#he's an old man it's four hundred years of pain he's gotta live with

[leaderintitleonly]

why do you hurt?

you swallow pain & fold around it

you have always hurt. you hold it carefully, and twisted in such a way that other people don't have to see it. you don't choke on it. you don't drown. you just have it, the way some people have freckles, this is a thing that lives in your bones. you fold instead of fighting because you know how to make yourself small, tuck away the places where they have clawed at, swallow the bruises so you seem clean. nobody needs to see it. you will live through this on your own. you know what you need, and relief isn't it. this doesn't mean you cannot reach out - it means it is not in your nature to do so. you should. hiding does not mean you won't be seen.

Personally victimized by: @cxnscience (hair is insured for $10k and does commercials in Japan, so flawless) Victimizing: @wishingxuponxstars , @droppingdonkeys , @princessmaid , @princessquinnella , @hoopsheartthrob​ , @gravitasfatum , @sisipck , @feathercapped​ , @hxzelwallflower , @dreamsofalife , @all-fleshed-out , @gctta-pace​ , @ofteaandmagic , @le-boid , @dunce-buckets , @daringtosing , @minkroe​ , @opportunistic-chicanery​ and oh my god please steal this and embrace anarchy. Because I forget things. And today is a migrainey day.

[raw-lesbian-energy]

Carnival of Spores

[Image description: Anonymous said

Fic idea: Sent by Andrias to Earth, Apothecary Gary causes a small bit growing spore zombie outbreak while Anne, the Plantars, and Caroline rush to stop it as each of them gets infected one by one.]

FIRST PROMPT WITH CAROLINE IN IT OKAY BIG MOMENT- But thank you so much for the prompt anon, this was a really clever idea!! I did put a little spin on it, but I hope you still enjoy it nonetheless!!

——

Summary: A strange carnival rolls into town and the gang goes to have a day off, only for them to discover the true nature of the place.

Fandom: Amphibia (The Wild Soul AU)

Pairing: None

Features: Self-Insert

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: None

—————————————————————

“Carnival! Carnival! Carnival!”

Anne, Polly, and Sprig chanted excitedly in the back seat as Caroline drove, pumping their fists in the air. Caroline chuckled at their enthusiasm, while Hop Pop seemed a little uneasy.

“I don’t know, Caroline.” He said. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

“Hop Pop, you have a bad feeling about everything.” Caroline replied, glancing at him briefly. “It’s just a carnival; it’ll be fine.” Hop Pop didn’t seem convinced, his brows furrowed in worry as he stared out the window. Caroline picked up on it quick, letting out a small sigh.

“Alright, tell you what;” she said, “first sign of real danger and we’re out of there. Okay?” Hop Pop turned his gaze to her, his expression softening as he nodded. Shortly after, the young woman turned off the street and into the carnival parking lot, finding it was already pretty full.

“Dang, word spreads fast, huh?” Anne commented, looking around at the mass of cars. Murmurs of agreement came from Polly and Sprig, while Hop Pop still looked uneasy.

“I don’t know; maybe we should-” he tried, only for Caroline to put one hand over his mouth.

“Up up up, we’re not backing out.” She told him. After a few minutes of searching, they managed to find a spot and parked, climbing out and making their way to the gate.

“Whoa, this place is huge!” Sprig said in awe, eyes shining as he stared at the carnival before him. It was brightly lit with all different colours, and various exciting rides could be seen around the area.

“Dude, check out that roller coaster!” Anne called, pointing at a tall roller coaster at the other end of the park. This caught Caroline’s attention too, an excited smile forming on her face. Hop Pop, on the other hand, was looking around for signs of anyone else, but found the area they stood in to be empty.

“Place looks a little…deserted, don’t you think?” He commented. “Seems a little suspicious.” Caroline shot an annoyed glare his way, but before she could speak, someone else did.

“Welcome, welcome!” A voice suddenly spoke behind them, startling the group. They all spun around to see a small man standing behind them, being only slightly taller than Hop Pop. However, he was wearing a top hat that made him look twice his height, which was a deep purple colour and matched a nice suit he had on.

“The name’s Larry!” He introduced himself. “I’m the owner of this fine little carnival. It’s a pleasure to have you all here!”

“Oh, thank you!” Caroline spoke up first, relaxing and stepping up to meet him. He had a somewhat unsettling grin as he looked up at the young woman, his head tilting just slightly. Hop Pop felt something gnawing at his mind; a feeling that he knew this man from somewhere.

“Well, aren’t you a lovely young lady!” Larry said, adjusting his hat just slightly. Caroline raised her eyebrows, not expecting such a statement out of nowhere.

“Oh, uh-” she started, only for Hop Pop to step in between the two.

“Don’t even try to make advances on my second adopted granddaughter.” He said sternly. “She’s much too young for you!” The sudden outburst caused Larry’s smile to falter, as well as Caroline to give him a rather confused look.

“Hop Pop, I’m twenty, I can handle myself.” She told him. Hop Pop didn’t budge.

“Nope, no way.” He replied. “We’re leaving right now. Come on, everyone back to the car.” A chorus of protests rang out from Sprig, Polly, and Anne, which led to Caroline finally putting her foot down.

“Okay, that’s it!” She snapped, stepping in front of the old frog. “Hop Pop, you have done nothing but be paranoid and pessimistic, and we haven’t even been here for five whole minutes! You keep acting like every single thing here is out to get us, and even though I’ve lived here for twenty years, you treat me like I’m some helpless little-OW!” Her rant was cut off as she felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck, turning to see just what had caused it. There, sitting in Larry’s hand, was a small blue beetle with a glowing purple mushroom growing out of its’ head.

“What the- the hell is that?!” Caroline snapped. Hop Pop’s eyes went wide.

“That’s the mind-controlling mushroom from back in Wartwood!” He yelled, pointing at the bug. Now it was Caroline’s turn to panic.

“Mind WHAT?!” She hollered, managing the sentence just before she felt her mind go blank. Her body stumbled for a moment, lurching forward before she regained her footing and straightened up. Her eyes now glowed with an eerie purple light, and the others could see tiny purple mushrooms starting to grow from her head.

“CAROLINE!” The four cried in unison. Larry let out an evil chuckle, drawing their attention to him as he took his hat off to reveal a massive purple mushroom underneath.

“We meet again, old frog!” He announced dramatically. “You thought you could get rid of me, but I’ll always find a way to survive!”

“Oh, that is nasty!” Polly exclaimed, cringing at the sight of the giant mushroom.

“Let Caroline go, you creep!” Anne snapped. Larry turned her gaze on them, grinning madly as his eyes started to glow in the same eerie purple that Caroline’s were.

“On the contrary,” he said, stepping forward, “I think I’ll be keeping her. Just like the rest of the humans I’ve tricked! Assemble, my minions!” At his call, the sound of hundreds of footsteps made their way towards them, revealing an army of mind-controlled humans. All of them with the same purple eyes and small mushrooms growing out of their heads.

“I told you kids we shouldn’t have come here!” Hop Pop shouted.

“Not the time!” All three kids yelled back, shooting him the same annoyed glare. Larry had a malicious grin that was ear-to-ear, and setting the bug on his shoulder, he pointed at Anne and the Plantars.

“Get them!” He commanded. Caroline, being the closest to the group, rushed in and tackled Sprig to the ground. The small frog yelped in alarm as the taller woman pinned him, growling in an almost animalistic manner as a strange purple liquid dripped from her mouth.

“Sprig!” Anne leapt in to save her little brother, charging into Caroline and sending the both of them stumbling. Sprig remained lying on his back for a moment, but when he sat up, his eyes were purple.

“Sprig, no!” Hop Pop cried, but it was no use. The spores had seeped into his brain, rendering him stuck under the mushroom’s mind control.

“Hop Pop, we gotta run!” Polly shouted. Hop Pop looked around at the crowd closing in, seeing Anne still fighting with a mind-controlled Caroline.

“Anne! We need to go!” He hollered. Anne looked up as Hop Pop called her name, though this proved to be her fatal mistake as Caroline seized the opportunity and sunk her teeth into Anne’s arm.

“OW!” Anne screeched at the bite, tearing her arm away and seeing it covered in the same purple gunk. Before she could even try to wipe it away, it seeped into her skin, leaving only the mark of Caroline’s teeth there.

“Oh, this is not gonna end well.” She muttered, her stare going blank before her eyes turned purple.

“NO!” Hop Pop cried out as Anne became a mushroom-zombie, stepping back when she and Caroline both got to their feet and started walking towards him.

“Hop Pop, this would probably be the time to run!” Polly snapped him back to reality, tapping on his forehead. The old frog was quick to turn and run, only to find the exit was blocked by a wall of mind-controlled humans.

“It’s a dead end!” He exclaimed. Larry let out an evil laugh, approaching from behind and cornering the last two Plantars.

“Nowhere to run, Hopediah!” He mocked. “And now, I shall take over this city and rule the human world!” His mad cackle rang throughout the carnival as the mushroom-zombies closed in, leaving Polly and Hop Pop with nowhere to run.

“This is it.” Hop Pop muttered gravely. “This is the end.” The world around him soon became nothing but a glowing purple haze, the groans and mad laughter of Larry blending together until all fell silent.

——

GASP!

Hop Pop snapped upright in bed, a cold sweat on his forehead as he gasped for air. He looked around in a panic, taking a moment to get his bearings before he realized he was in the spare bedroom at Caroline’s house.

“It was just a dream.” He panted, a wave of relief washing over him. “Oh, it was all just a horrible dream.”

“Hey, Hop Pop!” Caroline’s voice suddenly called from downstairs. “We got tickets to an exclusive carnival! Do you want to come?”

Hop Pop froze, his left eye twitching before he screamed.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

[hoodoo12]

Elegy (4/6)

These two’ll be the death of me, @clairjohnson . . . Home again, home again, jiggity jig, even if that home is a tomb. Despite drunkenness, something unexpected occurs.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

@turtlepated @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beejiesbitch @janitor-boy @angelicspaceprince @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice `

If she hadn’t been so focused on keeping him upright his words would have knocked her down. Maria had heard this man flirt a hundred times over, but nothing ever so flattering and eloquent. The most beautiful. Her stomach twisted at the compliment. Both unbelievably flattered and heartbroken all at once. Had he always thought this? Or had he really just gone overboard with the drinks tonight? 

She was about to respond, to express how completely touched she was by his words, when he started to talk again. Beej’s announcement of their arrival, and subsequent stumble, snapped her out of her thoughts. When had they gotten here? She hadn’t even realized they’d gone through a door. 

Didn’t matter. The Netherworld was a strange place, Betelgeuse was strange, it was easier just to accept things as they were. What was harder to accept, however, was his home. It was practically barren, save for a bed, table, and wooden chair. The only light in the room came from a few scattered candles that revealed debris strewn across his old wooden floor.

It looked like a crypt. It might be a crypt. 

“This is where you stay?” she asked, unable to hide the shock in her voice. Her place was hardly a palace, but it was clean. Bright. She couldn’t imagine ever spending a night here. Let alone however many hundreds of years he’d been dead. The mere concept made her chest tighten in pity. 

“Let’s get you over to the bed . . .”

"Gives me incentive to get top side," he muttered half under his breath at her blurted question. "Who cares anyway? I close my eyes and it's gone. I don't see it. No one else does either." 

She hadn't taken her arm from around his waist. With her continued assistance, he shuffled over towards his bed. The distance wasn't far, but as if to help bolster the fact his place was more fleabag hotel than the Ritz-Carlton, his foot caught a stack of Handbooks for the Recently Deceased--how did those get there? It couldn't be that he'd stolen them from recently deceased in order to con them--

--and he stumbled. The four walls around them did a looping dance. Automatically his grip over her shoulders tightened even as his other hand went for the rusty iron foot rail on his bed. He managed to remain upright, but had jerked her along with him. 

As he recaught his balance, the room settled back into place. 

She'd been close while walking with him, but there'd still been a detachment. He'd managed to scatter that with his ham-fisted, foolish misstep; Maria had been pulled right to him. 

With a jerky, unnatural movement, he lifted his arm off her. 

"Sorry," he apologized.

Top side. She and others, including Juno, had wondered for decades how he’d manage to find ways to the world of the living. There were rules. Passes you needed to apply for - but he, in normal Betelgeuse fashion, skirted by it all. 

She was about to snap back at his flippant comment when he tripped over what appeared to be a pile of handbooks. Maria reminded herself to inquire on those later. Thankfully Beej caught himself on the bed, saving them both from falling face first on the wood floor. In his effort to stay balanced the arm around her shoulder moved forward, effectively pulling her into his chest. One arm still wrapped around his waist, the other now flat on his chest, she peered up at him with embarrassment. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was sturdy, and she felt unusually small pressed against him. 

When he detached himself with a slurred apology Maria took in a shaky breath she didn’t need then helped him sit down on the bed. God, he looked so disheveled - more so than usual. His eyes were heavy, shoulders slumped, and his tie was loosened and askew around his neck. 

Without waiting for permission Maria slipped the loose tie up and over his head and hung it gently on the foot rail. Turning back she hesitated, just for a second, before helping him slip his jacket off. She ran her hands over his shoulders and under the jacket, sliding it down his arms. The beauty queen reached around him, leaning in close, and retrieved the jacket and reunited it with his tie. 

“From what I can see of your bed I doubt you take these off when you sleep.” She crouched down and angled his large black boots for him to see. “However, I can’t bring myself to see you place these nasty things on the mattress.”

Some quick finger work on the laces and a few short tugs had both boots off. She placed them neatly at the foot of his bed. Maria brushed some questionable dirt off her hands and returned to the older man, giving him a satisfied once over. Gently, she pressed on his shoulder for him to lay down. 

“Get some rest, Alborotador. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around again soon.”

He felt loose, like his joints had been separated. Maria's gentle guidance around the end of his bed to the side and helping him sit was appreciated, but that was nothing compared to her carefully removing his tie. At some point it'd become loosened, or even in his inebriated state he'd have slapped her hands away. Nobody touched his neck, that was a rule. But she was quick and efficient and the fabric never touched his skin. That would've been enough, but then, but then-- 

She assisted him out of his jacket. Any other time he'd have made some off-color comment or pushed the flirting so hard it would have bordered on desperate. But muddled by the booze and still feeling the deep ache of rejection from those people in goddamned Connecticut, just to have her be attentive, just to have her hands peel him out of his outerwear-- 

A small sigh slipped past his lips. If she heard it, she ignored it.  

Then she didn't leave well enough alone; she actually crouched in front of him in her cocktail dress and heels--everything about her was in stark contrast to the rat's nest he lived in, and he included himself in that melancholy assessment; he should have never brought her here--and worked the laces of his boots loose and pulled them off his feet.

The care and concern pained him. The simple act of touch took him apart. 

When she took his shoulder he almost moaned. Like a man dying of thirst in a desert, he wanted nothing more than to drink in that simple friendly touch. 

It took all his will power to not grab her hand. Not for anything inappropriate, but just to keep it there, so he could soak it in. Instead, he sat dumb and dull as she straightened her skirt and bid him farewell. 

"Why does everyone keep leaving me?" he whispered. There had been a time very recently he'd bellowed that, but here, all he could expend the effort on was something closer to a whimper.

Maria had started to make her way out of the room when he spoke, the sound of his broken voice pulling at her more than the words themselves. Not that the words didn't catch her attention, and in many ways, hurt her. He was drunk, she reminded herself, and sad. She could stay with him a little longer - just until he was unconscious, she already crossed a line by being here, and basically sprinted past said line when she helped him undress. 

"I'm not leaving you," Maria corrected while she walked back over to the bed. "I was just going home. I have no illusions that you won't be darkening my waiting room doorstep again soon." 

Gently, she sat down on the bed beside him, her leg brushing up against his own. 

"Now lay down. Go on." She pushed at him again, moving out of the way for him to lift his legs up. The beauty queen stayed seated beside him, her torso twisted slightly to look down at him while she spoke. 

"If anyone left, it was you, Beej." The words were soft and sad, and she reached out absently to adjust a crease in his white(ish) button up. "Got yourself in so much trouble that Juno had to fire you - and then you were gone. Disappeared like smoke for years, only to show back up in the waiting room looking pissed." 

Maria had been so relieved, and so unbelievably angry to see him after all that time. It was that absence, that complete cut from communication, that had brought her back to calling him Mr. Betelgeuse - a title she already found herself skipping again in favor of his nickname.

Maria appeared at his side again, and blearily he looked up at her. Her nudge wasn't rough but he was so unsteady it was almost enough to topple him. He managed to not just fall back like a drunk--haha--but only just barely. 

Her words came to him as if through cotton wool. Disorganized thoughts moved lazily inside his head; it was so much easier to be angry than this drunken, dazed state he was in. The fact that the beauty queen had even given him the time of day was almost too much to take and much too much to even try and puzzle out. 

In the reaches of his memory he did recall how upset she'd been to see him again, and her cool reception to him ever since the final incident that sent him packing--that he'd designed for at least the chance for freedom. Tonight was the first time in all the times he'd reappear she'd ever done anything more than nod politely and exchange chilly words. 

As she sat primly, lightly beside him, the bed frame buckled. It didn't startle him, he was more than used to it, but he could imagine the surprise on her face as the mattress sagged her closer to him. Her delicate attention to his shirt made him catch her hand. 

"Come here," he croaked out, before clearing his throat, giving her a half-hearted pull. "I gotta tell you something."

The unexpected dipping of the mattress when he laid back surprised her, and she ended up with her back pressed against his side. Maria might have just fallen on top of him, if he hadn’t grabbed the hand that had been adjusting his shirt. 

Deep brown eyes assessed him curiously at the request. He was quite capable of saying whatever it was he needed to say from where she sat now - but the pull of sympathy was still strong. Without a word Maria leaned down to him, her free hand bracing her body on the mattress next to his. Being this close, even closer than when she was helping him walk home, she could pick up the smell of moss and wet dirt that clung to his clothes and skin. There was also the faintest smell of roses - so subtle that she could have second guessed if it was there at all.

She did as requested, and leaned over him. A stray lock of hair escaped from its careful pinning, and tickled his cheek. Maybe if things between them had been different, maybe if he hadn't fucked everything over in that spectacular way that was apparently his specialty, he'd have permission to brush it back. To lift it and settle it behind her ear. A minor but intimate gesture. 

But he didn't. He let her hair stay where it was, because it was also nice to feel it on his skin. 

Now that he had her there, he was at a loss for words. Lots of things flitted through his head: "You deserve better than me." "I missed you." "Wanna go see Saturn? I know a safe place--" 

In the end, he frowned a little as he focused on her features. She was so close everything was blurred; he didn't think it was because of the alcohol. Why in the ever-loving hell did she put up with him? 

"Thank you," he whispered.

There was a long silence while his eyes searched her face. Maria could tell he was considering something - and the fact that it was taking him this much time started to worry her. Why? She wasn’t sure. 

At this distance she was able to get a good look at his face. It was round and scruffy, and strangely complimented by his Roman nose. Even in his current, sullen state his lips still had an upturned curl to them. She’d always liked his lips.

 Her attention was taken away from his face when he spoke, and she smiled at him in response. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Blame it on the alcohol, on their proximity, on the raw vulnerability he’d shown her - but without having time to process her actions, her face closed the distance with his. The kiss was soft, and her lips barely pressed against his own. 

It took only a few seconds for what she had done to register, and when it sunk in, she pulled back. Not all the way, but enough to give him a dazed, almost apologetic look. She hadn’t planned to do that, would have sworn up and down that she would never be kissing Betelgeuse right up until the moment she did. Maria started to sit up a little more and opened her mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say.

The brush of her lips against his was a shock that wasn't dulled by alcohol. 

His hand automatically went up to touch her, to slip to her jaw to keep her close, but the split second that it took for him to try she pulled back again. But the motion was in place; although he missed keeping her where she was, his fingers touched the junction of neck and shoulder. 

There was nothing more important in his existence than tasting her lipstick again. 

Eyes wide, his tongue swiping his bottom lip in a move he didn't give conscious thought to, Beetlejuice breathed out, "Mi hermosa emperatriz Maria . . ." 

With a little additional pressure from his hand he encouraged her back towards him as he surged up to her.

tbc . . .

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 13

first time readers click here 💖

TWs/Summary: In this house, we ship Reader/Tony's Rolls-Royce. Reader and Tony being dorks on a date. That's it that's the chapter. Lots of sass and Tony being Tony.

A question for my readers: Are you still invested? How's the slow burn? Is everything realistic? 👉🏻👈🏻🥺

As usual, my beta is @miscmarvelwritings . I love her.

"Nice digs, Cupcake."

"Nice ride, Tin Man."

The sass fell from my lips, warm and familiar, paving the way for our upcoming debut like the old, soft living room rug. Any awkwardness I had expected there to be left the moment I saw Tony pull up to my front gate in his Royce: the man was just that extra. The size of my estate, the five-figure outfit of mine - it paled in comparison to his own clout. 

In a world where my choices were usually distributed between stuck-up rich boys or insecure middle-class men, Tony was a fresh drink of water with his absolute indifference towards my and his own net worth.

I wasn't afraid to admire said ride, either. Being a huge petrolhead was what got me interested in engineering, physics and computer sciences in the first place. The desire for speed grew into thirst for knowledge: how to get more horsepower, how to tune, how to mod. No mechanic took an eighteen year old rich-girl seriously even when I had all the lingo right, I had to be a step ahead, at all times, if I wanted my ride to be the best. And I never settled for less than that.

"No driver?" I inquired for the reason behind the unusual behaviour. After all, a Rolls' wasn't the kind of car you drive personally. All the amenities it had, it had in the back.

"Gave Happy a day off," Tony remarked absently. I noticed the small quirk of his eyebrow, however. He was intrigued.

