#he's got that special kind of red boy brain rot

[mo-ok]

Important Ryouma moments I need people to see part 1/?

bonus:

[disgruntledspacedad]

The Rules of Engagement (1/5)

part one of the The Better Love Series 

pairing: Javier Peña x fem reader

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do. 

words: 6.3k 

warnings: 18+ - drugs, violence, language, alcohol, eventual smut. 

a/n: at the end. @tiffdawg​, I finally did it.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Your alarm buzzes, and you roll over groggily. 

0615.

Goddamn. You flop a pillow over your head, blocking out the early morning sun, and wonder if three hours of sleep is any better than no sleep at all. 

Somehow, you kind of doubt it. 

The alarm blares again, a failsafe you’d been wise enough to set up after round two had led you to the shower. You gather your still-damp hair, wincing at how gross that feels, and elbow Peña in the shoulder. 

“Morning, sunshine!” You toss your soggy pillow onto his face. 

He grunts pathetically, cracks an eye just enough to send you a sliver of resentment, and lifts a middle finger vaguely in your direction. 

You’re completely unsympathetic. “Not my fault this time, Peña.” 

He curses you in Spanish as you flick on the lights on your way to the kitchen. Coffee is your first order of business. 

You’re not sure exactly when Agent Peña became a fixture in your apartment.  Oh, you can nail down the general timeline pretty well - a night out with the Search Bloc boys had ended with Peña coming to your place, and things had unfolded naturally from there. The sex was good. Very good. You’ve always had a high drive, and Peña is a man who can deliver. You’re pretty creative, and he’s fairly open minded, and neither of you seem to care to make things complicated with Labels and Conversations. Somewhere down the line, wild nights out evolved into even wilder nights in, and then, before you knew it, you’d let Peña borrow your spare key when he’d left his wallet on your coffee table. 

That had been at least two months ago. The sex is still good, and Peña is still leaving his shit everywhere, so neither of you bothered to say anything about it. 

It works. That’s all that matters.

You’ve just sat down with your drink in your hands as the doorbell buzzes. “What the fuck?” You glance at the kitchen clock. It’s not even 0630.

The doorbell buzzes again. 

You eyeball the gun that Peña has left lying on the kitchen counter. Nobody should be looking for you this early in the morning. 

“Hey!” Somebody is knocking now, and shouting, and ugh, you recognize that voice. You leave the gun where it is - somewhat reluctantly - and slam open the door with a ferocity that sends Steve Murphy stumbling into your kitchen. 

“Good morning,” you say serenely. 

“Good morning to you, too, Ears,” Murphy grimaces up at you. 

“That’s not my name,” you remind him for the thousandth time. Not that it will make any difference. Ever since you’d made the mistake of introducing yourself as Centra Spike’s new liaison by saying, “I’ll be your ears,” the Search Bloc boys had leapt at the opportunity to tease. You’re pretty sure most of them don’t realize that you have any other name. 

Somehow, it irks you more coming from Murphy. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask as politely as your temper allows. Murphy has never been your favorite person, and your caffeine definitely hasn’t kicked in yet.

Murphy rights himself, fixing you with a glare that doesn’t threaten in the slightest. “I’m looking for Javi,” he says. He has the audacity to glance around your tiny living space, as if he’d come with a search warrant.

You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of your too-thin nightshirt, and lift a brow in Murphy’s direction. “And what makes you think he’d be here?”

Murphy pins you with an ‘I see right through your bullshit’ expression. “Call it a hunch.” 

Right on cue, footsteps clatter down the kitchen stairs. Murphy smirks. You don’t bother to hide a sigh. 

Fuck. 

“What are you doing here?” Peña echoes you unconsciously. You try not to cringe at the smug glance Murphy throws your way.

 Instead, you turn to glare at Javi, and oh god. 

His shirt is buttoned all wrong, hanging lopsided and displaying half his chest, if he’d just given up at the top. 

Subtle.

Murphy apparently doesn’t have the stones to address it, because he waves a manilla folder in front of Peña’s face. “Special delivery,” he says, dropping the file on your coffee table with a smack. 

Peña dives for it, brow furrowed. Whatever he sees must be good, because he snaps his head up to stare at Murphy. “Where did you get these?” he asks, thumbing through the pages.

“My contact in Medellín.” Steve rests his hands on his belt ever so casually, as if daring Peña to question him. 

Peña does. “Since when do you have a contact in Medellín?” 

You wonder the same. Partners are usually aware of each other’s informants, unless it’s that kind of contact. Isn’t Murphy married?

“Not important.” Murphy shuts him down quickly. 

“Verdugo,” Peña breathes.

You shoot a questioning glance at Murphy.  In the three months you’ve been in Colombia, your Spanish is rapidly improving, but Murphy has been here longer, and some things are still beyond you. “Butcher,” he translates with a grimace. “Or executioner. One of Escobar’s top sicarios.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Lovely.”

Peña glances up, surprised to hear you speak, as if he’d forgotten that he’s standing in your living room.

Murphy doesn’t acknowledge you. “He’s in Medellín, Javi.” He stretches, then makes for your front door. “I’m gonna turn in for a bit. Late night.” 

Peña grunts, settling on your sofa with the file as Murphy sees himself out. 

You sidle up behind him, curious.  He knows you’re there - your hair is falling over his shoulder and you’re doing nothing to stifle your breathing, but Peña’s only acknowledgement of your presence is to shift his body ever so slightly to the left, unspokenly granting you access to the file.

You bite your lip, pleased and a little unnerved at the implication. You suppose that Peña wouldn’t be Peña unless he’s breaking the rules. He certainly has a reputation for it.

It hits a little differently, though, knowing that he’s committing a felony just to satisfy your curiosity. And on your fucking sofa, too.

You shake the butterflies away. Peña is flipping through a series of grainy photos, each showcasing the same guy. Somebody, Murphy probably, has circled his face in red ink, and there are further notes in the margins, written hastily. Landmarks, you guess. Peña is reading too fast for you to decipher much, but you spot a map of what you assume is Medellín in the shuffle. It is similarly annotated with scrawling red ink.

Peña flips through the file once, and then again, slower. 

You brace yourself on on your forearms, glancing at the clock. You aren’t expected at the embassy until eight - you can afford to be patient. 

Whatever this is, it’s big.

