider , @locitapurplepink ,

@l-lend , @nekotaetae , @eternalwaffle , @merkitty49 , @avathebestx ,

@idoubleswearimawriter , @techs-stitches , @fantasyproductions , @totallyunidentified , @dreamsandrosies ,

@theknightofivanhoe

《 Chapter 38

》 Chapter 40

All parts (Part 2) (Part 1)

Explanation: Kimber and Hunter are now Crosshair's prisoners and things come to a head between the Bad Batch and Crosshair back on the planet where it all began....

Huddled together, Kimber and Hunter found themselves on the floor of an Imperial shuttle, still in cuffs and now sailing through hyperspace on their way to an undisclosed location. Two members of Crosshair's team were in the back area guarding them and standing by the door that led further into the ship.

A loud alarm rang through the ship, indicating the door was about to open. Hunter's head lifted and his eyebrows furrowed together, which gave Kimber the indication of exactly who was coming. The door slid open and in strolled Crosshair, glaring down at the two of them. Kimber took notice that he had Hunter's knife attached to his belt.

“Where are we going?” Hunter asked him.

Crosshair got down in front of him and pulled out Hunter's comm device from one of his pouches. “You'll find out soon enough,” he stated as he turned the device on, “and so will your squad.”

“Wow…so quick to forget they were your squad once, too. Your family, no less,” Kimber snapped, which he ignored as he stood back up.

“Using my comm won't work. They'll know it's a trap,” Hunter debated.

Crosshair looked back at him and simply stated, “They'll still come for you.”

“Oh, stop being coy, Crosshair,” said Kimber, irritated. “Where are you taking us?”

He side-eyed her for a moment before answering, “Back to where this all started.” Then with that, he turned on his heel and walked back through the door, letting it close behind him.

Kimber and Hunter exchanged anxious glances, wondering what Crosshair could possibly mean. Kimber’s gaze dropped in thought to her bound hands. Where could he be taking them? What did he mean by “where it all started”? Did he mean the Empire? That would probably mean Coruscant, but that didn’t seem as significant. Or perhaps he meant Order 66, which preceded even the Empire. That happened for them on Kaller, but even that didn’t seem to strike her as important enough to return to. No…there had to be another planet. One that meant something to all of them.

Then it hit her. He wasn’t talking about where things with the galaxy started. He was talking about where things with their squad started...where everything went wrong for them.

That meant only one place.

“I know where we’re going,” Kimber stated aloud, turning to Hunter.

“Quiet!” the female guard sternly scolded her.

Now even more frustrated, Kimber replied with a roll of her eyes, “We're just talking. Calm down.”

“Hey! We said quiet!” the other guard; a male one stated gruffly.

“Or what? You going to kill me?” she challenged, getting up to her feet. “I don’t think your Commander will be happy with that since we’re his prisoners.”

“Kimber, don’t,” Hunter warned her.

The male guard stepped forward and ordered Kimber, “Sit down.”

Feeling emboldened by her anger, she looked the trooper down and defiantly responded, “No.”

The trooper was quick to react as the butt of his blaster rifle forcefully met her stomach. The wind was knocked out of her and, with a choked gasp, she dropped to a knee and clutched her stomach. Hunter immediately moved to stand up, but the other guard approached and held her weapon at his head to keep him from moving.

“That’s for disobeying orders!” the soldier who hit Kimber cried out.

She coughed and gasped for breath before letting out a light snicker. “You should know this about me: I don’t like following orders...especially when they come from Imperial scum like you.”

She didn’t know what possessed her to be this audacious to the Imperial soldiers, but her anger and animosity of the situation was overpowering all sense of logic and common sense. The consequence of her statement was then being struck again by the Imperial’s blaster rifle, this time across the face. She let out a loud, pained cry and Hunter called her name in worry. Her left cheekbone throbbed from the impact and she clenched her teeth, holding herself together. This was nothing compared to other punishments she’d suffered in the past, but that didn’t exactly make the pain any less impactful still.

The alarm rang again and the doors opened as Crosshair stepped inside, having heard the commotion from the other side. “Stand down,” he ordered the two guards.

Stepping back and standing again at attention, the male guard informed him, “She defied our orders, sir.”

Crosshair glanced at Kimber indignantly and commented, “She’s good at that.”

Then he walked up to her and took her arm, pulling her up to her feet and towards the door. Kimber tried to resist and she heard Hunter cry out for her, but Crosshair removed her from the room with ease and the doors closed behind them. Once they were alone, he lightly pushed her into one of the safety seats in front of him on the side of the small hallway. She cast a displeased look up at him and then turned away. She didn’t even want to look at Crosshair right now. All she could feel was resentment towards him as he stood there, looking down on her.

Then he spoke, his voice oddly calm, “He hit you hard.” Then she felt his hand carefully touching her hurt cheek.

With an annoyed grunt, she swapped his hand away with her bound hands. “What of it?” she asked back.

Stepping back, he said, “I gave orders that you both were to be unharmed. I should reprimand him for using such force on you.”

She scoffed at the notion of him punishing his subordinate on her behalf. “Save your false pity. I don't want it,” she said, turning even more away.

“It isn’t false. You think I want to see you this way?” he asked.

“I don't know, Crosshair. What do you want?” she questioned him, now looking back at him. “Because frankly, I can't figure that out. You tried to kill us multiple times, then we find out it's most likely not of your own volition and then you were practically begging me not to fight last time I saw you. You seemed almost like yourself, but you still hold allegiance to the Empire. Even now, instead of outright killing me or Hunter, you've captured us and you're taking us back to Kamino.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Cocking her head to the side, she added confidently, “Yeah, I figured it out.”

An impressed grunt sounded from his throat. Then he replied, “You always were sharp.”

Kimber rolled her eyes, unamused, and turned her gaze away. “Oh, don't act familiar with me now. Unless you have anything to say to me that's actually worth my time, I want to go back with Hunter.”

“Kimber, why must you keep fighting me?” he demanded.

That question ignited a spark of disbelief within her and her head snapped back in his direction, fire in her eyes. “Why must I--? If you're seriously asking me that question, then you're way more far gone than I thought,” she spat at him. Then she shook her head and sighed with defeat. “I really don't know who you are anymore.”

Crosshair simply stared back at her, his eyes instinctively going to the red mark on her cheek that was already beginning to bruise. Even now, seeing her hurt in any way made his blood run hot. He couldn’t suppress that even if he tried. He just wanted her to see reason with the Empire; to see the bigger picture like he did, but she was determined to keep opposing him no matter what. She didn’t understand what he was trying to do...but she would. He would see to that soon.

He walked over to the doors, turned back to Kimber and told her, “I would advise you stay quiet. Make it easy on yourself.” Then he activated the doors and stepped aside, allowing her back into the room.

Kimber just gave him one more displeased glance and walked back inside without saying a word to him. Hunter, who was still seated on the floor, looked up at her immediately with concern and seemingly relaxed slightly as he realized she was okay. She took her place back beside him on the ground, giving him a nod of reassurance. There was definitely a look in his eye that told her he wanted to say something admonishing towards her for how she behaved earlier, but was choosing to stay quiet lest they get in trouble again.

All they had to do now was wait in uncomfortable silence until they reached their destination.

They had no idea how long it had been when they felt the ship jolt out of hyperspace. Hunter reached over with his joined hands and took Kimber’s protectively in his own as they figured out they would soon be landing. A minute later, they heard the loud tapping of rainfall on the roof of the ship and Kimber’s shoulders sank. The rainfall confirmed they were exactly where she predicted they’d end up.

She turned to Hunter and mouthed silently, “Kamino.” To which, he nodded in understanding.

Soon, they were both told to get up by the guards and gruffly pulled to their feet. Crosshair came into the back with them, his helmet on over his head, and carrying both Hunter and Kimber’s helmets under his arm. The ramp to the ship lowered and Crosshair led his two hostages and the other soldiers out. Kimber recognized the Kaminoan hangar right away and could hear the clapping of the thunderstorms behind them outside. They were greeted by a young human male with light skin, brown hair and dressed in an Imperial officer’s uniform. Judging by the badge he had on his chest, Kimber deduced he was most likely an Admiral of some sort. He was escorted by five troopers; two in dark armor matching Crosshair’s and three in regular white armor. Crosshair and his group halted in front of the Imperial officer.

The Imperial asked in a deep, authoritative voice, “Where are the rest of them?”

“They’ll be here. We’ll intercept upon arrival,” Crosshair informed him.

The Admiral directed his attention to Hunter and Kimber and stepped closer to them. “So you’re the ones they call ‘Hunter’ and ‘Kimber’,” he greeted them, his tone bordering on condescending. “The destruction your squad caused on Ryloth got my attention.”

Neither of them said a word to him and just remained stoic in their expressions.

It was then the Admiral took notice of the mark on Kimber’s face, which had darkened a bit more over time, and he commented, “A shame that such a lovely face like yours had to be so marred.”

She sneered, immediately annoyed at his backhanded compliment, and replied, “Keep talking like that and you’ll be saying that to yourself in a mirror.”

That earned her an elbow to the arm from Hunter, warning her to stay quiet.

“Admiral Tarkin described you as quite the feral woman…and I see he was correct in that regard,” said the Imperial. When he just got a glare in return, he turned back to Crosshair. “I leave this to you, Commander. Stay on schedule.”

Crosshair and his soldiers walked around the Admiral, forcefully pushing Hunter and Kimber forward, which aggravated them even more. They walked through the hangar and into the brightly-lit halls of Tipoca City, which was certainly something Kimber hadn’t missed at all. The strange thing, though, was that the halls were practically empty. There were no Clone troopers or Kaminoans walking around. Not even any young Clone cadets could be seen. Only a couple Imperial soldiers walked by and that was it.

“Where are all the regs?” Hunter inquired.

“When did you start caring about them?” Crosshair asked back, now with his blaster pointed at Hunter's back as they walked and having given Kimber's helmet to the other soldier with them.

“No Kaminoans either,” said Hunter. Then it dawned on him. “This facility's being decommissioned.”

Kimber sighed as she now realized that upon hearing Hunter say it aloud. “Of course…,” she whispered.

Hearing no reply to the contrary, Hunter remarked to Crosshair, “You don't seem too concerned.”

“Why would I be?” Crosshair questioned.

Stopping to face his brother, Hunter responded, “Because the Empire will be phasing out Clones next.”

Jabbing his blaster into Hunter's chest, Crosshair stated, “Not the ones that matter.”

As Hunter glared at him, Kimber went on to ask him sharply, “What will that mean for me, then? I'm not a Clone. Are you saying I don't matter?”

“You've pushed your luck enough,” Crosshair answered her, “but I think the Empire could still make use of you.”

“You think I’m just going to let the Empire use me the same way they’re using you? Not a chance,” she said snidely.

The other trooper then pushed her forward with the tip of his gun and ordered, “Keep moving.”

The four of them continued on a few more feet and rounded a corner where they entered a Kaminoan security control room. The room was mostly lit by several multicolored holographic projections throughout. One of Crosshair's squadmates informed him that they had detected a ship entering the planet's system, but they had lost it below the scanner range, which Crosshair affirmed was the rest of Clone Force 99 and another one of the troopers said they would notify the scouts.

“Don't bother. They'll come to us,” Crosshair stated. Then he looked at Hunter and Kimber as he added, “They don't leave their own behind...most of the time.”

“Really? You're going to pull that card?” Kimber snapped as Crosshair removed his helmet.

“You tried to kill us. We didn't have a choice,” Hunter said sternly.

Crosshair sat down on one of the bowl-like seats in the room, scoffed lightly and asked as he placed a toothpick in his mouth, “And I did?”

Something about that simple question rendered both Kimber and Hunter speechless and they were unsure how to respond. Kimber almost said he did have a choice, but then remembered the inhibitor chip. In truth, he hadn't had a choice, but they hadn't known that at the time and that still didn't change the fact that he had shot at them and tried to kill them. All she could do was glance at Hunter with uncertainty, not knowing quite what to do.

Hunter stayed quiet, too, for a moment, his mind going over every possible thing he could say to sway his brother. Despite how frustrated he was with Crosshair, there was still a part of him that wanted to get through to him. If not for his own sake, then for Kimber's. Crosshair's absence and actions had affected her the most and he hated seeing her suffer because of the chip in Crosshair's head. If there was a chance he could do something before the rest of his squad got involved, then he had to try and take it.

He moved closer to Crosshair and said in a quieter voice so only they could hear, “Crosshair, we've seen what the Empire's doing...occupying planets and silencing anyone who stands against them. You know it's not right.”

Standing up from his seat and removing the toothpick, Crosshair replied nonchalantly, “You still don't see the bigger picture…but you will.”

“Ugh, just stop with the bigger picture talk. That's not what this is about,” Kimber put in, vexed at his inability to see past that mindset.

Hunter sighed, exasperated. “Can't you see they're using you?” he asked, shaking his head. “It's that inhibitor chip in your head. It's making you follow--”

His words were cut off by the sound of an alarm blaring over the sound system and one of the troopers informing Crosshair that there was an unauthorized entry on one of the platforms. Hunter and Kimber exchanged knowing looks. The others were now inside the facility.

“Right on schedule,” said Crosshair. “Time to go.”

“Crosshair, please, don't do this. I'm begging you,” Kimber pleaded with him. “Whatever you plan to do, leave the others out of it.”

He simply looked back at her and replied, “Who's the one begging now?”

As she gaped at him in disbelief, he shoved Hunter's helmet into his bound hands and then hers was given to her just as forcefully. Then they both were pushed forward again out the door by Crosshair's troopers.

As they walked through the facility, the remainder of Crosshair's squad met up with them and continued on with them. Before long, Hunter and Kimber recognized where they were being led to. They were heading to the training room. Unfortunately, they both knew it would be easy for Crosshair and his soldiers to pick off the Bad Batch one by one since it was open ground.

“I know what you're trying to do, Crosshair,” said Kimber as they kept going.

Over his shoulder, he flatly replied, “Good for you.”

Knowing her squad's lives were at stake, she quietly said to him, “You said you wanted to talk back on Ryloth. Fine, then let's talk. It's not too late to stop this.”

“It is too late. You had your chance. All of this…will end here tonight,” he said back, quickening his pace away from her.

She wanted to say more, but once again, one of the other troopers shoved her forward to keep her moving and she couldn’t suppress an annoyed growl at them. She wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe she should have just talked to Crosshair back on Ryloth when she’d been given the chance. Now, it might be too late…both for her and her squad.

They soon reached the large training room and a wave of nostalgia hit Kimber right away. She remembered her first time in this room, fighting Droids on her own to try and prove herself to the Prime Minister. She remembered the last time they’d been to Kamino and the whole squad had been sent into this room to prove themselves to Admiral Tarkin and show the continued efficiency of Clone troopers. Now, they were back once more and it was most likely going to be the last place they’d ever see.

“Take your positions,” Crosshair ordered his troops, stopping Hunter and Kimber in place partway through the room and keeping his blaster aimed at their backs.

The rest of the troopers situated themselves on either side of the room; two on the left and three on the right, but then they stopped around the center of the room instead of by the main entrance. Both Kimber and Hunter realized they were anticipating the Bad Batch were going to come up through the central lift instead of the entrance, knowing they’d still be following Hunter’s comm trace. They waited apprehensively for the rest of the squad to arrive. Kimber had a feeling the others would come up the lift instead of the entrance, thinking they’d get ahead of Crosshair…but unfortunately, he was already a step ahead of them.

Kimber also took notice that one of Crosshair’s troopers had her sniper rifle on their back and she couldn’t help but sneer to herself. One way or another, she’d get her rifle back from them and if she had to, she would use it on that soldier first.

A few minutes later, just as Crosshair predicted, the central lift came up from below the floor and on the platform stood Echo, Wrecker and Tech with their weapons all drawn and Crosshair’s squad all raised their own weapons at them, showing the Clones they were outmatched.

Patronizingly, Crosshair greeted them by tossing Hunter’s comm towards them and saying, “And here we all are…together again. You won’t be needing your weapons.”

The other soldiers slowly closed in on the Clones, warning them to get rid of their weapons. The Clones all looked to Hunter, who gave them a nod to comply. Begrudgingly, they all threw their blasters to the floor as well as a thermal detonator from Tech and Wrecker’s large vibroblade.

“See? Following orders isn’t so difficult,” Crosshair taunted them, though it was mostly directed at Hunter. Then he looked around slightly and asked the others, “Where’s your little sidekick?”

“You think we’d bring her here?” Wrecker questioned. He lifted his helmet up onto his head and added, “We’re smarter than that.”

“Lying was never your strength, Wrecker,” Crosshair stated. Then he ordered one of his soldiers to find Omega and they exited the room.

Echo then called out, “Are you two all right?”

“We’re fine,” Kimber answered.

“You are not. There is a contusion on your left cheek,” Tech pointed out.

Behind her, Crosshair snidely remarked, “That’s what happens to those who defy orders.”

“Yeah, something you used to be good at once,” Kimber said back. “Or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

Crosshair didn’t say anything back.

Soon, one of his troopers stated, “We’re running out of time, Commander.”

“Hold your positions,” Crosshair ordered.

It was then Hunter’s turn to look over to Crosshair and, with a glare on his face, he asked, “So this was your grand plan? Bring us here and kill us?”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” Crosshair said back, his voice turning dark under his helmet. “Not that it wouldn’t be justified.”

“Justified? Are you kidding me?” Kimber questioned, appalled. “What have we done that would justify killing us?”

“You betrayed everything we stood for,” Crosshair answered, “And for what? The Republic?”

Hunter responded steadfastly, “We’re loyal to each other, not some Empire.”

Crosshair then said five words that struck both Hunter and Kimber to the core:

“You weren’t loyal to me.”