I decided to give it a shot. "So what, this thing packs, what, about five-fifty horses?" I mused, watching Tony nearly swerve into the opposite lane. "At two and a half tons, it's still gotta be pretty quick with that V12-turbo. How fast it go?" The satisfaction was immeasurable, as pleasant to my soul as sitting in a heated leather chair with the smell of a new car, engine quietly rumbling in front of me. And by quietly I mean, it was focus-or-you'll-miss-it kind of quiet.

"Well aren't you full of surprises, baby girl," Tony grinned; a happy, excited grin even. It made his face lose ten years of age just like that. "Zero to sixty in five and a half seconds," He said after a moment. 

"Not bad," I said, sounding impressed. I already knew that but I wasn't planning on robbing Tony out of well deserved praise for his choice in vehicles. 

"Got a ride of your own?" He asked with a smile, like he didn't know it already. No background check would have skipped my three speeding tickets, but I concur. This game was fun.

"I do, actually. It's a 2008 Range Rover. Supercharged," I added in the end, just to emphasise.

"A big car for such a little girl," Tony whistled playfully.

"I'm compensating," I deadpanned. "I'm a little slow on the uptake, y'know, so my Rangie with five hundred horses makes up for it. Gotta keep it balanced."

Tony chewed on his lip. "Five hundred? Haven't heard about that, it comes with three-ninety-five in stock," His eyebrow wiggled. "Tuned it?" He cast me a contemplative glance.

"Yup," I exclaimed happily. As far as the date, I would have been utterly ecstatic to talk about cars all evening. Screw the boring "where do you see yourself in five years" questions, talk to me about your favourite engine swaps. Concept cars, give me those. Monster trucks? Yes, please. Vintage low-riders? Couldn't wait to get my grubby little hands on one. Gimmee!

Tony kept his silence and kept his press smile starting the moment we set foot on getting out of the car. The place he'd taken me to was ridiculously upscale and fancy; the valet hesitated only for a second before catching the keys Tony so carelessly tossed in his direction. There was almost no fear in his body language when the boy approached the massive, expensive vehicle.

The hostess smiled big at Tony and gave me the world's biggest stink-eye when he looked the other way but what else is new? As soon as she left us in the privacy of our booth, I didn't hesitate to stick my tongue at her retreating back. A brief lapse in maturity, if you will.

Tony cackled, growing suddenly serious. "Did she bother you? I can get her fired. I should get her fired."

"Nah," I shrugged. "Don't really care, just wanted to showcase my amazing sense of humour." Snorting, I gave Tony a wink and a secretive grin.

"You really don't give a fuck, do you," His eyebrows twitched again, a sign of mild interest that I noted during our routine sciencing time together. Tony was incredibly expressive if one took the time to observe.

"I could suck your dick under the table right now," I answered honestly. "It's just that when God gave out things like dignity and shame, I wasn't home. Too many fun things to do, y'know," I spoke as casually as I could even though I was dying of laughter inside.

Eyes bulging, jaw hanging mid-way to the floor. Tony was serving Looks™ and I didn't mean just the white tee and purple blazer combo. "Princess, you're going to be the fucking death of me!" He took a sip from his water glass, smirking.

Finally releasing my mirth, I gathered my hands in a lock in front of me. His own, warm and calloused, reached over - I allowed the brief intimacy, clasping them, fiddling with the leather band of his watch. For a moment, it was just us, sitting in the dim light, discovering each other anew to Robert Johnson singing the blues and NYC bustling with life just behind the wall. 

The waiter took our orders - and if I totally butchered the Italian, Tony was gentleman enough not to make any remarks. 

"Somehow, every time I am with you, you both manage to meet my expectations to a T and surprise me at the same time," I wasn't able to completely ignore my nerves. My hand was still loosely in his and he didn't mind at all, me messing with his watch.

"How so?"

"I'm going to loosely quote someone, bear with me." Mr Davies's words popped into my mind just as I was wondering how to best articulate my feelings. "You're eccentric and interesting because it's, well, it's you, because it would be much weirder if we'd be sitting here and making boring small-talk and asking each other the genetic get-to-know-you questions," I briefly paused to sip my Dom Peringon and stare at our hands. Gathering my wits. "That would be why I don't do dates. It sounds so tedious on paper, just sorting through people until a person that's not absolutely mind-numbing comes around."

Tony was silent for a moment, the sheen of his eyes, the faraway look; he was lost in memories. Probably remembering all the girls he had charmed before. I didn't doubt it was easy for him: his smile was distracting and people usually were attracted to shiny things. He shone plenty. Also, most people were stupid, they never cared to look past the golden wrapper. I was convinced there was a diamond under it. But then again, I was biased.

"I've never thought about it that way, but I guess you're right," He finally said, serious. "With Pepper, at least, it was. Come to think of it, we never had that much in common, besides Stark Industries and her willingness to put up with my shit." It was painful for him to talk about her, that much was obvious. His laugh was forced and sardonic.

I, on the other hand, never understood why they got together in the first place. Or maybe I did - but the cold, composed Pepper and the chaotic, energetic Tony reminded me too much of my own parents. All four people in this fucked up equation could have been much happier if they choose... What? Being alone? That was terrifying, too.

I kept quiet, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

"You know, this is so bizarre. Even an eighteen year old kid has got it figured out," He suddenly said, his tone bitter like the coffee that he loved.

"Woah, slow down," I put up a hand. "I never said I know what to do. I just said I know what NOT to do." The 'kid' remark would have made me eye-roll so hard my skull would crack any day. In this context, however, it was pretty spot on.

Tony snorted. "And how did you come by that information, pray tell, Baby?"

I huffed. "Have you met my parents?" We simultaneously cringed and I hurried to erase that mental image. "I make fun of myself for being into old dudes all the time," I made air quotes around the phrase that made Tony scoff, "But, honestly speaking, I've never even been on a date. Like a real one. Usually it's twenty minutes and I'm falling asleep mid-conversation. People can't seem to keep up with me or something," I felt genuinely dejected. "So many meaningless questions, so many downright idiotic comments. From men," I pointed out the obvious. "My mother used to tell me she thought I was gay because I didn't act like a girl... Whatever that means."

"That sounds pretty shitty," Tony was studying me like one would have been looking at an exotic animal in a zoo. "That said, I agree."

"That I don't act like a girl?" I teased him, the left corner of my mouth tilting upward. "Fuck that noise. I want to drive fast cars, drink straight liquor and have orgasms. If that makes me a dude... I look pretty good for a dude in a dress."

We laughed in unison, tension evaporating under the shared, mutual understanding. With Tony, it was easy. The waiter brought our selected dishes. Blink-and-he's-gone. Top notch service.

"A dude in a dress, can't say I'm surprised 'bout your lack of dates," He remarked conversationally, happily digging into his food. The noises he made were intriguing, to say the least, and I followed suit on my own food, finding it absolutely delicious. A delicious meal with a delicious man at my side. I refused to feel guilty about my thoughts.

"I guess I have exactly one (1) date on my ledger now," I raised my argument.

The fork clattered as Tony once again, came to a sudden realization. "Holy shit, you weren't kidding."

"No shit," I gave into the urge to roll my eyes. "But on the upside, my first date was with the most gorgeous, intelligent and witty bachelor of the city. I'd say I don't have it all that bad," I quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Aw, you're making me blush," Tony recovered quickly, grinning. "And don't be shy. The most desired bachelor of the country, if not the world."

I shook my head. "No, the world's most delectable bachelor is one of the Saudi princes. What's-his-name, the one who posts goat and horse pics on Insta," I snapped my fingers a couple of times, trying to remember the name as Tony looked at me all offended. "Anyways, you get my point. I could have a go at him, don't you think?" Cocking my shoulder, coyly twirling the strap of my dress, I gave Tony my best come-hither look and was rewarded with an appreciative once-over. His eyes were growing hungry again. 

"You're a million dollar baby," He finally said, voice low. "And the extent of people I would be willing to share you with is very small."

That got me interested, sudden heat prickling underneath my skin. The conversation took a turn I didn't expect it to; and there lied the delight of being around Tony. He was always ready to surprise, in the best way. "Tell me," I requested politely.

"That's a conversation for another time," He was enjoying the chit-chat, desire beginning to creep into his features.

"Mmm, you think?" I allowed the strap of my dress to slip down my shoulder, exposing a collarbone, showing him just how far I was willing to go to satisfy my curiosity.

He swallowed audibly. "I think... You're smart enough to figure it out," He finally gritted his teeth, finishing off his dinner and immediately calling for the check. 

I wasn't done yet, however. The possibility of riling him up, taunting him into a lustful frenzy - I was in heaven. Karma had favoured me that evening, it had given me a chance to get Tony back for all the times he unknowingly made my mouth water and my brain go blip. "Must be Steve then," I bit my lip in thought. 

Honestly? I was as clueless as the couple next table over. Steve it wasn't, that much I knew for sure, he and Tony had their little love/hate dramatic connection that always ended in a massive ego standoff. Tony would be on the frontline fighting against Steve if the blonde dared to show anything even remotely resembling romantic interest towards someone Tony himself had his eyes on.

"Princess," Tony growled, sarcastically raising an eyebrow.

"Not Steve," I replied, cracking a smile. Success! "You know, I'm really bad at guessing who's into me. Unless someone is balls deep in me," My face was mere inches away as we quickly shrugged on our coats. "And even then, I can't be sure."

My giggling was accompanied by Tony shaking his head in exasperated fashion; he took my hand nonetheless and I happily swayed it between us, poster child for "not a care in the world". He allowed it, maintaining the same exasperated air about him, and I let him. Fondness and happiness seeped through that anyways.

"Brat," His voice was kind. And his kiss tingled where he left it on the corner of my mouth, sweet and short. "Here, have a go," Before I could react, the keys to his Rolls Royce were placed in my palm and he was making his way around the car to the passenger's side.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway (it finally let me tag you)! @softie-socks @schemefrenzy

[poopunderstander]

i am probably the 5000th person to write Dean teaching Cas to drive but i did it anyway and i'm here to make it your problem

"Cas, who is living after death in the body of a man so devout he offered his whole self to the possession of God’s soldier, knows that the machine he’s sitting in is a part of the strange, ardent little faith Dean practices, a religion with three apostles, a virgin, and no god. Sitting here with Dean’s hand on his own, sweating and shaking at the helm of this unholy ark, he feels blasphemous."

2.4k words, destiel, PG/teen&up, no warnings except for a lot of geology talk at the start

link on ao3

Approximately 550 million years before what Castiel currently knows as the present day, two enormous sheets of earth collided in a dying ocean. The continent of Laurentia met with an arc of volcanic islands, and, finding itself unequal to their fury, folded downward beneath the sapping crust of the Iapetus Ocean. Over millennia, as Heaven watched, the earth and water consumed each other, leaving a thick scar of mountains, to be worn away in turn by new millennia of wind and ice and fire.

That was the Age of Fishes. Later, much later, humans climbed into the valleys in between the hills, to fish and hunt and build, and when they buried their dead they painted the graves with red earth, infinitesimal new scars over the old tectonic suture.

Castiel remembers all this—can feel it in the ground under his vessel’s feet, here in what Dean Winchester calls central Maine. They’re standing on glacial till deposited in the last ice age, and below them are the grains of sand from the Iapetus Ocean that became mudstone and siltstone, then pelite and shale and Silurodevonian granite. Twenty-five miles beneath Castiel lies a layer of Precambrian gneiss, a sheet of ancient dust pressed into solid stone nearly four billion years ago, when the ocean was wide and God himself wasn’t that old. That stone, Castiel knows, is Earth’s oldest shield: the last solid barrier between humanity and the planet’s molten core. He thinks about this as he watches Dean load guns into the trunk of his car, his boots planted in soft red earth carried here 10,000 years ago by a river of ice.

“Ready?” Dean says, turning back to face Cas.

Castiel thinks about the God who watched the continents form, who watched the planet eat itself a thousand times and heal a thousand more, the God who Castiel knows once wasn’t dead. He looks at Dean, who knows none of this and came with him anyway to trap an archangel on earth, and thinks: How could I be?

“Yes,” he says.

<>

“Wait,” Dean says. “Let me get this right. You can fly, right—you can teleport—but you can’t drive a car?”

They’re sitting in the empty parking lot of an ice cream shop, across the road from St. Peter’s Hospital. Dean drove them here after they left the house of prostitution, to wait for the sun to rise and the meeting with Raphael to “go down.” Castiel, still caught up in the pangs of regret and panic he brought away from the bar, has spent his last hours on earth contemplating the profound and mundane limits of his earthly knowledge.

“I thought she would appreciate the information,” he told Dean, trying to create in words a world in which he didn’t ruin Dean’s terrifying act of kindness, and Dean laughed and said, “Oh, dude, big mistake.”

“I don’t think I understand women,” Castiel said then, and Dean threw back his head and laughed, and Castiel felt a portion of the darkness inside him evaporate.

Dean started quizzing him after that, asking about things he’s done, talking about something he calls a “bucket list.” Castiel doesn’t know what the bucket is for, but Dean’s apparently contains people and places and food: a musician named Springsteen in Concert, the Chevrolet Hall of Fame in Decatur, the 1,800 pound burger at Mallie’s Sports. He asks Castiel if he’s ever been to the Grand Canyon, and Castiel tells him he witnessed its creation. Dean says okay, but did you ever hike it, and Castiel has to shake his head.

It’s in this way that Dean learns that Castiel has never driven a car—a fact which Cas thinks shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. They’re sitting on the hood of the car together, gazing out across Highwood Avenue at the glowing windows of the hospital, and Dean twists his whole body around to face Cas, telegraphing his shock.

“Why would I,” Cas points out. “I’ve never had the need.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “but—dude, what if somebody, like, zaps your wings? What’re you gonna do, huh, take a bus?”

Cas shrugs. “Probably. I think it’s far more likely that Raphael will kill me outright.”

He sees a flicker of pain cross Dean’s face; this conversation made him uncomfortable before. Castiel wonders about that. “I’m not talking about that,” he says. “I just meant—hypothetically. In a hypothetical world where you get your angel mojo un-mojoed, or whatever, you’d just—buy a bus ticket?”

Castiel isn’t sure what he’s admitting to, here. He thought bus travel was common. “I suppose.”

“Jesus,” Dean says, turning back to face the hospital. “That’s just wrong.”

They’re silent for a moment, spinning in their own private worlds. The lights are off inside the ice cream shop—it’s nearly dawn, and nobody buys ice cream at dawn—but the lamps above the Dairy Queen sign are blazing, and Castiel is watching the yellow light flow over Dean’s head and shoulders as he leans back on the hood of his car, still warm from the engine’s labor. Even now, looking at Dean’s body is like looking at a miracle. Castiel wonders if he’s aware that he’s the only thing in Waterville, Maine born entirely of God’s will.

“Listen,” Dean says suddenly, breaking the silence. “I don’t know what it’s gonna be like in there. I know you said—well, I know what you said. But I think,” he says, puffing up with that bizarre confidence he always seems to pull from nowhere, “I think we’re gonna make it. And if I’m right, if we do—” He turns to look at Cas again, a grin dawning across his face. “If we do, I’m gonna teach an angel of the lord to drive stick.”

Castiel has no idea why—he’s not quite sure what those words in that order mean—but this thought seems to give Dean hope. Castiel doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t have a human soul, that thing that seems to trap hope so unfailingly it feels like a flaw in the design.

The sun is feet from the eastern horizon.

“Okay,” he tells Dean.

<>

Twenty-five miles north of Waterville is a town called Canaan. When colonists first settled on the banks of the Kennebec, they used the native word for the place they built: Wesserunsett. Not long after, though, deciding that that long name was not worth the labor of speaking or writing it, they looked at the bright green fields laid all around their stolen home, imagined a similarly verdant place of rest waiting for them at life’s end, and named the new town after the Promised Land.

Canaan, of course, looks nothing like Heaven, really. Heaven is vast and multidimensional; Canaan is a ten-room motel, two grocery stores, and two churches along the length of US Highway 2. But outside Canaan, between the highway and the lake, is a wide field of grass and purple violets, which Dean pronounces “perfect.” He pulls off the road into the field, and Castiel feels the solid, assuring weight of asphalt give way to the uncertainty of earth.

“Okay,” Dean says. He gets out of the car, and motions for Castiel to do the same. Cas does, turning cautiously to scan the field around them.

“There’s no road here,” he points out. He’s never tried it before, but he always assumed that a road was essential to driving.

“That’s the point,” Dean says. “You can’t start on the road, you’re gonna get yourself killed. Gotta start where there’s nothing to run into.” He gestures at the expanse around them. “Like so. That’s how my dad taught me.”

Dean doesn’t talk about his father. Castiel has noticed. He’s never seen John Winchester; tries to imagine Dean as a child, standing in a field like this with the man who withstood one hundred years of Hell. He can’t picture it. But then, imagination has never come easily to him.

“Come on,” Dean says, waving a hand for Cas to come around the car. Castiel obeys, walking around to the open driver’s seat as Dean circles to where Cas just was. They both sit down inside, pulling the doors shut, and Dean says, “Okay. So. Let’s start at the beginning.”

He talks Cas through the controls of the car, laying his hand on the dashboard as he talks, identifying the levers and pedals and dials with gentle, nearly reverent touches, watching Castiel’s face to make sure that he’s taking it all in. Castiel tries to concentrate, thinks he understands what he’s being told, but he has no place to anchor this information. That’s the clutch, Dean says, and Castiel nods and thinks, clutch, and thinks about gripping Dean tight. The clutch.

“You got it?” Dean asks. Castiel doesn’t feel he has anything.

“Of course.”

Dean beams. Cas can’t find it in himself to regret the lie.

“Go ahead and put your hands on the wheel,” Dean says. This turns out to be more complicated than Castiel anticipated. He does it wrong, apparently, the first time, because Dean frowns and says, “No, you gotta—ten o’clock and two o’clock, Cas,” and when Cas asks what that means Dean says to picture a clock, and Castiel doesn’t see what relevance that has to driving a car. In the end, Dean takes Castiel’s hands in both of his, and puts them onto the steering wheel in the right position. He sits back in satisfaction, nodding.

“Okay. Okay.” Castiel’s heart is pounding like a hummingbird’s. It’s not the same fear he felt last night. He doesn’t know what it is. Dean tells him where to put his feet, says okay, clutch first, keep it in neutral, and Cas pushes down with what was once Jimmy Novak’s left foot and then his right, feels the engine rumble to life, and lets go when Dean says okay, now.

He breaks the car. Or, that’s what it feels like at first: a heavy, surely cataclysmic crash of machinery that throws both of them back against the seat. He sees Dean grimace and gets ready to apologize, but Dean just says, “Okay, kind of rough start, but that’s fine—try it again.”

“I’m not sure I should,” Cas says. It sounded like the engine cracked. He thinks Dean may have underestimated his ignorance here. But Dean says no, try again, so Cas puts his feet back on the pedals and focuses every particle of his celestial consciousness on easing the pressure on and off in perfect unison the way Dean tells him, hands rigid at ten and two on the clock-wheel, and the four thousand pounds of steel beneath them roll approximately ten inches over the grass before Castiel’s focus falters, and the engine grinds to another explosive, neck-wrenching halt.

“You suck at this,” Dean says. His patience as an instructor, apparently, has been exhausted.

“Of course I suck at this,” Cas says, hearing the panic in his own voice. “I’m an angel.”

He expects the lesson to be over then—clearly, he isn’t going to learn this—but Dean just chuckles instead, caught up in another burst of unearned optimism, and says, “Try it again, little slower this time.”

For half an hour, Cas jolts the car in short, violent circles around the field, struggling to follow Dean’s directions and feeling sweat build up on his palms and the back of his shirt. The longest he’s able to drive in one smooth line lasts about one minute and forty-five seconds, long enough for Dean to lose his look of consternation and break out in a grin, raising his hands in celebration just as Cas accidentally pushes down on the wrong pedal and sends them screeching to a halt.

“Hey,” Dean says, once he’s recovered from the physical shock, “at least you’re getting better.”

“I’m not,” Cas tells him. He can feel an odd, nauseous constriction at the back of his throat; he wonders if it’s possible for a being that doesn’t eat or digest to vomit. “I’m not good at this, Dean. I won’t be good at this.”

“Listen,” Dean says, “if Sam could learn, so can you.”

“Sam’s very intelligent.”

“And you’re not?”

“Sam’s human.”

“Since when does that matter?” Dean asks.

Cas stares at him. Of course it matters. It’s always mattered. “I don’t know how,” he says. His hands are shaking.

“Hey,” Dean says, “hey.” He reaches over and lays his hand over Castiel’s, still on the steering wheel. His skin is warm and callused. Castiel feels the blood vessels in his cheeks and neck dilating.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Dean. He knows, without quite understanding, that what they’re doing is important to Dean, somehow, and he’s fucked it up. He did the same last night, with the woman whose name wasn’t Chastity, whose father loved her in the same unknowable way that Dean’s father loved him. He didn’t want to do it again. Cas, who is living after death in the body of a man so devout he offered his whole self to the possession of God’s soldier, knows that the machine he’s sitting in is a part of the strange, ardent little faith Dean practices, a religion with three apostles, a virgin, and no god. Sitting here with Dean’s hand on his own, sweating and shaking at the helm of this unholy ark, he feels blasphemous.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You can do this, Cas,” Dean says. “Look, I get you’re, like, superpowered, or whatever, I know you don’t need to. But did you ever think—maybe it’s just been a really long time since you learned something new?” He pauses, frowning, searching for the right words. “I don’t care if you can’t drive, man,” he says finally. “But I know you can learn. Right? I believe in you, Cas.”

Twelve hours ago, Dean stood side by side with Cas in the light of Raphael’s wings and heard him say that God died centuries ago. Dean heard it, and told Cas to go looking anyway.

Cas looks at him, at the freckles scattered over his nose, the serious little pinch between his brows, the soft ghost of a smile on his face even though Cas has surely damaged his car by now, even though God is dead and his neck must hurt and Sam’s taking a vacation from being Dean’s brother, the other half of his world. Dean looks back at him, raises his eyebrows, and grins.