Deciding you’ve gleaned all you can from the file, you turn your attention to Peña. He’s leaned forward on your sofa, arms on thighs, lost in thought. Every muscle is tensed, as if he could spring up at any moment, his gaze is narrowed, his brow furrowed in a way that tempts you to lick it. 

The thought startles you. You aren’t a goddamn animal.

Are you? Your mind drifts to Murphy, smirking with his arms folded in your kitchen like he could see through your nightshirt, right into your fucking brain. 

A stone sinks in your chest. Landing this position with Centra Spike had been your first big break in a lifetime of frustrations. You’d joined the army fresh out of school, angling to be an analyst with the special forces. The good ol’ U. S. of A. had gladly foot the bill for your education in exchange for you signing your life away, and you’d chugged through a mind-numbingly boring double major of mathematics and computer science, all on the sage advice of your recruiter. 

The reality of active duty was a kick in the fucking teeth. The brass had taken one look at you - a wide-eyed, idealistic woman with a big hair and bigger goals - and promptly slapped you with a desk job. You’d spent three more years rotting away in a forgotten back corner of an office building in Kuwait, filing reports and delivering messages. Occasionally, they’d throw you a bone and hand you a code to rewrite. Your commanding officer got all the credit, and you were just a glorified secretary.

By the time your contract was up, you’d been sidelined, interrupted, passed-over, underestimated, scoffed, and just flat-out ignored enough to be thoroughly fed up with military life. The glass ceiling in the U.S. Army is raised just high enough to suffocate its victims slowly, and you were sick sick of being stifled. 

Being recruited by the CIA for analyst work in the hunt for Pablo Escobar had been pure, dumb luck. Right now, you might just be a liaison, but this is your shot. Your last one, probably, and you’re not willing to give it up just to get laid.

Not even for the best lay of your life.

Peña slaps the file shut with gentle smack, startling you from your thoughts. He reaches for his boots, moving with a single-minded determination that you’d find sexy if it weren’t so damned inconvenient.

“Peña.”

He doesn’t react, just gathers his badge and keys from the end table as if you aren’t even there.

“Peña.” You say it louder this time.

“Hmm?” 

“Javi!” You call his name without even realizing it, and it works. His head snaps up, eyes wide, staring at you as if he’s just now seen you for the first time.

You have his undivided attention now. 

“Yeah?” He blinks, all wide brown eyes, and fuck it all, you can feel yourself flushing under his gaze. 

You swallow hard, push past the strange flutter in your chest. “We’re getting too predicable.” 

His brow furrows. “Come again?”

You decide to take the high road, but you can’t stop your lips twitching at the obvious joke that he’s left himself open for. He’s quick to follow your though process, though - his eyes sparkle with laugher, daring you to call him on his blunder. 

Shit.

You press on. “This,” you start, grimacing. He’s still looking at you, and his expression is warm. Flirtatious. “What we’re doing…” Goddamn, your face is aflame. “I mean, we’re not exactly subtle.”

He draws back, expression shuttering instantly. “Don’t worry about Murphy,” he says firmly. “He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

The ‘if he knows what’s good for him’ is clearly implied.

“It’s not just Murphy,” you press. You can’t exactly put into words what it is that you're trying to make Peña understand, you just know it's important that he does.

“What are you suggesting?” He’s standing now, still holding the file against his chest, as if to defend himself with it. 

You shake your head. “I think,” you say slowly, trying hard not to catch his eye, “that we need to cool it.”

Silence. You can feel his raised eyebrow.

You step forward. You’re focusing hard on finding the right words without revealing too much, but your hands are desperate for something to do. “We need to stop fucking around.”

There, you said it.

“Oh?” There’s something amused in his tone, but you shrug it off, still refusing to look at him.

“Yeah,” you answer hotly. “Isn’t this fraternization? Shouldn’t we be worried about our careers, or some shit? We both have a lot to lose here.” You glance up, emboldened by your speech. “Do you want to catch Escobar or not?”

He’s looking down at you, not taking you the least bit seriously, expression damn near indulgent. 

Indignation sets a fire in your chest.

“You think you can just quit me, cold turkey,” he asks in a voice as smooth as silk.

Goddammit, he’s mocking you.

“Absolutely.” You look him firmly in the eye, former awkwardness forgotten, more determined than you’ve ever been. 

He huffs directly in your face. “You won’t last a week, Ears.” He cups your cheek in his hand, skimming your jawline with his thumb. “I know you, remember.”

Oh, the bastard. “You think you can go longer?” You counter, stepping into his chest. You’re pissed now. Peña is a well-known man whore, and you know, know, that you are exactly his type.

He laughs now, openly and genuinely amused. “Longer than you,” he says, glancing down at where your hands are absently fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. 

Oh, fuck. 

“I’m fixing you, you absolute asshole,” you hiss, beyond grateful that you’ve yet to undo his last cockeyed button. “Unless you want to show up at the office all freshly fucked and lopsided.” You hold up the hem of his shirt, clearly displaying his mismatched edges.

“Oh.” At least he has the grace to look abashed. 

“Yeah,” you swallow dryly, suddenly aware of how close he his, smelling of coffee and cigarettes, sex and the scent of your own bedsheets. 

Goddamn, you want him already. 

You push it all away, patting him condescendingly on the chest. Two can play this game. “Just looking out for your career, Agent Peña.”

He sighs somewhat theatrically, but you can see the conflict warring in him. 

“Well, then, Ears,” he says after a long moment. He rebuttons his shirt properly this time, fingers working quickly. “Guess I’ll see you around.” 

You meet his gaze evenly. “Guess so.”

The door shuts behind him, and you sink to the sofa. It’s still warm from where he’d been sitting.

Oh fuck, what have you done?

♠

You’re not watching, you’re not, but you can’t help but notice when Peña comes swaggering into the office at ten am, wearing those sunglasses and those fucking too-tight, dark wash jeans, chugging a cup of coffee like he knows that his exposed neck is a weapon. 

You make eye contact through the glass, just for a moment, and he winks at you.

You smirk back, a plan forming in your mind.

This means war. 

♠

You retaliate by letting your hair curl wild over your shoulders and squeezing yourself into a leather skirt that is just barely work appropriate. The Search Bloc boys bombard you with whistles and winks and catcalls all day. 

It’s worth it, though, to see Agent Peña’s eyes go wide and blinking, to watch him swallow so hard. 

“Fucking tease,” Murphy hisses as you glide past his desk. 