The two of them went wide-eyed in shock and couldn’t find the words to reply to him. That wasn’t the response they were anticipating.

He continued, “I was one of you. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t. And it’s why I’m going to give you what you never gave me...a chance.”

Crosshair’s squad all turned their heads to him in surprise and even the other Clones were astonished, too. Hunter and Kimber still remained silent. What did this mean for them? What was Crosshair really doing?

Just then, he put a finger up to the side of his helmet, getting a transmission. Then he spoke aloud, “Send her on a shuttle off-world.”

Kimber’s anxiety spiked hearing that. That meant Omega had been found.

“Crosshair, don’t,” Hunter said.

“It’s for her own good…and yours,” Crosshair said back.

Hunter pushed further, insisting, “Omega belongs with us.”

“Living among fugitives where she’s in constant danger?” Crosshair asked. Then he scoffed in bemusement. “You want to protect the kid, then let her go. Stop pretending to be something you're not, Hunter.”

Before she could stop herself, Kimber said snarkily back, “Oh, that's rich coming from you, Crosshair, thinking you have any importance in this Empire! You think this is who you are? You're no different than the regs you claim to hate so much.”

Turning to Kimber, Crosshair replied, “I am not. None of us are.” He looked back at Hunter. “You know this, too, Hunter. We're not like the regs. We never have been. We're superior.” Once again, his tone grew ominous as he went on, “The Empire can't protect the galaxy without strength. This is what we were made for. Think of all we could do...together.”

With one fluid motion, Crosshair then pulled out Hunter's knife from his belt and broke Hunter's cuffs with one downward stroke. Afterwards, he pushed him forward towards his brothers. Kimber inhaled shakily in fear of whatever Crosshair had planned.

“We were brothers once,” Crosshair said to Hunter, not paying heed to Kimber still beside him. “We can be again.”

Kimber wanted that more than anything; it was all she had wished for, for months and at any other time, she would've welcomed that chance without hesitation…but something in his voice indicated that what he was proposing was not what she or any of the others wanted. Something still wasn’t right.

Hunter inquired suspiciously, “Why would we trust you?”

In response, Crosshair aimed his blaster at them again.

“No!” Kimber cried out, going to run forward.

“Don’t move,” Crosshair ordered, whirling around on her and pointing his blaster her way. When she stopped, he then said, “I don’t want to make you a part of this.”

“Commander?” one of the troopers asked, puzzled at the favoritism his Commander was showing.

Kimber glared harshly at Crosshair. Now, he had the audacity to care about what happened to her and put her above his brothers? All she wanted to do was give him a piece of her mind, but with the blaster pointed at her, she was disgruntled and kept her mouth shut.

With that, Crosshair turned his weapon back to his brothers and then ordered his squad to stand down, but to everyone’s surprise, they actually refused his order and kept their weapons aimed at the Clones. The tension of the moment was almost palpable as the Clones and Kimber apprehensively waited for Crosshair’s next move.

They weren’t prepared for what happened next.

Crosshair fired his blaster…off to the side, where the shot suddenly bounced off the wall and around the room in the blink of an eye and, to the Clones’ and Kimber’s shock, all of Crosshair’s squadmates dropped dead to the floor, each of them with a smoking hole in their bodies. In that moment, the Bad Batch all discovered that Crosshair's reflective discs had been strategically placed throughout the room and had reflected his shot to kill his squad.

He had been planning for this all along.

When everyone looked to Crosshair with both curiosity and caution, he approached them, took off his helmet and asked Hunter, “Does that answer your question?”

“Crosshair…!” Kimber gasped out, still too stunned at what had just happened. She was stunned even more when Crosshair unexpectedly turned to face her and cut her bindings off with Hunter’s knife.

However, any hope in the situation was short-lived as Crosshair started walking towards them, his blaster aimed at them again. Hunter put himself in front of Kimber and they both guardedly moved back as Crosshair advanced.

“You all are meant for more than drifting through the galaxy. It’s time to stop running,” he said to them as he then lowered his weapon. Then he implored them, “Join the Empire…and you will have purpose again.”

Kimber could feel her heart dropping. She should’ve known this seemed too easy and too good to be true. “You think that’s what this is all about: not knowing our purpose?” she asked in unbelief.

“You really don’t get who we are, do you?” Hunter also questioned.

Crosshair’s face darkened from the shadows that framed his face and his facial expressions contorted with enmity, his eyes widening with fury. “Don’t make the same mistake twice. Don’t become my enemy,” he threatened, a growl in his low voice unlike anything they’d ever heard from him before.

“Crosshair…we never were,” Hunter countered, his expression crestfallen.

Finally, Kimber had had enough. She was so disheartened at Crosshair’s relentless insistence that they join the Empire and acting as though they were the villains in this situation. There were things she wanted to say to him that she’d been bottling up the whole time. Inside, she felt like a dam ready to burst and couldn’t let this go on any longer.

She pushed past Hunter’s arm, stepped up and asked, “Crosshair...can you look me in the eye and tell me that you're truly happy with the Empire?”

“Kimber, no,” Hunter said warningly.

She ignored him and kept going, her gaze set intently on Crosshair and her voice strong and tenacious, “Can you look me...in the eye...and tell me that you would rather obey the Empire's orders and impose oppression on several planets than traversing the galaxy with us? I know you think we're meant for more than that, but would that really be so bad right now? Wouldn't you rather just be with us instead of helping spread terror through the galaxy?” She took another step closer to him and her tone turned to pleading. “You know what the Empire is doing is wrong. With them, you might have found a semblance of acceptance in a time of pain, but did you really find happiness or purpose? I refuse to believe you have. I know you think we abandoned you...and I am sorry for that.”

Listening to her, Crosshair’s face seemingly began to soften slightly.

“You think you're giving us a chance, but that's not what this is. You now have a chance to escape all of this!” she said emotionally. Then she took a risk and moved even closer to him so she was directly in front of him, looking up into his face, and she laid her hands on his arms, which made him flinch. “Come back with us, Crosshair. Come back to your family, where you really belong. You need us...and more importantly, we need you. I need you. I need my partner back. I need my brother back. You and me, we're the eyes in the sky together...remember? I've said these things a thousand times and I'll say them a thousand more. Please, I'm begging you...come home, brother.”

She released his arms and stepped back, her eyes searching his face for his potential reaction. There was conflict in his eyes as he glanced down to the ground, seemingly in deep thought. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking and she wished she could see into his mind. Had anything she said had an affect on him at all? Had she finally been able to get through to him?

Finally, he spoke up, “Kimber…I--”

The alarms inside the room went off all of a sudden, which made everyone jump in surprise. Right after that, the turret towers rose up from the ground as did several rows of training Droids. This was an unexpected complication. To make things worse, Hunter suddenly sprinted past Kimber and tackled Crosshair to the ground.

“No…!” Kimber groaned at seeing that happen, just when she thought maybe she’d gotten through to Crosshair, but there was no time to focus on it as, a second later, the Droids started firing on them.

Kimber quickly leapt and rolled behind the barricade closest to her as the other three grabbed their weapons from off the ground and started firing at the Droids. As she crouched behind her cover, she spotted the now dead trooper that had her sniper rifle and she pulled it off of their back.

“Serves you right,” she mumbled aloud as she put the rifle back together. Then she leaned back and placed her back against the battlement just as Echo crouched behind it next to her.

“Hey, why did you activate the Droids?” she heard Wrecker ask loudly in annoyance.

“This was not my doing,” Tech responded.

Echo and Kimber both popped up from behind their cover and took some more shots at the Droids, which now seemed to be coming from every corner of the room.

“Ugh, they're everywhere!” Kimber complained.

“I don't know what brought them in here, but be careful, Kim,” Echo told her.

As she kept shooting at the Droids, she glanced over to where Hunter and Crosshair were still struggling against each other on the ground, wishing they would stop. Then there came a shot from high up, taking out one of the Droids closest to them. When she looked up, she saw Omega up on one of the towers, her bow drawn, and next to her was AZI, the medical Droid. All Kimber could do was hope the kid would stay safe in this fight. She continued fending off the Droids coming their way and she saw Hunter finally kick Crosshair off of him. They continued to fight as they got to their feet. Kimber wanted to keep her eyes on them to ensure they didn't hurt each other, but there were more Droids heading for them. Her first instinct was to protect both of them, so she continued shooting the Droids behind them.

A few seconds later, she saw Hunter grab Crosshair around his waist, pick him up and then full on body slam him to the ground, rolling over top of him and coming back up with both his blaster in one hand and his vibroblade in the other. With Crosshair down for a moment, Hunter seized the opportunity to start shooting the Droids, as well.

Just then, another set of Droids came up from the floor right in the middle of the room; behind Hunter and in between the battlements everyone else was hiding behind. Kimber jumped over to the other side as Echo moved himself out of the way, too, as did Wrecker and Tech on their side. Hunter also turned around to fight them, leaving his back exposed to Crosshair. They were all now completely surrounded, but they weren't going to give up.

Kimber fired at the new wave of Droids...and then heard the familiar sound of another sniper rifle.

Her head whipped around and she was astonished to see Crosshair had stood up with his rifle and was now also shooting the Droids. He wasn't running or trying to go for Hunter while his back was turned. He was actually helping her and the others fight the current threat! She couldn't believe it!

The others noticed, too, and it felt as though they had an extra push to fight as hard as they could. Wrecker came out from behind the battlement, drawing his large blade, and stabbed the Droid closest to him, kicking it back to give everyone room to move. Everyone jumped out into the open at once, their weapons firing all around the room at the Droids. In that pivotal moment, with all six members of the Bad Batch back together in the same place, it felt as though they were fighting as a real squad again.

Kimber saw movement off to the side of the room and saw that the one remaining member of Crosshair's Imperial squad; the one who had gone off to find Omega had returned. Seeing that the rest of the squad had been killed off by their Commander, Kimber saw no reason to leave this one standing. She directed her sights onto the Imperial soldier and fired at her, but she were quick to avoid Kimber's shots as she backed out and ran out the training room's side door. Kimber ran forward a couple steps to go after her, but then she stopped, glancing back at her boys. She couldn't leave them now, not when they were in danger. They needed her here. She was just going to have to let the Imperial soldier go.

As she ran back into the fray, Wrecker threw a Droid through the air that crashed into another one. Then Hunter ran at a Droid, jumped up onto it and stabbed right into its neck area with his knife. The Droid started short-circuiting and wobbling with Hunter still holding onto it until Crosshair took a shot directly at its head. As it toppled over, Hunter leapt off and the two of them shared a quick glance before diverting their attention to other incoming attacks. Wrecker, Echo and Tech had moved to higher ground while Hunter, Kimber and Crosshair stayed on the main level.

Kimber was shooting at the Droids and evading their shots when she found herself back to back against Hunter, who met her gaze over his shoulder, smirked and then told her as they continued fighting, “I couldn't say it before, so I'll say it now: you are by far the most hot headed trouble-seeker of a woman I've ever met.”

Knowing he was referring to her misbehavior back on the shuttle, she just grinned to herself and said back, “Compliment me later, Sergeant.” Then she took back up her rifle and resumed firing at the Droids, ducking out of the way of a bolt that shot just between them and springing off to the side. She fired a shot at the Droid that had just fired at them and it went straight through the center.

“Kimber, behind you!” Wrecker called to her on the other side of the room.

She heard the warning and turned around to see a Droid right behind her. Before she could react, the Droid shoved her, sending her flying back a few feet and her rifle fell out of her hand. She quickly sat up and saw two blaster bolts come from behind her and hit the Droid in the neck and the head. When she looked behind her, she expected it to be Hunter, but she was wrong.

Her savior had been Crosshair.

He simply gave her a nod and went back to fighting the rest of the enemies. She was taken aback for a brief moment. He had saved Hunter earlier and now, he had just saved her. Surely, that had to mean something; that he still cared…maybe the Crosshair she knew was beginning to come back.

Swiftly, Kimber picked up her rifle, got to her and rejoined in the fight. She noticed Omega had somehow made her way down from the tower to the ground along with AZI. The number of Droids left was dwindling down thanks to everyone’s efforts and very soon, all of them were taken down. Now, all that was left was dealing with Crosshair. Hunter and Crosshair were in the center of the room; Wrecker, Echo, Tech and Omega were all on one side and Kimber was on the other and they all closed in towards the middle of the room just as Crosshair faced Hunter…and Hunter raised his blaster at him.

“Hunter, please don’t!” Kimber cried out, coming up next to him. She stole a look at Crosshair across from him and he looked conflicted...even minorly defeated. Though, when she looked back at Hunter, there was a forlorn look in his face and in his eyes as he gazed over at his brother.

Then he spoke, desperately pleading similarly to how Kimber had earlier, “Crosshair…forget the Empire. This isn’t you. It’s your inhibitor chip. We can help you.”

Crosshair shook his head and responded, his voice low again, “Wrong. I had my chip removed…a long time ago.”

That response stunned all the Clones and they were rendered speechless.

For Kimber…her world was shattered in an instant.

Crosshair’s chip had been removed? What did this mean? More importantly, when had this happened? Given all the things he’d done in general, to his brothers and the things he’d done to her, how much of it had been because of the chip and how much of it had been of his own volition? All this time, she’d believed he could never have done any of those things of his own free will; the Crosshair she knew and loved would never threaten her, his family or other innocent people! No…he had to be lying. There was no way this was true. Her blood ran cold and her body went numb just thinking about it.

Finally, Hunter broke the silence. “Since when?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” Crosshair asked in return, exasperated and with a shake of his head.

“Yes!” Hunter growled at him, his teeth now clenching in anger at Crosshair’s reluctance to answer.

Kimber wanted to shout at him that of course it mattered when he got his chip out and to demand he tell the truth, but she was too stunned to speak. All she could do was stare at Crosshair.

Then, with a look of frustration, Crosshair responded to Hunter, “This…is who I am.”

“No...NO!” Kimber finally screamed, a mix of sorrow and outrage growing within her. “This is not who you are, Crosshair! Stop lying to us! I know you and you would never do any of this willingly! You would never! Please, tell me this isn’t true!”

He glanced over at her, but his expression remained unchanged and he said nothing back to her. That only broke Kimber’s heart even more and she felt incredibly betrayed, even more than she had before on Bracca.

“No…it can’t be,” she thought despairingly in her mind.

As he turned his glaring attention back to Hunter, she noticed his hand that held his rifle twitch ever so slightly and his finger was inching up towards the trigger.

Crosshair brought up his weapon and a stun blast was fired.

Hunter watched as Crosshair got disoriented, fell to his knees and then collapsed forward onto the floor. However, he had been shocked to see Crosshair drop all of a sudden because the stun shot had not come from his own blaster, even though he had been a millisecond away from firing it. His head turned to Kimber next to him and he saw she was standing there, her eyes wide in sad horror, panting heavily and with her rifle raised.

She had been the one to stun him.

Taking note of the pain in her eyes, Hunter sheathed his vibroblade, put away his blaster and approached her, gently placing one hand on her arm and the other on her rifle. “Easy, love. It’s okay,” he said to try and help calm her, lightly pushing down on her weapon to get her to lower it.

“No…it’s not,” she replied, tears forming in her eyes.

He removed his hand from her rifle and brought it up to her face, tenderly rubbing his thumb on her cheek and giving her an encouraging look, one that was silently telling her to stay strong. Even though what had just happened was heartbreaking, they were going to be okay and figure things out. She wasn’t confident in what he was trying to tell her, but she still appreciated his attempt to reassure her nonetheless and she leaned more into his hand, taking in what warmth she could.

After he stepped away, they realized everyone else was walking up to them and Omega suddenly came running down and threw her arms around Hunter, relieved to see he was okay. Kimber, however, kept her eyes on Crosshair unconscious on the floor. She didn’t know who she was really looking at anymore. What would she even say to him whenever he came to? She wanted to scream, cry, run away, punch him while he was down…then right then, she felt a pair of arms hug her around her waist, pulling her out of her thoughts and back into reality. When she glanced down, she found herself looking into the bright, brown eyes and smiling face of Omega. Grateful for the young girl’s comforting hug, Kimber laid a hand on Omega’s head and smoothed her hair, mustering up a smile for her. After the kid let her go, Kimber walked over to where everyone else was standing around, watching Hunter crouch down beside Crosshair and inspect his head.

A few seconds passed when they all heard beeping and Tech stepped forward, declaring urgently to Hunter while looking at his datapad, “Three Venators are descending into the city. We need to leave now.”

Heeding Tech’s warning, Hunter proceeded to pick up Crosshair’s rifle and pack, placed the pack on his own back and ordered Wrecker to grab Crosshair. “He’s coming with us,” he said.

Kimber hadn’t expected Hunter to say that, given the information she’d just learned about Crosshair. “We’re…taking him back?” she asked Hunter, a slight sliver of hope in her tone just as Wrecker lifted Crosshair and slung him over his shoulder.

He gave her a nod. “We’ll figure things out with him once we get out of here…but we’re not leaving him behind again,” he avowed.

She would’ve burst into tears in that moment if they weren’t in immediate danger, so she withheld her emotions for the time being. Putting her rifle on her back, she gave him a nod back and stated, “Let’s leave this Forceforsaken place.”

With that, the Clones, Kimber and AZI took off running from the training room and into the bright white hallways of Tipoca City, the urgency of their situation giving them the speed they needed. They were all reunited, they had Crosshair back with them--albeit a bit against his will--and now, they had to get away before the Empire cornered them and captured them. They had to move fast.

Suddenly, everything around them trembled. The ground shook beneath them and they all started to stumble and lose their balance. The lights in the corridor flickered briefly and then were suddenly shut off. Something was happening outside and it definitely wasn’t good. Hunter called to everyone to hurry and get to the outside lift. They picked up speed and reached the door to the outside, halting immediately as they got out into the rain.