“One more time?”

[thefreakydeaky]

Call Out My name

Part Seven Title: Pretty

Characters: Negan, Reader, A stupid little prick named Rick Grimes, Garbage pail kid Daryl Dixon, Tanya and Frankie, Gregory, Mentions of Simon, Dwight,Sherri, Amber, Ezekiel, Maggie Rhee, Wives: Tanya and Frankie, and Lucille.

Summary: You belonged to him.Try as you might to pretend indifference, Negan’s very presence has awakened feelings in you that you believed had died with the old world.Is the ruthless King of the Sanctuary still human enough to fall in love?

Warnings: Language, Canon Typical Negan BS, Canon Typical Violence, A bit of gore, Angst.

Word Count: 3,557

“What did I miss?” Negan inquired as the door shut behind him.

"I dunno what you mean.” You struggled to remove your panties.

“Sin-since when do you get into cat fights?” His eyebrows raised as he watched you hop around clumsily. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking off my bra and panties.” You huffed pulling one arm into your dress to work open the clasps.

“Stop it.Here let me.”Negan shook his head in exasperation as he came to stand in front of you.

His long fingers gathered the soft material of your dress.He lifted it up over your head and slid it down your arm.

“Not that I’m complaining, but why are you gettin’ undressed?”

“I’m too hot for clothes.”

Negan grinned. “You sure are.”

“No.That’s not what I mean.Meant?Mean?”

“How much did you have to drink?” With one deft movement, he unclasped your bra.

He made it seem so easy.You pouted, glaring down at your exposed tummy pensively.

“I should be able to do that. I’m the one with boobs!” You complained.

Negan chuckled a smooth melodic sound.His warm hands slipped the bra straps off of your shoulders, freeing your arms, exposing your breasts.

“Panties too.” You reminded.

The hint of a smile played around his lips as he slipped the waistband of your slightly skewed underpants off of your hips.He knelt down.Something occurred to you as you watched him slide the thin fabric to your ankles.

“How come you’re home so early?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” His index finger tapped the top of your foot. “Lift.”

You leaned forward to sturdy yourself, hanging onto his leather clad shoulder as you raised your foot.

Negan unhooked your underpants from around one ankle, guided your foot back to the floor, and repeated the process with your left foot.

“Are you trying to start a mutiny of the wives or did you get bored enough in there to start shit for no reason?”

Knowing eyes looked up at you.

“I didn’t start it! Sherri did!”

“Did she now?”

“She could start an argument in an empty house.”

“You act pretty high and mighty for someone who sucks the same cock we do.” Negan quoted watching for your reaction.

“Well she does! She was being a-a-a judgey mcjudgerson!”

“A what?”

“A jerk.” You amended.

“Sherri is always “a jerk”.What was different about today?”

You frowned. “The vodka?”

“No.” He replied standing slowly back up.

“...the me?” You mumbled guiltily.

Negan cupped his hand behind his ear gazing at you expectantly.

“Me, I was different, because I got mad.”

“Mhmm.”

“I was angry so I egged her on.”

“That’s not the Y/n I know.” He admonished, taking your chin in his hand.

He tilted your face up and looked you in the eye.

“She said somethin’ mean.”

His brow furrowed. “Mean?”

“We were playing Never have I ever...”

“Mhmm...”

“And Amber said ‘Never have I ever wanted to sleep with Simon.’ Obviously I took a shot.” You recognized the spark of jealousy in his eyes.

“It’s the way the game works!”You defended. “Then Sherri said “Simon?” And I was like 'What’re you surprised?' And she said 'Not even a little.'”

Negan took a deep angry breath.

You jumped back into your case to keep him from yelling at you.

“It was the way she said it.” You emphasized.”Like like I was dirty like I was below her.”

The corner of his lip pulled back in a near snarl.

You could already see how his needless anger would play out.

“And not just me.”You back tracked, “Tanya and Frankie too! I mean how can you blame me?Honestly, she freaking implied that we were sluts or whores or-or worse just cause we’re married to you.She forgets that we’re equals and talks down to us. What was I supposed to do, let her??No no no.”

Negan ran a hand through his hair.His anger had gone down from a boil to a simmer.He struggled to adjust.

“Ugh, I knew it!You’re stuck on the Simon part.You just don’t get it.”

“You were fightin’ over another man! How the hell do you think that makes me feel?”

“It wasn’t about Simon.I was giving you context so you would know how I went from putting up with her to wanting to kick her ass.” You explained, annoyed with his one track mind.

“What the fuck is so great about that scumbag anyway? What’s got y’all so obsessed?”

You sighed loudly.

“Nobody is obsessed! Amber was making fun, cause she thinks he’s ugly.”

“At least one of my wives is smart.”

You rankled at the bitterness in his voice.

“Well I can’t tell you why Tanya and Frankie wanted to sleep with Simon! I can only tell you why I did!”

“Why did you?” He wore a guarded expression.

You rolled your eyes.

“Mostly to piss you off. He’s got the whole second man in charge thing going for him and that works for some people, but for me, it was about how mad I was at you.”

Negan blinked, processing your words.

“You wanting to sleep with Simon was about Me?”

“That’s ... one hell of an over simplification, but yes. It was.You acted like a total dickwad from the second we met to the night I almost slept with him.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you put your finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

“Yes, me wanting to sleep with Simon was about you.Ninety-five percent of the time I was talking to him, I thought of you.”

“And the other five percent?”

“You gotta be kidding me! Is ninety-five not enough?”

“Why wasn’t it a hundred percent of the time?"

“I hadn’t had sex in years!”

“Hmm...”

You interrupted his thinking with a slow languid kiss. He kissed you back savoring your affection.

“I don’t like drama,Doll.I’ll forgive you this time.You girls got sauced after all, but don’t you go making trouble again.”

“What about Sherri?”

“Collateral damage.”

You exhaled sharply at the sympathy in his voice.

“Dwight needed to learn his place and the only way to do that without cracking open skulls was to threaten him with Lucille.”His thumb stroked over your jaw lightly.

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“Sherri offered herself up in exchange for his life.That just so happened to fit my agenda.So, ‘mean’ though she may be she was telling the truth.” Negan looked down and away for a minute.The deceptively charismatic smirk he wore like armor returned to its place.

“Not for nothin’ but not one of us became a wife because we were lookin’ to put our feet up, except for Frankie.” You pointed out.

“Amber went through some really bad shit.She feels indebted to you for saving her.Tanya’s mom was sick, in a lot of pain, and needed morphine.We both know how I ended up here-“

“Sherri doesn’t know that.” He interrupted.

“That’s my point, she shouldn’t talk about what she doesn’t know.Talk shit.Get hit.Just sayin’.”

“You are impossible...Why don’t you go on and get that gorgeous bottom of yours in the shower? It’ll help you cool down.” He suggested.

“Won’t you come with me? You tried, entwining your fingers with his.

He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a small regretful kiss to it.

Negan’s sigh was bone weary.

“I’d love to, Darlin’ ,but Daddy’s got work to do.” He waggled his eyebrows at you.

Your face heated at the memory of your sarcastic remark.

“It was a joke.” You groaned.

“Not to me. I think Daddy might be my favorite nick name yet.” He taunted, watching you saunter to the bathroom to start your shower.

You heard his easy laughter receding as he left you to your own devices.

Not far from The Sanctuary, a militia made up of rebel misfits made their final preparations to dethrone the self-professed king.

Once upon a pre-apocalypse time, Rick Grimes thought of himself as a simple man.There was right and there was wrong,very seldom was there anything in between.When there was, it simply meant the situation needed resolving. Once resolved it would fall into one of those two basic categories and all was well with his world again.

However, that was before the apocalypse. Before his family’s survival twisted his morality into something neither black nor white, but a stormy weather grey. The many traumatic situations, trials and tribulations he and his chosen family had faced, forced his grey morality to stain a little darker, but no crisis had pushed him so close to the edge as Negan. Abraham and Glenn, along with so many others had lost theirs lives to the violent sociopath and his merry band of murders.He’d sworn vengeance on their oppressor.Now that vengeance was finally coming to fruition.

“...Those people who use, take, and kill, to carve out the world and make it their’s and their’s alone, We end them...” His soulful blue eyes took a moment to gaze meaningfully into the face of each member of his ragtag army.

“There’s only one person that has to die tonight”His gruff voice assured them, “and I will kill him myself.”

He could see his words already taking affect, giving their anger the justification of righteousness and their thirst for savior blood conviction.Rick kept watching, patiently as Ezekiel roused them with brotherhood and as Maggie Rhee gave them hope.Unlike Negan, it gave him no pleasure to manipulate minds like this.The ends he reminded his conscience would justify the means.

For the greater good!

His inner voice declared.He accepted the words as gospel.

The caravan barreled through the fences taking the few saviors, who weren’t out checking the far perimeter, by surprise. Four shots were fired into the air breaking up an impromptu meeting Negan was having with Hilltop’s incompetent leader.He and his men strolled out onto the platform to gauge the situation.

“Well I’m sorry” Negan apologized insincerity in his voice. “I was in a meetin’’.”

Upon laying eyes on Gregory, Rick Grimes snorted.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Negan’s sharp eyes roved over the caravan of misfit warriors, taking in the army, the battle ready vehicles, their many firearms. All of this would not have given him pause, except for one thing, the determination and fury on their faces.

“Now, I don’t see a reason why we should have us a shoot out,” He snarked, wondering anxiously if you were at the window of his bedroom right now.

Hoping you had heard the warning shots and taken cover, he resumed his performance.

“I have to look out for the safety of my people. I can’t let myself get wrapped up in playing cops and robbers just because you want to find out if my dick is really bigger than yours.” He paused like a comedian building suspense before a punchline, “It is.”

He smiled confidently. “We all know it.”

“This isn’t a game.” Rick Grimes intoned, his solemn countenance causing Simon to mutter an epithet under his breath. “This is a reckoning and your time has come.”

The shoot out that followed was a chaos of ricochetting bullets, screams of pain, and shouted orders. Minutes passed like seconds. Simon called out to Negan, they had reinforcements coming.

As it turned out, so did Rick Grimes.Of all the surprises Negan imagined the colonies to have under their sleeves, not being able to count on his silver tongue to buy time or get him out of such an impossible bitch of a situation wasn’t one, the colonies using the entirety of their separate communities, young and old, wasn’t one, and a heard of the dead filtering into his God damn Sanctuary sure as fuck wasn’t one.

Rick the Prick’s first spray of bullets missed Negan by a second.He dove out of the way and down a flight of stairs. When he reached the bottom he was a little worse for the wear, but his body was still in one piece.He was also resourceful enough to pick up the gun of a fallen Savior and stay out of the crosshairs for a bit.

His brain went into survival mode, pushing him to shoot back, pulling him back behind the dumpster before he could get himself shot. Negan’s gun ran out of bullets all too soon.

“Sonuvabitch!” He ground out, running to the nearest port in the shit storm, a rusty old trailer.

His heart beat so damn loud, he’d forgotten how terrifying a herd could be when you had nothing, but your will to live and your flight response to get you out of it.He heard glass breaking.

Y/n

His pulse jumped in his throat.Of all the days for you to drink you had to choose today.He couldn’t bear the thought of them getting to you.They could hate him all they all wanted, he’d done his share of fucked up shit. He deserved it. What he felt he didn’t deserve was for the consequences of his actions to effect you.

Another spine chilling thought circled in his brain.

“Everyone of you go to your rooms!!”

Had he doomed you all? Like he’d doomed her? A memory of bright blue eyes and a very expressive face loomed over him ominously.

Different time.Different situation.Different woman.He told himself pushing her memory away, down deep in the coffin shaped box where he kept his grief.

A newer memory arose unbidden, He took your hand in his, kissed it softly, and looked into your eyes.All trace of bravado and falsehood dissipated as he let you see him. The real Negan and the effect one night with you’d had on him.

"Can I trust you, Y/n?”

“Yes, you can.”You laced your fingers between his.

“How can I be sure you won’t think my love for you is a weakness?”He watched your face cautiously.

“You aren’t weak.Neither am I.We have both put survival above everything else.”

You were resourceful.You were unbelievably resilient. Negan resolved to trust you to keep yourself alive.At least until he could reach you.

The trailer door blew wide open.Negan fisted the black material attached to whatever dickhead had been dumb enough to enter his refuge and pulled the door shut. The wide doe eyes of Alexandria’s creepy bald clergyman found his face in the dark.

The firing of live ammunition sounded from somewhere below you. In nothing, but a bra and a fresh pair of panties you ran to the wall of windows.Simon and a few of the saviors had taken cover and were taking their best shots at hitting something other than the corrugated steel the invaders were using as shields.Your mind went into over drive.You couldn’t see Negan out there.No sign of his black leather clad back anywhere.At least you knew he was alive.He wasn’t lying on the ground or you’d surely have seen him. A borage of bullets hit some of the panes of glass below.You dove to the ground and began crawling behind the nearest piece of furniture you could.Unfortunately, the closest was a sofa.Cushions and plywood wouldn’t be enough to keep you safe.You lay as flat against the floor as you could as the gunfire reached your floor.The cacophony out there went from loud to ear splitting within seconds.

A sharp angry pain caused you to cry out, but you weren’t willing to risk getting shot again to check the wound.Soon afterwards the shooting died down.They’re running out of ammo, you thought.They must need to make every bullet count.Your heart felt so heavy.Please Lord keep him safe.You prayed.You knew he wasn’t perfect by any means nor was he innocent, but you loved him.You couldn’t fathom a world without him.A moment of quiet passed as you reflected on your husbands many sins.You found yourself struggling to maintain your composure.You wanted so badly to fall apart, but there wasn’t time for that.There was no doubt in your mind that he would eventually come for you, but you couldn’t stay here and wait.It wasn’t safe.

You got onto your hands and knees and clambered to the closet.You cursed Negan’s stupid wives club bullshit for robbing you of your jeans.You only owned two outfits.A black dress with spaghetti straps or a white grass stained sundress.You silently fumed as you pulled the dress on.You owned exactly one pair of shoes these days and they were a pair of black flats, not made for trekking through the forest. You decided to take a pair of socks and Negan’s red kerchief from his night stand.The long tube socks you used to stifle the bleeding of your wound.You tied the kerchief around your wrist. As you left your bedroom behind, you quickly began assessing the damage.You found the parlor doors were wide open. Sherri was long gone, but Tanya and Frankie seemed to be waiting around for...something.

“He isn’t coming.” The statement left your mouth reluctantly.

You knew deep inside that he would come back, eventually. However, seeing the girls fall apart spurred you to action. “We have to go.”

“We can’t leave! We won’t make it!” Tanya cried, her eyes frantic.

“We will! We can!” They looked unconvinced.

“I’ve led a group before.” You sighed exasperated with their dithering.

Frankie’s eyes darted from the room you had just left to the parlor doors.

They’ll probably drag us out of here if we stay.” She said slowly to Tanya, “and who knows what else they’ll do to us.” She swallowed nervously.

“She’s right.” You told Tanya.”We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with here and we shouldn’t stick around to find out.”

Tanya nodded slowly accepting the dire straits you were in.Trying to ignore the fear and anxiety she was radiating, you lead them to the doors.The empty hallway was not at all inviting, but you had no choice except to slip quietly into it.Frankie and Tanya followed.There was shouting and shooting in the distance.The further you walked the closer the noises sounded.You peaked around the first corner.

An arrow whizzed toward you.You ducked back behind the wall, your breathing sharp and quick with shock.You stayed as still as possible, waiting for another arrow to come, but none did. Instead there were heavy angry footsteps.The face of a man appeared, haggard sweaty and holding a cross bow in front of him.Tanya and Frankie yelped holding each other tight.

“Weapons?” He demanded.

“W-we don’t have any.” Frankie stuttered.

“Bullshit!” He barked and demanded you put your hands up.

You complied, more for the good of the wives than for your own.Stout fingers and a large palm invasively explored any place you might be hiding a gun or knife.

“Get on the ground.”He commanded and moved on to check Frankie, then Tanya.

“Who are you?” He asked suspiciously.

“We’re...wives” Tanya sniffed between sobs.“Negan’s wives.”

He grunted more to himself than to you.Static crackled from the walkie on his belt.

“Darryl, You find anything?”

“I found the wives,”He sounded disappointed. “They’re unarmed."

“Go ahead and bring ‘em with you.”A deep voice intoned.

“Sure.”Darryl replied.

“Anyone else back there?” He nodded toward the direction you came from.

“No.” You stated evenly.

“Get up.” He grabbed onto Frankie’s arm and pushed her ahead of him.

“Ladies first.” He mocked, making you go back the way you came.

Daryl stopped at every room.Checked every space a person could possibly hide.When you got back to the parlor, he tore the place apart looking for any one hidden. He found no one. He checked the other rooms found them empty and called to someone on the walkie.

“All clear.” He informed him.

“Good.Meet us on the first floor.”

[lyssismagical]

Can you do a hurt/comfort parkner story where Peter overworks himself cause someone died and he thinks it’s his fault so Harley has to help him. No rush at all 💞

It’s hard for Harley to really offer much, living so far away from his boyfriend.

When Peter stops responding to texts, stops answering his endless calls, cancels their virtual date nights, there’s not much Harley can do. It’s not like he can really force Peter to answer him.

The days without Peter, without his witty texts, his soft crackling laughter over the phone, the heart-eyes he gets whenever they have Skype Dates, it’s hard. Harley hates to be so far, still stuck in Rose Hill, with no way of getting up to New York for more than a couple weeks a year, but being without Peter, not being able to see him or hear from him or even get a single text to ease his nerves, hurts like his chest has been pried open, heart trying to escape and find it’s way back to his love.

At first, he assumes Peter’s just busy. They’re rounding on Exam season and Peter’s a Junior, so class loads are pretty heavy, not to mention the Academic Decathlon competition he’d been talking about the last time they called.

But even when Peter’s busy, he always remembers to text at least once. Especially with how nervous and worried his texts get as the days pass with no answer.

His boyfriend is a superhero. How could he not be worried?

He’s had the news on almost constantly at home, annoying the hell out of his little sister, and his phone ringer stays on high all day at school, getting him into a few detentions. But so far, nothing’s come up about Spider-Man.

After four days of radio silence on Peter’s side, nearly a hundred messages staying on Delivered, he finally caves and calls Tony.

“Wow, my second favourite young adult!” Tony says, sounding mostly chipper. As chipper as someone like Tony Stark can. “What’s got you calling? Normally, I hear everything through Peter.”

“So you’ve heard from Peter?” Harley asks, voice lifting almost an octave higher in his worry and panic. “He hasn’t answered me in four days and I’m kinda freaking out.”

Harley starts pacing the length of his bedroom, heart hammering in his chest. Abbie shoves open his door, rolling her eyes overdramatically at him, but she still sprawls out across his bed, watching him carefully.

“Um, now that you say that, he cancelled his last Lab Night with me. I didn’t really think much of it but he’s been kinda snappy with me last week too,” Tony says. There’s a few clicks of a keyboard, and then Tony sighs. “It looks like he’s been logging a lot of hours as Spider-Man. Like a crazy amount. Yesterday, he was out from four pm, when he got out of school, until five am.”

“Is he mad at me? Did he say anything?”

Even Abbie frowns at his question, laced in desperation.

“I don’t know, kid. I haven’t spoken to him in like a week. I’ll ask May, I’ll see if I can corner Peter into telling me anything and I’ll let you know, okay?”

Harley frowns, saying a quick goodbye and dropping onto the bed beside his little sister. “I hate this. I just wish he’d call me.”

“I know, Harls, but there’s nothing either of us can do. It might be smarter to just take your mind off everything. Weren’t you planning a trip up over summer? That’s only another two weeks out,” Abbie says, forever going to be the smarter, more logical of the two Keener siblings. She shrugs but still wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a comforting hug.

“I know you’re right,” he says, still staring at his phone. “I just… I really think I love him. I do. And I’m scared he’s mad at me or that things are falling apart and there’s nothing I can do about it. I just really wish he’d call and talk to me.”

Abbie doesn’t say anything more, knowing there’s nothing more she can do to make it better.

* It’s another three days before Peter finally responds.

All he’s heard since then was a single text from Tony reading Peter’s acting weird, think you were right. He’s not talking to me or May or even his friends, falling asleep in class, getting detentions. I’ll try to talk to him or at least get him to talk to you. But I’m pretty positive it wasn’t anything to do with you. Don’t fret.

And then it had turned back into a waiting game until Peter finally texted him.

It was simple, small, sweet.

I miss you

It made Harley’s chest jump, and he immediately asked to go to the bathroom, ducking out of class and dialing Peter’s number again.

He waits and waits and waits, but Peter doesn’t pick up. He tries again, heart pounding and pacing down the hallway.

On attempt three, Peter finally picks up. “Harley.”

“Peter, honey, thank god. I was starting to get worried. You weren’t answering my texts and cancelling all our dates and I was- I just-”

“I’m sorry.” Peter sounds miserable. Tired and upset and confused. “I meant to but I kept freaking out and I didn’t know how to… Is there anyway I could convince you to come up to New York early?”

Harley frowns. He wants to see Peter, he’d drop everything for Peter any day but he has his own exams the following week, plus Junior Prom on the Friday. It’s not like he can really skip any of it. Plus, changing his plane tickets is going to be a hassle.

“I don’t know if I can. I might be able to fly up on the Saturday, but that’s still another nine days from now, and that only changes our plans by four. It’s not really…”

Peter sniffles. “I just- I really wanna see you. I miss you and things have been hard and I just want you here, you know. I miss you. It’s been, what? Three months?”

“I miss you too, sweetheart, I have exams next week. All week. I don’t mind skipping junior prom, it’ll probably be awful anyways considering the disaster that was homecoming last year. But I still need to be here until Friday.”

“I know, I know, I just-” Peter cuts himself off, voice trembling.