You flip him off in response. 

♠

Your apartment feels strangely empty. 

It’s Saturday afternoon. Search Bloc is investigating a tip in Medellín, and Centra Spike doesn’t need you in today. You briefly consider going out, but that would involve changing out of your sweats, and besides, aside from the Search Bloc guys, you really don’t have many friends in Colombia. 

You sit down on your sofa, drawing the coffee table toward you, and deal yourself a hand of solitaire. The cards had belonged to your dad before he passed them down to you, and they are comfortable in your hand, worn soft with age. There’s a trick to shuffling a deck this old, and something comfortable in the practice. 

The hand you deal is a losing hand. 

Frustrated, you stomp down the stairs to the little pharmacy below your flat. “Hola, Emilio!” you wave to the older man working the counter. Emilio doesn’t speak much English, and your Spanish is improving slower than you’d like, but you mostly manage to communicate just fine. 

You make your way to the little display of liquor bottles and ponder it for a minute. There’s nothing remotely recognizable on the shelves, but you’re not exactly committed to buying anything, anyway. 

There’s nothing more pathetic than drinking alone. 

 A presence at your shoulder makes you jump. It’s just Emilio. He smiles at you, and reaches for a bottle of clear liquor whose packaging reminds you a little too much of antiseptic hand spray for comfort. He presses it into your hands. “Guaro.”

“This is what I need, then?” you ask him. “Este? It’s good?”

“Guaro.” He’s nodding and grinning, rattling something in rapid-fire Spanish that you’re far too slow to translate. The enthusiasm behind it is hard to miss, though.

“He says it’s good and strong. Respect it, and it will respect you.” Emilo’s daughter winks up at you. She’s bent over, stocking shelves, and you’d missed her, distracted as you’d been by your conversation with Emilio.

You smile gratefully. Ana must be home from university this weekend. You’ve only met once or twice, but she’s kind, and doesn’t mind translating for you. You think you might have been friends, if she was around more.

“Gracias,” you tell her, and mean it. “Aguardiente,” you sound out slowly, frowning down at the bottle. “Sugar water?”

“Something like that.” Ana rises, leaving the box of chicharrones on the floor. “You’ll find that most of the locals just call it guaro. It’s a staple in Colombia. Hard to find anywhere else, and even transporting it between cities is dangerous.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs, as if to say, ‘what’s new?’ 

“But it’s just liquor, right?” 

“Yeah, I think so. Alcohol, sugar, anise…” She shrugs, and laughs. “Simple, but there’s something magic about it. You don’t want to go too hard with this. Sit down and have a small glass with a lime. Slower is better.” 

You frown. Anise. It jogs something in your memory, some long-forgotten fact…

“Trust me.” Ana is at your elbow now, pinning you with an earnest stare. “It hits hard, and fast. Papa wasn’t lying.”

You laugh. “Is that the college experience speaking?”

“Oh, yes. Seguro.” 

Ana follows you as you take the bottle of guaro to the register. “And how are your classes going?” you ask as Emilio rings you up. 

Ana grimaces, shaking her head as she cuts her gaze to Emilio. “It’s good to have a little break,” she admits. 

You sympathize with that. You hadn’t cared too much for the tedium of higher education either. Emilio hands you a little paper bag, and you wave goodbye to him with a smile. “I’ll have to catch you when you’ve got a free weekend,” you tell Ana as you head toward the stairs that lead to your flat. You hold up the liquor suggestively. “You can teach me all about how to respect this guaro.”

Ana laughs. “What are you doing this evening? We close up at eight.”

Your face breaks into a grin. It’s hard making friends in Colombia just with the language barrier alone, never mind that your work with Centra Spike forces you to keep so many secrets. Without Peña around, life here is lonely. But Ana seems innocent enough, and it’s just a drink. “Perfect! I’ll be here.”

You walk up the steps feeling much lighter than when you descended them.

♠

Ana doesn’t stay long. She looks around your apartment, carefully assessing, then nodding as if satisfied. 

You let it go.

She teaches you to tap the bottom of the bottle to expel the liquor, almost as if you’re pouring ketchup from a glass container. Looking at the contents, they don’t seem particularly viscous. When you ask her why this is necessary, Ana shrugs.  “It’s a mystery,” she tells you, and you write it off as one of the eccentricities of Colombian culture, paying rapt attention as Ana begins explaining one of only three acceptable ways to serve the guaro.  

♠

“I’ve got something for you,” you announce brightly, slapping both hands firmly on Javier Peña’s desk and leaning in just a hair too close to be strictly professional. 

“Oh?” His face breaks into a slow smirk, and he tilts back in his swivel chair, stretching just enough to give you a good view of those too-tight jeans as he hooks his fingers behind his head. “And what’s that?”

Smug fucking bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. You cool your jets and wink at him, teasing a manilla file for him to see. “We thought you might like this.”

“We?”

“Okay, fine, Jacoby caught some chatter, but I vetted it,” you press on, refusing to let him derail you. This is huge. “It’s Verdugo.”

Peña glances up at you, suddenly intense. “You sure?”

“Well, it’s not him personally,” you admit. “At least, not his voice. But,” You slam the transcript down on his desk. “We caught an entire conversation verifying his presence at a safehouse in Medellín.” You pause for full dramatic effect before going in for the kill. “A specific safehouse in Medellín.”

Javi reverts to Agent Peña instantly, all flirting forgotten as he leans forward on his elbows. “Show me.”

You bend over, noticing absently that your hair is once again falling into his face as you tap your finger over the address. Peña settles in to read the full report as you watch, his eyes darting back and forth over the pages at a rate that is truly impressive. When he glances back up at you, the ferocity of his gaze is startling. 

“They’re getting ready to make a move.” There’s something like a spark of hope in his eyes, tiny, but growing stronger as he processes the information you’ve given him.

“Yeah,” you say, throat suddenly dry. He’s looking at you with earnest gratitude, and it tugs at something deep in your chest.

“This is big,” he breathes, and just like that, he’s on his feet, gathering the file, punching a number into his desktop telephone. 

“This is Peña,” he says as the call connects. “We’ve got something.”

♠

It’s dark when you finally get home. Claudia Messina, head of DEA operations in Colombia, had cornered you in her office for hours, going over and over the information you’d vetted. You brain is absolutely fried, the victory of the discovery stifled by having to defend your work again and again. 