To everyone’s terror, they saw and could hear laser fire raining down from the sky onto the city and everything before them was being destroyed. In seconds, there was a huge, thundering explosion directly in front of them, blowing up a good portion of the pathway.

“Back inside! Go!” Hunter cried out, turning around and going back the other way.

Kimber turned to follow and saw that Omega was still standing in place, watching in fright the horrors that were unfolding in front of her as her home was being destroyed before her very eyes. AZI had grabbed her hand, but she wasn’t moving.

“Omega, we have to go! Now!” Kimber cried frantically, taking Omega by the shoulders and giving her a necessary shove back towards the door and after the others.

Just as Omega started running, another laser blast suddenly hit the spot where she had just been standing, blowing up a chunk of the bridge, and the force of the blast sent Kimber flying backwards further down the pathway. She rolled and ended up going over the broken edge, but her hand quickly grabbed the ledge. Unfortunately, she could feel her gloved hand already starting to lose her grip on the ledge that was slick from the heavy rain. She heard, even over the sounds of the Venator fire, Omega and a couple of the others scream her name, but she knew that if any of them came out after her, they would more than likely get killed.

All she could do was yell, “Run!” just before her hold on the edge of the bridge was lost.

#star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #bad batch hunter #sergeant hunter #my sergeant #bad batch fanfic #hunter x oc fic #sun and rain fanfic

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roseverdict · 1 year ago

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Writing Commissions Open!

Hey howdy hey, guess who's broke and whose brain has latched on to the idea of getting a bike or a trike to get places other than the one (1) coffee shop in walking distance!

YEP. I need to open commissions.

However, I do have at least one thing going for me- I'm told I'm fairly good at writing things! Fanfic things, at least. While I'm not dumb enough to outright go "hey, pay me to write fanfiction," I figure I can at least point out some fanfics I've written that seem to have gone over well as examples of my work, since that's most of what I've got for proof of my skills.

x x

x x x

x x

I'd show more, but Tumblr won't let me add more images, and even these fought me Tooth And Nail when I was trying to format them properly. Truly a functioning website.

Hopefully these kind of give an idea of the vibes I'm strongest with, too. Pricing and rules will be under the cut. I do have a target I'm trying to reach here, but depending on how well this goes, I might end up keeping commissions open indefinitely. We'll see. :D

DM me if you're interested!

Things I'm Comfortable Writing:

Original Storylines (Brief primer on the world/characters I'll be writing with will be required)

Things like the pieces shown on my AO3 account

OCs

Y/N-style pieces (both with and without the actual usage of "Y/N")

Mild Romance

Gore/Severe Injury

Body Horror

Whump

Look, if it's in the Danny Phantom phandom and basically nowhere else, I'm probably just fine writing it, despite its intensity xD

Things I Will Not Write:

Smut. There's no shame in enjoying it, I just. Don't.

Incest. Absolutely NONE. Even leaving aside the whole debate about whether or not people should ship incest ships, I would not be able to enjoy writing it, which would make the resulting work of low quality, which would be a huge waste of time for everyone involved.

Pedophilia- specifically, ships with a minor and an adult multiple years their senior. See above. 17yo x 18yo is pushing it, but depending on the circumstances, I might allow it. They aren't exactly in completely different phases of life there. However, I'm in my 20s and don't particularly want to think about or write about kids the age of my youngest brother dating people my age or older, you feel me?

Bigotry presented to the reader as a positive thing. I'm not gonna write your favorite heroic character declaring OOC that minorities are terrible people. If you want something from the POV of a character meant to be terrible, such as someone like Fire Lord Ozai in AtLA, however, I may be willing to write it.

I reserve the right to refuse any commission and not have to explain why. Person-to-person, though, this will likely only come up if someone tries to commission something that crosses these lines and refuses to acknowledge such.

Payment: 5¢ USD per word. This works out to…

$12.50 for 250 words

$25 for 500 words

$50 for 1K words

and so on.

I'll need half the payment up front as a deposit, then the rest upon completion. If, for whatever reason, I fail to write the commission, you will be refunded in full.

If you pay me for a given number of words, I will do my best to stick to it. I will make sure you at least get your money's worth, but if I just can't quite fit the writing into the given limit, I won't charge you for the extra words. Call it 100 words or so of wiggle room.

A commission for a fic 1K or larger that runs 100 words or less over the intended length will not cost extra

A commission for a fic between 500 and 999 words that runs 50 words or less over will not cost extra

A commission for a fic 499 words or below that runs 25 words or less over will not cost extra

A commission for a fic that has enough going on to run over that limit will result in me contacting you to ask for either a scaled-down plot or payment for the extra writing.

I will not consider calling a commission complete until I can hit the target wordcount at minimum.

If it should happen that I just can't make a scene stretch to the full wordcount, but you still want to keep what is written, the words that were not written will be refunded.

#writing commissions #writing comms open #id in alt text #atla #rottmnt #tmnt #gravity falls #gf #msa #mystery skulls animated #ninjago #steven universe #steven universe: future #animator vs animation #ava/m #sticks #su #suf #trike saga

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suguwu · 2 years ago

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lover be good to me: part one

You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it's your wedding day.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

notes: this fic has been a long time coming—it's basically my baby at this point. i'm so excited to finally get to share part one with you! i am so thankful for everyone who has sat thru me yelling about this to them. and a million thank yous to my beta, between your enthusiasm for this fic and all your help with it—i don't know if it could have been done without you!

title and part title are from hozier's "be" and "nfwmb"

tags for this part: soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, very significant reader x oc, slow burn, hurt/comfort, pining, alcohol consumption, anxiety.

see main fic tags here.

wc: 13k

The hydrangeas are in full bloom.

You can see them through the window: the sea in each blossom, the radiant blue of them veined through with white, ocean and foam detailed in petals. They nod with the rain, weighed down by the fat droplets.

There are two men that keep passing through the sea of hydrangeas like ships, leaving little eddies of blooms in their wake. They must be vendors considering they’re weighted down by boxes, though neither seems bothered by their load.

You watch them for a moment. They’re both efficient, unbothered by the slow, steady drizzle. You rest your chin on your cupped palm, eyes drawn to the shorter man. There’s a few strands of hair peeking out from beneath his hat, the hazy gray of it—black-tipped like thunderclouds—an odd contrast to his lean, toned body.

He makes his way through the courtyard, and you lean forward to keep him in sight, your nose almost pressed against the foggy window pane. He steps carefully around a drooping hydrangea bloom, his calm face visible for the first time, and something threads through you for a breath unraveling too quickly for you to place.

He ducks beneath the eaves and out of your sight.

Just in time, too. The rain picks up drumming gently against the ground, carrying a few loosened petals with it. The other man—broader and taller but no less graceful for it—spits out a curse. He hurries forward until he too is gone from view.

“Told you it would rain,” Abe says from behind you, making you yelp. She presses in next to you. Her breath billows over the window pane blooming hazy against it, a marine fog.

“You did,” you say with a laugh. “So did the weather channel. Almost a full week before you did.”

She scoffs. “Yes, but that’s their job. Mine was sheer instinct.”

“And listening to the weather channel?”

“Must you slander me?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling, but your gaze returns to the courtyard where the hydrangeas are bleeding petals under the rain’s heavy cut.

“Are you nervous?”

You meet Abe’s gaze in the reflection of the window pane. Her dark eyes are warm and soft, and maybe a little bit sad.

“Should I be?” you ask.

She wraps a small hand around yours and you realize you’ve been tapping your nail against your water glass, a crystalline symphony.

“No,” she says firmly. “You shouldn’t.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, sprouts like flowers between the cracks in the concrete. You lean into her. She sighs, long and put-upon, but she tilts towards you, opens her body to you. It’s an invitation you know well. You rest your head in the crook of her shoulder and stare out the window.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re right.”

“Always am.”

“That’s debatable, Natsu.”

She grumbles but starts to pull away without comment when the kimono stylist calls out for her. She pauses for a moment. She leans in and adjusts your shiromuku carefully, her fingers deft. Then she squeezes your hand softly, familiar and warm, like a song you’ll always know. You squeeze back.

You watch her reflection in the window until it blurs at the edges. She’s already bickering with Yoshikawa by the time it fades entirely from the foggy windowpane, their voices carrying. You’re sure that they’re curled together over Yoshikawa’s phone, flicking through the itinerary you’ve already forgotten most of.

There’s movement beyond the window and you perk up as the man from before walks by. He’s kept under the eaves by the increased rain, and you can see the way it’s dampened his hair to something closer to slate.

There’s a gleam of amber above the boxes he’s carrying; the briefest flash of his eyes, bright and keen. He sweeps by the window almost close enough to touch, and you press your fingertips against the cool pane without thinking.

It’s this closeness that lets you see his phone—a flip phone, of all things, with a little charm you can’t quite make out dangling from it—slip from his pocket. You wince as it drops out of view.

He keeps going though, utterly unfazed. The rain has overshadowed the noise you realize, and you’re darting outside before you even know it, the shoji rattling slightly from your force. The summer humidity rolls over you, so stark against your aircon-chilled skin that you shiver with it.

“You dropped your phone!” you call out after the man, hurrying along the engawa to scoop it up, careful of your shiromuku’s hem. The tiny charm is a stylized stalk of rice, you realize, the little panicles at the top colored with shimmering golden paint. It’s cute. A little at odds with his utilitarian flip phone, but cute nonetheless.

Ahead of you, the man goes still.

He’s turning around when his name unfurls inside of you.

The movies hadn’t said it was anything like this.

There’s no passion ripping through you like forest fire, no lightning strike sizzling his name into your very bones. It’s slow and soft, like slipping into bathwater after a long, hard day, the heated kiss of it a balm against all of your bruises. Like the bloom of the first crocuses, a promise of spring after the long winter.

“Oh, Shinsuke,” you breathe, and you think you’ve never known a name so well, that each curve of it was made to fit upon your tongue.

The man—Shinsuke—stares at you. And then his lips tilt into a faint smile, tender like the oncoming dawn; a watercolor sky burgeoning with sunlight, a world coming awake. You think you could build a home in the way he looks at you.

“There you are,” he says softly. “I’ve been waiting.”

You know.

You’ve known for years that he’s been waiting for you; it’s been scrawled on your skin this whole time. He has always, always been waiting for you.

Your soulmark pulses faintly. For a breath, you think you can see it glow despite the heavy layers you have on.

“Shinsuke,” you say again. It’s a helpless little sound, the edges of it catching in your throat like burrs. You need to say something else. You know you do. You know what you have to tell him, but he’s looking at you so softly that the words keep getting lost.

Your grip on his phone tightens until the little rice charm is cutting into your skin.

His smile starts to fade. It curls in on itself, wilting at the edges, like the last of the summer flowers.

He’s been looking at only you, you realize. Just you. Your face, most likely, but it feels like something more—as if he’s seeing down to your marrow, as if he’s flayed you open beneath his tender gaze. He’s only been looking at you. Nothing else.

He’s been looking at you, but you think he’s seeing the rest now. Your careful makeup. Your pristine hair.

Your lavish shiromuku—carefully embroidered with the elegant sweep of cranes’ wings and with delicate petals unfolding into bountiful chrysanthemums—that fits you perfectly, the heavy silk of it as white as driven snow.

You couldn’t find the words for it, caught up in the gentle sun of his joy as it pooled golden around you, but he’s finally seeing what you couldn’t say.

It’s your wedding day.

***

Your soulmark appears when you’re twelve, all without you even noticing.

Summer is in full bloom in Toyooka; the wet lick of a heatwave has settled oppressive over the countryside. It’s relentless. Even the rice fields seem to feel it, the verdant green ripple of them becoming a honey-slow shiver under the wind’s gentle touch.

In the heat the cicadas’ call goes lazy; the storks only come out in the earliest parts of morning. They wade carefully through the still waters of the rice paddies, their beaks flashing in the weak sunlight as they needle down into the murk.

The rental house is tucked carefully between two farms, a lone house amid the rippling rice plants. It’s old but well-maintained, a perfect little hideaway for your mother to finish her study. In the heat, she keeps the shoji doors open wide to let in the dancing, citronella-scented breeze. The first day you wander around the house to weigh the papers down with a mish-mash of items: the fruit bowl, pilfered from the kitchen counter under your father’s nose; encyclopedias long outdated; a pair of petal-flecked garden shears.

It helps it feel like home.

Abe and her mother have come to Toyooka too; your mothers spend their days bent close together, talking in a language you know by heart but still can’t understand. Caught up in their research, they leave you to your own devices.

Away from all of your other friends and the bustle of the city, you and Abe roam free like a pair of stray cats. You spend the days without chores wandering through town, your arm hooked through hers, both your tongues stained sky blue from the Gari-Gari Kun popsicles from the conbini. The grannies wave at you as you pass by them; the two of you wave back with sticky fingers.

You flit in and out of the rice paddies, scooping up tadpoles from the murky water. The farmers grow used to your presence quickly; they greet you cheerfully, accepting the onigiri you bring with little nods.

After you splash through a paddy to coo over them, Watanabe lets you feed his ducks. He pours the feed from his hands into your smaller ones with a grunt. His hands are strong but aged, the dark skin on the back of his hands papery in the sunlight, wrinkled like old parchment. He teaches you both how to sprinkle the feed into the water just right so the ducks go arrowing across the water, little ships without sails.

The days are long and short in the same breath.

At night, Abe’s flashlight flickers in her window like a firefly, long after you are both meant to be in bed. You flash your own message back, little secrets wrapped up in ribbons of light, never mentioned after dawn. The two of you are woven together as only childhood friends can be.

And it’s Abe that sees your soulmark first.

It’s midday and the clouds are rolling in across the clear blue sky hanging heavy and low, a gray promise of afternoon thunder. The two of you trace shapes in the clouds, shaded under a massive camphor tree, bumping into each other’s arms as you go.

There’s a rabbit in your cloud, the puffy edges of it extending into fluffy gray ears that wisp and sway with the growing breeze. You’ve just traced along the little curve of its nose when Abe—who has been burbling away like a spring brook, her chatter weaving a spell around the two of you—goes silent.

Then she shrieks and grabs your arm.

“When did it come in?” she asks breathlessly. She’s shaking you too hard for you to see what she’s talking about, but there’s only one thing that tone could mean.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. For a moment, you consider closing your eyes, as if that will keep it from being real. As if that will rewrite your fate.

You think of all the quotes you’ve scrawled in your notebooks late at night, and hope for all of them and none of them.

Abe gives you another little shake. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! It’s so early! How long have you had it? Has anyone said it yet? What do you—”

“I don’t know!” you say, shaking her off and scooting backwards, pulling your arm towards your chest.

She scowls. “How do you not know?”

“I didn’t notice it.”

You hadn’t. Maybe it was the sleepy haze of summer days running together.

Maybe you hadn’t wanted to see it.

Now that you know, it’s easy to see your mark. It’s already settled into your skin, the kanji tucked carefully into the tender flesh of the crook of your elbow. The characters are neat, precise little things, delicate at the edges. It shimmers silvery in the sunlight. A winter moon’s glow inked into your skin.

Abe plants her hands on her hips. “You didn’t notice your soulmark?”

You shake your head. “You know I would tell you!!”

She huffs. “I guess. You really didn’t know?”

You yank on a tuft of grass. “Nope.”

“Idiot,” she says, but it’s fond. She nudges closer to you despite the heat. “Who doesn’t realize their mark was written?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Guess so. Lemme see,” she says, making grabby hands at your arm; you let her yank it close with a sigh. She peers down at your mark with heavy concentration.

“You look like Granny Takada right now.”

She pouts. “Do not!”

“You do,” you tell her. “You’re all squinty.”

“Do you want me to read it to you or not?”

You take a second too long to answer, the words caught in your throat, tangled on your tongue. Abe glances up. Something passes over her face; it’s too quick to know, a fleeting summer storm. She drops your arm with a sigh.

“The kanji are complicated,” she complains. “Too hard to read. Leave it to you to have a soulmate like that.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, wrinkling your nose even as you relax, your muscles uncoiling.

She snorts. “Nothing, nothing,” she coos, smacking your hand away when you swat at her. “Let’s go, it’s gonna rain. We can’t track mud inside again.”

“That was you, not me.”

Abe ignores you, popping up to her feet and rocking back on her heels. She takes off before you can stand her braids streaming behind her like kite ribbons, and you yelp out a protest as you scramble to your feet.

“Nat-chan!”

“Keep up!” she shouts, halfway to the rice paddy that edges the little meadow, and you take off after her.

The skies open on the two of you when you’re almost back to the rental, the rain relentless and heavy as only a summer storm can be. You both shriek but the water is warm, and you giggle at the way Abe’s bangs are plastered to her forehead even as you keep running.

You tumble into the genkan just as the first lightning strike splits the sky. You’re practically tripping over each other. Abe knocks into the getabako, jarring a pair of your father’s shoes, their well-worn soles rolling upwards like the barnacled hull of a capsized boat. She grunts with the impact.

“Quiet,” you hiss.

“I’m being quiet,” she hisses back, just as your mother rounds the corner and fixes the two of you with an unimpressed raised brow.

Abe’s mother peeks around the corner too, her lips thinning as she sees the water dripping from the two of you. “You’re soaked,” she says. “And you’re making a mess of the genkan, Natsumi.”

“Sorry,” she mutters.

Her mother sighs. “Weren’t you supposed to be back earlier? Before the rain?”

“We got distracted because her soulmark came in!” Abe says, pointing to you with no remorse.

You gape at her.

“What?” she says. “It’s in a pretty obvious spot.”

“Natsumi,” her mother says, exasperated. “You’re always jumping in feet first.”

Abe grumbles, but goes quiet when her mother eyes her.