Harley checks his watch, knowing he’ll get another detention if he spends too much time out of class. “How about, for now at least, we’ll set up a Skype date for tonight, and then we’ll talk more about making another trip up.”

“Six?”

“Yeah, six is good. I’ll look up plane tickets for this weekend, but I can’t make any promises, okay?”

Peter sniffles again. “Okay. ‘m sorry for worrying you.”

“That’s okay, darlin’. Don’t you worry about me. Are you home?”

“May grounded me when she found out I was skipping curfew. And when she saw just how badly I was skipping curfew, just how little sleep I was getting, she made me take a sick day to sleep but I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how much stress I must’ve been putting you under.”

Harley sighs, already knowing from Tony just how little sleep Peter had been getting. It makes his heart ache with the idea that he’s not there. He’s not close enough to wrap Peter up and protect him from everything, take care of him. He wishes, more than anything, that he could do that, that he could be there.

“I’ve gotta get back to class before I get a detention, but Skype call at six, okay? And we’ll talk about everything, make everything better, alright, honey?”

“Thank you, you’re the best, you know that? I really don’t deserve you, Harls,” Peter says, voice slipping into a quiet murmur. “You’re too good to me.”

Harley shakes his head, voice dipping too. “You deserve the world, darling, I swear.”

* Seeing Peter, through the old camera lens, makes everything make a little more sense.

The dark circles under his eyes, the puffiness of his tear-stained cheeks, his bloodshot eyes, the slight tremble of his shoulder, the bruises mapped out across the pale expanse of his skin. It makes Harley’s chest hurt so badly, makes his heart ache to be close to his boyfriend again.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Harley starts, voice rough and pained. “Everything okay?”

Peter shrugs, bottom lip sticking out. “I miss you. I wish you were here. The only thing I want right now is a hug from you.”

“Oh, I know, honey. I’m so sorry I can’t be there all the time to take care of you, to protect you, to hold you. I’m sorry I can’t. I’m sorry this has been so hard on you.”

“I know this has been hard on you too,” Peter says, obviously trying his best not to cry. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distant lately. I just- I got so caught up in- in feeling like this and working so hard to be better, I didn’t think I deserved to have your support.”

Harley looks down, not wanting to cry in front of Peter who obviously needs him to be strong and stable for him. “You deserve everything and more.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“Knew what?” Harley says and then quickly rephrases, “Whatever it is, that’s not going to change how I feel about you, that’s not going to change how much you deserve.”

Peter frowns, lip trembling and eyes watering as he turns his gaze to his hands. “Last week, I was out patrolling and there was this fight happening out on the streets and I went to go save them, I wanted to protect her. She was- She was young, like maybe mid-twenties, and she was so scared and alone and I tried- I tried so fucking hard but-”

“Honey-”

“I got shot,” Peter says, voice breaking. “In the hip. I fell- I didn’t want- I couldn’t-”

Harley shakes his head, wanting nothing more than to hug his boyfriend, press a kiss to his forehead, hold him and make all of his pain go away. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“She died,” Peter chokes out, tears falling down his flushed cheeks. “She got shot and I tried to swing her to the hospital and keep her awake and get the bad guy, but with my stupid hip, I- I didn’t make it in time. I can’t- I-”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s not on you. You can’t save everyone, you know that. I’m so sorry that happened, but just because some bad guy hurt a civilian, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be cared about. It doesn’t mean you have to overwork yourself to make up for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Peter lets out a quiet pained noise, shoulders shaking. “It was my fault. I was right there. I should’ve gotten up and saved her. I should’ve been faster, more careful, something. I could’ve saved her.”

Realizing just how bad this is, the overwhelming need to wrap Peter up in a hug, makes itself obvious so he grabs the emergency credit card Tony had given him, and books the next flight to New York, leaving the next day. It’s not cheap, but he’s sure Tony would understand.

“Darling, it’s not your fault. I know it seems like it is, but you weren’t the one holding the gun, you weren’t the one who put her life in danger, the only one at fault is that bad guy, okay? This isn’t on you.”

Peter sniffles, ducking his head. “I visited the family yesterday as Peter Parker not as Spider-Man, well I told them it was me, but I told them what happened, how sorry I was.”

“Did they say it was your fault?”

His boyfriend deflates, shaking his head. “No, they said exactly what you did. That it’s not my fault, I tried, I made sure she wasn’t alone when she went. I know logically, there was nothing I could do, but- I still feel like I need to work harder to make sure it doesn’t happen to anybody else. That I won’t lose anyone else.”

“It’s not up to you to save everybody, Peter,” Harley says, hoping he can get it through to his boyfriend for at least tonight. “You’re the only superhero within the Avengers who actually cares about the little guy, it can’t be just your responsibility to save everybody in New York. That’s not feasible, right?”

“Right,” Peter agrees, finally slumping. “I know you’re right. I know I’m being crazy. I know it’s not up to me to save everyone, Tony’s had that conversation with me about a thousand times. I know, I just- I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Harley nods sympathetically, offering a small smile. “You’re definitely sleep-deprived, that can’t help. How much have you been doing?”

“I’ve been patrolling for like twelve hours every night,” Peter admits quietly. “May’s been working overnights so as long as I can get home before she gets home around six, she wasn’t going to find out. But I’d only get like an hour or two of sleep before school and exam prep and homework- I don’t know. Too much, really.”

“I just bought tickets to come home for the long weekend,” Harley says, smiling when Peter’s whole face lights up. “Tomorrow night, I’ll be flying out and you’ve got me until Monday morning. As long as you promise we’ll spend a little time studying for our exams.”

Peter quickly swipes a hand over his cheeks, ridding himself of the tears that still linger. “You know you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve hung in there for another week or two.”

“If I’m being honest, it’s only half because of you. It’s also half for my benefit.”

“Because you need me to reteach you all of calculus?” Peter teases sweetly, smile making his eyes sparkle.

Harley rolls his eyes, smiling back. “Believe it or not, I have missed you too. Not for your genius brain, somehow understanding how to do stupid calculus, but for you. You know I’ve gotten more detentions these last two years than ever before because of how often I’ve been caught texting you or just daydreaming about you.”

“I don’t want to put your education in jeopardy,” Peter says, mostly joking but there’s an undertone of guilt.

“You’re not. That’s all on me. I think I’m really the bad influence here, not you.”

“You’re really coming all the way to New York? Just for this weekend? Just because I said I was upset?”

Harley rolls his eyes again, smiling softly. “You really doubt me? The things I’d do for you, Peter Parker, are so much bigger and higher than flying out to see you for a weekend.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“You won’t be saying that when I get there and physically force you to sleep if I have to. I’ll be your self-care enforcer all weekend. Eight hours of sleep, no Spider-Man outings, the exact number of calories your metabolism needs, everything.”

The love that fills Peter’s expression is so open and whole that Harley’s chest starts to hurt again, the same aching, fullness like he can’t possibly fit this much love inside his heart.

They talk throughout the night about what they’ve missed over the past couple weeks, of school and friends and Spider-Man and Tony, catching up on each other’s lives, until eventually Peter looks like he might pass out if he stays up for a moment longer, and Harley has to pack for the weekend, so they say their quiet goodbyes, see you soon’s bleeding into their every sentence with unbearable amounts of fondness.

And the next day, after a few hours’ plane ride, Harley makes it to the New York airport, dropping his luggage to catch his boyfriend in a tight hug, they finally murmur the three words they’d been holding close to their chest, I love you leaving their mouths between kisses like a promise.

Taglist: @littlemissagrafina  @spidey-reids-2003  @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @pj-hermes-tonystark-obsessed  @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10 @justme--emily  @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment {Let me know if you wanna be added or removed}

[marril96]

Once Upon a Time

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: An encounter with a homicidal witch forces Rowena to confront painful memories.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

Getting roped into helping Sam and Dean out with a yet another case wasn't how you'd planned to spend your afternoon, but it wasn't as if you were in a position to say no. Rowena, ever the helpful puppy (she resented the remark), said yes before Sam had even finished the question. She was prepared for a job as soon as her phone rang with his name flashing on the screen. So, as her girlfriend, you went with.

In all fairness, Rowena told you you didn't have to go. It seemed like a simple enough job; a witch case, if hex bags left by the victims' bodies were anything to go by. She could handle it without an issue. But you insisted on accompanying her. After all, the two of you had a deal — if one was headed into a possibly dangerous situation, the other was to go with as backup. No ifs. No buts.

The Winchester were well aware the two of you were a package deal. It wasn't an issue. In fact, they welcomed all the help they could get. Even if you had to force yourself into providing it.

The truth of the matter was, you hated hunting jobs. If it were up to you, you and Rowena would cut all contact with the brothers and their friends and live out the rest of your days holed up in your little home, leaving only on occasion for world-exploring vacations. It wasn't that you didn't trust your girlfriend; you did, sometimes more than you trusted yourself. You knew she could handle things on her own. She had, after all, done so for centuries, and would for many more to come. She was one of the most powerful witches around. If there was anyone who could wipe the floor with humans and monsters — even archangels — alike, it was her.

But the prophecy of Rowena's death at Sam's hands was still there. The two were friends (even if Rowena's pride opposed using the word), but accidents could still happen. Just because he didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to kill her, didn't mean he couldn't do it. You felt much safer being there with her than letting her out all on her own.

Sam was as good a man as a hunter could be. He treated Rowena well. He seemed to care about her as much as she cared about him. He was kind to her. Respected her. Valued her skills. Never talked down to her or mistreated her. Those days were behind them. Were it not for the prophecy, and, truth be told, for the fact that, as powerful as she was, Rowena always managed to get herself into trouble of some sort, you would have no issue staying behind.

So you put up with it. You bit your pride and helped out to the best of your ability. The sooner things were dealt with, the better; four helping hands were certainly better — faster — than two.

As far as cases went, this one was fairly easy. The witch was quite powerful, had done a good job at masking his presence, but it didn't take Rowena long to track him down. Latching onto a source of powerful magic was easy enough, and so was pinpointing its location. With her power unbound, there weren't many things that presented an issue.

This witch may have possessed great power, but he was no match for Rowena.

The house he was residing in was quite lovely. It was big, luxurious, built for power, for privilege, for envy of guests and passersby. It looked no different than the other houses in the neighborhood. This was a place of wealth, of power, and it showed.

As expected, the witch had protected his home well; it took Rowena half an hour to disable the wardings and magical booby traps he'd installed. Or the majority of them, at the very least. She warned you and the Winchesters to be careful. Sneaking into a witch's house was tricky business. Just because the coast looked clear didn't mean it was. For all you knew, the entire damn house was a giant trap.

Sneaking in was easy. Far too easy for this sort of monster. Which should have been a clue, a warning for you to be careful, but, instead, you let your mind wander to your home. Your warm, safe home. Where you would go soon, after all this was over, and you and Rowena would spend the evening cuddling in bed and teasing each other. Just a few more minutes, and you would be in the Impala, then at the bus station, and then at home. Sweet, sweet home.

Were you not absent-minded, maybe you would have noticed the witch's approaching footsteps, light as a ghost's. Maybe you would have noticed him sneaking up on Sam and Dean and hissing out a spell to throw them against the wall and incapacitate them. Maybe you would have noticed his hands reaching for you before finding yourself tangled up in his arms that held you against him in a firm, snake-like grip.

He was tall. Not quite as tall as Sam, but close enough. His body was lean, all muscle, thick and strong. He smelled like a strange mixture of spices — or rather herbs — and cologne; witch and man in one. Before you could utter a spell, his hand was over your mouth, fingers digging into your skin, manicured nails biting crescents.

"Don't even think about it, Rowena," he said as Rowena mouthed a spell, English accent deep in his voice. Posh, almost charming — almost, for every word of his oozed malice, cruelty. He sounded pleasant, but there was a note of something dark, something dangerous hiding behind it, creeping underneath the surface like a prowler. "I don't need incantations to get my magic working. I just have to think it, and…" Following his will, a painting slid from a wall. Fell down into a heap of splintered wood and glass. He chuckled, smug, too pleased with himself for his own good. "I'm not an animal."

Good for you, you thought, wishing so bad you could say it straight to his face. You get a fucking gold star.

Rowena swallowed. Held her head up like the queen that she was, proud, powerful. Not losing her cool for a single beat. "Let her go."

It was a command that left no room for argument, though you had no doubt the witch would try. Something told you the man had always been a rebel. Even when it worked against hs favor.

"What would be the fun in that?" His hold on you tightened. You groaned, uncomfortable, struggling to breathe. "I've got to say, you've changed quite a bit, Rowena."

Rowena swallowed. Sucked in a breath and put on that face you knew well — one of deception, of protection. A mask to shield herself from the world, from the danger that lurked around. From unpleasant memories she wished would stop plaguing her mind.

So she knew this witch. Why hadn't she said anything? Why had she kept/ it a secret?

"You remember me, don't you?" the witch said. You couldn't see his face, but you could picture a smirk as big as his pride adorning it. "It's been — what? Two hundred years? That's quite a while, but in sure you remember me somewhere in that clever little head of yours."

Rowena forced a smile. "Like you said, it's been a while."

"Really? I never forgot you."

Her eyes briefly connected with yours before falling to her feet. Color drained from her face, her usually rosy cheeks washed out, white as old, tattered sheets. Her fists clenched, knuckles taut, pale from the pressure.

The witch licked his lips, and your stomach turned with disgust. He said, "I remember you quite well. I admit, it was a bit hard to recognize you at first. You've gone through quite a change. What is it kids call it these days? A glow up. You've had a glow up."

Rowena avoided his eyes.

He continued, "Still, wasn't too hard to figure out it's you. See, I knew you were hunting me. I know all about you. Well, all about these two chuckle heads—" he gestured to Sam and Dean, who were glued to the floor, magic holding them down despite their resistance, "—but through my research on them I stumbled across you. You've done a good job at keeping a low profile. Gotta hand you that. But you've still got neighbors, and they love to talk."

Great. As if spreading rumors around wasn't enough; now your neighbors had snitched on you to an unhinged witch. Maybe a curse on the neighborhood was in order. There were a few you wanted to try out, if you managed to get out of this mess unscattered.

"I'm a bit disappointed, though," the witch said. "I mean, really — hunters? You're working with hunters? Seriously?" He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "And here I thought you were running from them. How the tides have turned." A beat, then, "At least your girlfriend's cute." His fingers tapped your cheek. "Does she know about us?"

You frowned, confused. What did he mean?

Rowena swallowed.

"She doesn't!" The witch all but beamed. "You didn't tell her? And you still brought her here? How could you, Rowena? Don't you think she deserves to know?"

You groaned, trying to get curses and insults out. Hating that you couldn't.

"I know, right?" he said condescendingly. "I'd be mad, too."

You weren't mad — not at Rowena, at least. Whatever it was that had happened between them, you were sure she had good reasons to keep it hidden. She was a flawed creature, bratty, dramatic, but she was a good girlfriend. She didn't lie to you. Would never do anything — not on purpose — to harm you or your relationship.

"What was it Catriona called you? Raggedy Ann?" The witch pretended to ponder on it. "Not so raggedy anymore, are you?"

Catriona Loughlin? He knew the Loughlins?

"I knew you were hot. She and her brothers laughed at me when I told them about us, but there's proof right here—" he pointed at Rowena; at her curls that fell down her shoulders like streams of silky fire; at her white blouse with one button undone, leaving just enough for a taste of naughty thoughts; at her dress pants and pumps, which teased imagination, let it run wild "—I was right. You are hot. When you take a bath."

Rowena flinched as if struck. Grit her teeth. Squeezed her fingers into fists so hard the skin of her knuckles turned white as the bone underneath it.

"Catriona told me I should've fucked a pig instead. Would've been cleaner." The witch shrugged. "Maybe so, but I didn't really mind the filth so much. It was disgusting, yes, but you more than made up for it. Y'know, I think you're one of the best I ever had. I can say that without shame now." He licked his lips. Closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the memory. "You were exquisite."

"Motherfucker!" you exclaimed — or tried to for it came out as a distorted mumble. You son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you! If only you could say it. If only you could scream it, loud and clear, straight in his face as your magic gnawed at his skin, tore him apart from the inside, fueled by the rage that boiled with you. A rage that twisted and coiled and burned like a volcano nearing an eruption. That begged to be let free to swallow him, to obliterate him.

You pushed against his arms, tried to tear free. Tried to sink your teeth into the soft, meaty flesh of his palm. But no matter how hard you fought, he kept you in place with ease. His laugh, a mocking, taunting melody, rang in your ears.

"Easy, girl. No need to be jealous. It was a long time ago. But do tell, is she still excellent in bed?"

"Fuck you!" Another mumble.You hated it. Hated yourself for being so weak to fight him off, to free yourself from his deadly grip. I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you, you sick, twisted mother—

"I'll take that as a yes."

Rowena swallowed a lump in her throat. Held her head up, brave face on. "You know what they say. Why fix something that isn't broken?"

"True," the witch agreed. "True. She's a lucky girl."

At least one thing he was right about. He had no idea how much; how lucky you were, how privileged, to be with Rowena.

"God, you were so great. So tiny, but so skilled. I thought you'd just do it to get it over with, but you enjoyed it as well. I saw it in your eyes. You were having so much fun."

She flashed that smile that feigned nonchalance and hid the turmoil, the utmost hurt coiling inside of her. "It's a shame you didn't put in nearly half the effort. It was an encounter for mutual benefit. I'd done my part. You…" She clicked her tongue. "There was plenty left to be desired."

The witch's hands stiffened around you. His heart jumped, the vein on his neck thudding loudly against your scalp. "Such a tease, aren't you?" he said in nonchalance you would have bought as genuine had you not felt his body's reaction to Rowena's comments. Everyone had a weakness. He might have pretended otherwise, but he wasn't invincible. Magic couldn't protect him from wounded pride.

"I'm serious, Janus," Rowena said, and meant it. No more pretend. No more lies. "I've had plenty of partners, and none have been as… inexperienced as you. Was I your first? You poor dear. I'd say it was an honour, but it truly wasn't."

Janus gulped down a lump that blossomed in his throat. "You're real funny." Rowena shrugged innocently. He looked down at you. "Is she always this funny?"

She's absolutely hilarious, you wanted to say.  Instead, what came out was a gargle of words that didn't resemble your uttered "Fuck you" in the slightest, though you were pretty sure the look on your face have away exactly what you said.

"I do believe one thing," he said. "You've had plenty of lovers. Even back then you reeked of usage — along with general filth. You'd given birth, hadn't you? I could tell." He winked. "Trust me."

Rowena, bless her, took it in stride. "So you say."

"I'm not lying."

He was. You could feel it.

"Okay," Rowena said with a shrug.

He grit his teeth. "I'm serious."

"As am I."

"You're more confident than you used to be. That little ragdoll that showed up at my door was weak. Her favourite word was 'please.'" He smirked. "God, I loved that 'please.'"

"She's had centuries of growth," Rowena said. "You're right in that she was weak. She wasn't proficient at using her wits. But, as you've already established, she's changed. She's smarter now. Have you heard of a wee thing called distraction?"

"Wha—"

The word fell silent in Janus's mouth as a gunshot, loud, deafening, echoed. Blood gushed in a spray of crimson, staining your shoulder and cheek. His hold of you loosened and you instantly wriggled out, pushing him off. His body collapsed like a sack of potatoes, limp, motionless. Red seeped out of/out his temple, staining the fine, white carpet underneath him. Filling it up, making it swell with it. His eyes were wide open; they stared up, into the ceiling, into open space. Into Heaven and Hell themselves.

"You okay?" Sam asked, a gun clutched tightly in his hands.

"I-yes," you stammered. Your ears were ringing, but you weren't injured. You weren't harmed. You swallowed a large breath. "That was… intense."

"Good shot, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam nodded with an awkward smile. His eyes shifted to Rowena. "Are you okay?"

A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she quickly smoothened her expression into one of pride, of utmost dignity. "Never better."

The brothers bought it. You knew better, but decided to keep it to yourself. There would be time for talking later, when you were alone, and, preferably, away from a corpse.

"Are you sure you're okay, Y/N?" Rowena asked, and that was sincere. She looked you over in concern. A mother cat appraising her young, checking them for injuries.

"I'm fine." You squeezed her hand in emphasis. Her fingers tightened around yours, held tight. An unspoken promise that she was there, that, no matter how hard it was or how badly it hurt, you could count on her.

You appreciated it. You needed her. And, more important than that, she needed you. Parts of her past were a touchy subject; to have it dredged up in front of everyone so casually, used as a weapon against her… It had to hurt. She pretended it didn't, but you knew her better than that.

The brothers had taken care of the body in a matter of minutes, and it wasn't long before the four of you were on the road, heading straight for the Bunker. The ride was silent to an almost uncomfortable degree. Dean made a few quips here and there, annoying Sam. Finally, sensing the gloom in the air, he put on some music you weren't a fan of, but you still appreciated something to focus on. Something other than that horrid man's hands holding you in place as his wicked tongue tore into Rowena. It was the last thing you wanted to think about.

You laid your head on her lap for the reminder of the trip. Instinctively, she started caressing your cheek. Rubbing your shoulder. Running her fingers over your skin in invisible doodles. A little game you appreciated, you craved more than ever. I cherish you, every touch said. I love you. Your heart swelled with reciprocation.

Not many words were exchanged at the Bunker, either. The two of you wanted to head home, but the brothers convinced you to stay for the night. It was late, they said. You were both tired and needed rest. It was a hard fact to argue with, so you accepted.

The room they gave you was small and cosy. Nothing special in terms of decor, but good enough. Perfectly acceptable for a sleepover. It wouldn't be fair to complain; you were guests, after all. The brothers were doing you a favor.

You'd just gotten out of a shower, clad in one of Sam's old shirts that fell to your knees like a dress, when Rowena said, "I didn't enjoy it."

She was on the bed, in an oversized shirt herself, having had her shower right before.

"What?"

"Janus. I didn't—I didn't enjoy being with him. I had to."