You just need a drink. 

“About time!” a voice startles you as you turn to shut the door behind you. You jump, barely suppressing a shriek, and whirl around. 

Goddamn Javier Peña with his goddamned spare key.

He’s smirking at you from your sofa, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Any other day, you’d have noticed his presence instantly just from the smell. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice is more of a whine than you’d like, but dammit, you’re tired, and dammit, he’s gotten one over on you. 

He knows it, too, the smug bastard. “Expecting somebody else?” he asks, sauntering toward you with a devastating smile that manages to be both possessive and suggestive all at once. 

“No,” you answer somewhat grumpily. “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

Given your sulky attitude, you’re surprised to see that his smile brightens a bit. You frown at him, still confused as to why the fuck he is here, and he bustles into the kitchen, clinking around, pouring you a drink. 

You sigh and relax onto the sofa. At least you’ll have that.

He comes back, a tumbler of clear liquor in each hand. Ah, so he’s found your guaro. You suspect that he’s helped himself to at least one measure already. He hands you a glass, and you take it gratefully, sniffing at the contents. 

He’s drinking it neat, apparently.

“So!” he says, settling beside you on the sofa, close enough that your thighs touch. He pins you with an intense stare. You raise a brow in response, intrigued and a little confused. 

He smiles. “Your tip from this morning was a gold mine, Ears.” He eases back, propping his feet on your coffee table in a way that you should probably reprimand him for. He sips, sighs, leans in to bump your shoulder playfully, then settles with his hands at his waist, long fingers fiddling with the glass he’s cradling. “Martinez wants us to go for Verdugo tomorrow,” he tells you, suddenly serious. “Based on your information.” 

“Really?” You can hardly believe it. Most of what you do is verify things that others have found, or carry files from Centra Spike to Search Bloc. Same old, same old. Even though you’ve trained for this for years, you’ve never been integral in interpreting and locating a conversation before, especially not for a target as high level as Verdugo. 

Javi twists to smile up at you, a real smile. “Really,” he says, pointing a finger in your direction. He watches you fight back a grin. “Go on, be smug. This is big.”

“Wow,” you mouth, somewhat awed that you’ve contributed anything, let alone this, to the hunt for Pablo Escobar. 

The reaction isn’t lost on Javi. He sits up, wraps his arms around your shoulders and squeezes gently. “Pretty much. You gave us enough information that we feel confident about initiating a sting in Medellín.” He reaches up with both hands, catching your face at the edge of your jaw and drawing you close. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Ears.”

Ears. Yours are burning at the heat of his touch. You’re acutely aware of his palms cupping your cheeks. His eyes are dark, too dark, and open, looking at you as if you’ve single handled handed Escobar to the DEA on a golden platter. 

You suppress a shudder, leaning in to him as he pulls you in for a hug. Christ, his body feels so good as it cradles yours, arms snaking around your back, stubble gritting awkwardly into your cheek, the scent of smoke and liquor clouding you -

You wonder, abruptly, how much he’s had to drink.

“Peña,” you say swiftly, pulling away from him to stand. The way he’s looking at you right now, giddy and awestruck and openly hungry, well, it’s not going to last. You know it won’t. It can’t. 

His face falls, as if he’s confused at your sudden rejection. 

You shake your head. Peña is just drunk. You guys aren’t like this. You don’t hug and share and hold each other. It was only ever sex, and it’s not even that anymore. 

You’re overwhelmed, suddenly and without warning, at how desperately you want him. 

Not just the sex, though honestly, you have missed that. No, what you want is - 

You shove that thought down, locking it away so deeply that it will never see the light of day. 

You cannot have feelings for Javier Peña. 

“Ears?” he questions, tilting his head just so, managing to look more sober than he has all evening. 

“I just need another drink,” you say as you sidestep him, making your way to the kitchen. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as his gaze follows you. He seems to take your deference at face value - he’s lighter than you’ve seen him in weeks, excited, almost chipper, if you can believe it. The meeting with Martinez must have gone very well. You snort, contrasting his meeting to yours with Messina. The dissonance is enough to wonder, offhandedly, if some not-so-subtle sexism is at play. 

You shake off that thought. It’s not helpful, just depressing, especially here in Colombia. Instead, you turn to look at Javi. 

He’s still flopped on your sofa, his original drink in his hand, hunched over the stack of playing cards that you’d left out last night. 

Your dad had taught you to play solitaire from a young age. There’s a variation for two players, a game which one will inevitably win, but the real challenge is for the single player, in which triumph relies equally on skill and luck. Last night, after Ana had left, you’d played a long, brutal game, ultimately finding yourself blocked, helpless to do anything but shuffle the deck over, and over, and over again. 

Losing two games in a row is just shameful, and you’d left the cards on the table, eager to look at them again with fresh eyes. 

Javi eyeballs the game with a furrowed brow. You’d managed to make it quite far. Had the cards fallen in any different order, you’d have won easily. Carefully, Javi flicks over one card from the stack, frowns, then another. This one is a red queen, and he plays it eagerly, shuffling the black jack to its new position and opening up another space. 

“Hey!” you protest. He glances up at you, bemused, and you shove a newly made drink into his hand as you settle beside him. 

“You missed that move,” he explains, pointing exaggeratedly with the pinky finger that holds the tumbler. 

You roll your eyes. “I play draw three,” you correct him. You reshuffle the cards to their original places, this time drawing three from the deck: a five of spades on top, Javi’s red queen in the middle, and the ace of spades below both. The top card, the five of spades, has no place to be played, so you flip all three cards into the discard pile and draw three more from the deck. 

Javi frowns. “Seems like you’re making it a lot harder than it has to be.”

You sigh. Men. “Single draw solitaire is for kids,” you counter with a vicious smile. “Just for them to learn to play the game. Real players draw three.”

He huffs, “Oh, really?” he’s smirking up at you, eyes sparkling in amusement. “Are you the kind of woman who likes a challenge, Ears?”

He’s just dying to prove you wrong. 

“I’m the kind of woman who refuses to cut corners just so I can win a dumb card game.” you inform him sagely.  

“Hmmm,” he says, staring contemplatively at the cards. You let him shuffle through the deck twice, each time verifying what you already know - the game, played as it is, is unbeatable. 

‘Seems a little silly to me,’  he teases, bopping you on the nose. “Letting your ego get in the way of winning.”