“Chieko,” your mother says. “Do you need umbrellas for the walk home?”

“If it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Of course not.”

You and Abe engage in a rapid-fire round of mouthing things to each other as your mothers search for umbrellas, too close to risk actual words. Abe speaks fast, even in exaggerated slow motion, and after you think she says something about snails, you decide it’s too incomprehensible to keep trying. You wave her off with a quick tilt of your head. She scowls but stops, crossing her arms with a soggy squish.

The scowl disappears from her face as soon as her mother steps up beside her, handing her one of your umbrellas. She traces a finger over the nearest little cat design, petting lightly at its fabric ears.

“Let’s go before you catch a cold,” Chieko says. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye,” Abe says, her voice stilted.

“Bye,” you parrot.

“Alright then,” Chieko says after a moment. She looks at you, considering. You bite the inside of your cheek, running the tip of your tongue against the pinched flesh.

She sighs. “You’ll figure it out,” she says softly.

You should have known that she wouldn’t offer congratulations. The relief spreads over you like a balm, soothing the scrape you hadn’t even known was there.

You nod.

“See you tomorrow,” your mother tells her.

She and Abe disappear out the front door and into the downpour; Abe throws you one last look before the door closes behind them. You look away.

Your mother is quiet for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I—I don’t think so.”

She considers you. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll get you a towel and then you need to go change before you get sick.”

“Okay.”

She disappears down the hallway without another word.

You look down to your soulmark. At the thin kanji of it, the gleam of them like spiderwebs caught in a moonbeam, an ethereal silver. When you touch it, tracing a fingertip carefully against the crook of your elbow, it just feels like skin. As if it’s always been there. As if it’s always been a part of you.

Upside down, the kanji are difficult to parse. You run your fingers over them once more, and then your mother is there with a towel. You yank your fingers away as if burned. She doesn’t react, just handing you the towel and corralling you upstairs to dry yourself off.

Dinner is quiet that night and you go up to bed early, tired from the ups and downs of the day.

You’ve just finished brushing your teeth when the flickering catches your attention. You spit out the last bit of foam and rinse out your mouth before padding over to your window.

A little light bobs up and down across the way; at moments, you can make out the vague outline of Abe’s face when she brings the flashlight up with a sharp jerk that almost hits her chin. She’s cycling through the attention-getting code you’d made up a few years back.

You consider pulling your shade down entirely.

Instead, you pad over to your dresser drawer and pull out your own flashlight. You settle into bed with it heavy on your lap. You pull at the edge of the faded sticker slapped below the switch, tearing a little piece of it off. You flick it on for a second. Just enough to let Abe know you’re there.

It’s not your normal greeting, and Abe’s window stays dark for a long, long moment.

Mad at me? she finally flashes, little pulses of starlight in the dark.

You are. Soulmates are different for the two of you. You’ve grown up hearing all of the jargon for your mother’s study, and you know that she has too. You know the low rate of soulmates meeting, and you know the distant look in your father’s eyes as he wraps tender fingers around his blackened mark.

It’s different, and you thought she knew that.

Sorry, her flashlight blinks out. I am.

You think of how she complained about the kanji of your mark despite being the most proficient in your classroom.

Mad at me?

You wonder how you would have told your parents that you’d received your mark when you can barely acknowledge it yourself.

You raise your flashlight.

No, you send off. Not anymore.

Good, she immediately sends.

You talk until your eyelids are drooping and your jaw is cracking with non-stop yawning. It’s easy to say goodnight, knowing you’ll see each other in the morning. You pull down your shade and climb into bed.

You fall asleep with your hand cupped over your soulmark.

***

It takes you three days to finally ask what your mark says.

Evening is coming to life, the sky darkening into plum, the faintest hint of cotton-candy pink lingering on the horizon. As your father sets the table, you’re unable to resist the quiet call of what fate has scraped into your skin.

He blinks, trading a look with your mother, but then he smiles softly.

“After dinner,” he tells you. “Okay?”

You nod.

It’s your mother who reads it to you later, the two of you whispering together on the engawa surrounded by the flicker of the summer fireflies. You curl tight into her side, a rib returned.

“There you are,” she reads softly, stroking a thumb gently over the kanji. “I’ve been waiting.”

Her voice is a honeyed drip, sweet and steady, and though she is smiling, you think she sounds sad. She shifts to press a hand tight over her stomach as if it’s the only thing holding her together, as if she’s suddenly too big for her body. You know her mark is there. The kanji has gone sour and black, an eclipsed moon.

“I don’t know if I want them to wait for me,” you whisper to her.

She presses a kiss to your hairline. “You don’t have to know, tadpole.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She shifts beside you. “You don’t have to wait for them, you know,” she tells you.

“Really?”

“Really,” she says.

“Do you think I’ll meet them?” you ask, kicking your feet and looking out into the night. A firefly flares bright, and you consider running to catch it. You’ve always been quick enough. The fireflies have always been trusting enough.

She nudges a knuckle against your cheek. “The chances are low,” she admits, because she has never lied to you about soulmates. “And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Why?”

She sighs. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

She still has her hand pressed hard against her ribcage.

You bite your lip and don’t ask anything else.

The two of you stay curled together under the stars, watching the trucks trundle down the road as the late-working farmers return from the paddies. Eventually, she ushers you inside, and when she thinks you aren’t looking she knots her fingers in your father’s shirt. The fabric winds tight around her fingers, cutting into the softness of her skin. Her shoulders are trembling. Your father cups the back of her head and brushes a kiss to her hairline.

You go up to your bedroom without a word because even this young, you know there are things you aren’t meant to see.

Not long after that night your mother and Abe’s mother publish the study. It’s a culmination of years of grueling research on soulmates, of half-written notes on napkins when you go out to restaurants, of simmering arguments between her and Abe’s mother, of death threats and poisonous words.

It covers the concept of soulmates like kudzu, winding over the romance of it and smothering it beneath statistics and a dissection of societal impact alike.

It gets a nickname soon after publication, and your mother’s smile is a melon rind curve, bitter at the edges.

They call it the Heartbreak Study.

***

Summer comes to an end.

You leave Toyooka on a rainy afternoon, the light drizzle sending water droplets racing down the train window. The storks huddle together in the paddies, their wet feathers gleaming like the moon. Abe is warm at your side curled into you, already half-asleep from the underlying hum of the train. It picks up speed and the rolling green of the countryside blurs like a watercolor, smearing across the horizon as you head back to the city.

It feels like you’re leaving more than the countryside behind.

Still, the city is a comfort, the bustle of it a familiar song, and you’d missed the neon lights that dot the streets like little flowers. With the return of school just around the corner it’s nice to settle back into the rhythm of city life, so different from the steady, unyielding heartbeat of Toyooka.

You unpack your clothes and yourself too, slotting everything back into your city life, trying to fit back into it like a well-worn pair of shoes.

“Oh,” Yoshikawa says lazily the next day, when you and Abe find her sprawled out on a bench by the conbini, sucking on a popsicle. She peers up at you, her long hair flowing around her shoulders like weeds in the current, softly swaying with each little movement. “You’re back.”

“She got her soulmark!” Abe says, dragging you forward by your wrist to display your mark.

“Natsu,” you groan, ignoring the way she tugs at your wrist to pull you even more into Yoshikawa’s space. “Really?”

“What, you weren’t going to tell her?”

“Yeah,” Yoshikawa drawls, her dark eyes sly. “Were you not gonna tell me?”

“Shut up, Yocchan,” you say. “You know I was going to tell you.”

“You sure?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows. “Doesn’t quite sound like it.”

“Yocchan.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop teasing. Can I see?”

You hesitate for a breath.

“You don’t gotta,” Yoshikawa says, biting into her popsicle with a loud crunch. Her lips are blue with it, the same color as the mid-morning sky. It drips down her elegant fingers, catches on the small scars littered across them. She licks at them absently, but her gaze is keen.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I’m just…still getting used to it.”

She hums.

“Great,” Abe says, using her grip on your wrist to tug you forward again. “Look, look, look!”

Yoshikawa pushes herself the rest of the way up slowly, tucking her popsicle between her teeth as she reaches for your arm. Her fingers are sticky against your skin. She’s quiet as she reads your mark, her brow slightly furrowed.

She lets you go after a minute, and you try not to fidget.

“Romantic,” she says. She lays back down on the bench.

Abe makes a strangled noise. “That’s all?”

Yoshikawa blinks slowly, but there’s a smug curve to her lips. “Is there something else to say?”

Abe stamps her foot. “There’s so much to say! She got her mark! The first of us! The first in our year!”

“Nah, Sasaki got his right before the break.”

“He did?”

“He did?” you echo. Relief blooms in you, rooting in the cracks of you, and you let out a tight breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah,” Yoshikawa says. She closes her eyes and raises her face to the sun. It bathes her, turns her golden, an offering at the ending summer’s altar. “Our moms are friends. Heard them talking about it.”

“Oh,” Abe says, pursing her lips. She glances at you, and you don’t know what she sees in your face, but her eyes go soft. “I guess it’s better that way. It won’t be as big of a deal. It’ll be fine.”

“You think so?” you ask. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

She nudges you with her hip. “Yeah,” she says, her voice gentle. There’s a promise in it. “I do.”

Yoshikawa hums her agreement as she bites off the last of her popsicle, ignoring Abe’s wince. She sucks the stick clean and glances at it. “Oh,” she says mildly. “I won.”

“What?” Abe cries out, practically clambering on top of her to grab the stick. “How do you always win?”

Yoshikawa grunts under her sudden burden, stretching out one long arm to keep Abe from grabbing the stick. “S’not my fault you have bad luck.”

“C’mon, you already had a popsicle today!”

You watch them struggle, Abe doing her best to blanket Yoshikawa’s lanky frame with her tiny one. The laughter bubbles out of you, spills from you like an overflowing urn, loud and unrestrained.

They turn to you in unison, brows raised.

“Let’s go to the park,” you say, laughter still sweet on your tongue. “Don’t want to waste the day.”

They eye you for a moment. They look at each other and shrug.

“Conbini first,” Abe says. “I want something.”

“You can’t have my popsicle,” Yoshikawa says.

“I don’t want your stupid free popsicle!”

“You were just trying to grab it!”

“Well I don’t want it anymore! I want mochi instead!”

This time you swallow down your laugh, let it spread warm through you like bottled sunshine. You follow the bickering pair into the conbini. They wait for you at the door, and you link pinkies with them both so they can drag you down the snack aisle.

For the first time since getting your mark, it feels like everything is going to be okay.

***

School starts up again.

It’s still warm, the last dregs of summer lingering in the air as you walk languidly to school with your friends. Abe flits ahead, her dark hair shimmering under the morning sun, and you think of a little darting fish on a reef, a quicksilver flash of scales. She greets other classmates easily. They always have a smile for her, and she falls into step beside them for a moment, chattering away.

But in the end she always turns around and waits for you and Yoshikawa.

She’s off in the distance when Yoshikawa glances down at the silver peeking out of the crook of your elbow, exposed by the summer uniform’s short sleeves.

“No wrap?” she asks.

“No wrap,” you say.

You’d thought about it, but wearing a wrap screams that you’ve gotten your mark. With yours tucked tender into the crook of your elbow, you might be able to get away with it. At least you hope so. You know how many eyes will be on you when people realize, and you shift on the balls of your feet, pressing closer to Yoshikawa.

She hums. “Alright.”

You know that tone.

“Do not cause any problems,” you warn her.

She blinks slowly, like a smug cat with a patch of sunshine all to itself. “I would never. Do you want some toast?”

“Do I what—”

She pulls a handkerchief filled with toast out from her bag, little oily spots of butter bleeding through the hand-embroidered cloth. “Toast,” she says, holding it out.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you say irritably, but when she nudges the toast in your direction you slip a piece free of the handkerchief. You’ve eaten breakfast but no one makes bread like Yoshikawa’s mother, a hobby she’d picked up in her year abroad as a teen. Any of her loaves crackle perfectly under the bread knife, each slice thick and hearty, woven through with herbs and spices.

“I would never.”

“Liar,” you mutter, sinking your teeth into the toast.

“So mean,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“Hurry up!” Abe shouts back to you both, her hands cupped over her mouth to unnecessarily amplify herself.

Yoshikawa ignores her, sauntering along as your fellow students pour past you both. She moves like a river current, languid and flowing, and immoveable from her path.

“You’re the worst,” Abe tells her a few minutes later, when you’ve finally caught up to her.

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t ignore me, Yocchan!”

“I’m not,” Yoshikawa says, holding out the toast again. She always brings enough for all three of you. “You just say it so much that it’s lost all meaning.”

Abe grumbles, but she snags a piece of toast. It crunches beneath her teeth, a crackling symphony. “This is bribery, you know,” she says through her mouthful, scrunching up her nose.

Yoshikawa shrugs.

“C’mon,” you say, poking at them both. “We’re gonna be late.”

Abe links arms with you. Your mark flashes bright with the movement, glimmering like snow in the moonlight, all prismatic ice.

She hums, shifting her arm just enough that your elbows are interlocked, hiding your mark as she tugs you towards the school gates. “Let’s go then,” she says.

Yoshikawa falls into step on your other side. She leans over and softly bonks her head against yours, her long hair a veil for you both. You press together for a breath, then she pulls back and links her arm through your other arm as you enter the school grounds.

You make it two whole periods before someone notices.

It’s Hasegawa, of course, her deep brown eyes going wide as you reach into your bag for your textbook. She says something to her seatmate, and Honda’s eyes snap to you.

You keep arranging your supplies. You set your pencil down next to your notebook and line them up as precisely as you can, nudging it back and forth until it’s perfectly aligned as they whisper to each other. They keep glancing at you until Yoshikawa leans back in her seat and flashes them a razor-edged smile. Honda squeaks, and they both go quiet after that.

But there’s no escaping it. You can feel eyes on you all day, and murmurs follow you everywhere. You barely eat at lunch, pushing the pieces of your bento around as Abe and Yoshikawa crowd you on either side.

You almost make it to the end of the school day, but then Ueda and Nakajima stop you in the hallway. You bow to your seniors as they look you up and down.

“We heard you got your soulmark,” Nakajima says, swaying in place just slightly, like kelp caught in a current. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” you say, trying not to fidget with your sleeve.

“When?” Ueda asks, frowning.

“Over the break.”

“Early to be getting your mark,” she muses. She doesn’t have hers yet, you think. Only a handful of people in her year do.

“They say the earlier the mark manifests, the stronger the soul bond,” Nakajima says.

It’s a common belief, one of the oldest wives tales there is, but you’ve spent too long listening to your mother. You know better. Still, your stomach twists.

“What does yours say?” Ueda asks.

You bite your tongue; the pain flashes through you like lightning, bright and sharp and bitter. The bitterness lingers, fills your mouth until you have to swallow it down. It stings the whole way.

Ueda waits.

When you tell her, it feels like each word is being torn from you, as if they’d rooted into your very flesh.

(You suppose they have.)

For a breath, Ueda’s face twists. You think of the first hint of rot in ripe fruit, when the scent goes too sweet, a promise of decay. It isn’t the first time you’ve seen jealousy over a mark, but it’s odd to have it directed at you.

I didn’t ask for this, you want to tell her. I don’t know if I even want this.

“Oh, how lovely,” Nakajima murmurs, moon-eyed. “You’re lucky to have such a devoted soulmate.”

You smile, but you think it’s a poor imitation of one, soured at the edges as it is. “Yeah,” you say, because she’s looking at you expectantly. “I am.”

“Well, congratulations. Right, Machi?”

“Yeah,” Ueda says, flashing you a tight smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you say, the words ash on your tongue.

Nakajima tilts her head, bird-like, but Yoshikawa comes to your rescue, calling out your name from down the hall. You bid your seniors a quiet goodbye before hurrying to her.

She slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She hums her disbelief but leaves you be.

With her by your side, smiling pleasantly and radiating danger, the day passes without anyone else approaching you. Abe joins you again, looking proud of herself in a way that means she caused a problem, and you wonder what you did to deserve both of them.

They come home with you when school ends, waving to your parents as you head up to your room. You collapse face-down on your bed and Yoshikawa laughs, low and deep and a little bit sad.

She and Abe curl up around you like cats. They talk about everything and nothing, filling up your room with their presence until you start to go lax against them. They shuffle closer as you do and they’re warm against you, like sunbaked stone. You sink into that warmth and breathe out deeply.

The next few weeks will be filled with questions, with murmurs behind your back, with everything that comes with getting your mark so early. You know that, but there’s one other thing that you know, too.

With them, you know you’ll make it through.

***

The school year blurs past in a watercolor of seasons. Fall gives way to winter, curling up under the biting cold; spring chases away winter in a riot of color, the sakura buds unfurling as your upperclassmen graduate, each bloom inset into the branches like a little jewel. As summer beckons, the days warming as the promise of rain hangs heavy in the humid air, Kimura gets her mark.

She’s only the third person in your year to get hers and she’s coy about it, wrapping it in a ribbon, the burgundy silk luscious against her skin. It’s as eye-catching as she meant it to be.

It’s elegant in its own way, though the ribbon wilts slightly as the day goes on, mostly from the way she keeps touching it. She strokes along the ribbon as she talks with her friends. You’re not sure she realizes it.

A few people glance your way, their eyes flickering to your elbow, but their attention is as fleeting as the first snow. Their gazes return to Kimura, to the bruised burgundy of her ribbon.

Something loosens in you, unravels from where it’s been knit tight around your ribs.

Honda gets hers next, and then Watanabe gets his.

Slowly, mark after mark comes into being, words unfurling across skin. As more of your classmates receive their marks, yours fades into the background. It becomes common and you sink into that commonality, having long waited for the spotlight on you to cease.