"You don't have to ex—"

"You deserve to know the kind of woman you lay in bed with every night." Redness rimmed her eyes. She blinked the tears away, willed them back. "After the Loughlins threw me out, I went in search of a new hideout. The British Men of Letters were after me. I was weak and scared. I'd heard rumors of another powerful witch residing nearby, so I sought him out."

A nervous smile flickered over her mouth.

"At first, like the Loughlins, he wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn't the kind of witch he was interested in helping. But when I made him the same offer, he accepted."

"Rowena—"

She shook her head, cutting you off. "It was horrid, but I did what I had to do to survive."

You knew that. She'd done plenty of things to ensure her survival. Some horrible, others less so. What mattered was that she lived. You couldn't fault her for that.

"It only happened once," she said. "I was out of there as soon as I felt it was safe."

"You haven't done anything wrong." People did all kinds of things when they were desperate. Stupid things. Reckless things. Heartbreaking things. That didn't make them bad. It just made them human.

That was what Rowena was — human. Underneath all her protective walls and the magic coursing through her veins, she was still a woman. A human being that felt and hurt and bled just like anyone else.

A moment passed in silence. Then, "He's not the only one I did it with. There were others."

You'd figured as much. Three years ago when she'd first told you about the Loughlins, you suspected there was more to the story. That there were more times where she was desperate and scared and alone, and she had no other way to survive than to bargain her body. You never brought it up; it wasn't your place to ask about such intimate, painful details. It wasn't your business. The last thing you wanted was for her to think you were judging her.

"You have to understand, I wasn't always this powerful. Sometimes I just needed to survive, and I did."

"I know," you said firmly, with all the conviction you could muster. Your eyes found hers, locked with them. "I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah." You settled next to her on the bed. Reached for her hand. "You didn't do anything wrong. They took advantage of you."

A good person would have helped her without asking for anything in return. A good person would have given her food and shelter, exchanged a few kind words with her, listened to her plight. Would have befriended her, protected her instead of taking what they wanted. What the circumstances had forced her to offer.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be?" You knew she had a past. As far as things went, this wasn't the worst she'd done.  Not even close. "I don't care what happened before. It's not like you cheated on me."

That prompted her to chuckle. "I suppose not."

You smiled. "You're my girl. I love you no matter what."

You loved her when she was nothing but a wicked witch who loved no one but herself. You loved her when she killed people, innocent and guilty alike. You loved her when she ruined and destroyed everything in her path. When she thought of you as nothing but an accessory, a poor, wee witch following her around like a puppy, desperate for her to teach her the ways of magic. You loved her when she changed, and when she suffered, and when she tossed and turned in the night as nightmares plagued her dreams.

You loved her through everything, and had taught her to love you back.

Her past couldn't change that.

Rowena's cheeks flushed with color. "What have I done to deserve you?"

"You're you." That was more than good enough for you.

A tear spilled down her cheek. "Bloody sap."

"Hey, you started it!" you teased.

She scoffed. You shrugged, nonchalant.

She squeezed your hand. After a moment of silence, she said, "I love you, as well."

"Who's the sap now?" She shot you a glare that had to have killed before, and you laughed. "You're so precious."

And you loved her for it. So much. Too much.

The past be damned.

*****

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[princess-of-riviaa]

Inflicting Misery: Chapter 6

Pairing: August Walker x Reader

Summary: August gets called in when you get hurt beyond repair.

Author’s Note: This chapter will be in August’s POV.

Warning(s): mentions of psychological torture and abuse, LOTS of angst, some fluff

Word Count: 1,975

Henry’s gun is raised, locked, and loaded as he turns the corner to find Agent Sloane sitting on his couch, looking completely at home in Henry’s living room.

“Get the hell out of my house,” he growls, the threat clear in his voice.

She sets down whatever she’s drinking--only Sloane would have the audacity to not only break into Henry’s house, but make herself at home enough to make a drink and relax on his couch--and looks up at him. There’s no fear in her eyes, as if she thinks he won’t shoot her. “You’re needed back in Washington.”

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but you have ten seconds to get out of here before I shoot.” His lie is insistent. I’m not an agent anymore, I’m a Norwegian man named Henry.

She laughs to herself. “I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put in to making yourself disappear. I believe that still, after five years, I’m the only one who knows you’re alive.”

She’s not the only one, he thinks, and memories of the last night he was with you come flooding back. He’d run away that night like a goddamn coward. He should have ignored the declarations of love you’d made to him and waited to fuck you before leaving you. He’s still wound up from that night several weeks ago. The fire that your presence always starts still burns hot inside of him. Nothing but you can quench his need, but you’re long gone by now. He’ll probably never see you again. Henry ignores how empty that thought makes him feel. He survived five years without you; he can do it again.

“Agent Y/N knew,” Sloane admits, continuing on when Henry says nothing. “But she was good about keeping your existence a secret.”

The gun hovers in his hand. “What do you mean she knew?” Why the hell was Sloane talking in the past tense?

Sloane rises to her feet and begins to make her way towards Henry. “I mean, she was captured and tortured. We’ve gotten her back in our custody; she’s safe now. But I’m not sure how much of her they left behind.”

The gun is at his side now, his thoughts a blur as questions shoot through his mind like bullets. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means they got inside her head, tortured her for long enough that she forgot the majority of her life, who she is. They brainwashed her into turning against us. We have her locked up in a confidential location, but she’s proven untrustworthy. We can’t let her out without her trying to kill the guards, and you know how good of a soldier she is--she’s succeeded in killing thirteen men already.”

Henry is silent, taking this all in. He wants to puke. He wants Sloane to say this is all some sick kind of joke, that you’re okay and safe. But she never does.

“We’ve tried everything we can think of to get through to her,” Sloane admits. “Nothing has worked. You’re our last hope, Walker.”

Walker. He hasn’t heard that name in years; it sounds strange and foreign to him, like something out of a dream he had long ago.

“The world thinks you’re dead,” Sloane reminds him. “As long as you stay here, they’ll keep thinking you’re dead. You’ll be left alone. You’ll have liberty to live out the rest of your life in peace. But if you stay here, we’ll have to kill her. No one in the CIA can get through to her and as of right now, she’s a threat to the organization. Killing her is the only option. If you come back and are successful in rewinding her brainwashing, she’ll live. She’ll be put through extensive cognitive rehabilitation therapy, but she’ll live. But it’s up to you, Walker.”

...

“How long has she been kept like this?” August asks as he memorizes the sight of you through the one-way glass.

The chair you’re sitting in is the only furniture in that cold, empty room. You’ve been an agent long enough to know that the mirror to the left of you hides other agents memorizing your every move. But you don’t look up. You don’t even fight to get out of the straightjacket you’re locked in.

“One-hundred twenty-two hours,” Agent Lorenzo answers, still looking at August like he’s a ghost.

Just over five days then, August calculates.

“When was the last time she had something to drink?” August dares to ask, struggling to keep his anger on a tight leash.

The other agents only answer with shrugs.

August curses under his breath before stealing the water bottle from Lorenzo’s hand and entering the room you’re being kept in. You make no sign that you’ve heard him enter. Your eyes never leave the floor, staring at some invisible mark. He closes the distance between you and puts the water to your mouth. You take it greedily, gulping down the entire bottle as August runs his hand over your hair in soothing touches. Only once the water is gone do you look up at him. He’s never seen those eyes so empty before. It chills him to the bone, makes him sick, makes him want to kill the people who hurt you this bad. But instead of letting his anger get the best of him, he walks around you and begins to undo the straightjacket. He expects you to lash out at him as soon as you’re free. But you just rest your hands in your lap, looking more like a ghost than the brainwashed, sadistic murderer Sloane’s made you out to be. He helps you out of your seat and you fall against him. You haven’t eaten in days, nor had anything to drink save for the water he just gave you; of course you’re weak. August picks you up in his arms and you let him carry you out of the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lorenzo asks, flabbergasted.

“If you think we’ll let you take her out of here--” Sloane begins.

August gives her a look. “The only way you’re going to stop me is if you put a bullet through my head.”

She doesn’t move for the gun on her belt.

August knew she wouldn’t. He’s too valuable to her. No one else tries to stop him as he makes his way out of the building. He finds his rented car in the parking garage and helps you into the passenger seat, making sure you’re buckled and comfortable before moving to the driver’s side.

“Where would you like to eat?” August asks.

You don’t reply, don’t do anything but stare forward blankly. You’re nothing like the monster Sloane had described to August less than twenty-four hours ago. Maybe she’d lied to get him to come back. He wouldn’t say it’s beneath her. That woman would do whatever it takes to get what she wants.

It’s a good thing August knows your favorite place to eat. He turns the keys i the ignition and heads out of the parking garage. Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are parked in the back parking lot of Mangialardo’s, the best sandwich shop in all of D.C. August ordered your favorite sandwich without the bread, knowing it would probably be too heavy on your stomach after not eating for several days. He makes sure you drink enough water but not too much; he doesn’t want you getting sick all over this rental. You both eat in silence. August takes his time enjoying his roast beef sandwich. He hasn’t had a sandwich like this since he went off the map; it’s one of the things he misses most about his old life.

“You know, Sloane sees you as a threat.” His voice sounds loud amidst all of your silence.

You don’t respond, but he continues anyway.

“She thinks I can get through to you, break down whatever defenses you put up after those men...” He can’t even finish the thought without tasting his sandwich start to come back up. “I guess she really doesn’t know how much you hate me.”

Still you’re silent. This time, it’s disappointing. Some stupid part of him had wanted you to reassure him that you don’t hate him, never have and never will.

He clenches his jaw, forcing his feelings down as he moves back to business. “If I can’t get through to you, she’s going to kill you. You realize that, don’t you? If Sloane sees you as a threat, you gotta change her mind. She won’t hesitate to kill a soldier, not even if it’s one of her own.”

Nothing.

He’s ready to scream at you for how vacant you seem. You’re alive enough to move around, for your heart to beat and your lungs to rise and fall with air, but you’re dead inside. It makes him feel things he doesn’t even know how to describe. August can’t get you to talk.

But he knows who can.

After a quick search on his phone, he switches the car into drive and turns back onto the street.

...

The five-year-old kid you and August have been watching for several minutes laughs as he swings on the monkey bars. He undoubtedly has incredibly painful blisters on his hands from holding onto those bars all day, but he’s feeling too playful to notice. The kid’s parents watch him from the sidewalk. They can’t see August and you from where you’re seated on a bench beside the basketball court, but he can see them. They’re a happy couple. The husband keeps an arm around his pregnant wife’s waist while she rubs her stomach with motherly affection. The contrast between them and you and August is almost laughable. August suddenly understands what you must have been thinking when you signed those adoption papers.

“I wonder if they kept the name Hayden,” August ponders as he looks back at his biological son. He has August’s blue eyes and build but your dark hair, your smile. “He looks like a Hayden. I can’t believe he’s already five.”

“Six,” you correct.

August practically jumps when he hears your voice. He tries not to look at you in disbelief, but he can’t keep himself from staring. For a minute there he really thought... “Six?” he repeats, not even caring what the conversation is anymore, just wanting to hear your voice again.

You keep your eyes on Hayden as you answer, “He’s six, not five. His birthday was last week.”

Oh. Good to know. Of all things to bring you back, of all things to make you you again, it was your son. His son. He knew he shouldn’t, but he felt a sense of pride about that. Something he’d helped create was actually good. It brought light and clarity to the woman most important to him. He feels warmth spread throughout his body--not lust, not hate, but something... simpler. Something calmer.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t look at August, instead opting to watch Hayden climb up the rock wall and jump onto the slide, but August knows you can hear him.

“Y/N, I...” His voice shakes at what he’s about to say. “I think I’m... I’m in love with you.”

Your face becomes more animated than he’s seen it be all day. You smile, but it isn’t happy--it’s arrogant. Like you already knew. You turn to him and say, “I know. I’ve known since Norway, August. I just needed you to realize it too. And yes, it took some extreme measures on my end, but I think it’s safe to say that it was worth it. We love each other. Now we can really be together.”

***

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[tooyoungtoknowtheyhaditall]

Two Ghosts

Chapter 1

Harry had been dreaming of freedom and fearless days when he heard Louis phone ring from their nightstand when Louis got up to answer it, a frown stretched onto Harry's lips, but Louis pecked his forehead, a silent promise that he would be back when the call ended. With that, Harry fell back to sleep.

He dreamt of going on fancy dates in town instead of takeout. He dreamt of phones on silent and movies uninterrupted.

He also dreamt of what he regretted. He dreamt of Louis living happy and free with out him. He dreamt of his father. He dreamt of his existence.

He dreamt of the day he met the man with the feathery brown hair. He dreamt of the red skinny jeans and the toms he was wearing. He dreamt of the pep in his step and the light in his smile.

He regrets hurting the man he loves so much.

*********************

"Harry we have to go!" Louis yelled up the flight of stairs.

"What?" Harry said walking unsteadily–having just woken up– to the top of the stairs so he could see Louis.

"They're here." Louis said, face white as a sheet and Harry's face drained of color shortly after.

"Oh fuck!" Harry said running back to their room only to return with the car keys. "Let's go" He said, passing Louis and going to the basement door with Louis on his trail.

"I guess we shouldn't be surprised, it's been a long time coming." Louis said while fumbling with the dead bolt, locking the basement from the inside.

"I guess you're right, I just thought we were almost out of the woods." Harry said sadly.

"Haz, you and I know better than anyone that you can't get away from that kind of stuff." Harry nodded his head in agreement as he hopped in the black Range Rover. He opened the garage door once Louis was in. He started the engine and slowly rolled into what looks like a parking garage that slowly inclined. Once they were fully in he closed the door behind them.

"Where are we headed?" Harry asked once he had a moment to slow down his thoughts. Louis hands him a map and written directions. Once he took a quick look at it, Harry started to roll into the dark tunnel, illuminated only by their headlights.

"Niall and Liam stocked it up with about a years worth." Louis said with a humorless chuckle. "Must be really serious." Harry finally pulled up to yet another door, but when he opened it, it wasn't another tunnel, but daylight. They were about four blocks from their house in an ally. "Make a left Babe."

"Do you regret it?" Harry asked, breaking the silence that had settled in to the car only a few minutes before.

"Getting to love you for the rest of my life? Not in a million years would I have chosen any different." Louis said confidence strong in his tone. "Do you?" He said, though much less confidently.

"I regret not letting you live your life, but I could never regret loving you." Harry said with a faint smile.

"I wouldn't be living my life if I wasn't with you." Louis said, sad that the love of his life thought this way. "I've always wanted to be criminal." He said trying to lift the mood before pulling Harry into a kiss as they arrived at a red light.

Even though it was merely 3 in the morning, there was still plenty of traffic. Given the circumstances, they were very grateful for that.

"I love you Boo." Harry said without really knowing what was compelling him.

"I love you more."

Chapter 2

They cut the headlights, left with only the dim glow of their dirty fog lights, as the pavement turned to a dirt road at the edge of the woods. As they drove through the forest, they could see next to nothing.

"This is nerve-racking." Harry said with a nervous chuckle.

"Just keep your eyes on the road."

"If I could look at you I'd roll my eyes." Harry said trying to hold back a smile.

"Fuck!" Harry half shouts.

"What's going on?" Louis asked confused.

"I can hear sirens, and we're nearing the canopy of trees so we won't even have moonlight. I would go really slow but they're on our tail." He said nervous and exasperated.

"Fuck is right."

Harry took a deep breath before driving into the total darkness. They had driven only a minute in–still going about thirty miles an hour–before Harry started to get a bad gut feeling, but the sirens getting closer by the second were enough to keep them going, if not a bit faster.

"Lou, I don't like this one bit." He said biting his lip nervously.

"At least there's barriers in the canopied part?" Louis says more as a question than an assurance.

"So there can be the tiniest bit of reflection if I get really, really close?" Harry said agitated. "Sorry love, I'm not mad at you, just worried." He spoke softly before lifting Louis' hand that was previously rested on his thigh, pressing a kiss to it.

Harry sighed in relief, not because of Louis' words but because he could see the end of the canopy only a few hundred feet away. Seeing as it was a straight shot, he subconsciously went faster. They were only 10 feet from the light when–

"DEER!" Louis screamed as about 5 deer ran out right in front of them.

As he slammed on the break the car only slid, so he tried to swerve, but on the dirt rode, he lost control of the car. They spun twice before going off the rode and smashing into a tree. Harry had smashed his head on the steering wheel, earning him a bloody nose, but nothing more. He looked over at Louis who had sustained more injuries and was only half conscious. Harry briefly wondered why the air bags hadn't worked before reaching over to Louis.

"Lou. Lou. Louis." He persisted finally getting a response. "Stay with me Babe."

"What the hell happened?" Louis asked still dazed.

"Car wreck, Honey." He spoke calmly. "I'll tell you more when we get there but right now we've got to run. You have to promise to stay awake though, love, you hit your head really hard." Louis just nodded. "We're gonna get out, and then you're gonna hop on my back and I'm going to run away from the road, okay?" Louis was slowly starting to come back.

"Okay Haz, are you sure you're okay?" He questioned with a pained look on his face.

"Completely. Now let's go."

Chapter 3

Harry opened his car door first glad that it wasn't too damaged to open. He walked around to Louis' side getting him out of the car and as he did, he saw an open wound on the back of his head. He assumed it was from hitting his head on the window, meaning he hit his head harder than initially thought. He put him on his back like he was giving a piggy back ride.

"Boobear, you're gonna have to stay awake, you're definitely concussed. Can you sing to me while we walk so I know you're awake?" Louis just nodded and started singing what he knew was Harry's favorite song, Copy of a Copy of a Copy.

"It's an old curse, dreamers diving head first, broken beaks and dead birds." Louis sung, his voice angelic even in this state.

"Can't get through the glass." Harry joined in.

Louis hummed and sung songs that he knew Harry loved as they walked deeper into the woods. The more he walked the worse Harry began to feel. His head slowly started pounding and he felt dizzy. He just felt so weak. He needed to lay down. Luckily, they were a good 20 minute walk from the road and Harry had found a small trench to hide in. He just prayed that they didn't see the car.

"Lou baby, we're gonna lay down here okay?" He asked, his timing perfect as Louis was about to doze off. Louis nodded in response. "You must stay awake, it's really important. I'll stay awake with you okay?"

"Okay Haz, I love you so much, and I can feel you blaming yourself. Stop it." Harry was shocked to hear this from Louis in such a state to say the least.

"I love you more." He said, placing a kiss to Louis' forehead, nose, and then lips. Louis snuggled back against him and Harry put an arm around thee smaller boy to keep him warm. "What do you dream about?" Harry asked before getting to process the question leaving his lips, but his mind was too fuzzy to care.

"I dream of living a life with you." He was going to continue when he realized that Harry's breathing had evened out and that was enough to make Louis forget his promise. Harry had forgotten his. "I love you most Hazza." He whispered before falling into a dreamless sleep.

Two lovers lying under the moon.

Chapter 4

"Harry. Harry. Haz. Wake up." Harry opened his eyes to see Louis' blue ones. It took Harry a moment to remember the events of the previous night, but once he did he panicked.

"Shit, Lou, we have to go! If they haven't found us already, they're looking! Fuck! I fell asleep, I'm so sorry! Do we still have the map? I don't ev–"

"Calm down babe. I'm fine, you're fine, I have the map. We aren't far from the cabin. I can hear them from afar so we've got to be quick."  Louis said, back to his usual put-together self.

"You had to stay awake all night on your own?" Harry asked, still stuck on that tidbit.

"No, you clocked out as soon as your head hit the ground, and I, well I followed soon after." Louis confessed with an almost apologetic expression. 

"I'm sorry Lou, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I'm glad you're alright though." He said with a soft smile.

"I actually feel a lot better after some sleep. How do you feel?" Once he mentioned it Harry realized that he too feels much better. The power of sleep.

"Yeah I actually feel much better, I guess we were both just in shock." Harry said, finally calming down. "I'm so fucking glad you're okay." He said again, pulling Louis into a hug on top of him.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, alright," Louis said, rolling his eyes but unable to hold back a love drunk smile. "Save it though, we've gotta get going." Harry nods and they both get up and brush themselves off before Louis takes the lead, heading north. "I hope you know you're the only one I'd do this for."

"I know, I wish you didn't feel you had to." Harry replied, eyes on the ground. Louis stopped and grabbed Harry’s wrist turning him toward him.

"I don't. I do it because you complete me, and no Harry I don't love this," he said, vaguely gesticulating to the woods which Harry assumed was in reference to their current situation. "But I do love you. More than anything." Louis rant was interrupted when they heard voices far behind them and they both took off running. With the adrenaline rushing through them, they moved swiftly through the woods, losing the cops.

After ten minutes of running, they saw the peak of a cabin roof. What to most people would look like a decaying abandoned cabin looked like a glowing safe haven to the couple on the run.

"Looks like we made it!" Louis said with a smile nearly breaking his face.

"Always underestimated." Harry sing-songed back at him, laughing.

"Oh shut up! Can I not say song lyrics around you anymore?" Louis laughed out.

"Nope!" Harry said, popping the p.

They walked up the stars of the porch only now realizing the size of the house. From the outside they could see two tiers of boarded up windows and didn't even know if there was a basement. Louis walked up to a sconce by the door, pulling out a ring of keys. Harry raised an eyebrow, but his unasked question was answered when Louis unlocked the door only to reveal another. And then three more.

"Wow." Harry remarked. "Liam and Niall are good."

"That they are Haz, that they are." Louis mumbled as he pushed open the last door. He went back and relocked all of the doors while Harry looked around the fully furnished house. He was completely dumbfounded.

"Let's go check this place out!" Harry exclaimed, practically glowing with excitement. "How is it that this abandoned house in the middle of the woods is nicer than our expensive apartment?" He said as he twirled around the large master bedroom.

"Have I told you I love you lately?" Louis asked. "Because right now you're pretty damn adorable." Harry didn't even get a chance to blush before Louis tackled in a bear hug, throwing them both onto the soft king mattress. 