Of course Javier Peña would see it that way. You kick back, letting your feet settle at the edge of the coffee table. “Go on then,” you tell him, siping at your drink. “Swoop in and save my game with your kiddie version, you fucking hero.”

He laughs overtly at that, eyes sparkling, and something clenches hard in your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so open, laughing and flirting and playing stupid games after a long day at work. 

It’s nice.

You settle in to watch him work his magic. He’s making plays at an alarming rate - it seems like no time at all before the deck is empty. 

You glance at the clock, biting back a sigh. Less than five minutes. 

He’s smirking up at you, all mussed and smug, eyes alight with warmth, and suddenly, something swoops dangerously in your belly.

That hair, those eyes, his laugh. Warm skin in the dim glow of the lamplight, his body sprawled over your sofa, just begging to be teased. 

You wonder again why he’s here. You’ve made it clear that there’s no more sex, so…

Oh, god. 

Glancing back down at him, tousled hair and crooked smile, ridiculous mustache, plopped indelicately on your sofa, you suddenly realize. 

Javier Peña had sought you out for your company. For no other reason than that he’d had a good day, and wanted to share it with you. 

And oh, oh god.

You’re still so caught up in the sex and your fucking feelings that you can’t divorce that from your friendship, which is obviously important to him. He’s not out celebrating with Murphy - he’s here, in your apartment, with no expectation other than to kick your ass by cheating at children’s card games. 

The realization takes the breath from your lungs. 

You’re the problem here. Just like with the fucking card game, you’re the one making it complicated. 

Javi needs a friend. 

Javi needs a friend, and he’d sought you out so that you can just chill together, and all you can think as he shuffles those damned cards is how the callouses of his fingers would catch deliciously against your clit as he dips them inside you. 

And, and…

You cut off that dark thought. You are not going there.

Jesus Christ, what kind of friend are you?

“Well, this calls for a celebration,” you say. It’s a beat too late and obviously hollow, but Javi doesn’t seem to notice, and you’ve managed to keep the tremor out of your voice, so that’s a win. You rise, making for the kitchen, desperate to do something with your hands. You find yourself pouring Javi yet another drink - is this his third? Or fourth? You aren’t sure - and making yourself a second, much lighter version. 

The last thing you want is to do something stupid.

Javi meets you at the kitchen bar, and you slide the tumbler across to him. He eyeballs it speculatively, raising it and tilting it to view the contents in the dim kitchen light. 

“Goddamn, Ears.” He snorts. “Are you trying to poison me?” 

The denial falls from your tongue as he tilts back his glass from earlier, his second, - or third? - the one that you’d made. He swallows, pushing the empty glass back into you hand, and stands, catching himself on the edge of the table as if he’d moved too fast.

“Alright?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath, then straightens, slowly letting go of the countertop. “Fine,” he says, cocking a brow at you. “But what is that stuff?”

You laugh. “Emilio, you know, from downstairs, he found it for me. Says it’s a Colombian staple, and I can’t leave without having a bottle at least once.”

Javi blinks one too many times, then giggles. Despite your best effort, you snort at the sound. "Well then,” he raises his full tumblr to your half full one, and they clink awkwardly. “To local rotgut and poor life choices,” he toasts, as solemnly as he as able.

“Salud!” you counter, managing to sound a just a hair more sober. Javi is swaying as he stands, and suddenly, you’re concerned. “When did you last eat?”

He glances at you, tilting his head as if your question makes no goddamn sense, and you sigh heavily. Idiot man.

“Okay, hold off on that one,” you warn him - he looks as if he’s about to toss it back, too. “Let me at least make you some eggs first.”

“Eggs?” 

You’re already bustling around your tiny kitchen, pulling a pan from below the stove. “Yeah, moron,” you tell him, unable to stop the grin that catches your lips. “Eggs and salsa. Best food for staving off a hangover that I’ve found so far.”

Javi throws back the rest of his drink anyway, then comes to press his body to your side. “Is that a fact?”

“It’s a fucking science,” you counter, unable to resist slamming your hips into his to nudge him out of the way as you reach into the fridge for the butter. 

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, sinking his face into the crook of your neck. “How can I be of assistance?” he purrs into your ear, and suddenly, it’s very, very hard to concentrate on cooking. 

“Sit. Down.” You hiss, slapping his butt with a dishtowel. He yowls more than strictly necessary, the drama queen; you’re an excellent towel-popper, but it shouldn’t hurt that much. 

Still, you rub his ass in compensation, matching his lecherous grin when he fixes it on you. “Have a seat,” you tell him again, kicking a barstool vaguely in his direction. “And watch the magic.”

♠

Javi cleans his plate enthusiastically. “So what’s the secret?” he asks, mouth full, still staring up at you like your shitty scrambled eggs are the best meal he’s ever eaten.

You snort. “No secret, Peña.” You hold up your stick of butter, much lighter than it’d been before, and toss it back into the fridge. “You literally just watched me cook them.”

He grins loopily.

You shake your head, biting back your own smile. How could a man as competent and independent as Javier Peña forget to do something as basic as eat? 

Well, it hardly matters. Even with the food you’ve made, he’s going to have a massive hangover in the morning. Ana had cautioned you several times to go easy on the guaro, and you trust her judgement. Emilio’s shit, in particular, is cheap, potent, and deadly. 

Well, he’ll pay for it tomorrow. You shake you head, watching him bumble around the kitchen and drop his dirty plate in the sink. Javi stands at your side, warm and solid as you draw just enough water to let the dishes soak. 

He reaches for your dish soap, and you stop him with a hand on his arm. Javi glances down at you, still a little drunkenly, but his eyes are warm, his lips parted just slightly, and you pull away from him as if burned.

“I’ll get them in the morning,” you manage hoarsely.

He shrugs, brushes your shoulder with his hand as he bumbles away, and you take a moment to lean against the sink and calm your racing heart. 

God, what is with you lately?

Javi has already crashed on your sofa, shoes kicked off, legs sprawled, grinning lazily in your direction. 

You manage not to oogle at him, but it’s a near thing.

Instead, you flop down on his opposite side, allowing your legs to tangle in the middle.

He makes a big show of yawning, tilting his wrist up to glance at his watch. You crane your neck to look at the kitchen clock. It’s only 10:33, but you’re both feeling a little lit - Javi more than you, thankfully - and you both have a big day tomorrow. 