Your mark fades into the background, like a star just after dawn—known only to those who know where to look. You try not to think of it. Sometimes you even succeed.

In your second year of high school, there’s Takao.

He’s a quiet boy. Stoic, even, his face almost stony as he introduces himself as the new transfer student. But he has a dandelion tuft smile, downy soft and fleeting, carried off by the wind not long after it blooms across his lips.

You like it, his smile.

You watch Kimura—your class rep, a position she’s held since middle school—get to her feet. Takao is setting up his desk when she approaches, methodically laying out his supplies. He keeps them in neat rows and you can’t help but smile when you see that his eraser is a battered little Keroppi, its round eyes almost flattened into a straight line on one side.

The class’s chatter softens, a few people glancing towards Kimura and Takao. You can’t see her face, but her fingers are trembling, just a bit. He looks unbothered. There’s not a trace of nerves in him, until you realize that the tips of his ears have gone faintly pink.

Kimura’s voice doesn’t carry when she greets him so you don’t hear what she says, but you see the tension bleed from her after Takao speaks.

Not soulmates, then.

She relaxes, and from the way her hands are moving she’s starting to outline the classroom expectations. You shift in your seat, starting to turn away, when a flash of movement from Takao catches your eye.

He looks at you from beneath the fan of his eyelashes from across the classroom. He has a small spray of fading freckles, you realize, speckled over the bridge of his nose like a cluster of stars. He gives you that smile again. It takes a moment to realize you’re staring, and you look away, your cheeks hot.

“You’ve got a crush,” Abe sing-songs at lunch a few days later, jabbing her chopsticks into your bento and stealing a piece of pickled daikon.

“I don’t,” you say, moving your bento away as she tries to steal another piece.

Yoshikawa snorts. She’s sprawled out on the grass next to you and Abe, her long skirt caught up around her calves. There’s grass caught in her black hair, the verdant blades swaying as she moves, as if floating in the whirling eddies of the darkened sea.

“If you’re gonna lie,” she says, turning over onto her stomach, “at least do it well.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Liar.”

“Such a liar,” Abe agrees. “You stare at him all the time.”

“No I don’t!”

Abe’s grin goes sly. “I didn’t say who,” she tells you.

“I—it doesn’t matter who, I don’t stare at anyone!”

Yoshikawa raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t stare at Takao.”

You scowl down at the ground, ripping up a small chunk of grass. You rub the blades between your fingers until they’re a fine pulp, and the scent of a freshly mowed lawn permeates the air.

“See?” Abe says. “Told you.”

“Are you going to talk to him?” Yoshikawa asks, peering up at you. She’s sly-eyed, her gaze keen despite the way she yawns.

“Not yet,” you say. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re cupping a hand over your mark, rubbing your thumb over the thin skin just above it.

Yoshikawa smiles, warm and soft and knowing, and doesn’t say anything else. Instead she moves closer to you, curling around you like a crescent moon, her head padded on her discarded blazer. You settle into the cradle of her.

Abe is grinning wildly. “I knew that you had a crush,” she says, popping another bite of your rice into her mouth.

“Oh, like we haven’t seen the way you moon over Takeda!” you say.

She shrugs. “She’s cute.”

You huff and reach over to steal some of her tamagoyaki. She yelps, scrambling to pull her bento away as you snatch at the last piece. “Mean!” she says, watching as you eat it, the fluffy egg practically melting on your tongue. “I want the rest of your daikon!”

“Get your own!”

She reaches for your bento and you swat at her. The two of you bicker for the rest of lunch, only ceasing when you return to the classroom and take your seats.

Out of the corner of your eye, there’s a flicker of movement. When you glance over, Takao is already watching you. There’s a smile tucked sweet into the corner of his mouth, a sliver of a thing.

It’s you who looks away first.

You’ll talk to him eventually, you think, cupping a hand over your soulmark once again.

Just not yet.

***

Not yet lasts longer than you thought.

You and Takao trade glances across the classroom for one week, then another, and then another still. Each look is a fleeting thing, like a shooting star streaking across the sky.

But you don’t speak to each other.

You learn the sound of his voice through others when he speaks to your classmates and teachers. It’s quiet, steady, with a warm rasp to it that makes you think of billowing smoke. He blushes to the tips of his ears when it cracks. It’s cute in a way that makes you ache.

You learn the sound of him, but never for yourself.

Still, you gravitate towards each other. He offers you a tangerine one morning, his smile small, soft, and earnest. When you nod he uses his fingernail to split open the peel, unfurling it in a smooth motion. The peel curls bright around his hand. He separates out a segment and gives it to you, his fingertips damp with sticky juice. They leave shy little imprints across your palm.

The fruit bursts across your tongue like sunshine, golden and warm. Takao is watching you with hopeful eyes. You grin, and hold your hand out for another.

He sits down next to you to share it. The classroom is full of chatter, but the two of you are quiet, wrapped up in your own world. Suddenly, it’s not so much that you’re scared of speaking, but that maybe you don’t quite need it. Not yet.

It would be nice, you suppose, but as time passes, you and Takao find ways to fit together without speaking. Instead, you learn the tilt of his mouth and the crinkle of his nose and the way his fingers run through his hair.

It works. It’s not quite enough, but it works.

And so not yet lasts just a little bit longer, the two of you steering away from the cliff’s edge looming in the distance.

Another month goes by.

You spend hours with Takao, the sight of you together a common thing to the point where your classmates ask you where he is when they’re looking for him. You can usually tell them. You’re incredibly aware of each other, caught in each other’s gravitational pull.

Sometimes it feels like you’re destined to only orbit each other, to never truly touch.

But sometimes you almost speak.

It’s a golden afternoon, the wind rustling through the leaves like a lullaby, filling the space between you both. You’re tucked together on one of the benches in the school’s yard watching the flow of students as they head to their clubs.

Takao is sunstruck, haloed in gold, and it makes his dark eyes even deeper, an obsidian sheen. You’ve seen it before, but there’s still something about it that makes your stomach flip.

He shakes his head, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. It doesn’t work, and he does it again. You think of a wet dog and try to stifle your laugh.

When he does it for a third time, you reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. He turns into the touch, just slightly.

Someone shrieks out a laugh, and you look up to see one of the girls in the other classes batting lightly at her boyfriend. He murmurs something to her, and her smile grows wider.

Your stomach twists, coiling tight as you watch them banter with each other. The gaps between your ribs seem to grow, until the empty space is what you’re made of.

You want, you want, you want.

You wonder if you’ll ever have.

Takao senses your change in mood but you say nothing, and the two of you separate not long after.

Your father is watering the plants when you come home. They fill the windows of your home, the sun streaming through the verdant leaves, leaving emerald patches of light on the floor, nature’s stained glass.

He’s quietly humming to himself, each note off-key, but he stops as soon as he sees you. He eyes you for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say.

“You were better at lying when you were little,” he tells you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now what’s wrong?”

You tell him. It spills out of you like an oil slick, coating everything it touches. You tell him about Takao, about the silence, about it all. You hadn’t realized how much the quiet was eating away at your bones.

“So what is it, exactly, that you’re worrying about?” your father asks when you’ve finished. It’s a sharp question, razor-edged, but his eyes are soft.

“What if he’s not my soulmate?” you ask him.

He blinks. “Does that change how you feel about him?”

You take a moment to consider. You think of Takao’s smile, and the way his fingers linger against the palm of your hand when he hands you the erasers to clap; the way he lets you take pieces of his bento, all without a word.

“No,” you say. “I don’t think so.”

“There you go, then.”

“But if he’s not my soulmate—”

“You know the statistics as well as I do,” he says. “If Takao isn’t your soulmate, that doesn’t mean you can’t be with him.”

“They’re waiting,” you whisper.

“That doesn’t mean you have to,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to make your own choice.”

You’re not sure that you are.

“What if he is my soulmate?”

Your father puts down the watering can. You see a flash of his soulmark. It’s blackened, a charred smudge against his skin, and when you glance up at his face, there’s something old in his expression. For a breath, you don’t know him at all.

It’s gone as soon as it came, like a shadow beneath the summer sun. He smiles at you. “Then your mom and I will have to meet him, won’t we?”

You balk.

He laughs, a sound that shimmers in the air. “I’m joking, tadpole,” he says. “And if he is—you’ll figure it out. There’s no point in guessing before you even know.”

You fidget with your sleeve, rubbing your thumb over the fraying hem of it.

There are worse things than losing something you never had, you think.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

But things are easier said than done.

It’s not easy, not with Takao. It’s hard to find the words when you’ve spent so much time living in the space between them.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him during lunch. It’s unseasonably warm, thick puffy clouds sitting high in a robin’s egg blue sky, and you’re sitting side-by-side, close enough to touch. Close enough, but not quite.

Takao hands you some anpan; you give him one of your onigiri, peeling the packaging open for him. He nudges against you, a silent thank you, and something in you breaks.

“This is stupid,” you blurt out, loud enough that a few heads turn your way.

You clap your hand over your mouth immediately.

He blinks, staring at you with his lips parted, and your cheeks start to heat. And then he laughs, the sound like woodfire smoke, billowing out of him in low, slow tones. It sweeps over you, settles on your skin, and though your cheeks heat more the sight of him sparks something in you.

He laughs freely and warmly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It doesn’t stop; if anything, it flows more strongly, like a river to the ocean. You find yourself swept up in it, laughter bubbling up inside you.

When it spills out of you and joins his, it sounds like a song.

“I cannot believe that’s what you said,” he says, and oh, you’ve ached to hear his voice when it was meant for you. You drink it in, swallow it down, something for you alone. “Of all the things.”

He laughs again, short and sharp with delight, but your smile is wilting, going brittle at the edges.

You finally have Takao, only to lose him a moment later.

You’re not soulmates.

***

It changes things.

You don’t mean for it to happen, but it does. Suddenly, the language between the two of you is different. Too used to speaking without words, neither of you are prepared for actual speech. You stumble over conversation, the words caught in your mouths like pebbles in a wave, spinning over and over until they’re worn down to nothing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Abe says, lounging upside down on your bed, tapping away at her controller, her brow furrowed as she smashes at the buttons. “You just gotta adjust, that’s all.”

You sigh. It’s not something you can explain, really. How one space was filled and another emptied. It leaves something in you aching.

Yoshikawa hums from where she’s sprawled on your floor, barely paying attention to the tv as she hits combo after combo, much to Abe’s annoyance. “Soulmate stuff is weird,” she says. “But it’s up to you.”

“It’s up to him, too,” you remind her. “Not everyone wants to date someone who isn’t their soulmate.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Abe says. “He likes you. It’s kinda gross how much.”

Your cheeks heat. “Shut up.”

She sticks her tongue out at you. “Make me.”

You throw a pillow at her face, relishing her little yelp as she tries to scramble out of the way and almost falls off your bed.

“Brat,” she says, tossing the pillow back. “He does, though. Like you.”

“I know,” you say, something vast filling you.

“Is this about the waiting thing?” Yoshikawa asks, putting down her controller and turning to face you. She hooks her chin over your knee, looking up at you with knowing eyes.

You bite at your bottom lip.

You know the rates better than anyone; you’ve spent your whole childhood hearing a language all its own. Percentages, probabilities, and all manners of complicated academic jargon, all focused on stripping away the whimsy of soulmates.

Your mother has only ever wanted to understand. But in that coveting, that hunger, she pressed understanding upon you as well, until you’re caught up in yourself, a tangled skein, so knotted that the beginning can barely be found.

“What if I do meet them?” you ask. “And they really have been waiting?”

Yoshikawa hums; it reverberates through you. “Dunno,” she says. “But what if you don’t meet them?”

You glare. “Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“Yeah, Yocchan,” Abe pipes up. “Super helpful.”

Yoshikawa tosses another pillow at her. “I don’t see you offering anything!”

“I already said it’ll be fine!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did!”

You laugh, the sound light but loud. Your friends pause, looking incredibly pleased with themselves.

“Oh good,” Abe says. “You’re back.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Nothing,” she says, but you think there’s a bit of sadness to her, in the waning moon of her smile. “Are you gonna play with us now?”

She shoves a controller at you and you take it with a huff. “Get ready to lose,” you tell her.

“What else is new?” Yoshikawa asks, moving away from you to grab her own controller again.

“Shut up, Yocchan,” Abe says, scowling. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too.”

You ignore them both to pick your character, but you can’t help the smile that plays across your lips as they continue to argue with each other. Abe curls herself around you, sticking her tongue out at Yoshikawa. You shift to give her room and your mark catches the light, reflects it back like morning dew.

For a moment you stare down at the words that have already changed your life so much. Sometimes you wonder how much more they can take from you.

“It’s my choice,” you say. You freeze, not having meant to say it out loud, but Yoshikawa just hums, settling warm on your other side

“Yeah,” she says with a little hum. “It is.”

But it isn’t just your choice.

You can’t quite understand Takao’s smile anymore. The nuances are lost in the space between the two of you, a language half-forgotten. The structure is there, but you’ve lost some of the words.

You can’t quite understand his choice, either.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, a scant few weeks after you realize you aren’t soulmates. The tips of his ears are pink, the color of the early dawn, and his eyes are glassy. “It’s just that—”

“We’re not soulmates,” you finish for him. Your heart is thrumming behind your ribs, a hummingbird battering against its cage. “Right?”

He winces. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

Maybe you should have known that it would.

He winces again; his hands tighten on the strap of his school bag. He stares at you, looking helpless, and you hate that you want to cradle his face in your hands. That you want to make it better for him.

“It—”

He cuts himself off. His lip trembles, wobbling like a spinning top, and it comes to you all at once. It’s written in the space between you, in a language you’ve both been speaking for months, one that’s all your own.

Takao’s lying.

“Tell me the truth,” you demand, clenching your fists.

He looks away. “We’re not soulmates,” he says. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Liar.”

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he says. “Please.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Fine,” you say. “Fine.”

When you walk away, he doesn’t come after you.

***

You hide yourself away among the hydrangea bushes that line the library, settling yourself in a sea of powder-blue petals. You curl up, pulling your knees up against your chest, and cry quietly until your uniform skirt is damp.

“Well, that’s not good,” Abe says.

You glance up to see her and Yoshikawa leaning over the hydrangea bushes, looking down at you with tender expressions. You immediately cry harder, starting to sob aloud.

“Oh shit,” Abe says, pushing through the puffball clusters of flowers and dropping to her knees beside you. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

“Takao?” Yoshikawa asks.

You nod.

She smiles, sharp and mean. “Abe, stay with her. I’ll be back.”

You shoot to your feet, grabbing her by her uniform sleeve before she can take off. “No!” you yelp. “No, Asako, don’t do anything!”

“Why not? He made you cry.”

“He just—it’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“He doesn’t want to be with someone who isn’t his soulmate,” you say softly. “That’s…he’s allowed to make that choice.”

She clicks her tongue. “He didn’t strike me as the type.”

“Me either,” you mumble. “I think he’s lying.”

“Why would he lie?” Abe asks, tilting her head.

“Don’t know,” you say. “But it just…it just seemed like he was. Please leave him alone.”

You don’t know how to explain it. You’re not sure you can. It’s a strange little language, the language that forms between two people who haven’t spoken to each other, and you’re not sure anyone who hasn’t created that language between themselves and another could even begin to understand the alphabet of it.

Yoshikawa hums; her sly eyes are narrowed, the deep brown of them darkened to almost black. “Fine. But if he makes you cry again, all bets are off.”

“Yeah,” Abe says, nudging you up to your feet. “And we know where you hide, so no point in trying to keep it from us!”

Your laugh is watery, but it’s light as it leaves your lips.

Abe loops her arm through yours. “Let’s go,” she says. “It’s lunchtime and Yoshikawa has a good bento today.”

“And it’s not for you,” Yoshikawa says lazily, stuffing her hands in her pocket as the three of you start to walk. “So don’t even try it.”

You laugh again and they bicker all the way to the classroom. You’re in the middle of grabbing your own bento when you feel eyes on you and when you look up, Takao startles, looking away quickly. You bite your lip as the tips of his ears go pink once more.

He glances at you again, and his eyes linger on your face. When his lips curl down into a small frown, you realize he knows you’ve been crying. He looks away as the twist of his lips goes pained.

Yoshikawa steps in front of you, blocking your view of him. “C’mon,” she says softly, chivving you towards her desk where Abe is already sitting. “Let’s go.”

You follow her after one last glance in Takao’s direction.

It develops into a routine over the next few weeks. You get used to the feeling of eyes on you all over again. Takao’s gaze feels silken against your skin, and though you shouldn’t, you bask in it. Maybe you’re too used to it; it reminds you of the beginning, when all you had was fleeting looks and quiet gazes.

But now he looks away every time you look up, though his ears always give him away.

Still, there’s a comfort to it. It doesn’t go away, even as you simply circle around each other, caught in each other’s orbit once more. This time, at least, you know that you’ll stay this way.

Except two months after you go your separate ways, you’re assigned to work on a project together.

Your hurt has waned; it’s a healing bruise, now, only flaring to life when you press on it. The hopeful look on Takao’s face barely even causes an ache. You stay in your seat, but he gets to his feet and comes to you as the teacher leaves.

“Hi,” Takao says, fidgeting with the strap of his school bag. “I’m—if you want to switch partners to someone else, I understand.”

“Do you want to switch partners?” you ask.

“Not really,” he blurts out, and this time, his blush is bright, the apples of his cheeks dusted in heated red. “I mean, no. I don’t.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. It feels nice, somehow, looking at him, at his small, timid smile and the way the sun catches golden on his skin. “I guess I’m fine with it.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m—I’m glad.”

“Let’s talk after clubs,” you say. “We can figure out our topic then.”