"I love you so much Lou. There's no one else I'd rather spend my life with." Harry mumbled into the crook of Louis' neck. "How did we get here?"

"Well, it started when you seduced me from the back of a cop car." Louis said with an airy chuckle. Harry just grimaced at the memory.

"God I was shitty." He said with a painful look on his face.

"I was a shitty cop, you did what you had to do to not be locked up. Or, or dead." Louis shuddered at the thought of his lover dead. "I'm glad you sweet talked me from the back seat because quite honestly, my life needed some spice," he said trying to lift Harry’s mood. "You are like hot sauce baby." He said, barely succeeding at keeping a straight face. Harry rolled away from Louis, turning his back to him.

"Wow, I'm in love with an Idiot." He said laughing.

"A sexy-cliche-bad-cop idiot." Louis said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"No, we need to go explore the house." Harry said, mock seriousness in his voice.

"Alright, alright, later." Louis said, rolling off the bed. Harry just rolled his eyes.

To Be Continued...

[caranfindel]

Fic: Flies in the Vaseline

gen, preseries | about 1700 words | PG-13 for language | characters: dean winchester, john winchester, sam winchester | warnings: gratuitous use of second person

Synopsis: The best hunters don't smoke. Inspired by a Tumblr post (waves to @road-rhythm​)

. . . . . . .

The first time your father caught you smoking, you braced for impact, literally and figuratively. You half expected him to smack the cigarette out of your lips. You definitely expected an angry lecture. But he just looked at you, so calm it was almost scary.

"That's not your first one," he finally said. "How often are you doing that?"

Emboldened, you finished the cigarette in one long, last draw, tossing it onto the asphalt and grinding it out with the tip of your boot. "Not a lot. Not every day. Just… sometimes."

"Mmm hmmm." He was still unnaturally calm. "You think that's a good idea?"

You swallowed a laugh at the possibility that smoking might be what got you in the end, rather than a claw or a fang. "I'm not letting it get out of hand," you said.

"Oh, so you think you've got a handle on it." Ah, there it was. That patented John Winchester attitude, disappointment garnished with a dollop of sarcasm. And it pissed you off.

"Yessir, I think I do. I don't think one cigarette to help me relax every once in a while is going to hurt me." Not any more than the constant infusion of Jack Daniels is hurting you, you wanted to point out, but you were not stupid enough to say that out loud.

He stared at you a little bit longer. Maybe thinking you're old enough to make your own decisions, but more likely thinking you dumbass, I don't even know what to do with you. Finally he said "All right, if you think you've got this situation under control, let's see how that works out for you. But don't let Sam see you doing it. You know how the kid looks up to you."

You replayed every word in your mind, looking for the command. It wasn't there. "So you're not telling me to stop?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

That felt like a trap, and you didn't answer.

He didn't mention it again, and didn't see you smoking again, until a couple of months later. You'd successfully cleaned out a pack of ghouls with some friends of his (no, not friends, associates; John Winchester didn't really make friends), and when Ripley pulled out a Marlboro and then waved his pack at you, you took one. Your father watched and scowled and didn't say a word.

But later, when you were in the car for the long drive back to the motel, something clicked. Or snapped. Because you were almost eighteen years old, you'd been hunting monsters since you were barely old enough to jack off, you were younger than all the guys you'd hunted with tonight and still better than most of them, and you'd just killed your first ghoul. And he didn't say good job, Dean or I'm proud of you or anything. He just bitchfaced about your smoking. And you'd had enough. You drank like a man and fucked like a man and hunted like a man and you weren't going to hide cigarettes from your Daddy like a little boy any more.

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out the half-empty pack that had been stashed in there for a couple of weeks. And this time you didn't expect it at all, so you jumped when your father slapped the cigarette out of your hand.

"Not in my car," he snapped.

"Jesus, Dad," you said, embarrassed. "Chill out. All you gotta do is ask."

"No, I don't have to ask," he growled. "I'm telling you. Not in my car."

A couple of miles went by before he spoke again. "Dean," he said, "I know you're going to do what you want to do, when I'm not around. I just want to make sure you're making an informed decision. You know what smoking is going to do to you, right?"

"What," you said, "give me lung cancer? Like I'm gonna live long enough to worry about that?"

He sighed. "Yes, I do hope you live long enough to worry about that. But I'm not talking about lung cancer. I'm not talking about long term. I'm talking about right now. The way it affects your lungs. Do you think shortness of breath is an advantage for a hunter?"

"Didn't seem to hurt Ripley."

"Oh, Ripley." His lip curled. "So that's your goal, then? To be as good a hunter as Ripley?"

You wanted to scream that it was so fucking unfair, that you'd done every goddamn thing the man ever wanted. That you were already better than Ripley and most other hunters and the world wasn't going to end if he loosened the reins just the tiniest bit. You wanted to ask him if he was ever going to be satisfied, if you were ever going to be enough.

You didn't. You tucked the half-empty pack back into your pocket and rode silently back to the motel.

. . .

And now it's the next morning. There's no post-hunt day off, no downtime, as usual. Your father barks a reveille at o'dark thirty, and by the time the sun comes up you're shivering on an empty high school football practice field. Sam peers up at you through messy bangs, silently questioning. You shrug.

"Sam?" Dad asks. "How fast can a black dog run?"

Sam looks pleased that today's training includes a mental component, since that's the only way he ever comes out on top. "They've been clocked at twenty miles an hour," he says. "Maybe up to twenty-five. For short bursts, anyway. Not long distance."

"So let's say twenty miles an hour. Convert that to yards per second."

Sam gives him a puzzled look, then closes his eyes and furiously calculates in his head. "Um… ten. Almost ten yards per second."

"Good job." Sam practically glows in the wake of Dad's faint praise. "Okay, Dean, your turn. Couple laps around the field. Fast."

Fine. You sprint down the field, legs and arms pumping, watching Dad and Sam out of the corner of your eye. They're still standing at the edge of the field, talking. Well, Dad's talking. Sam is listening. Your brother reaches out to high-five you as you pass. The little shit's in a good mood after getting to show off his mathlete skills.

You circle the field again, fast, because you're not going to give the old man a reason to bitch at you, to give you the disappointed turned-down mouth and the narrowed you've failed me eyes. At the end of your second lap you pull up, sweaty and out of breath, ignoring the stitch in your side.

Your father gives you an enigmatic smile. "You doing okay, son?"

"Yessir."

"All right. Stay here for a sec." He puts his hand on Sam's back and steers him down the field. "Here's the scenario," he calls, when they stop. "Your brother's 30 yards away from you. His leg is broken, so he can't run. And there's a black dog 40 yards away from him, about to pounce. You're out of ammo, so you have to take it down with a knife. So you've got to get to Sam before the black dog does."

Forty yards. Four seconds. Motherfucker.

He looks at his watch and barks "go!" and for a moment you think you might be able to do it. Maybe if you'd already been in motion, you would have had a chance. But you can't sprint forty yards in four seconds from a standstill. You just can't. Even if you hadn't been out of breath to start with, it would have been difficult. You're still almost ten yards away when your father grabs Sam from behind. Sam shrieks with laughter (it's a happy noise, you tell your panicky lizard brain, a happy noise, goddammit) and his skinny legs go flying as Dad spins him away from you, out of reach.

You pull up and lean over with your hands braced on your knees, acting like you're stretching, because you don't want to look up into your father's smug smile.

"Okay, Sam," he says, "your turn. Two laps. Go."

When your brother is out of hearing range, you straighten up and try to force yourself to breathe normally. When you can speak, it comes out in short bursts.

"You know that's… a bunch of crap… right?"

"What's that, son?" he says mildly, his eyes following Sam down the field.

"The smoking's got nothing to do with… with me being out of breath right now… I hardly smoke at all… it takes me the better part of a month to finish a pack… and that's gonna bring me down like, one percent, tops… and me reducing my lung capacity by one percent isn't gonna affect anything… I couldn't have got to him in time… smoking or not."

"That's true," he says, turning to you. "Sometimes even a hundred percent isn't enough. And most days, it won’t matter. Most days, ninety-nine percent is going to do the job. But one day you're going to need a hundred percent. And you never know when that day's gonna come, Dean. So, is tomorrow gonna be a ninety-nine percent day? Are you ready to bet your life on it? My life?" He turns to look at Sam, loping back up the field toward you. "His life? Something happens to him, it's gonna be bad enough knowing you couldn't have stopped it. How's it gonna feel knowing you could have?"

You don't have an answer for that, but your father's not waiting for one. "Sam!" he yells. "Kick it into gear the rest of the way! You're in a sprint, not a marathon!" Sam ducks his head and runs, slender arms and legs frantically churning as if something dark is snarling at his heels.

. . .

(Tonight, in your nightmares, you'll be unable to breathe, running slow and sluggish like you're pushing through chest-deep water, like you’re drowning in Vaseline. You'll watch helplessly as Sam falls, screaming, taken down by something dark, something snarling, something hungry with fangs and claws. You'll wake with a pained gasp and flush the last of the cigarettes down the toilet. You’ll spend half an hour silently watching your little brother sleep, still hearing him scream your name. And you'll know you're a failure, you let everyone down; you can never, will never be enough. )

(And the next day, you’ll go out and try anyway.)

~ ~ ~ ~

The title is from Vasoline by Stone Temple Pilots, but the actual product is spelled Vaseline and therefore I insist on spelling it that way.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Hi lovely! Just sending my ask for what we talked about! I work for a bingo company as a chat room host. I talk to players, answer queries and running quizzes. Could i request a piece of patrick being bored while i work, tonight i work til 1am so once he finished school I'd be working. I can just imagine him being so bored and cute.

To add on to my recent ask...you'll know what i mean...ASSSSSSSSS DAT ASS!!!!

My dearest Charlotte, I know exactly what you mean ;) there’s nudity in this piece but it’s not NSFW so fair warning ^^ I hope that you enjoy this piece, please let me know if not and I’ll write you something else ksksksk this is personalised just for you, so enjoy! 💜

Quick disclaimer: It’s mentioned that Pat goes to school but Heath was 19 at the time of filming and so I write Pat to be 19 - 22 years old.

Word count: 1, 763.

You were already working when Pat came home from school. 

You had over a thousand people in one chat room and over three hundred in another. You were typing as fast as you could to talk to players and to answer any questions they had, and your fingers felt like they couldn’t move fast enough, your brain working faster than your body could move. It made a panicked ache bloom in your chest sometimes, but for the most part were you confident and sure of yourself. You knew what you were doing. Your wrists were cramping horribly but you pushed forward to fulfil your minutely quota.

Your laptop was hooked up to another monitor so that you could see more of everything at once. Your eyes moved over both screens, your fingers were moving as fast as you could manage. You were well and truly in the zone, focused and working your absolute hardest. So focused were you, in fact, that you completely missed Pat coming home from school. Usually, he made a fuss when he came in, wanting all of your attention, but you started work at four fifteen in the afternoon and he came home at almost five. You were already in full swing and Pat sequestered himself in the living room so that you remained undisturbed in the bedroom.

You had a migraine, too, and you were feeling nauseous. You were tired and you were feeling bad about so many things; things you had no control over, things you couldn’t change. You desperately wanted for Pat to cuddle you and to take care of you - 

Just as the lump in your throat, made up was it of a wad of emotions impossible to name or define, grew bigger and made your eyes sting with tears which only blurred your vision and made you blink them away rapidly, there was a small knock on the bedroom door and Pat cracked the bedroom door open just enough for him to come through. He shut it as quietly as he could with his free hand; the other was balancing a tray made up of a glass of water and some food for you. He tiptoed around the room so that he could set the tray on the nearest available surface, moving with exaggerated movements to, at the very least, make you smile.

You barely even glanced at him, your fingers moving over the keyboard. Occasionally did you mutter something to yourself, something which you needed to do or remember, and Pat was entirely enraptured by you. You were so focused but all the signs were there that you weren’t feeling good. Pat sat down beside you once the tray was settled and he further moved and laid down beside you, keeping to himself and being as quiet as he could. He had missed you today but you would be working until one in the morning and so Pat had to get his fill of you where he could. You were the best part of him, the most exciting part of his day, and Pat always made sure that you knew how deeply he loved you.

Pat was not a quiet man. He loved spontaneity and adventures, making you laugh. Your smile was one of his most favourite sights and Pat worked to see it every day. Some days, on his darkest days, it was for your smile that he even got out of bed. What the two of you shared was so deep and so rich that it was beyond words, though you exchanged plenty of those. He managed to lay there for half an hour before he sighed. It was a long and heavy sound saturated with boredom.

“Hey there, girlie,” Pat sighed, reaching out to touch the small of your back. His hand was pressed flat against your shirt, the heat of him seeping into your own body and warming you from the inside out. It felt good to have Pat there with you and you pushed yourself backwards just enough so that you could enjoy his touch a little more. Pat chuckled low in his throat and slipped his hand underneath the hem of your shirt so that he could soothe you as best as he could without disturbing you. He knew that you weren’t feeling okay but you wouldn’t finish for another five hours or so, and it was all that he could do to be there for you.

“Hi, Pat.” You smiled slightly, your heart squeezing with love for your Aussie. You loved him with your entire being and you knew that Pat loved you with all that he was, too. “How was school?”

Pat chuckled. “I don’t know. I skipped most of my classes.”

“Pat!” You scolded him half heartedly, your eyes not leaving your work. You had to remain focused no matter what. You continued to type with one hand while the other grabbed the glass of water. You drank deeply, clearing almost half the glass in one hit,

“Whoa, easy,” Pat laughed as he crept closer to you so that he could lean his forehead against the small of your back, underneath your shirt, “Breathe, love.”

“Mm.” A noncommittal noise and then, “No time.”

Pat remained where he was, underneath your shirt, his soft curls tickling at your skin, his breath gently fanning across your flesh as he inhaled and exhaled through his nose. You thought that he might have been asleep there, tucked into you. You felt him move as he pulled his legs up so that he was in the foetal position, curled up into your back. An arm lifted off the mattress which cradled Pat’s body and wrapped around your lower belly. He didn’t squeeze you, for that could hurt you on a bad pain day, but he shuffled closer to you, full lips clumsily pressing a kiss to the space of your back which was closest to him. “I love you.” A sleepy, incoherent mumble. Oh, but he was so tired. He often stayed up with you while you were working, so he was up at seven in the morning to get ready for school and he didn’t go to bed until one in the morning or whenever you finished. When he came home from school, he would collapse into bed with you (gently, so as to not cause you any more pain) and sleep until you finished work... and so the cycle would continue.

There was nothing that he wouldn’t do for you. True to his surname was he a romantic. He was a sweetheart and he told you every minute of the day that he loved you; with his words and with his actions so that never could you doubt him. In return did you reassure him of the same and the two of you clung to each other with all that you had. You were there for each other through your best days and through your worst; there was nothing that you wouldn’t do for the other person and there was nothing that either of you could ever say or do which would make the other love you any less or be any less proud of you.

“I love you too.” A pause and then, “Are you sleeping because you’re bored?”

“Well, that and I’m tired.” Pat’s body shook the bed with his laughter, his fingers stroking soothingly along your side, once again under your shirt. He craved you like his lungs needed oxygen.

A hand left your keyboard just enough to reach back and blindly feel along Pat’s legs. Your fingers rested upon his black jeans for just a moment, long enough for him to register that you were touching him, and then you had to get back to typing; there was always just so much to do. Pat ended up falling asleep against you, his arm curled around you. He must have been more tired than he had let on, but faithfully did he remain beside you until you were finished. You picked at the food he had made for you as your shift crawled past and at last, at last, when the clock struck one in the morning and your shift finished, Pat was the first one to spring up. 

He was blearily eyed, his curls flat on one side where his head had been pressed against your back, and he helped you to put everything away before without finesse or thought did he strip down. First his charcoal grey long sleeved shirt, tossed unceremoniously into the corner of your room, then his black jeans were shed and left as they were on the floor, the trouser legs left inside out. You stared, utterly captivated, and Pat caught your heated gaze with his own. A wicked grin accompanied his next words to you. “I bet you’ve thought about me naked, huh?” Pat winked as he pulled down his boxers while he slid into bed. You caught a flash of his bare bum as he did so and you felt your entire body heat up in a blush.

“Thinking about it now, yeah.” Your voice was weak in your arousal and your body feeling shaky. Oh, the things he could do to you...

Pat threw you another wink and leaned over the bed to peel back the duvet on your side - get in - and you smiled in relief as with a weary sigh did you sink into bed. Pat leaned over and shut the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. Your head was pounding as your migraine got worse and your nausea increased, too, but Pat, intuitive as he was, began to gently massage your scalp with one hand, the other one draped over your hips again. He didn’t squeeze but his weight there was a deeply reassuring one. 

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Really shitty. You?”

“Worried. For you. Come on, we gotta sleep - busy day tomorrow. I love you, you know that?”

You tipped your head, searching, wanting. Pat chuckled, knowing what you were after, and his lips found yours in the dark. His kiss was sensual, slow and reverent as he explored your mouth with his, his tongue darting out to deepen the kiss. You welcomed him into your mouth and turned to face him, moving your body carefully to get closer. You wanted more of all that he was. 

As you pulled away, needing to breathe, Pat hummed softly, the noise swallowed by the returned sentiment, “I love you, too.”

It was your simplest, heaviest truth.

Patrick Verona @jokershyena @loveletterstoledger @itsthejoker @royaleclownx    @tsukiakarinobara    @arianatheangelworld @antonija89​  @hotpacino​

[starttheanarchy]

@thehandsomeasshole from x

Jack did smile at the little sass she threw his way, despite himself. “Well, empty, those things weigh nearly five tonnes. So, nice try. I guess.” He chose to ignore her initial comment about using the loaders for their designed purpose. There was not enough patience in Jack’s body to unpack all of that right now.

“Oh, the vaults are definitely a curse. But, once you get the ball rolling around here, there’s not really anything anyone can do to stop it.” Jack shrugged lightly, scanning through the first four pages while he spoke, “You just… gotta do what you can before another idiot comes along and screws everything up even worse than you did.”

“Nah, you’re right. Princess made me feel a little icky. How about… I- I’ll get back to you, I’ll think of something real good.” he laughed lightly, beginning to scribble down some notes on the papers before he continued.

“You sure as hell act like ‘em, you and your bandit buddies. Just exactly how many things or people have you killed since you got to Pandora? Hey, look, I’ll even give wildlife a pass cause- Well, you could kill a hundred skags one day and the next day there’d be two hundred more. Let’s just focus on people. Maybe you’re not running around screaming about meat bicycles, and maybe it is a little rude of me, but it’s also correct. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

“The people who are still decent in this universe are few and far, kid. In my entire life, I’ve only met two people who were truly selfless.” One’s dead and the other’s… worse. “But, you do realise that if it wasn’t me up here, it’d just be someone else? Hell, Dahl and Atlas would still be plowing through planets like they’re big balls of paper and slaughtering everyone in their way while going off about fighting for those planets’ freedoms and peace.”

“Ooh, I love tyrant! Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Always considered myself more notorious, than anything else.” The sharp, almost humorous-sounding edge to his voice gave the impression he was teasing her, “Kid, it’s nothin’ I haven’t heard before. You really think I’m gonna be kicking it anytime soon, anyway? Nah. Nope, not happening! I got way too much to do.”

Jack’s brows knitted together and slowly raised in a mixture of surprise and confusion. Sure, maybe she didn’t care, he’d just never had a person who hated him ask for his side of the story before.

He decided not to express his shock.

“So, I’d been working on Helios since it launched, I was, uh-… A- a programming and engineering specialist for Hyperion for ten, fifteen years, maybe. I was in charge of most of the construction, getting together schematic proposals to give to my bosses, all that kinda shit.”

“The first time I met Lilith and Roland was when Dahl decided they wanted to massacre all the workers on Helios and take it over. They… They didn’t discriminate. If you worked for Hyperion, they’d gun you down without even batting an eye. They killed so many of the workers up here, I knew them all personally. We- we didn’t even have a real military then, for God’s sake! They shot workers out of the sky when they were trying to evacuate. That was the level of murderous psychopaths we were trying to deal with. We defended as best as we could, but even the freaking loaders weren’t weaponised yet, I had like… Six hours to get them into a position to defend themselves, and you bet your ass I did it. I guess that actually answers your earlier question, too. I used them for a job they weren’t made for out of necessity, the damn Lost Legion shot at them when they were running away, too. Assholes.”

“I managed to get the vault hunter’s I’d hired down to Elpis in a moonshot, think you’ve met a couple of them. They got to Concordia thanks to-” Shit. He hadn’t actually thought about Janey in a while. He’d ask Athena how they were both doing, but she’d probably curb stop his head before he could even say hello. “-uh, this mechanic. They asked Lilith and Roland to help cause, y'know, Dahl had stuck a jamming signal somewhere on that moon and I couldn’t work Helios’s defences until it was shut off. They knew people on Helios were dying, and they said no.”

“They only started to help when their lives were in immediate danger and Dahl got control of the moonshot laser and start firing away at Elpis. I really did trust 'em to help us, y'know? Like they promised they would.”

“I guess they kinda did. We managed to get control of the laser again and… They blew it up. They nearly took the whole space station down just because they didn’t want Hyperion having it. That stupid laser could’ve saved Pandora, you know. It could’ve- The blasts were so concentrated we could’ve wiped out an entire bandit settlement and their nice neighbours next door would’ve barely felt the ground tremble. I’d worked so hard on that laser. You have any idea how hard it was to make? How much progress they destroyed when they blew that damn thing up? A lot! A whole, freaking lot and-… Sorry. Off topic. Uh…”

He made a small noise, “Oh, yeah. Anyway, after that it was just a rush trying to get to the vault before anyone else did. Dahl was already there, but after what happened with those two I wouldn’t have been surprised if they got to the vault first just so we couldn’t.”