You sigh, reaching down to collect the empty glasses and discarded playing cards, slipping Javi’s keys in your back pocket while he’s not looking.

He scoffs.

Oh. You whirl, realizing he’d been watching you all along. 

“So, am I staying over, Ears?” He grins up at you, a little tired, but still in an excellent mood. 

“You are definitely staying over, Peña,” you tell him firmly, trying not to laugh at the wounded puppy expression on his face as he reacts to your tone. His eyes have gone so wide, pout so pathetic that you can’t help but grin, even as you toss a throw pillow haphazardly over his lap. 

That seems to get a rise out of him. He sits up, frowning at the pillow. “I’m on the sofa?” he whines. 

“Yup!’ you say happily, enjoying the power dynamic for what it is. Putting Javier Peña in your bed tonight would lead straight to…

Well, you’re both drunk, and even if you weren’t, you’re not willing to give up on your bet. Not with the nasty realization that you’d had tonight, for sure. 

Javi must follow your thoughts, because he sobers instantly. “Okay,” he says softly, settling back down and cramming the pillow beneath his shoulder.

You’re kind enough to tuck him in, which really just consists of dragging your comforter from you bed and draping it over his ass and shoulders. His boots are lying haphazardly on the floor - you decide to leave them for him to trip over in the morning - and you don’t bother to cover his feet, knowing that he sleeps with his socks outside of the blanket, the weirdo.

Just as you turn away, a single brown eye catches your gaze. He’d been watching you again.

The thought sends a tremor down your spine. “Need anything else?” you ask clinically, trying to ignore the urge to either kiss him, or scream. 

He huffs contentedly, rocking against the cushions like an animal sinking into a burrow. His eyes drift closed, and you can’t help but just notice how dark his lashes are against his cheek. “Can’t think of anything,” he murmurs, and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

“Okay. Good night,” you tell him, squeezing his shoulder as you pass by to turn out the lights.

“Night, babe.”

You choke. Well, maybe he won’t remember. 

Fat chance. He’s drunk, but he’s not wasted. You decide to raise him, because any other response from you will be awkward, forever.

“Good night, honey,” you answer sweetly as you flick off the light. 

In the darkness, you hear him snort.

♠

author’s notes/confessions: 

I have never written Javier Peña. I have never written in second person. I have never written decent smut. I speak no Spanish. Advice and criticisms, if delivered kindly, are very welcome. 

Yeah, I realize that I wrote Javi a little lighter/goofier here than he’s probably typically depicted. Hang tight, guys. He’s not taking this seriously yet, but he will be. Just wait. 

Guaro/Aguardiente a legit Colombian liquor, and I tried to depict it as accurately as possible for never having tried it. The anise thought that reader has is a reference to absinthe, which is a trip if you’ve ever managed to acquire the real deal (something that’s kind of difficult if you live in the States, unfortunately). Also, I’m unsure if you can just walk into a pharmacy and buy liquor in Colombia, but hey, just go with it. 

This started as a conversation with Tiff and turned into... well, this. I am so, so sorry. Expect about 20k and three chapters. Probably. 

Not beta’d. you get what you get, my friends. 

At the risk of sounding pathetic, your feedback absolutely inspires me to write faster. I don’t make the rules, guys. I just write.

This installment is (mostly) complete, but I’d love to hear what you like and what you don’t, and what you want to see next. My inbox is open. I welcome messages. I want to make friends.  

Love you guys big, and happy holidays to those of you who are celebrating!

[yikesharringrove]

Hey, I'm really struggling with my depression and I was wondering if you could write a Harringrove for me? Maybe something warm and fluffy? Please and thank you.

"I really don't know about this, Bill," Steve said for what felt like the fiftieth time in the past few minutes.

"You just gotta trust me, Pretty Boy."

"Yeah, That's the fucking issue-" Steve's voice wavered on the last word as his footing slipped the tiniest bit on the narrow walkway. "Jesus. Jesus."

"We're almost there, you tiny little baby. And then you'll see that I'll never lead you astray."

"Nope. Not astray. Just to my certain death."

Billy laughed openly at Steve, his face red and pinched as he clung onto Billy's hand for dear life, taking tiny scooting steps forward along the path.

They were skirting along the ledge of the old water tower outside of town, and Steve was scared.

The tower was high and seemed rickety, like it could collapse at any moment. The large water tank was covered in years of graffiti by idiot kids like them, and the handrail that should've wound along the whole walkway was suspiciously gone in many areas. Billy said the vandal kids probably pushed it off. Steve was choosing to believe him and not keep telling himself that the thing rotted right off this huge metal deathtrap way up in the night sky.

"We just gotta get around to the other side, and you'll never doubt me again."

Steve was plastered to the water tank, scooting slowly along behind Billy, taking measured breaths and trying not to let his fear ruin the special little date night Billy had surprised Steve with.

It sounded so cute and romantic when put like that. That's why Steve frantically got dressed and dived into the Camaro when Billy knocked on his front door at half passed-ass o'clock in the morning.

But now Steve was heading towards the end of his life.

Being dragged right off the edge of an unsafe structure.

"A few more steps, Baby. C'mon. You'll love this."

He was most certainly not going to love this. Whatever Billy had in store for them, Steve was going to hate on principle.

They edged around the tank, until Billy suddenly stopped, and lowered himself to sit on the edge of the walkway, his legs dangling over the side.

"If this is some kinda 'til death do us part shit, I'm not-"

"Just sit down, Harrington. Fuck." Billy's bright smile gave away how not mad he actually was.

Steve sat down cautiously, keeping himself and his legs a good distance away from the edge.

Billy pulled something out of his pocket, and Steve has never been happier in his life to see an old beat-up plaid thermos, and to smell the coffee, kept hot and fresh in the inner pocket of Billy's jacket this whole time.

They shared the one small cup, taking sips of the milky coffee, Billy knowing Steve would rather die than drink his black.

"I came up here a lot when I first moved here. Before I started comin' round your place. When I got mad or just. Couldn't deal. Haven't been here in a bit, because now I'm always with you, but I thought. I want you to see it."

Billy was staring at his watch as to not have to look Steve in the eye as he spoke.

"That's very sweet, but this better be worth me shitting my pants up here for."

"I really didn't know you were so weird about heights. Sorry, Sugar."

He was laughing. Steve was scared out of his goddamn mind and was about ten seconds from pushing Billy off the edge, and he's laughing.