He nods. He stands there for a moment; it’s only when you raise an eyebrow that he jolts and heads back to his desk. When you look over, he’s got his hands pressed against his face. You think you see him mutter “idiot” to himself.

The smile tugs on your lips without you even realizing it.

***

“I miss you,” Takao says, fifteen minutes into your third project session. “I miss you so much.”

You go stiff.

The project has gone well so far. You’ve found yourself falling into easy communication with Takao, but you’ve kept it strictly to the project, rarely going into your lives outside of school. Still, it’s easy in a way it hasn’t been in a while. You find yourself smiling, and sometimes he even makes you laugh.

“Okay,” you say, sounding wooden even to yourself. “I—I don’t know what you want me to say to that.”

He winces. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

You mean to say okay, but what you say instead is—

“I miss you too.”

Takao blinks. And then a smile is spreading across his lips, slow like the dawn and just as warm. “Really?” he asks.

Your cheeks heat, but you nod.

“Do you think we can be friends?” he asks, almost shy.

You bite your lip. “I think…I think we can try.”

“I’d like that,” he says softly. “I’d really like that.”

You smile at him, slow and sure. “Me too.”

He smiles back, and the two of you turn back to your project.

You find that it takes time to learn how to be friends with Takao. It’s not like Abe and Yoshikawa with the fluid ease of childhood friends, forged by years and years at each other’s sides, memory after memory built into a firm foundation. Nor is it like your other friends.

Takao seems to inhabit a space all his own. Maybe he always will. It seems right that he would; it doesn’t surprise you that he carved himself a place in your world without even trying.

It takes time. Eventually, even Abe and Yoshikawa warm up to him, until the four of you are spending summer nights together, popsicles melting down your fingers in the heat. You laugh through sticky lips and sit side-by-side despite the heat.

It feels good to have him back in your life, and high school goes by in a whirlwind of seasons, the years melting together until you graduate. He’s by your side when you do ,along with Yoshikawa and Abe, the four of you taking pictures on the school lawn surrounded by your peers.

The four of you spend as much time as you can together before you head off to college, just a few scant weeks after graduating.

It’s easy with Yoshikawa and Abe; the three of you are woven together, a tapestry of home. College is just another stitch, with the three of you attending the same one. You find a cute apartment just off campus, in a slightly worn building with wisteria dripping down the sides like honey. Yoshikawa and Abe like to hang laundry from the balcony; they says it comes back with a floral scent. The dishwasher is broken more often than not, the rooms are tiny, and you love it. So do they, and the three of you build a home together.

With Takao, it’s harder. You drift away from each other in college, pressed in on all sides by classes, studying, and local friends. It feels hard to find the time to breathe, let alone text Takao anything other than a fleeting check-in or a picture of something that reminded you of him.

Unlike before, it feels natural. It isn’t without its edges but they’re dulled, so that they press against your skin instead of cut. He simply fades from your everyday life until the ding of his text message is a surprise instead of a given.

When he walks back into your life in your third year of college, it’s like getting hit by a lightning bolt.

***

The izakaya is tucked away at the edge of the city, sandwiched between two small apartment buildings that have ivy spidering up the side of them. You watch as a sheet billows on a clothesline, rippling like water, the clothespins holding firm despite the strong breeze.

The fat tabby lazing on the edge of the izakaya steps doesn’t even lift its head to look at you. It’s sheltered under a verdant fern frond, part of the little forest of plants clustered around the entrance. Some of the plants are spilling out of their pots, sprawling out in great clusters of leaves, the tiny flowers dotted in them barely visible in the light of the nearby vending machine.

You crouch down by the cat unable to resist, and it blinks itself awake slowly, turning slate gray eyes your way. It sniffs at your knuckles when you reach out to it. It rubs its cheek against your hand once, and then gets to its feet, stretching mightily as your friends laugh from just inside the entrance. You try to pet it again but it pointedly turns away and curls up again under the frond, further in than before, a little forest deity hidden amid lush scenery.

You stare at it for a moment longer, looking at how its cheeks squish up against its paws.

“Pouting doesn’t affect Momo,” someone behind you says.

You look up, and then go still.

“Hi,” Takao says, warm like the early morning sun. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” you say, as if he hasn’t knocked the breath from you. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good. You?”

“Are we really going to do this?” you ask, standing up from your awkward crouch.

He smiles, and you think he might be swallowing down a laugh. “Do what?”

You scowl at him. “You know what,” you say. “The small talk.”

“It’s polite.”

“Is that your main concern? Politeness?”

This time, he does laugh, low and sweet. “No,” he says, his eyes glittering. “You are.”

Your cheeks heat. “You can’t just say that.”

“Just did,” he says. “Are—are you here by yourself?”

“With friends.”

“Do you think I could steal you away for a drink?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think you can.”

He smiles at you. “Good.”

He ushers you into the izakaya. It’s warm inside despite the open windows, and the scent of fried food lingers in the air. People’s chatter fills the room up to the rafters, little laughs peppered in like champagne sounds, little pops of joy. There’s another cat curled up on a barstool tucked away in a corner, a ball of white fluff that makes you think of dandelions.

Yoshikawa sees you first; when she sees Takao behind you, she raises a single elegant brow before turning back to your group of friends. She says something with a lazy roll of her shoulders, and suddenly, all of your friends are trying very hard to not look at the entrance.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

Takao laughs, the huff of air stirring against your nape. “They’re pretty obvious,” he says. “Should we go say hi?”

“Later,” you say.

He follows you to the bar. He’s close, and under the scent of fried food you can make out the faintest hint of his woodsy cologne.

You sit side by side, close enough to feel each other’s warmth but without touching. The bartender brings you your beers, and you look to Takao as he taps the neck of his bottle against yours.

“It’s so good to see you,” he breathes, his dark eyes soft.

“Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

One drink turns into two until you’re both sliding closer to each other in your seat, pressing into each other’s sides. You barely keep yourself from curling into him. He leans in close when you’re speaking, so that his voice is rumbling low in your ear.

You share some takoyaki and then one of the biggest okonomiyaki you’ve ever seen, the pancake stuffed to the brim with filling and heavily topped. When the food arrives, so does the white cat, meowing quietly at your feet as it winds its way around the rungs of your barstool. Takao holds you steady when you lean down to pet it, his hand firm on your lower back.

By your third beer, Yoshikawa and the rest of your friend group leaves. She gives you a little wave on her way out the door.

“Sorry,” Takao says. “I didn’t mean to take up your whole night.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “It’s been…really nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you admit. “It’s been great.”

He smiles, and it’s that same dandelion fluff smile you remember, sweet and fleeting.

“Good,” he says, taking a sip from his beer. You watch the way his forearm flexes. “Listen, do you want to meet up again?”

“Yeah, I would.”

His eyes crinkle. “Great,” he says.

You bite down on your smile.

The two of you finish your beers between lazy chatter. It’s comfortable, as if you never fell out of touch.

When you leave, Takao waits as you pet the white cat once more, delicately bumping your knuckles against its cheek as it rumbles out a purr. It meows pitifully when you stop, opening its blue, blue eyes with a disgruntled look on its face, and you laugh to yourself, kneeling to give it a few more pets.

You look for the tabby as you exit the izakaya but it’s gone, likely curled up amid some of the planters further back. You and Takao both stop at the sidewalk, carefully making sure you’re out of the way of any pedestrians, and for a moment, you just look at each other.

“See you soon?” Takao asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “See you soon.”

“Good,” he breathes, with his eyes so soft that it makes your cheeks warm.

You say goodbye, and each of you heads home. When you glance back Takao is already looking back at you from the street corner. You give him a little wave, and he jolts before hurrying off.

You smile your whole way home.

***

“It’s so hot,” you complain, flopping down next to Takao on the park bench. “Can we go to the conbini?”

“Popsicles?” he asks.

“No, I want onigiri.”

He raises a brow. “How does that help with the heat?”

“It doesn’t,” you tell him. “The aircon does.”

He laughs. “Oh, of course.”

You head to the closest conbini, practically swimming through the humid summer air. The air is so thick that you could cut it; there’s rain on the horizon, promised in the encroaching gray-blue clouds hanging low in the sky.

Inside it’s blessedly cool, the aircon hard at work. The two of you scour the aisles, picking out varying snacks and pointing out new flavors to each other—you try to make him buy a cream stew Gari Gari Kun popsicle, but he refuses—before you head to the cashier.

You settle in at one of the tables, opening your drink as Takao unwraps one of your onigiri, handing it to you before he busies himself with his own food. He gives you a little swat when you reach out for his snacks, making you retract your hand with a laugh. As you pull back, you wonder when the two of you fell back into rhythm.

It’s close to the one you had in high school, but not the same. There’s something new twining through the rhythm, a swirl of notes that resonates through you. It’s an easy flow, a soft ebb and tide, like the calmest of seas.

“Hey,” Takao says gently.

“Hmm?”

“Where did you go, just then?”

You blink and take a sip of your peach tea. It lingers sweet on your tongue as you meet his stoic gaze. His mouth tilts, just slightly, something tucked up secret in the corner of his soft lips.

For a moment, you just look at him. He meets your gaze easily; he lets you look your fill, as patient as ever.

“Sorry,” you say. “Nowhere important.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head. “You’re so—” you break off.

“I’m so?”

You bite at your lip. “You,” you say. “You’re so you.”

His smile is small, but it grows, as steady and sure as the sun’s rise.

“I hope so,” he says, almost flippant, but there’s something soft in his gaze; it brushes over you like silk.

“Shut up,” you tell him.

He just laughs, quiet and low.

The two of you chat as you eat, talking about Yoshikawa’s upcoming art show at a trendy new gallery. You’ve been waiting patiently ever since the curator first picked her up as a featured artist. It’ll be nice to go with Takao, for the four of you to be side-by-side again, something that’s becoming as constant as it was in your high school days.

When you’re finished Takao takes all the wrappers and folds them up neatly, creasing them until they’re practically origami. You bite down on your smile.

The summer air rolls over you as you step back into it, licking across your skin as only wet heat can. You shudder with it.

Still you meander through the nearby park, ducking beneath low-hanging branches hanging heavy with fruit, the citrus of them permeating the air. It’s quiet, with just the distant shouts of the playground and the whisper of the leaves in the stirring breeze to accompany you both.

You find yourself at the koi pond without meaning to and Takao wordlessly heads to the food meter as you settle yourself on the rock wall that edges the pond. The surface ripples, orange and gold scales muted in the murky water like a sunset covered by clouds. You trail your fingertips over the surface, and giggle as they mouth at them.

Takao presses some feed into your palm when he comes back; the heat of him lingers there. Your mark glimmers in the light as you toss in the feed, a needlepoint flash of silver. You can feel Takao’s eyes on it. But then the koi come up in great, arcing splashes, the quiet pond roiling like the angry sea in their fervor, and you laugh as you dodge the worst of it.

Takao chuckles, and he settles down next to you to hand you the last of the feed.

You curl into him despite the heat, skin against skin, a slick slide of a touch before you fall still. The koi are still churning up the water, their gaping mouths breaking through the surface, and you give them what they want. Scales flicker by, a mesmerizing firework show caught beneath the surface, and so it catches you off guard when Takao suddenly says—

“I’m sorry.”

You go still.

“For what?”

He shifts beside you; when you glance at him, he’s staring into the distance, his dark eyes caught on something that only he can see.

“For high school.”

You breathe out through your nose. “So you’ve said.”

“I was scared.”

“So you’ve said,” you repeat.

He glances at you, then, and his eyes remind you of the vastness of the unending night sky, dark and glittering.

“I’m not scared anymore.”

You suck in a sharp breath. He waits, ever patient.

“Me neither,” you say, curling your pinky around his, twining around him like thread.

He cups your cheek, his touch almost reverent, and presses his forehead to yours. “Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He leans in and kisses you. It’s careful and sweet.

It feels like coming home.

He breaks the kiss when you’ve stolen each other’s breath away.

“Our soulmates—” he starts.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say breathlessly, kissing him again. He’s smiling against your lips. Warmth floods you. You love him, you love him, you love him. That’s all there is. That’s all you need.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say again.

He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re right,” he says. “It doesn’t.”

Until suddenly, it does.

***

You and your soulmate—Shinsuke, you think, still tasting the honey of it on your tongue, Shinsuke Shinsuke Shinsuke—watch each other.

The only sound is the steady fall of the rain.

It’s picked up again, sending the hydrangeas eddying, spinning in a lazy current as their puffball blossoms catch the droplets. More petals flutter to the ground. The blue of them is stark against the dirt, and you think of what a storm leaves in its wake.

Shinsuke lets out a deep, slow breath, and you wince. His amber eyes have dimmed and the last of his smile has washed away, leaving just the dregs of emotion behind, too faint for you to read.

You feel too small for your skin; your heart is fluttering, a hummingbird thing, trying to press through the gaps in your ribcage. You take in a shallow breath. It tastes of the earth, of drenched soil and summer heat. You choke on it.

Shinsuke’s brow furrows as you take in another breath, even shallower than the last, and your heart is thrumming, and his eyes are so sharp, so knowing, so kind. You’re caught in the amber of them, the resin of his gaze pouring over you.

Even the rain seems quiet now.

His lips part.

Your ribs start to crack; your heart thumps harder against them. Too strong, too fast, too loud.

His lips part, and you do the only thing you can.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp.

You run.

#kita x reader #kita shinsuke x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #bee writes hq!!#.kita #.lbgtm #q

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hhighkey · 1 year ago

Text

Minor Feelings // PREVIEW!!

Shanks (opla/anime) x OC (female)

Rating: overall will be mature

Story Will Contain: live action implied, age gap, OC had been kidnapped n shanks found her, arranged marriages, eventual smut, wild ass families

notes, eeeh love this preview ,, trying to decide whether to focus on this fic or my mihawk one

Masterlist, vote for which i should focus on here

Two days went by before Marisol's eyelids finally began to flutter, her extremities slowly stretching outwards like a cat. Twitching fingers attempting to grasp at the unfamiliar plush bedding that surrounded her as tiny mewls left her lips. The next thing she noticed was the sound of waves, the sound of a bell ringing in the distance. Then a scent of fresh pine sparked her brain into overdrive, nose contorting in confusion as tingles ran down her spine.

Her morning bliss, gone within mere seconds—an obvious, heavy gaze had been focused on her form and she finally felt it. Alarm bells went off inside her head. Freezing under the blankets, fear tickled from top to bottom as she thought through the sudden situation. This wasn't the bed or room she'd gone to sleep in. And her gut instincts ran rampant with no sense of fight or flight- no sense of if she were safe or in danger. And as her breathing grew heavier turning into quick gasps, it alerted the figure in the corner she was properly conscious.

"You're awake." a thick, gravelly voice she couldn't register spoke, "been a few days, was gettin' worried," the man continued, "couldn't have ya dyin' in my bed."

She debated staying under the covers with the false pretense of protection- If I can't see him he can't see me. But if she'd learned anything about disobedience during her long 24 years of life, was it never ended well. Yet her thirst for adventure and answers always won out in the end. So slowly her grip on the blankets tightened as she pulled them from over her head, letting her face feel the cooler air of the room. It took a second to adjust to the light streaming in from the windows, but when she did, what Marisol saw made her sigh in defeat—

Red hair. A large man with claw marks over an eye. Her stomach dropped as he readjusted his position from where he sat giving her a better look of him. Quickly her mouth ran dry as her brain wracked every conversation she'd had of renown pirates.

Marisol's heavy and still sleep ridden eyes widen in fear, surprise, as she scoots backwards on the bed create more distance between them. Realization dawned. An emperor of the sea was staring her down with dark eyes, and it made her blood run cold. Maybe all along, he'd been the one to plot her kidnapping and simply waited to show his face. Waited until she was broken down.

"So you know who I am." smugness reeked from the smirk on this lips.

She nodded slowly, dazed and still waking up.

"And you are?"

Clearing her throat she croaked out, "I'm Marisol." but wouldn't he already know that?

"Shanks," he replied, leaning back and crossing his arms across his large chest. The top few buttons of his shirt undone, showed muscle underneath that drew her eyes in with shame.

"Why did you take me?"

For a second, he looked perplexed, "take you?" he hummed, "I mean, suppose I did take you from that ship of ridiculously stupid pirates... you wanted to be there?"

"What- no! I-" clammy fingers squeeze together, warmth rising to her cheeks as she grew flustered, body literally shaking from the overwhelming-ness of the situation, "I'm confused."

"You and me both mama, now what were y'doin' locked in a room on that ship of ragtags? They had no business tryin' to board us I can tell you that."

Marisol grimaced as she placed her head in her hands, bringing her knees to her chest. The wheels in her head turned. She needed to think fast- needed to seem genuine in her confusion without revealing too much, not that she wasn't confused. Because, while she didn't understand why pirates came for her, she also understood her Father's unfortunate stature had everything to do with it. And Marisol can't afford for the extremely wanted pirate in front of her to find out her surname. But the panic in her chest made it easy, because she felt she were being swallowed whole.

"I don't even know what day it is. Or what part of the sea I'm in... don't even know how long I've been gone." Marisol's voice was so quiet that Shanks wasn't sure he'd heard her correct. Like a little child in trouble mumbling apologies, the dejection was written all over her.

"I think I understand now." sighing, Shanks got up with a grunt and made his way over to his bed where the strange girl sat. She looked up to follow his movements- watched as he kneeled beside the bed, only an arms length or two away, "it's August 20th."

An incessant ringing reverberated in her ears. Marisol felt her surroundings go blurry, numbness taking over, "fuck," is all she could mutter. The musk of pine invaded her senses as she prodded her fingers into her temple, "it was July 11th yesterday.."

#opla shanks #shanks x reader #shanks headcanons #shanks #opla #one piece #one piece live action #fanfic #hhighkey minor feelings

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cammiluna · 5 months ago

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Mario Stuff Headcanons

and by mario i mean the immortal fool au. sorry. you're not getting any game canon HCs from me ever again... not that I've written any in the last 15 years...