“But, we did. My vault hunters took care of the- The Empyrean Sentinel, I think they called it. Big bastard, more human than the other vault monsters. Freaky stuff.”

“So, the Sentinel was dead, and we finally got to the vault relic. It looked like… Nothing. Very underwhelming. Just a weird little floating vault symbol. I decided to touch it and-…” Jack went quiet for a while, his knuckles growing white with how tightly he was gripping the armrests of his chair, “And I saw… everything.”

He felt sick even talking about it. The pit in his stomach growing deeper and he knew if he didn’t stop soon he’d fall into a full blown breakdown. So, he took a shaky breath in and continued.

“Wasn’t long after that when Lilith made her grand entrance. She destroyed the relic and- blasted the fuck out of my face. You ever had your face branded by some freaky eridian technology? It sucks. Real bad.”

He let his head drop back, and he rubbed his eyes, “So, there’s my side. Think I can quit my day job and become a professional story teller?” Though he tried to make a joke, the fire in his voice seemed to have dissipated. He just sounded… tired.

A rumbling high pitched cry of a living creature, the soft hum of a laser heating up. Before the spiderant can fully leave the ground in its attempt to launch itself at the red head, a quick shot from the head of DT turns it into ash. Moments later the large floating torso of a robot moves its way over to where the rest of the spiderants are and begins clearing the area with ease. "To be fair DT is a floating robot, I should get props for him being able to lift anything over a tonne at all." Is all she can say as she watches her creation be used not exactly for what she had originally intended.

A noise of agreement left her as she nodded her head, this was a mess that she was playing catch up on. Every step revealed a new and sometimes old issues or problems, and untold horrors that would explain some of the residents insanity.

"Oh so what am I suppose to not fight back and die? Self-defense is a thing." She keeps her lips tight on the actual number of people, she knows it is higher then she ever wanted.

Another reason to the countless hours she was stuck away while the others rested. But that is a mental spiral that no one has seen yet even herself, and Gaige wasn't going to break that record.

"Do you realize that it doesn't matter who, I would still be here. I would cause just as much chaos even if it was Maliwan or Torgue, the company doesn't matter, it is the enormity of the actions that are taking place that I have a grievance against. So once I am done with this, I got a whole check list to work through."

A small tsk as her eyes roll once more, she could already feel the odd ache from rolling them too often. But to want the title of tyrant why trying to claim being a hero? And he was calling her a hypocrite, the gall. But then there is silence after her offer. It is enough to get her to move forwards, the area now clear of deadly wildlife, and to sit down on top one of the ridges. And she could hear him begin in her ear, truly starting fro the beginning.

Her hand goes to her vault buckle, slipping it off and clicking it open to show a hidden system of her own design. A small holoscreen flickered to life above it and she began to take notes, to be able to keep her questions to herself and not interrupt. But before she could really take much, she had to slowly turn her eyes back to that giant floating H as he began to talk about the first real blood shed the station ever saw. No one deserved that kind of fate, let alone those who can't even fight back. And she could understand why loaders were used for what they are, even if there had been enough time to design something new.

Through out the whole story she let out the occasional hum or tsk in reaction, but also to let the man on the other side of the echo understand she was still listening.

A mechanic on Concordia? Something to ask others later on, there couldn't be many considering the lack of them on Pandora. As well as to ask on the reason why for the initial no considering at that point the vault hunters as far as she was aware had no issues with Hyperion, let alone Jack.

And she was torn on the laser because she could understand the pain of such handwork just ripped away. And she had a vague idea on how challenging it was with the laser that rested inside DT's head. But at the same time, she would never want anyone to have a laser of that magnitude considering if it could do that to a bandit settlement. Well it would only be a few tweaks away from being able to glass planets.

She paused in her notes when he mentioned seeing everything, it was hard to believe but there was something in his voice that made her believe he certainly saw something he shouldn't have. Gaige was going to have to go back onto that one on a different day since she could tell that right now was a horrible time to do so. And even as he talked about what Lilith did and the reason why he wore a mask, she could head just how this was not the cocky Jack from earlier.

This was a person who was done but still going. Something that it seemed being near Pandora did to people.

"Well I would say quit your day job regardless and stop all this without anymore murder. But we both know we are too far in to be willing to stop." A small click as she closed the cover on the buckle to once more hide away her person little holounit that stored information that she kept only for herself. The notes saved for review for another day. "I do have questions, but you sound..... Rough. Would you rather a topic change? Or just end this call? I do have things to do, and I'm sure you have plenty of ill placed paper work to finish."

[whumphoarder]

Living the High Life

Summary: Peter gets a nosebleed while on Tony’s private jet. Chaos abounds.

Word count: 1,751

Genre: Fluff, humor, whump

A/N: Thanks to @awesomesockes for the idea, and to @xxx-cat-xxx & @sallyidss for beta reading!

Link to read on Ao3

The plane jostles slightly, causing the seatbelt light to flash overhead. Glancing sideways, Tony sees Peter’s eyes widen as the kid grips the armrests of his seat nervously.

“Hey, chill out, alright?” Tony says with a chuckle. “I don’t really want your handprints embedded in my two hundred million dollar jet.”

Peter gapes at him, his nervous expression being replaced by one of disbelief. “Wait, wait, two hundred million?” He releases the armrests and grabs his open bottle of coke from the cupholder so he can quickly screw the cap back on. “And you were letting me drink soda on it?!” he demands, horrified.

Tony smirks; he always gets a kick out of seeing the kid experience for the first time the same luxuries that Tony himself has been taking for granted since childhood. Private jets are no exception.

The two of them are currently flying out to California for the weekend to visit Tony’s recently rebuilt Malibu mansion, as well as to get Peter campus tours of UCLA and CalTech (two of the schools he’s considering applying to during his junior year). Tony’s excited to see the kid’s response to everything from their upcoming hotel accommodations to actual palm trees.

The plane hits a few more bumps of turbulence. His face draining of color, Peter squeezes his eyes shut tightly and leans back in his seat with a tiny moan.

“Wait a minute…” Tony raises an eyebrow, giving Peter an amused look. “Are you telling me that Spider-Man—a guy who swings from literal skyscrapers through the streets of New York on the daily—is scared of heights?”

“Not heights,” Peter grits out, his teeth clenched a bit. “Just flying. Like, in a plane.”

“Flying?” Tony frowns. “But you flew to Germany with no problem.” Or, at least none that he recalls Happy reporting to him. Though, to be fair, they were all a bit distracted that week.

Peter opens his eyes and shrugs. “Well, that time I was kinda more focused on the fact that Tony Stark pulled me out of school for three days so I could steal Captain America’s shield, so…” he trails off as they hit another bump and gulps. “Just, you know, Parkers and airplanes have kind of a history...”

Suddenly, it clicks. An instant wave of guilt washes over Tony. Of course the kid would have issues with flying after having his parents die in a plane crash when he was only four years old. Hell, Tony was twenty-one when his own parents were killed and he still prefers to drive himself rather than relinquish control of his vehicles to a chauffeur (with the notable exception of Happy).

Tony softens his tone before speaking again. “It’s just a little air pocket,” he reassures. “We’ll be through it soon. And worst case scenario, I’ve got suits on board.”

Peter nods tightly a few times. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll be fine.”

Figuring a distraction is in order, Tony starts recounting a particularly memorable MIT party back in the day during which Rhodey got so wasted he danced on the ping pong table to “Heat of the Moment” until it collapsed under him. By the time he’s done, the kid’s nervousness seems to have dissipated and he’s giggling along, the plane ride all but forgotten.

Once they’re through the turbulence, the flight attendant brings out their lunches and Tony once again has to grin at the kid’s awe.

“Honestly, I would have been happy with like, McDonald’s,” Peter babbles, sawing away at his filet mignon piece with a knife and fork, “but this definitely beats that.” He pauses, frowning. “Unless it’s McRib season. McRibs are the bomb, Mr. Stark.”

Tony pulls a face. “I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Peter giggles. Then the plane begins shaking again—a bit harder this time—and the giggles fade, replaced by breaths which are a little too carefully measured to be natural.

Alright, back to story time. “Hey kid,” Tony begins, “have I ever told you about the time Happy fell backwards into the compound’s swimming pool?”

“Uh, don’t think so…” Peter says, gazing nervously out the window.

Tony launches right in. “So, Happy was doing his laundry, like he does every Sunday afternoon. I swear, the guy separates every single color until he’s got like, seven loads. Total fanatic about it. Now, you gotta understand DUM-E had been malfunctioning for the past few days, and so—”

“Oh no…” Peter breathes out suddenly. The kid turns back away from the window, his hand clamped over his mouth and nose and an urgent expression on his face. “Oh no, not here, not here...” he mutters, his words muffled by his palm as his eyes dart around the plane.

Figuring he has a pretty good idea of what’s about to occur, Tony immediately bends down to grab a paper airsickness bag from under the seat, but Peter has already unbuckled his seatbelt and is scrambling up from his chair, his hand still clamped over his face.

“No, Peter, you can’t—” Tony calls after him, pointing to the still illuminated seatbelt sign, but the kid is already racing toward the lavatory. Tony quickly unclips his own seatbelt and jumps up to hurry after him. He’s halfway down the aisle before the plane hits another patch of turbulence that causes Tony to stagger into one of the other seats.

From inside the lavatory, he hears a crash followed by a sharp “oof!” Tony winces. Maybe he shouldn’t have insisted the bathrooms on his plane be designed four times as large as the cramped ones on commercial aircrafts—it leaves enough room to actually fall down.

“Peter?” he calls worriedly, knocking on the closed door. “You alright?

“Don’t come in!” Peter’s voice yelps. “I’m fine! I got it handled!”

Tony’s worry deepens. “Kid, you really can’t be out of your seat right now. If you’re getting sick—”

“I’m not!” Peter says quickly. “Really, it’s okay. Uh, I just…” His voice trails off, and then, barely audible, Tony hears him mutter, “Oh god it’s everywhere...”

The plane shakes again and Tony stumbles, pressing a hand to the lavatory door to keep himself upright. But Peter must not have locked it because the door pushes open and Tony half-falls into the bathroom, catching himself one-handedly on the corner of the sink. His hand lands in a few drops of something red and wet.

“What the…?” Tony turns away from the sink, taking in the horrific sight. Blood drops seem to be covering every flat surface of the bathroom—the countertop, the floor, the sink. Peter is sitting on the floor beside the toilet, his light gray t-shirt and blue jeans now stained with crimson splotches as he frantically tears off more pieces of toilet paper to add to the growing bloody wad of tissue he’s pressing to his face. Tony blinks at him. “Are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head. His voice is nasally when he speaks. “I’m really really sorry.”

Tony blinks again. “This is all from your nose?”

Peter nods, looking absolutely miserable. “I, uh, kinda get bad nosebleeds sometimes? Like usually if it’s too dry, or if I get stressed, or… I dunno, I guess if my nose just feels like it?”

“Well that’s... inconvenient,” Tony remarks.

The plane jostles and Peter braces his free hand against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. “Is it supposed to be doing that?” he groans.

“It’s just turbulence,” Tony assures. “I’ve flown through a hell of a lot worse, I promise. There was this thunderstorm once when I was flying over Portugal when a bolt of lightning actually—” He’s cut off by a pained whine from the kid. Tony clears his throat. “...But, that’s probably a story for another day.” He makes a vague gesture in front of his own nose. “Is it stopping?”

Peter pulls the tissues back to check. Immediately, a fresh wave of blood runs down from his nostrils, causing Tony to wince though the kid seems unfazed. “It’s slowing down,” he says with a shrug.

Tony huffs out a short laugh. “That’s kind of concerning, but we’ll suspend that for the moment.” Stepping further into the bathroom, Tony moves over to the cabinet to locate a stack of plush white towels. He holds one out to the kid, who throws him a horrified look in return.

“I’ll just get blood all over it,” Peter says worriedly. “Those look really expensive.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s a towel. It can’t be more than, what? Forty? Fifty bucks?”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh my god, that’s even worse! I was thinking like ten!”

With a deep sigh, Tony chucks the towel directly at the kid’s face. Peter shoots up his free hand to catch it on reflex, leaving bloody fingerprints on the pristine material. He makes a little distressed moan upon realizing. “Mr. Stark…” he whines.

“You’re welcome,” Tony says with a huff. “Now let’s get you back to your seat. Safety first and all that jazz.” As if to emphasize his words, the plane promptly hits another rough patch.

Peter shakes his head, teeth clenched through the jostling. “Can’t. I’m covered in blood. I’ll ruin your two hundred million dollar jet,” he grits out.

“You’re not gonna ruin the jet,” Tony points out. He pauses for a beat. “Just the jet’s upholstery.”

Peter only moans miserably.

Tony sighs. “Alright, we’ll figure something out.”

X

“Whoa, does this seat go all the way flat?!”

Tony chuckles as he adjusts the controls on Peter’s seat to recline it backwards. “Yeah, wonders never cease, kid,” he remarks.

Peter—now wrapped completely in the unrolled emergency parachute from the plane’s cargo area like some kind of nylon burrito—is finally strapped into his chair again. The bleeding has nearly stopped now, though he’s still pinching his nose with tissues to be sure.

Tony pulls a single use ice pack out of the plane’s first aid kit. He squeezes the packet and shakes it to activate the chemicals inside before passing it to Peter. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. He presses it to the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “And I’m really sorry about all the mess…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tony waves his hand dismissively. “But you are definitely going to need a shower when we land before you even think about trying out the mansion’s rooftop swimming pool.”

Peter’s eyes widen yet again. “Your what?!”

Tony chuckles. This never gets old.

X

If you liked this story, you might like:

Arachnids & Phobias

Grand Entrance

Them’s the Breaks

Link to all my fics

[canid-slashclaw]

The Outliers - A Guild Wars Love Story

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7,

Chapter 8 "Easy, son. We'll take this one step at a time. Just watch were yer walkin'," Daniel said to his son as they carried a wagon wheel over to the craftsman shed. "I'm fine, father. It would take quite a lot for my wounds to spring any leaks."

"That's what they all say until it happens. Exercise is good for mendin' the body. But the way you abuse yours, those wounds might not ever heal properly."

Kaleb helped his father hoist the massive wheel onto the augur then placed a securing pin through the vertical spindle. He looked over the array of tools then picked up one of the rawhide mallets and began vigorously tapping some wooden pegs into place.

"I'm just trying to get back into the fight, that's all. Once this thing heals, I'll be good as new," he said while pointing his thumb towards his back.

His father just shook his head and scoffed. "No question where you get your tenacity from, that's for sure."

"Hey. Once I'm done here, I would very much like to head on over to see Ulfgar. I haven't seen that old norn since before my deployment."

"He'll be delighted to see ya of course. Go right on ahead, son. I'll take care of things from here."

The elder Grimwald waved for his son to leave just as the youngest member came rushing out from the back kitchen door.

"Kaaaleeeb!"

"Katie! Hi sweetheart." His youngest sister rushed up to him then gave him a big hug.

"My goodness. You have the strength of a bear. Did some norn kid slip some animal spirit ale in your drink?" Kaleb laughed as he spun his youngest sister around. Within seconds, he winced in pain forgetting that the war wound was still quite painful.

But in spite of his injuries, he made absolutely sure to hold onto Katie as he gently brought her down to the ground.

"Awww. Does it still hurt? You don't need to spin me around if it hurts you."

He knelt down to look her in the eyes. "You don't hurt me one bit. I'm just a big, dumb brother who sometimes forgets his own limits sometimes. Isn't that right dad?"

Daniel smiled and waved to his youngest daughter then beckoned for her to come to him.

"C'mon, darlin'. Wanna help me fix up a wagon?"

She nodded then ran off to greet her father. Kaleb headed back inside to get into some better attire.

Several things had changed in the Grimwald household since Kaleb was away. For one, their family was one of the first to have indoor plumbing with hot and cold running water. And secondly, Rachel was taking a serious interest in attending one of the Asuran colleges in Rata Sum.

The warm shower felt so relaxing against his skin. A days' worth of grit and grime all washed away in a matter of minutes plus he never had to leave the house.

Warmth. He missed that sensation when she held his hands those five months ago. Her smile, although not human, was enough to bring a glow to his heart. Those amber eyes... how he longed for a chance to stare into them more deeply.

Kaleb closed his eyes as the steaming water streamed down his face. He could see her feline form lying on the bed, grooming herself. His mind began to wander, imaging other possibilities.

How would it be possible?

He pondered as he could feel his manliness rise to its fullest potential.

How would we be able to...

"Kaaaleeb. How long are you going to be in the bathroom?"

"Ahhh! Wait! Hold on just a minute Katie. I've gotta get dressed."

Jeese! Can't a man be left alone for just five minutes to contemplate carnal thoughts?

***

Kaleb headed to his familiar haunt, the Jotun's Corpse. If there was anyone in town who had connections to getting in touch with Amalthia, it would be him.

As he walked through the doors and towards his favorite barstool, he was immediately greeted by the mountainous norn who gave him the biggest, but one of the gentlest, bear hugs he had ever experienced.

"Welcome back to the lodge, boy! If I didn't know better, I swear I was looking at another norn."

"It's good to see you too, Ulf. So what makes you say that?"

"My boy. Tales of your ferocious battle have reached all the way to this humble watering hole. Normally I reserve bragging rights for myself, but today is your day."

The old norn grabbed a large copper goblet and spoon then started rapping the base of the drinking vessel with all his might. Everyone immediately took notice as the thunderous echo of his voice resonated throughout the tavern.

"Here ye. Here ye! Good denizens of Claypool. A newly minted town legend has returned and is standing before you today in these very halls. Kaleb Grimwald, a boy whom I knew since he was a wolf pup, has returned from a great battle and I am here to tell everyone of his heroic deeds."

"For it was those many months ago that he, and four of his bravest comrades faced and army of thousands of ravenous centaurs who were bent upon their total destruction. Did they falter?" Ulfgar paused then inclined his ear to the audience.

"NOoo!" The patrons shouted in unison.

"Did they shirk their duties?"

"NOo!"

"Were they victorious?"

"YESss!"

Kaleb stood there looking like a midget, compared to the norn, and just smiled. He knew that Ulfgar's days of adventure were long behind him and being able to tell a vicarious tale helped the old norn return to his glory days.

After the highly embellished account was finished and the merrymaking festivities had subsided, Kaleb sat down on his ever-familiar stool then soaked up as many lagers as his body could handle. He waited for a break in the revelry before asking the shaman about how to get in touch with a certain someone.

The old norn could sense that Kaleb had a question to ask so he went over and waved for the patrons nearby to leave. With the two of them sitting side-by-side Ulfgar folded his massive arms and smiled.

"What's on your mind, lad? You've got that I've-got-a-favor look on your face."

Kaleb knew that whenever Ulfgar referred to him as 'lad' it was on a much more serious and heartfelt note.

"First, I wanted to thank you for boasting about my heroic tale. And second, the numbers were just a wee bit inflated. It was hundreds of centaurs, not thousands."

"Bah. Just numbers. The people here know of your deeds and that is what they appreciate the most. Anyway, what was it that you really wanted to tell me?"

Kaleb traced the top of his stein with his left index finger before downing a draught. "Our suppliers were a couple of charr. The owner's daughter was the one who saved our lives. I just wanted to get in touch with her."

"Charrs, eh? Give me names, boy. That would be a good start."

"Let's see. The daughter's name is Amalthia. She has no last name since she's a gladium. And her father's name is Ludrick Crushsomethingorother."

"Crushblow! Centurion Ludrick Crushblow of the Fifty-First Blood Legion Brigade. Now that's a name I haven't heard mentioned by anyone in ages."

"So you know him?"

"Know him. Boy, he and I used to hang out all the time back during our great hunts. Every other week back when I lived just outside Hoelbrak, we could get together at the local pub and exchange some amazing tales. He's a good soul, lad. Don't let his fearsome appearance deceive you. He will stand by those who have honorable hearts," Ulfgar smiled as he took another drink.

"He always seemed like a grumpy old charr to me. But then, I never really got a chance to know him on a personal level like I did his daughter."

"Is that so? Well, what I can tell you is that there is more to him then you can possibly imagine. But in time, and if you are patient, you will learn these things."

"I hope to be that patient. By the way, what do you know about his daughter Amalthia?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. She was sent off to a fahrar before I really had a chance to know her. What I do know is that she was exiled from her warband for being unable to save one of her bandmates. It was supposedly due to her small physical size. Her warband leader blamed her for the death of their comrades and cast her out when she was nineteen. She's been living with her sire ever since."

"What about her mother? Amalthia mentioned her several times and in a none-too-good light I might add."

Kaleb downed the rest of his stein.

"Siri Blastfuse. Now that's a dam who has a heart as cold as Jormag itself. My advice - never cross her path."

"That bad, huh? I do know that Amalthia mentioned her mother more than once when listing off the negative things that went on in her life. She must have been a real bitch."

"Aaww. Now don't go insulting wolves that way, boy. My mother was Wolf Clan."

Kaleb looked at him sheepishly. "My apologies. I think the lager is taking effect. But I understand if you are unable to get in touch with her."

"No worries, lad. I'll find a way of keeping you and her in contact with each other."

"Good. If you can, I have a letter here that I've already written to her. If you can find a way, I would really appreciate it if you could forward it to her."

Kaleb handed the old norn a sealed envelope.

Tucking it into his shirt pocket, Ulfgar responded. "Consider it done, lad."

Feeling the effects of the alcohol, Kaleb tried to steady himself as he got up from his stool.

"Oh. One other thing... where is the nearest library?"

For the first time in their many years of knowing each other, Ulfgar was completely dumbstruck by the question. He scratched his beard for a moment with his fingers while pondering the question.

"Only one I know of is at the center of town. Why are you needin' a library for anyway?"

"Um. Learning new cooking recipes for when I get back into the army?"

"I think you've had too many lagers, boy. Go home to your folks and sleep it off. I promise it will all be better in the morning."