"You're the worst. You're the bane of my existence. The thorn in my side. Please don't ever speak to me again-"

Steve cut himself off.

Somewhere, in the back of his brain, he had noticed it getting lighter. The sky turning that weak grey it does, making everything look like it was black-and-white.

But this.

This was gold.

This was gold and yellow and green and blue and all the fucking colors Steve could ever imagine and moremoremore.

He's seen the sunrise before. But never from a place like this.

He can see all of Hawkins, sprawled out in front of them. The tiny little town full of government conspiracies and children with special mind powers and a brand new mall still under construction.

He can see the horizon. The slope of the Earth curving out in the distance, fields and flatlands and forests as far as the eye can see, leading his sight to the splash of colors in the east.

"Bill, oh my god."

"Told you. Told you."

Steve doesn't even know what Billy told him. He didn't know anything except for all these fucking colors, and the warmth of the sun as it began to unfold from beyond the horizon, and Billy's hand in his and-

"I love you."

Steve's eyes snapped away from those colors, right over to Billy's face, bather in gold and green and blue and orange and yellow. He looked so beautiful, like a piece of perfect art only Steve gets to see. Vulnerable and kind.

"I've never said that to anyone before. But, I mean it."

It was obvious he did. Sharing this amazing thing with Steve like it was all that mattered.

Like Steve was all that mattered.

"Fuck. Fuck, Bill. I love you. I love you so much."

He wrapped himself around Billy, no longer giving any kind of a fuck about the height of the tower.

Only caring about Billy and the warmth of the sun and the colors colors colors and I've never said that to anyone before.

[felswritingfire]

April Brain Rot #1

Prompts: 

19. Elegant

12. “I gotta admit I’m a little surprised”

(Mafia AU) Vil x Reader

Summery: Vil takes you with him on a “business trip” and you talk to Cater Diamond about the names of alcohol. Specifically, the drink you ordered.

TW: Alcohol; suggestive dialogue

Word Count: 2,508

A note from Fel:  I don’t speak a lick of French, so I apologize if the French translations are wrong (I used Google Translate)! So, I hope you can forgive me and that you’ll still have a good time reading it! Enjoy!

“I gotta admit, I’m a little surprised. I never thought someone like Vil would bring… someone like you.” 

Your nose crinkled, eyebrows furrowing into an angry v. Your gaze shot from your drink to the man sitting across from you, a lazy smirk on his face as he widened the spread of his legs in front of him. He took a sip from his drink (a beautiful electric blue drink where a slice of lemon was wedged on the lip of the cup). “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

His eyebrows raised and a chuckle shook his chest. “No offense meant-” he leaned his elbows on his knees- “I just meant you’re much more of…” he nodded his head back and forth, seemingly trying to find the word he was looking for. “Of the innocent sort I suppose? Though, I don’t think innocent fits you properly. Not with what you're drinking.”

“Drinking? What’s wrong with my drink?” You look down at the whip cream topped drink that you had ordered after Vil and Rook went inside a VIP room with a man (you honestly thought he was a child at first, he had such a cute baby face and the way his red hair framed his face made him almost look angelic- though your view of him was shattered when he had opened his mouth to reveal quite the no-nonsense tone dripping off of each of his words). You had a feeling that the meeting wasn’t going to end anytime soon and Vil had, afterall, given you free reign to enjoy yourself at the fancy club that this meeting was taking place at; so you got the first drink you saw another patron had that caught your interest. It just happened to be the one that you thought might have something sweet in it. 

The man- Cater, you recall- tilted his head to the side, his green eyes shining under the bright lights of the club. “You know what it’s called don’t you?”

You looked at it and back at him, your eyes squinting at him.

“Oh, dear, maybe you are more innocent than I thought.” Cater placed a finger against his lips, a smile threatening to break out on his face. “It’s called a Blow Job, darling.”

Your startled expression throws him into a fit of laughter. You feel your cheeks flush as you grip your drink closer to your chest, eyes darting around the room. “I- it still tastes good.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” His shoulders are still shaking from chuckles and he wipes a tear from his eye before that annoying smirk crosses his face and he picks up the drink he placed on the table somewhere in the midst of your conversation. You frown when he stands up and makes his way around the table to sit next to you. “You know what this drink is called, Sweetie?”

You lean back from how close his face is- you can smell his cologne, something mellow yet expensive. You shake your head.

You realize too late that you have no more couch to scoot away on when your back hits the arm of the couch. You feel sweat pool at the small of your back when his smooth lips brush against your ear. “Sex in the Driveway.”

The tips of your ears burn in a blush. “Oh, fuck off.”

Cater throws his head back and another round of laughter leaves him.  

“Why do drinks have to have such weird names,” you mumble. Looking away from him and taking a sip from your drink.

“I don’t know-” he throws an arm over the back of the couch where you’re squished against the arm of it- “but they’re good conversation starters, no?”

You sigh. “I guess.”

Cater hums, drinking from his Sex in the Driveway before asking: “so, why did Vil bring you, anyway?”

I don’t know either. You scowled, tapping your nails against the side of the glass. “Didn’t have a babysitter, I guess.”

“Babysitter?”

“Yeah, Vil usually has these two guys watch over me for whatever reason- probably because I’m friends with him or something-” you suddenly stopped talking when you realized where you were and who you were talking with: a really fancy club, that had velvet red seats and a corner for rich old white men to play croquet, that was owned by one of the seven most influential mob bosses in Twisted Wonderland- Riddle Rosehearts- and you were currently sitting with one of said mob bosses cronies. You glared at him, scowling. 

He raised his hands shaking his head. “Hey, now, I’m not gonna go snooping for any dirt on Vil- they’re talking about a pseudo-partnership in there currently-” he nods his head to the heart-shaped doors that the three disappeared to earlier- “I don’t want to do anything to- ah- jeopardize that. Riddle’ll have my head, you know?”

“Good.” You say, taking another drink before continuing, “I don’t know anything anyway.”

“Oh? Aren’t you part of the Pomefior group though? They don’t let just anyone in without some sort of knowledge, you know.”

“Yeah, I know that. Might be because I’m one of the only people he trusts with helping him get ready.”

“Oh,” Cater’s eyes shined at that, leaning against your side. “So, you’re like his personal stylist?”

“Something like that. He always comes to my shop when he has time.”