You know mine already as an ifool reader but

Mario and Luigi (both in their mid-late 30s) never have much involvement in my comics, so they’re just cis dudes with unknown sexualities for all i know right now,

actually, scratch that. as of this post, ifool Mario is dating Toad

Geno (age 4000+???), Stars in my AU physically cant be sexed and align to genders based on their interactions with modern society and interactions with other stars based on who gendered themselves on THEIR exposure to the mortal world. He presented himself as masculine, which was carried over into a physical presence when Starlow made him human based on her own personal love for yaoi media. Once he discovered sexuality as a human, he fell into pansexual territory, dominantly falling in love with peach but also having complex feelings for Kamek since they dated decades ago and all that missed opportunity of being physical is creeping up on him. Outside of those two, he has no real attraction preference.

Kamek (age 140) is bisexual/gender nonconforming. Before becoming Bowser’s caretaker and during his temporary retirement, he’s had a lot of exposure to the Beanbean kingdom where at least half the Beanish population is gender nonconforming. It’s the norm here and nobody even labels it “gender nonconforming”. Any beanish that was a girly girl or manly man would simply boast it, but anyone that presented anywhere in between was normal. He started questioning his gender when disguising himself as peach, but just accepted himself as nonconforming and made himself more and more flamboyant whenever away from his koopa troop duties. Currently he is with Naval Piranha, but also returns those complex feelings Geno has on him and can’t quite figure out if he still loves Geno in some way (they argue and insult each other a lot), or if they’re making up for their relationship 50-60 years ago not being mutually sexual due to the physical limitations of Geno’s first inanimate object possessions. Other past relationships include Lima, Harhall, possibly Lakitu from Tetris Attack, had a one-shot date with Gadd and crushed on Toadsworth… and the list expands as i keep writing this guy.

Lady Lima (277), bisexual girly. Had a relationship with Cackletta, ditched her to be with Kamek who came in like Howl from Howl’s moving castle, then dumped him and devoted her life thereafter to make both Cacky and Kamek miserable whenever she wasn’t on shift. Currently in a stable long distance relationship with Toadsworth, so long as her past is buried under a rug.

Fawful (18), I was playing with the idea of him being transmasc, but it’ll conflict with ifool’s prologue. Regardless, he presented masculine since he was a child. He’s otherwise aroace with his asexuality being of the absolute sex-repulsed kind. I have an OC ship for him that i wanna tap into in future comics as homage to my friends in the fawful fandom, and also, to bring to the table that aroace relationships can actually exist Fawful also has a backstory of being a prank-wished stork child that Geno brought to the lives of Kamek and Lima when he took their sarcastic wishes literal during a debate on the existence of storks, so Fawful kind of has a mom and two dads here, but nobody’s ever gonna talk about it Lima simply does not want to acknowledge that babies come from the stork despite literally getting one

Mallow (age 23 in the comic), still figuring himself out but is in a happy and healthy relationship with Gaz (20). He sees himself with a bit of effeminate charm whereas Gaz presents a bit more masculine, but they’re both cis dudes

Gaz, absolutely gay, both in happiness and sexuality

Naval Piranha (50s), another aroace, but not sex-repulsed. She just wants to be around Kamek and spend all her time with him. It wouldn’t matter what gender or anything he is. She’s just glued to him and making it work out. She knows his past relationships and is fine with Kamek being with others- so long as she’s also friends with them. Technically, she does get on friendly terms with Geno since ifool, but doesn’t understand why kamek, peach and others find him so “hot and sexy” as a human as Naval personally finds him aesthetically boring

Cackletta (224 at time of death), not much is written about her, but lesbian

Gadd (age ???), cis man, i-dont-care-whoever-gives-me-the-time-of-day-sexual

#headcanons #mario #luigi #geno #geno smrpg #mallow smrpg #mallow #kamek #gaz smrpg #naval piranha #cackletta #e gadd #lady lima #fawful

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applepiesupreme · 3 months ago

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American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 30

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/149566579

She was growing to like Shady Belle, or rather, disliking it less. If she were given a choice, she would have gladly returned to the former two spots, but the ride to work was considerably shorter and work was getting busier, so there was at least that.

Ecco hadn’t acknowledged her since the last incident. She had been on edge for a long time, but as he continued to ignore her day after day, her wariness had passed. Just as she was getting lulled by safety, thinking whatever happened had been it and that wasn’t so bad after all, he showed up at her station as if he could read her mind.

“Go to my office, Savigne.”

She froze and broke out in cold sweat. Several moments she lingered, unable to make her feet move. Even though nobody was paying attention, she felt like everyone knew, that all of Saint Denis knew and talked behind her back. She felt deep shame despite not having done anything at all as she slowly walked up the stairs. When she arrived at his office, it was empty. There was only one chair. So she waited, standing across from his desk.

A minute passed. Then two. Then ten. After twenty minutes she checked her pocket watch and wondered if she was going crazy, if she had dreamed up the entire thing. She watched the slow, tedious crawl of the hands of the watch. Thirty minutes. She vacillated between going back down and waiting on. Maybe he had forgotten? Maybe he was sidetracked? She remained rooted, too afraid to go against his word. Her feet hurt from standing all day but there was nowhere to sit down, so she stood on. The days were shorter now, she watched the window darken and looked at her watch again. Forty-two minutes. He must have forgotten she told herself. I’ll wait five more minutes and then I’ll leave.

Five minutes later she thought what's another five minutes. She shuffled on her feet and timidly eyed the desk. The temptation to lean against it was overwhelming. The pain on her feet moved up to her lower back. Next time she checked the time, it was an hour. She went to the door and looked out. Chef Ecco was nowhere to be seen. Again she thought she should leave. It was getting late and she was tired. And yet, she returned to the room and stood around. The fear of offending Chef Ecco even more than she had and inviting his ire intimidated her. He was already clearly displeased with her and he could fire her. Then she would eat into her savings and her savings were for the cabin.

The notion of the cabin gave her strength and she ignored the pain pulsing in her lower back by going over recipes in her head. When she ran out of those she wanted to check the time again but didn’t, afraid to see how late it was. The room got dark. She didn’t know if she should turn on the gas lamp so she stood there in the dark for what felt like hours as the pain in her legs became unbearable. She felt shamefully weak and small, debating how she could allow herself to be treated like this and counter-debating that after all the waiting she had done, it would be foolish to leave now.

Saint Denis transformed outside the window as the arc lights in the streets flickered on. She started to fall into a dreamy state of mind where she hung in limbo, separate from everything. She thought about her childhood and all the orphanages she'd been through and the friends she had lost contact with one way or another and Sister Rodriguez and Sister DuBois and her ex flames, her ex bosses - the entire arc of her life that had started with her carried off the ship with only a tattered book and a photo pressed between the pages, cared for and fed by strangers to now: the chapter where she had somehow, some way managed to find her own family. Sometimes, when she was tense like she was now, she liked to construct imaginary moments in her head. Like introducing Arthur to her parents. Who - because she conveniently could 'remember' them however she wanted - were funny and mischivieous and warm. She imagined helping her mom in the kitchen but her mom would be the superior cook, teaching Savigne the best tricks while her dad opened the door and there was Arthur, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Scratch that, that didn't look right at all. Maybe a box of sweets? No, not right either. More like with a deer slung over his shoulder? God, that sounded absurd.

When she heard the door close behind her she jumped and broke out of her reverie. She looked over her shoulder and saw his silhouette standing by the door, a shadow against other shadows. He didn’t light the lamp and he didn’t move. There was a long silence.

He didn’t apologize, but simply said “Good.”

She turned back to stare at the window. “I need to go home,” she said finally, a tad irritated. “My boyfriend…”

“I want to talk about your future prospects,” was the smooth interjection.

She heard the rustle of clothes behind her and for a moment panicked, thinking he was undressing. She was terrified to look, and so she didn’t. Her heart was thumping in her chest. When he glided to stand right behind her she felt herself start to tremble.

“You’re a good cook Savigne,” was the sigh in her ear. “But that’s not enough. Good cooks are a dime a dozen.”

She cleared her throat but when she tried to speak, her voice was gone.

She flinched when she felt his hand on her upper left arm, light and ephemeral, crawling up to her neckline to casually tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t move!” he ordered when she tried to shift away and she froze with the low command. She hated the idea that he could feel her tremble.

“Do you like it here?” was the same mild question he had asked her the first time and it triggered something in her, as if she was a lab rat, conditioned for it.

Not anymore, she thought but what she said was “I’m learning a lot, Chef.”

He chuckled at her answer, fingers brushing over the shell of her ear as she resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“Have you learned that everything has a price?”

She wasn't sure how to answer this loaded question and for long moments just watched the dust motes lazily dance in the beam of light that was coming from the streetlamp.

“I need to go home,” she droned again finally, feeling short of breath. “My partner will be worried.”

She couldn't see his face as he stood behind her left shoulder but sensed the flare up of his anger. A huff of disappointment as he shifted to her right. She held very still as fingers spidered down her chest, lightly circled a breast. Suddenly a flash of the Murfree incident sparked in her mind and it was like a gut punch. These two men touching her against her will overlapped and for a moment a sense of dislocation and confusion washed over her and she wasn’t sure where she stood in space and time.

“When you’re here, be here,” he snarled and the feeling passed as the present solidified.

She felt his palm ghost down her breast and bile rose in her throat as her shuddering intensified. The slow, deep intake of a breath behind her right ear told her that he enjoyed her discomfort.

“I have an excellent job for you,” he muttered as he came around to stand before her. His hands, deceptively strong after years of kneading and scrunching and molding, held her waist, before they traveled up. His breath smelled of peppermint as he puffed in her face and she had a distant thought that she would hate the scent from here on throughout her life.

Then something very strange happened - Savigne felt herself fracture into two.

She stood there as he gently palmed her breasts, sensitive and swollen with her expected period, revolted at herself for letting it happen but too hypnotized to act.

But she was also outside the window, screaming mutely and beating on the glass to wake herself up.

His lips moved but she didn't hear him. What she heard was the smack of the palms on the window pane - tha thump, tha thump, tha thump - a deep, primal sound she heard whooshing and beating in her ears.

Only when the hands on her breasts clenched and a needle sharp pain jolted through her, did she manage to whimper and take in a shuddering breath and the cotton in her ears fell off. The world became louder, sharper, warmer.

“…good,” she caught the last bit of the sentence cooed softly in her ear.

She stood swaying on her feet, trying to gather her thoughts when he idly stepped around her and disappeared behind her back.

A match was struck and the light that flicked on in the room startled her and hurt her eyes.

Footsteps approached, then passed her as Ecco walked around his desk and sat in his chair.

He huffed at the paperwork piled on his desk and casually checked the folders, stacking them up in their proper order. She watched him, marveling how she had thought him handsome and charming. He looked slimy and dirty, beads of sweat lined up on his greasy mustache; hair caked stiff with pomade, littered with specks of dandruff.

“This job I have for you…” he sighed, distracted by the folder in his hand. “There is this ball coming up. I was invited to cook for it. And I’m going to pick a few people to come along…” His dark eyes turned up to her, dull and lifeless. “Interested?”

She felt incapable of speech but someone did it for her and she heard herself stupidly say “A ball?”

He nodded. “Extra money.”

She blinked at him. The speed with which he entered and left his moods intimidated and unbalanced her because she never knew what he would do a moment later, and she suspected that this was intentional. Very little with Chef Ecco, after all, was accidental. The precision and mastery of his meals, of his plating, of the set up of his menu - all things practiced and perfected through years of observation and mastery. This was no different to him than cooking she realized - something to be done with excellence and unsentimental perfection.

“Good money,” he pushed, taking her silence as hesitation.

Whoever was working her vocal cords, did it again:

“I never cooked for a ball before.”

He waved her argument away, all amicable smiles and easy banter. “Same thing. Easier if you ask me. Lots of cold hors d’ouvres and whatnot, so a lot of the cooking happens ahead of time. Lots of pastries. You’re good at those.”

“If you say so, chef,” she droned listlessly.

“I know you are,” he said warmly. “I actually have something particular in mind. Something…more traditional. Something a bit more Italian. Anyone can make a pie,” he said with mild disdain, “I want a desert that’s more unique.”

“Like what?” It was a surreal experience - hearing herself speak but not doing the talking. Like listening to her own voice on a gramophone but having no memory of the recording.

“How is your frutta martorana game?”

“I haven’t made that…in ages,” she heard herself concede.

“You’ll be great, I know it,” he waved her discomfort away. “You’re great at anything you set your mind to.” The warmth of his voice bolstered the idea that she was dreaming because surely this couldn't be the same man from minutes ago?

She felt her facial muscles strain as her mouth was pulled into a smile. “Where is this ball?”

“Mr. Bronte’s mansion.” The panes of her face moved and whatever expression that resulted in, made him ask “You know him?”

“I know of him.” She heard the tone of wariness in her own voice but he didn’t.

“Important man,” he said and she noticed his nod of approval. “Anyhow, I mean to surprise him with something from the motherland. What do you think?”

“I think it’ll hit the mark,” Savigne said and her voice sounded muffled to her ears, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Especially if he’s Sicilian.”

He smiled conspiratorially when he replied: “I think so too.”

Then a jolt of her inner voice: Refuse.

“I…” she cleared her throat, “I’m not sure if I’m the right choice for the job, chef.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said dismissively, thumbing through the folder again.

Don’t take this as payment for what he did.

“Why, what did he do?” she thought morosely and the memory of minutes ago flared up in her. She was alarmed by how efficiently and quickly she had managed to rugsweep it.

Refuse!

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

He blinked up at her.

“But what about the cabin?” she thought helplessly. “He said good money.”

Her inner voice was sharp like barbwire she had curled a fist on: REFUSE!

“I’m not a good fit,” she said with more determination.

His eyes hardened at her rejection and her breath caught in her throat. “Nonsense,” he said, giving her a weighed look, “You’re perfect. You will accept. I don’t do charity, you earned it.” He looked her a long moment, eyes boring into her, daring her to argue and to her own horror, proud as she imagined herself to be, she wilted under that stare like a child. Not that long ago she had believed Dutch to be intimidating, but when the moment came, she had easily stood up to, spoken back at Dutch. Ecco, not so much.

“Yes, chef,” she whispered at last.

He nodded curtly. “I stocked up marzipan. Practice until the ball. Now go.”

She dreamily marched out of the room on stiff legs and found herself in the street. Then she walked around for a while, her mind blank and dim, turning random corners, brushing against strangers. When she found a deserted alley she doubled over and threw up. One half was horrified to be vomiting in public like some drunkard, but the other half felt relieved as if she had thrown up all the dirt and ugliness and she was clean again. She stumbled away in shame and found a fountain and washed her mouth and her face. Then she walked some more and as she walked, like the focus of a pair of binoculars being adjusted until the image became crisp, her shattered halves glided over one another and solidified into one person again.

When she looked up, she was surprised that she was standing across the door of the steakhouse. She stood there for a long time, watching the door, unsure what to do.

Go home, said her inner voice eventually. It’s late.

She knew it to be true but still hesitated with indecision.

It was nothing. You're fine. Go home to your family.

The word mushroomed a deep feeling of warmth and safety in her gut and she turned around towards the stables to pick up Cricket.

Whenever she was late, he would sit by the main camp fire because it was right across the horses and today was no different. He jumped up and strode over when she rode in.

"Was 'bout to ride out for ya," he said when he arrived. "Yer late."

She turned around and hugged him tightly and he stiffened a little with surprise. Embracing him all the way out by their distant tent used to make him uncomfortable, now he merely tensed up here in full view of the gang and it made her inexplicably but also immeasurably happy.

"Woman, yer drunk again?"

"No," she chuckled into his chest.

He gripped her shoulders and held her out to look at her face. He must have smelled the droplets of vomit on her clothes. "Ya got sick?"

“Threw up,” she sighed. “Did a lot of tasting today. Something I ate must have been off.” If he heard her lie, he didn't push. Instead he pulled the saddle off Cricket as she fed him an apple. Then he took the basket from her and strolled alongside her to their tent.

She thought about telling him about the ball but she knew he wasn't going to like it and she didn't have the energy to fight him about it tonight. “How was your day?” she asked instead.

“Fine,” was his typical stoic retort.

"My back is hurting something fierce," she sighed, giving him a side eye. "A massage would be nice."

"That so?" he grinned.

"But someone has to clean me up first."

He hummed with amusement.

"Think you can help me with that?"

"I can try, ma'am."

The next day Chef Ecco was gone out of town and Savigne burst with so much joy at the news, she got into a work frenzy. It was as if she had twice the energy to spare as she chopped and whisked and shucked, food appearing in front of her like magic. One of the plates she prepared as a suggestion for the upcoming winter menu was so brilliant, the sous chef came over and inspected it from all angles and praised her until she turned red. She grinned self consciously, shy but proud and Sarah gave her a ‘well done’ smile from her station which boosted her spirits further.

Then she left Antoine’s and headed right to the market and shopped until her basket grew heavy. She saw a little dirty kitten in a corner and cried a little, then almost lost her head in a heated argument with the butcher, then went to pick up Cricket and found herself prattling to Jebediah about how to make remoulade, all the while ignoring the deep confusion and disinterest in his face.

That evening she cooked Arthur meatloaf and sat watching him eat with gusto after her own meal was done.

“Do you chew? Like, at all?” she said with a mixture of concern and disgust.

He grunted and nodded in confirmation, her sarcasm lost on him.