[celticfeather]

Chapter 1: https://celticfeather.tumblr.com/post/188433697686/akatsuki-fic-campfires

Cannibals Chapter 3: The Lineage of Izanagi

-Uchiha Itachi-

Something particularly loveless prodded Itachi awake.

"You're the last watch till dawn," Kakuzu said. Itachi activated his sharingan as he woke, his dark eyes shifting to red. He could see Kakuzu's green ones were dilated near-sightlessly in the blackness.

Itachi rose and leapt up their chosen watchman's tree. The sharingan allowed him to see a wider spectrum of visible light than a normal human, and what should have been the black jungle night gained a strange ultraviolet tinge, a whitish-purple color somewhere between neon and dark that his language could not well describe. The stars and chakras shined different, coldly-bright, minty colors too. But he saw no glows of enemy shinobi in the night, just the gentle silver chakra silhouettes of sleeping birds and insects, and the three ninja below him. He let his sharingan fade. In an hour it had become bright enough for ordinary humans to see.

He alighted between the three ninja sleeping on the ground to no response. So much for Kisame's 'I only half sleep' claim.

Unsure of the best way to wake them, Itachi announced at normal volume, "It's dawn."

They rose quickly and quietly, professional in every mercenary sense of the word. For a troupe of cantankerous rogues, Itachi was surprised no one complained. He supposed that would resume once they decided they were no longer being hunted.

"No sign of the enemy since I've been awake," Itachi reported.

"Time to get the hell out of the land of Lightning. Anyone gotta take a piss, now's the time," Kakuzu said. After a short moment, the four ninja oriented themselves against the eastern dawn, and began leaping through the trees.

"Where's Zetsu when you need him?" Deidara muttered as they ran. "He'd say what Pain wants us to do about this."

"You don't need Pain or his pet mushroom. You have me," Kakuzu said.

"Yeah? And who made you second in command?"

"I'm the one who actually talks with our contractors. So naturally, I have our mission intel, and there's no reason to stop work."

"Hmpf," Deidara said.

"Since you fucked up the least, Kisame, I'll let you pick what you do." Kakuzu said. "You want to fix this Raikage incident, or make some money?"

Kisame looked at Itachi for his opinion. Itachi merely raised his eyebrows in reply.

"Make money," Kisame answered. Good. Itachi wanted to be away from this disaster.

"Great. You two go to this shithole village and kill their patriarch. When you're done with that, some pirates could use a lesson in not leaving witnesses." Kakuzu tossed a scroll to Kisame and one to Itachi, who each caught them deftly. Kakuzu then looked at Deidara.

"Deidara, you and Sasori will fix your fuck up. We don't want the Cloud or Mist investigating the Akatsuki. Blame it on different terrorists."

"How do we do that?"

"Doesn't matter," Kakuzu said.

Deidara frowned. But his calmness suggested he thought Sasori would know how to fix it.

They were soon over the border of the Land of Frost, where they said the brief goodbyes of stiff men. Itachi and Kisame continued west. Deidara went north. Kakuzu south. They stopped at a collection point on the way to get Kisame a new robe and gear, and began their ascent to the next mission's village in the afternoon.

They stopped along a river to prepare. The mint-colored alpine meltwater cooled the air in a low dense pocket from the beating sun. Itachi opened the scroll of mission intel and familiarized himself with the details. "Small town. Better we don't make a stir."

Kisame grunted in acknowledgement and stepped towards the river, swinging Samehada off his shoulder. He summoned a large deep-blue shark along the bank. It opened its mouth, and Kisame pressed the wrapped Samehada inside its white-fleshed throat. The two ninja being armed to the teeth was useful for intimidation, but a hindrance to infiltration. As if it was a loyal horse, Kisame patted the magical shark once on the muzzle once it closed its jaws around Samehada.

"You ever touch a shark before, Itachi? Try it."

Like he had been invited to partake in the most dangerous petting zoo, Itachi wet his feet at the bank where the shark, high as his hips, swayed half submerged. He thought the shark would look at him, or at least acknowledge him, but its circular black eyes didn't waver. With a slowness Itachi hoped the fish would interpret as respect, he brushed his palm against its exposed gray flank.

"It feels like sandpaper."

Kisame smiled. "Shark skin is actually made of dentin, the same material as teeth."

Because they need more of that, Itachi thought. He removed his hand, and deeming its duty done, the huge probably-sentient carnivore disappeared with a puff of mist to the realm Kisame had summoned it from.

"It's not easy to make a summoning contract with a shark, you know. Ninja tend to not come back," Kisame said.

"I thought you said sharks don't like how people taste."

"Oh, the sage sharks of Koraru Depths make exceptions for arrogant Mist chunin. You don't taste that bad."

He sent Kisame a reproachful look at his choice of pronouns, but Itachi's face was something of a resting scowl, so Kisame seemed not to notice.

To appear like a traveler of the civilian sort, Itachi untied his shuriken packs and the ninja headband. They kept their robes, no one yet recognized the red clouds as unique. He thought living in the forest on the run gave him enough of a convincingly rough appearance. Lifting his gaze from the water's reflection, he regarded his partner.

"Do I pass for a trader?"

"You look fine. It's your voice that's the problem."

"My voice?"

"I don't know how much you know about the Hidden Mist, but there we have a caste system, and the Hoshigaki belong to a certain caste. And people like me can tell by your dialect, Itachi, that you come from a noble family, and there's not a chance in hell you're a traveling merchant."

Itachi never thought of himself as in an upper class, and caste had been abolished in his land seventy years ago. Kisame's background in the Mist allowed him to perceive things that Itachi never intended to exude. "I see."

"Try gotcha, instead of I see."

"Gotcha."

Itachi pulled a piece of paper from the scroll and unfolded its careful nine-faceted square. A sketch of the man they were paid to kill stared back at them. Taika Hiroki. About sixty years old, leader of the local clan, someone had it out for him. Kisame nodded, having committed his face a last time to memory. Itachi burned the incriminating documents between his fingers.

The pair climbed ancient stairs carved from wood, stone, and roots, along a humid forested mountain crest. Traditional torii winged gates arched over their heads, and the small village soon appeared along a glacial lake between the mountains. A chunin posted at the doorless entrance looked the two travelers up and down. He pulled a root of wild licorice from his teeth before he spoke.

"What brings you to Honomura?"

"We're merchants," Kisame said.

"Here for the festival?"

"Of course."

The guard escorted them in. A minor official who clearly did not get enough visitors gave them each wooden travelers' passes. What a bothersome village.

Itachi felt more endangered in these hamlets. He paradoxically would be less noticed in a large ninja village. It was in these tribal redoubts, where most of the settlement consisted of a single clan, that he knew he was immediately recognized as an outsider. By the introductions they made with petty officials, the pair gleaned that three quarters of the settlement's two-hundred-odd population had the surname Taika, and it would not be easy to find theirs.

But the presence of the foreigners attracted mercifully little attention at the festival. Like moths drawn to the warm haze of paper lanterns, the outlaw pair wandered dazed to the center of the fairgrounds. After weeks in the forest they were transfixed by the live music, the vendors, and best, the greasy scent of real food -not whole animals- which glistened with salt and sauce. They looked at each other with testing eyes that betrayed the same poorly concealed thought.

"How much money do we have," Itachi said.

Kisame checked himself. "I've got eight hundred."

"I have one thousand."

Crap.

"I'll find some more money," Kisame said. Good. They were on the same line of the same page. In less than two minutes, Kisame had stolen a two centimeter wad of cash from a food stand.

Itachi's eyes darted from stand to stand. "What do you want to eat?"

"Do I look picky to you?"

Bristling with treasures —foods on sticks and cups of tea and sake between their knuckles— Itachi and Kisame seated themselves at one of many low tables near the town's stage and began to eat. Soon enough an announcer entered stage center, and introduced an act on the origin of deities.

"How's your knowledge of religion, Itachi?"

"Average."

The play began as they ate, and rusted to art forms, Itachi found himself paying rapt attention. Two actors dressed in white robes, a woman and a spear-wielding man, stepped onto the stage, where white lanterns cast the empty scene in an ethereal fog. Dipping his spear into the water, or rather tapping the stage floor, the man created land, and the white-clouded lanterns slid on the string to be replaced with ones tinted a jungle green.

"Izanami and Izanagi," Itachi whispered to Kisame. "Siblings, but also..." he waved his hand in esoteric explanation.

The creation gods Izanami and Izanagi had several deformed and normative children. First born was Hiruko, stricken with a hunched back, and cast into a river. They had many others, at last birthing Kagutsuchi the fire god. Izanami died giving birth to the flaming infant.

"And with Izanami's end, the world's first death occurred, and with it the age of creation. Intent to amend his wife's unjust fate, Izanagi plunged into the underworld, which then, was not separated from the realm of men," the narrator read.

Izanami wandered through a darkened stage, and stopped short. Behind a veil shined the unmistakable silhouette of his beloved wife.

The curtain lifted, but the woman it revealed was not fair Izanami. The actress's serene white face-paint had become putrefied in death. Children's gasps accented the moment. Fingers curled in shock at his rancid beloved, Izanagi turned away. His wife was enraged at his superficial rejection, and spurred demons after her former lover. Izanagi raced from the underworld, off the stage, where demons in fur-rimmed masks chased him through the audience until Izanagi circled, panting but safe, back onto the stage of the surface world. He pushed a prop-boulder over the cave, forever sealing life from death.

The narrator stepped onto the stage, and a spotlight centered on him, with Izanagi bathing himself in background.

"Izanagi cleansed himself from the underworld in a rushing river. The water that streamed off his face became three new gods:"

The spotlight jumped to greet the new characters in regal dress:

"From one eye sprung the proud moon god, Tsukuyomi."

"From the nose, the mischievous god of sea and storm, Susanoo."

"And from the other eye, artful and enlightened, patron of our village: Amaterasu the sun."

"Amaterasu was by far the most righteous and beautiful of the three new gods," the narrator crooned, and stooped low to leer at her backside. Amaterasu raised her fan to her face, whumphing the announcer without a lapse in grace, and the audience laughed.

The three new gods greeted the world of men -the audience- each with kabuki flourishes that reflected their personalities. He thought Amaterasu made eye contact with him from behind her fan.

"Hm." Kisame smiled slightly and his pupils slid to Itachi.

Itachi sipped his tea. "We might be the most interesting thing that blew into this town in a week."

"You should talk with her."

"I'm not good at flirting."

Kisame snorted. "Just like your knowledge of religion."

"I'm not being modest. I haven't spoken with a girl my age in years. In this town, I'm just a merchant."

"A kind, handsome one."

Itachi was struck that Kisame had called him 'kind.' He did not think Kisame would evaluate someone with that category. Not knowing how to take the compliment, Itachi stared back at the stage. Amaterasu and Susanoo competed over who was a stronger god. Amaterasu had just turned Susanoo's sword into five human beings, versus Susanoo's ability to spring only three from her necklace.

Their low table quaked. Kisame had plunged his cup down so hard and fast that his drink sloshed over the rim. His wide nose wrinkled and the stare Itachi met was battle-urgent.

"There's blood, buckets of it, enough to drain ten men."

Itachi forced his shoulders to relax. They must not act or show awareness of this yet. His eyes scanned the crowd as a cheering arose and the taiko drums beat an excited sinister trot into the space between his ribs. A column of fifteen men and boys carved a path like a wild river through the parade grounds, a coarse wooden platform undulating on the men's shoulders. Atop it glistened a bleeding heap of fresh red muscles and white fascia. It was a dead, skinned, horse.

Kisame squinted. "What the hell?"

"The crimes of Susanoo. Upset with his sister, he flayed the skin off Amaterasu's horse," Itachi explained. He also noted that in these conditions, Kisame could not differentiate human from animal blood.

Susanoo charmingly presented Amaterasu the horse carcass from the audience. Amaterasu strode off the stage in grief and anger, her silken white-red sleeves snapping, and the stage darkened with the egress of the dawn goddess, plunging the realm of men into darkness. Susanoo smirked and laughed, and the loping demons in fur-rimed masks began to howl. String instruments climaxed crescendo and fell, marking the end of the play's chapter. The audience gasped and clapped. The festival night was now without the Sun's guidance, and any kind of crookedness could occur before dawn returned.

The men heaped the horse onto a pyre, and a chunin lit it with a fire jutsu, enflaming a birchwood pile which was small enough that the meat might be cooked rather than carbonized. The village had a dark interpretation of their worship: Itachi thought that the goddess Amaterasu would not appreciate the flaying of another horse in her name. But the villagers seemed to like it.

"The Leaders of the Mist would consider this barbaric," Kisame said, his sly eyes smiling behind his cup.

Itachi matched Kisame's sentiment. No, the great ninja villages did not sacrifice simple horses to gods of sun, but sacrificed men and souls to gods of war. Gods they hailed each time they smithed a kunai, and who licked their lips at each newborn baby.

The next performance started, some students playing taiko drums. It was a banal sight compared to the play. Itachi ate his dango and drank his tea, listened to the music, and watched thick smoke rise from the pyre.

A gang of the village's teens stood by the pyre, the actress for Amaterasu among them. She had removed the headdress and white facepaint, but she still wore Amaterasu's red and white wake-sleeved furisode. One of the group looked at him and Kisame and giggled, as if discussing a dare. Then Amaterasu looked at the two travelers and grabbed a tray. He realized with a start that she was coming towards them. Kisame, who smelled caste like he smelled blood, tugged Itachi's robe, telling him that this is when merchants stood.

She dipped her head in greeting. "Excuse me sirs, my name is Taika Hato. I'm priestess at our temple and actress at the theater. We noticed you're not from around here. Would you like some horse flesh?"

Itachi blinked: the sun goddess Amaterasu had just offered him to eat her horse. He stumbled out a yes.

"And you, sir?"

"Please give me the shoulder, Miss Hato."

"Sure. May I ask your names?"

'Itachi' meant weasel. Weasels were small, ambitious, mean, and hungry. His parents' birth judgement had been imperfect: Itachi had become a man who was calm, sharp, and observant.

"I am Karasu. And this is my companion, Mekajiki. It's very good to meet you, and thank you for the food." Itachi bowed his head and gave himself a name meaning crow, and swordfish for Kisame.

"You're welcome! How was the show?"

"Your performance was stirring. I only hope your next act is soon: if I remember, demons terrorize everyone on earth until Amaterasu comes back," he said, trying his best to exude friendliness, but he had not spoken to anyone he considered a friend in years. He sat down, and with a gesture to the empty space, he invited Hato to join them if she wanted. He noticed Kisame's chin dip near-imperceptibly in approval of his manners.

"You know your religion," she said, taking a seat. "Stick around tomorrow at seven to see me kick Susanoo's butt. What brings you two here?"

"You mean, you can't tell by our dress?" Itachi asked.

"It is odd," she agreed.

Itachi smiled. "We're charcoal burners."

"So you...?"

"We fell trees, burn the logs in an earthen kiln using fire and water style, and then travel from village to village selling the charcoal. Smiths burn it to keep their forges at the correct temperature. It's also used in cooking, fertilizer, detergent, explosives, traditional medicine- even cosmetics. We've got a wagon full of it down the road."

Her look between the two men deduced Itachi was the fire user. "How good is your fire style?"

"Just the basics," he said modestly.

Hato's eyes changed from simply friendly to that of intrigue, and her expression became appraising and hopeful. "For the last act, the village guards cast fire jutsus as tributes to Amaterasu. You should join them."

"I couldn't possibly intrude on your ceremony as an outsider."

"When it comes to this ceremony, I am the authority. Plus, gifts from strangers mean more than gifts from friends, we say."

Itachi nodded. He would make an offering of flame to Amaterasu. And the girl, her representative, smiled with her eyes. "Thank you, Karasu! They'll love it."

Kisame stretched, looked at the two youths, and stood to leave. His gaze alerted Itachi not to expect his return. "I'm going to… get some more sake."

"You don't want to watch your friend perform?" Hato asked.

Kisame grinned and waved. "He's not so impressive."

Hato led Itachi backstage to meet the village's top military brass: a gaggle of four men spanning years fifteen to thirty who passed a ceramic bottle between them. The root-chewing gatekeeper was youngest among them. Hato was received warmly by the soldiers. She introduced Itachi as a pious charcoal merchant, and he was quickly ignored by the men.

For this dangerous and final act of the night, the stage had been stripped bare of its curtains and paper lanterns, and strapping men spilled buckets of water across the hardwood stage. A grinning bucket-spiller splashed the remaining water dregs onto the squealing children in the front row. From the backstage tent, Itachi watched the first four performers submit their offerings, each casting the biggest sun he could into the night sky in honor of Amaterasu. The crowd shrieked and laughed, fire reflecting on their wide scleras. Stepping forward for his turn, Itachi decided he would create a fireball that was the third largest- no need to upstage the locals.

Itachi mounted the stage as the penultimate performer left. His eye caught on Hato staring at him encouragingly, she flashed a thumbs-up, and he was bolstered with a better idea. Halting just one step onto the stage, Itachi faced profile, and his chest swelled like a bird. He blew, and his fire bloomed a deep ferrous red sparking with trace elements, and the chakra fireball sprinted across the stage in the shape of a stallion. Mane flaring, embers sparking from its light hooves, the fleet, shrieking horse appeared and faded in a vacuum roar. He returned backstage to raucous applause. When the soldiers' mouths gaped wide enough to catch frogs, a quiet grin cut Itachi's lips.

It hadn't been larger than yours, he thought.

Hato linked arms with him and led him through the festival crowds. She would introduce him to people and he would forget their names. Villagers welcomed him like a hero and plied him with sake. A kind old lady handed him a skewer with cubes of horseflesh. Any friend of Amaterasu was a friend of theirs. He was happy. Kisame was gone, the mission was something for tomorrow, Hato was a nice girl, and he could pretend to be normal for a night. Her attention made him feel pleasantly male, that he wasn't strange, isolated, murderous or evil.

She had showed him around the small town and they found themselves walking along the cold, white-graveled shores of the glacier lake. The gentle summer alpine night glowed cobalt blue, lightened by a huge low moon, whose coolness was relieving compared to the warm and dark frenzy of the blood festival.

"Actress and priestess," Itachi said as they strolled. "One's devout, and old people would say the other is sinful. I haven't met a person who's been both."

She smiled. "Each coin has two sides, and the same goes for you. Where'd a merchant learn ninjutsu like that?"

"The road is dangerous… and," he whispered like sharing a secret, "Sometimes really boring."

"Hah! Can't be less interesting than here."

"Did you know, that was a curse you'd tell your enemies in the old days? 'May you live in interesting times'?"

"Sounds menacing when you say it. Can you do other ninja tricks?"

In a heartbeat, he threw three kunai in a perfect line along a slender birch, each resonating a deep thunk that merged into one. A white and gold moth fluttered impaled on the center knife. She gasped.

But when he looked back at her, her face seemed uncomfortable. The throw was well above chunin level, above most jounin. Itachi knew he should not be careless in his desire to impress her by throwing beyond the abilities of a merchant. But somehow, the throw had not pleased her.

"Is something wrong, Hato?"

"What I liked about your fire jutsu wasn't its killing power; it wasn't a weapon, it was art."

"Art..."

"It's like how you and Mekajiki use fire and water style to make charcoal. Your fire style painted Amaterasu's horse, and it was beautiful. Performance is art, and it makes people happy."

Itachi regurgitated what he knew of art. "Do you think art is a single rapturous instant, or eternal?"

"Weird question. Art isn't a period of time, but a place. It transports you somewhere you've never been before, to some feeling you've never felt before"

"Hm," Itachi pondered. He thought that was a better philosophy than that of either Deidara or Sasori. He wondered how mad they would be if he answered like that, and decided he would next time they asked his opinion. Which would probably be never.

She smiled at him. "I've got a stupid dream. Wanna hear it?"

"I'd love to."

"I dream to lead a group someday that practices more peaceful uses to ninjutsu than war. Even if it was just a traveling circus of theater artists, and all we accomplished was making some villagers laugh."

"You've already got a talent for performance. The road is dangerous, but train and surround yourself with others like you, and only a fool would rob you."

She smiled sadly. "Dad wants me to marry a prince in the next village."

"Bring the prince along."

The actress said nothing and skipped a stone over the lake. It failed after two stops, and she made a noise of embarrassment. Itachi picked up a small flat stone and also skipped it badly. Ripples in the lake reflected the moonbeams like bobbing driftwood.

"It's late," Itachi said after a while.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Itachi did not answer right away. She said, "Stay the night at my house."

Itachi bowed. "That's very generous of you. I would be happy to stay overnight in your stable, and my partner as well, if possible."

There was a sly shift of her eyes, lids heavy around her big, black pupils. "I think he'll have found an inn by now. But that shouldn't stop you."

Hato escorted him across flagstones that shone silver in the moonlight. Carrying their shoes, opening a sliding door with the utmost care, the two tiptoeing teens entered her sub-clan's complex and slipped into her bedroom.

Itachi set his shoes along the wall, wondering to what extent he should undress himself. When he turned around, Hato had knelt on her white futon. With her eyes trained at him, she slowly loosened the belt of her furisode to bare her chest. Itachi did the same. He reached to kiss her, she kissed him back. He shed the rest of his clothes, then did the same for her. He leaned into her. This is what people did.

He shuddered at the unfamiliarity when her weak hands touched his neck, they were warm and soft, hot as death-blood. He banished the rising memories, memories from the last time he did this, no, from the last time he thought he did this with Izumi that terrible night. Their bodies fit together like hot white ivory, and like smoke and steam, a very un-normal man tried his best to do this very normal thing.

Author's Note;

Heyo, thanks for supporting this fic. I plan to post Chapter 4 around Friday Nov 23. This will be a long dramatic fic with probably about 10-15 chapters this length, and I have a lot of progress made already.

Let me know your thoughts. And thanks of course to thanks again to beta myochiikurin!

Steadfast,

Kelto

Follow on FF or Ao3

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13409132/1/Campfires

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019778/chapters/49992863