She sighed and watched the gang idle about, feeling antsy and restless and brimming. In her mind, she was gearing up to have a fight with him because she knew he wasn't going to like her cooking for Bronte and just then the universe decided to trip her:

“Bronte’s gonna have a ball in a few days.” he said around his food. “‘M tellin’ ya so you don’ spin tales in that head o’yours when ya see me all fancy.”

She blinked at him, stupefied. “W-what?” was all she managed a long while later.

He ran his tongue along his teeth and took a sip from his whiskey before he clarified: “‘M goin’ to some silly ball. Don’ want ya to think 'm meetin' a woman or some other nonsense cause I cleaned up.”

“First of all..." she said coolly "...I don't have a single jealous bone in my body." She ignored the dry side eye he gave her. "And second, I guess I'll see you there!"

"How d'ya mean?"

“I have been asked to cook for the ball," she gloated and sat back in her chair. He gave her a sharp look and swallowed his food. “What?” she said with unease when he remained quiet.

“Waitin’ for ya to say you refused.”

“What!? I can’t refuse.”

His eyebrows rose. “Said you was asked, didn’ ya?”

“It’s not that kind of asking,” was her annoyed answer. “I was politely told.” When he didn’t divert his gaze: “What now?”

“Aint’ a good idea.”

She huffed in disbelief. “You just told me you’re going yourself!”

He completely breezed over that point. “Ya don’ wanna mingle with these folks, Savigne.”

“Who’s mingling? I’m just going to be in the kitchen, cooking food.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yer excused,” he said around his food after he stuffed an enormous piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

There was a long silence as she watched him chew with disbelief. “You know, it’s sort of amazing, your hypocrisy.” She enjoyed his startled pause. “Are you seriously telling me you’re going but I can’t?” Her anger sizzled.

His eyes flicked at her. “This man took Jack.”

“You think I hit my head or something? I know he took Jack.”

He continued his dinner for a few moments. “Then ya know it ain’t safe.”

“How come you’re going, anyway?”

“Was invited. With Dutch and others.”

She blinked again and almost laughed because he had to be joking. When he ate on as if it was perfectly normal, she said “Are you serious?”

He did his ‘sure, why wouldn’t I be?’ shrug.

“The man who took Jack invited you guys to a ball?”

He hummed in affirmation. Still maddeningly eating. Her temper flared up properly.

“And you accepted?”

“Dutch wants to go,” he said, taking a sip from his whiskey. “Thinks we can…find something for us there.”

She gaped at him as he refilled his bowl.

First of all, that meatloaf was heavy and rich and a third bowl was obscene.

Second, and more importantly, he actually had the audacity to ask her not to attend while he himself was going to…what were the words he used… ‘mingle with these folks’.

A few moments later he did a double take at her face.

“Y’alright?”

“Actually no,” she sputtered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks.

“What’s the ma-”

“The matter is that you’ve been lecturing me on not getting mixed up with these people and you’re actually going to the damn ball!”

“Woman, I ain’t goin’ cause I wanna,” was his exasperated response.

“Same,” she quipped and crossed her arms.

“Ain’t the same.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth but she was faster:

“I tell you why,” she spoke over him. “You’re a damn hypocrite, that’s why!” she hissed. She hated how hot it was here. How stifling. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

He seemed surprised at the fervor of her reaction and slowly put down his fork.

“Now listen here…” He cleared his throat and took a moment to grab the napkin to wipe his beard.

“No! Who cares what your explanation is? You’re a hypocrite. You’ll say this and then you’ll turn around and say that!” She glared at the campfire. People still lighting fires in this heat was also obscene.

He looked at her a long moment. Eyed his meatloaf with longing and then looked at her again. She wanted to strangle him for that alone.

“I don’ like doin’ it,” he said, softer, with a timbre of appeasement as if she was a horse he was trying to calm down. It flared the fire in her hotter.

“Who said I was?! It’s my damn job!”

“Fair. But...”

“But what?” God she wished he would say something outrageous. That fork was tempting her to grab it and stick it in his hand.

He gave out a frustrated sigh and tried a different angle: “Savigne. Darlin’…”

“Oh this should be good.”

“…don’ wanna worry ‘bout ya when ‘m on a job.”

“Sounds like a you problem to me.”

“Sure,” he said patiently. “But yer my woman and-”

“Arthur Morgan,” she growled as she felt the pulse starting to beat behind her eyes, “Do you actually think that means you can tell me what to do?”

“Course not,” he scoffed. A moment later: “Kinda.” He sighed at the glare he gave her. “Yer safety is my job, ‘member?”

“This is not a treasure hunt,” she hissed. “Or living alone in a cabin. I’m going to a god damn ball as a cook.”

“This man as dangerous as them Murfrees,” he growled. “More!”

“I’m around a dangerous man all day every day!” she said with some heat.

There was a moment of silence. “The hell that mean?”

She quickly looked away.

“Savigne?”

“I was talking about the gang. I mean you. Technically.” she mumbled a while later.

He leaned back in his chair. “Was you now?” was his narrow eyed question. Given the circumstances, that save was nothing but spectacular and yet Arthur Morgan didn’t buy it. He sat there like a bloodhound who had caught a whiff and was about to put his nose down to track it.

“You know what,” she flustered and rose up. “You go on and eat your meatloaf.” She turned towards the trees.

“The hell ya goin’?”

“Going for a walk,” she yelled over her shoulder and ran off before he could sink his teeth into the problem and shake it out of her.

"God damn hypocrite," she seethed, stalking through the dark forest, working herself up. "The problem", she mumbled as she pushed branches out of the way and tripped on roots, "is men." The more she thought on it, the more apparent it seemed. At the root of all her problems: men. Infuriating, despicable, outrageous men. Mr. Rochester? Man. Murfrees? Men. Bronte? Man. Dutch? Man.

Ecco her mind whispered and she flinched at the thought, then quickly stuffed it away.

She fanned herself, feeling all hot and bothered. Her head swam and there was an odd pulse between her legs. She wished her period would finally come so she could be done with it. For weeks now she had been stuck on this ridiculous Ferris wheel, going round and round from angry to aroused to anxious to elevated.

"Men are the problem,” she muttered. “They’re not good for anything.”

An image flashed in her mind of Arthur thrusting into her, his eyes devouring her as the table under her creaked furiously.

She halted and cleared her throat. "Okay now," she mumbled, "pull yourself together, what the hell?

"The problem is men", she started again but then she remembered the feeling of his trigger finger inside her, brushing her sensitive spot and making her shiver.

She stopped, panting with confusion and a little horrified at the coiling in her gut.

"No, no, no, no," she hissed. "The problem is…"

The way he had moaned her name when she was on her knees, pleasuring him on his birthday.

She felt herself get wet and gasped with disbelief.

Suddenly she heard his running foot falls behind her.

"Savigne!"

She dived into the thicket, slowly so the bushes won't shiver and crawled around as carefully as she could.

"Ya gonna make me hunt you down?" he called, amused, and he already sounded closer. “Ain’t gonna take long, tell ya that.”

Silence. She stood stock still. The ego of this man, she thought, incensed.

"Last chance, Savigne," he drawled, closer still.

Even from here she could hear the grin in his voice and it did make the coil in her gut shiver. She listened to the crunching of his steps draw near and softened her breath. Moments later his boots appeared in her sights.

"So be it," he chuckled darkly.

He dropped down to his haunches, back turned to her and inspected the ground. This made her very uneasy and she almost jumped up to protest that it’s unfair. She hadn't taken tracks into consideration!

A moment later he rose up and walked off her field of vision. She took a silent breath of relief. She was about to move on but then thought that he was way too quiet. Maybe he was waiting for her to pop out? So she sat there, listening with utmost attention to the deep silence. Her hands closed on a thick stick and she carefully hefted it, rose just a little and threw it far to her right. The crunch of steps heading in that direction made her grin and she slowly slithered through the undergrowth in the opposite direction.

Idiot, she thought and shook her head. That was the thing about men, they always pranced around like they ruled the world but…She stopped in her tracks. Men did actually rule the world. Whatever, she thought, that’s not the point.

She emerged a while later and peeked up carefully to look behind her. Nothing. She smugly brushed her skirts and turned around with a grin on her face and almost screamed with surprise. He was standing right there, one shoulder pressed against the tree, arms crossed, hips angled away. She gawked at him then morosely turned to the direction she came from in disbelief, then turned back to him again.

“Ya know,” he drawled, eyes locking to hers, “that was kinda embarrassingly easy.”

“You cheated!” she yelped.

“That so?”

“Yeah, you tracked me! Doesn’t fucking count!”

He chuckled and bounced off the tree. “Next time,” he said lowly, “maybe don’ stomp so hard ya leave tracks.”

“You god damn…” she hissed as she marched towards him. The fact that he was utterly unfazed by her menacing approach irritated her to no end. “…smug…cocky…conceited…” He merely straightened to loom over her, rolling his shoulders, visibly amused by her fury. “…man!” she spat.

It was hard to say which one of them was more shocked when she found herself gripping the lapels of his shirt to pull him down and crushing her lips against his. He froze with surprise for a moment, then - always a man who never rebuked her advances - swung his arms around her and kissed her back just as aggressively, lips and tongue moving ferociously against hers.

“I’m going to that ball,” she hissed and grabbed his hair and jerked his head lower as she kissed him again. He grunted with the pain but followed her command, hands grasping her waist to crush her against him.

“The hell y’are,” he grunted as he walked her backwards and threw her against the tree.

She felt a shudder run through her from head to toe as her hands flew to his gun belt. “You don’t give a damn about what I want, do you?” she growled as she reached for his trousers next and almost yanked the buttons off in her haste to undo them while his hands hungrily clutched her breasts and his mouth descended on hers.

“Course I care,” he snarled but his breath hitched as she fell to her knees in front of him and immediately took him in her mouth. He flinched with surprise and couldn’t avoid the loud moan that escaped his lips. His cock stiffened in her mouth and she hummed with pleasure, gliding her lips up the shaft to take him deeper. One of his hands flew to the tree to support himself as a shiver went down his legs while the other tangled with her hair, undecided between drawing her closer and pushing her away. The decision was made for him when her nails raked the back of his thighs as she twirled her tongue around his swelling head and then proceeded to swallow him to the hilt while he moaned again and hissed a Christsakes above her. She moaned too, feeling the burn of the fire between her legs and the wetness soaking her bloomers.

She sucked harder, setting a ruthless pace as he squirmed above her and his moans grew louder than he usually allowed himself to be. “Christ!…woman…oh…jeeeesus…ah…Savigne…damn”. It was like music to her ears, especially the soft cry that he let loose every time the tip of her tongue touched under his swollen head. She felt besotted with lust, absolutely drenched in it, she felt like she could fuck him till morning and then some. Her head was swimming and her cunt was aflame. Arthur was writhing above her, stunned and reduced to a blabbering mess and she felt like she would come just by listening to the sounds he was making. The power she held over him at that moment was like fiery whiskey, going straight to her head.

She gasped with surprise and disappointment when he pushed her off and roughly grabbed her arm to pull her up. She was turned around and shoved against the tree. “Lies! You don’t fucking care,” she stammered as hands pulled up her skirt and ripped off her bloomers.

“Woman…” he growled into her ear as his fingers found her dripping folds. Her ass was pulled back harshly and she tried to steady herself, gripping the bark as he groaned and immediately pushed into her. She was so wet, he glided in smoothly despite his size. He gasped her name and swelled bigger in her with excitement.

“…would burn the world for ya,” he sighed in her ear, kissing her neck as he pulled out almost completely before the next sharp thrust that made her whimper.

This rendered her speechless for a moment and when she flustered and tried to come up with something witty, his hands pulled up her thighs, lifting her to the tip of her toes as he fucked the breath out of her lungs. She merely managed a raspy cry of ecstasy as he gently bit her neck and increased his pace. In the back of her mind there was a certain pride to have driven him this wild because even at his neediest, Arthur had never taken her rough like this. She bit into her lip to muffle herself and mewled with the pleasure, feeling every nerve in her body light up with fire. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better he angled her slightly, making her eyes roll back and her toes curl and a few more smacks later she was undone as her mind turned white with the force of her orgasm.

He whispered a curse as his motions became more vigorous and desperate and soon followed her, the pitch of his gasps rising as he emptied himself into her. Her eyelids fluttered and the sharp sensation of rapture spread through her before it slowly dulled like a forest fire that had run out of trees to burn. She listened to the drumming of her heartbeat in her ears, her head still swimming in ecstasy. He carefully lowered her back on her feet, then steadied her with a light grip on her hips as she almost toppled, her legs still shaking. His panting behind her was loud in the hushed forest.

A few moments later he asked her if she was okay and she gasped a ‘yes’ as her hands crawled up the tree to straighten herself. He pulled his trousers back up and buttoned them, still breathing hard before he turned her around to look at her face. His thumb glided over her lower lip that she had punctured with her bite and his eyes, still churning and stormy, locked on hers before he lowered his forehead on hers. His harsh exhalations plumed down her face as he pressed her against himself with his hand on her lower back.

“Savigne…” he managed between the puffs, “...ya possessed?”

“I think so,” she whispered, struggling to catch her breath, too. “Sorry.”

He scoffed, then kissed her temple. “Aint…complainin’…but…hate it when ya…run off.”

“Didn’t look…like you…hated it,” she wheezed.

He chuckled lowly and retrieved his gun belt from the ground with a grunt. She looked around, suddenly anxious if they had been far enough away from camp. The forest looked dark and empty. She couldn’t hear the camp either but that meant little as her pulse was beating in her ears. She wiped her hands over her face, moist from the humidity and the sweat and tried to push her hair back into shape. Then she gathered her torn bloomers, gave him a pointed look that earned her a shrug and a grin and stuffed them into the pocket of her skirt.

“You owe me…underwear.” she panted.

“Me?” he said, running his fingers through his wild hair. “This is all…on you.”

She groaned, now feeling abashed as she was coming down from that insane lust spike.

He chuckled at her state and took her hand, kissed her palm as he led her back. Their walk back was understandably a lot slower and calmer and went on for longer than she expected. They had managed to get pretty far with their furious chase so that was good at least. She beat her skirts to free any dust and debris. She saw the gated entrance of Shady Belle and wasn’t pleased that they had returned this way.

“You think they’ll know when they see us?”

He gave her a look. “I would.”

She groaned again, tried to tame her hair once more as he grinned wider at her discomfort.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t followed me,” she hissed, annoyed by his nonchalance.

“Course I followed,” he scoffed. “Ya ran like a wild beast. Sides…you know ya would have got lost.”

That much was true.

“Ya cookin’ somethin’ in the food or what?” he asked, the grin on his face broadening.

“Funny,” she said drily, then couldn’t help but click her tongue at his expression. He looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

He just smirked. His eyes were warm and she was somewhat taken aback to see unmistakable love in them. Of course by now, having gotten to know him as well as she did, she knew Arthur loved her. But he loved her in his own way – he never said it, nor did he show it in the usual ways people do. The expression of his affection for her was a lot more subtle, more reserved and complicated.

If she had been asked to explain it, she would have said that she knew he loved her because at times it felt supernatural how well he read her and it wasn’t hard to follow that he only read her as well as he did because he paid attention to her. Nobody paid this much attention to someone if they didn’t care enough about them.

But rarely did she see it in his gaze as obviously as she did at that moment. It set her heart aflame.

They were close to the camp now. She retrieved her hand and smacked him on the forearm. “Stop. Grinning. Like. A. Fool!” she hissed.

“Am a fool,” he shrugged, still grinning.

She clicked her tongue again in distaste and dared a glance at the gang as they turned to stroll towards their tent. They seemed to be occupied but you couldn’t trust this lot – they saw more than they let on and had way too much idle time on their hands to share the things between each other that they had missed.

He was sauntering as if he had returned from some gallant deed and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his silliness. When they arrived at the table, his third meatloaf bowl was empty.

She glanced at his face and the stupefied vexation she found there made her erupt in chortles. She clamped her hand over her mouth when he gave her a baleful glance but the chortles devolved into cackles behind her palm.

“Thought you was done with that,” John called from a distance.

“You a stray or somethin’?” Arthur barked. “Eatin’ other people’s food?”

Savigne felt the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes.

John just shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. “Came to look for ya…food was just sittin’ there.”

Arthur gave her another side eye as she stood there, laughing and dabbing the tears off her eyes with her sleeves. He grabbed the back of the chair and slammed it to the ground hard before he sat down to pull his whiskey in front of him.

“How come ya didn’ steal the whiskey too, ya mooch!” he yelled, his eyes hard on John.

“I got whiskey,” John said dismissively.

“Unbelievable!” Arthur hissed.

“Was getting’ cold and all,” John tried and was cut off by Arthur’s sharp gaze. “You was gone,” he tried again, flustered.

“I like it cold, why I left it ya fool!” Savigne had just gained control over her cackling and almost broke into laughter again at that blatant lie.

“Sorry Savigne,” the other man called over. “It was delicious.”

She nodded in acceptance of the compliment as Arthur’s withering gaze made him finally scurry away.

She fell into her chair, exhausted from bickering and running and fucking and laughing and this time it was him who clicked his tongue at her amusement.

“This here your fault,” he said, annoyed.

“What!? Why?”

“Yer feedin’ these sponges and now we can’t leave food out no more. Too many god damn coons about.”

She chuckled at that. “All I did was give them an extra pizza pie. Also, stop crying - that was your third bowl. I’ll make you more tomorrow,” she said, wiping the remnant of tears off her face.

He grumbled something incomprehensible as she sank on the other chair. In the distance, Javier strummed his guitar.

“I’m still going,” she said a while later.

“Guess ‘m gonna have to keep an eye on ya,” he huffed. Then: “I want lazan ya.”

She grinned at the way he said it. “Okay.”

He seemed mollified as he drank his whiskey and she sat with him, placed a hand on his and watched the Moon rise.

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