“You have a shop?”

“Yeah, I own a boutique,” you smile. “Vil usually comes and commissions me for his clothes- always so elegant, you know? Really fun to work on and they just fit him. One of my favorite ones to work on was-” you blink, realization hitting you- “the one he’s wearing tonight, actually.”

Cater gasps, he places his drink down on the table, grabbing both of your hands and shuffling so close to you that your chests almost touch. “You’re telling me that you made that suit he’s wearing today?”

You nod, your cheeks warming once again. 

“He’s worn that suit more than once you know? I would do anything to get my hands on a suit like that- it complements his waist so well and the colors-” an almost squeal slips from Cater’s throat as he squeezes your hands- “divine. No one can take their eyes off of him when he wears that thing- well, even without the suit people don’t really take their eyes off of him, but- you get what I mean, don’t you?”

A small drop of pride blossomed in your chest, happy that convincing Vil to let you alter the color pallet had paid off. You nod, “yeah.” There’s a brief moment where you tug your bottom lip into your mouth with your teeth before you say, “you know I do take commissions- I can always make you one for the right price.”

“Really?” He reminded you of a puppy in that moment he was practically vibrating with excitement as he half situates himself in your lap. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Well- again- for the right price-”

“No, they wouldn’t. This suit is one of a kind and I do hope it will stay one of a kind. Isn’t that right, my Sweet Potato?”

“I- Vil! I- the meeting! How’d it go?” You feel the blush creep down your neck and over your chest- Cater whining and pressing against you, lamenting the fact that he’d have to commission you something else. 

“Incroyable!” Rook declared from behind Vil (who was still glaring down at you and Cater). “Roi des Roses and Roi du Poison have settled upon an agreement-” Rook wiped an invisible tear away with one hand while he placed the other on his chest- “Belle harmonie.”

“That’s great!” You smile at the small group of men. “That means you guys’ll be friends for a bit, huh? How neat!”

Vil’s brow creased and his lips tugged into a frown- expression caught between concern and frustration. “Who told you-”

“Ah, you’re so cute, (Y/N)-chan!” Cater suddenly wrapped his arms around you causing you to yelp, your face flushing a deeper shade of red. His cheek pressed against yours as he began to chatter: “Did you guys know that they didn’t realize they ordered a Blow Job? I thought they were going to be all hardcore and sexy, but no- they’re so innocent- look at them! Blushing because of a hug!” He laughed squeezing you tighter. “You should really try a Sex in the Driveway next! It’s super yummy, also it’s so aesthetic for pictures.” Cater's voice dropped to a whisper when he added: “even special types of pictures- I have a really nice driveway we can take those pictures at, you know?”

You can feel a scream build in your throat when Vil’s voice- too even, too calm- suddenly cuts in: “I do believe it’s time for us to go. I would appreciate it if you would let my Potato go, Mr. Diamond.”

Cater looks up at him from underneath his eyelashes. “Ah, yes, apologies, Don Schoenhiet.” He lets you go but not before leaving a kiss on your cheek as he grabs his drink and skips away with a wave. “Bye-bye, (Y/N)-chan! See you later!”

You sputtered, feeling like you were going to overheat as you stood on wobbly legs and staggered to Vil’s side. Rook’s fighting the urge to giggle at the situation as the two Dons talk between themselves to wrap up a few loose ends before they nod at one another and Vil is dragging you out the door by your elbow. 

The blast of cool air that blasted against your face as the doors opened pulled a quiet gasp from you. Vil still dragging you by the elbow, his expression fixed on the sleek, black limo that waited in front, a boy with purple hair leaning against the side of it. Rook waves to Epel and he nods, opening the door for the three of you. Well, you thought it was going to be for the three of you, instead you watched as Rook waved at you through the tinted window once the door shut and followed Epel up to the front of the car. 

You chewed on your lip, patting your lap as silence took up the space between you and Vil. He had his legs cross as well as his arms, glaring down at you. You looked up, with a sheepish smile. “So, the meeting went good, right?”

“It went amazing.”

“That’s good.”

The silence was beginning to seep back in again and you went back to chewing on your lip when you heard Vil click his tongue. “Stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” You felt your face flush.

“What were you and Diamond talking about?”

“I- huh?”

“My Sweet Potato, you know I don’t like repeating myself.” His eyes were unwavering and the sound of wind blowing across the frame of the limo seemed to be so much louder with the way the blood rushed to your ears.

You shrugged. “Nothing too interesting, honestly. He told me what my drink was called- which, I will have you know, was a complete accident that I ordered that thing, ok? I saw some guy had one and it had whip cream, that is it.” You rested your chin in your hand as you slouched to lean against your knee, a happy smile on your face, “and then I got to talk about my shop, so that was really nice.” You blink sitting straight again and looking at him: your eyebrows slightly knitted together and an honest shine in your eyes. “If you're worried that he tried to get some info from me about you guys, I didn’t tell him anything! It wouldn’t have worked anyway-” you look almost proud of yourself as you cross your arms over your chest- “I don’t know anything about what you guys do and I told him that to his face.”

“Anything else?”

You looked at Vil, tilting your head. He didn’t seem angry, more like… mildly annoyed? You weren’t completely positive, but the loosening of his eyebrows said that he was at least calming down from whatever set him off. “He… he asked me why you brought me if I didn’t know anything.”

“Oh? And what did you say?”

“I- I said I didn’t know either, probably because I’m your friend and that you couldn’t find my babysitters,” You chuckle to yourself, patting at your lap again. 

Vil blinks at you, before leaning back and covering his eyes with an arm. He sighs. 

You look up at Vil, concern suddenly tickling the bottom of your heart. “Vil?”

“What a silly potato you are.” You feel your face burst into flames as Vil shows you his face once again: his expression is raw- pure adoration and something that you never expected him to show you; the smile on his face is not one that is beautiful and perfectly maintained- it didn’t have a purpose- instead, it was soft, something so vulnerable that you could feel your breath catching in your throat. He leaned towards you, his hands finding your cheeks, he gently rested his forehead against yours. You feel your eyes flutter as you smell his perfume: apples and cinnamon. “I brought you with me because I remember you mentioning you wanted to go there.”

You gasp, an excited glint in your eyes. “I did, didn’t I?”

The smile stayed on his face as he leaned back. “Did you enjoy it?”

You nod. “It was just as pretty as I thought it was going to be- but I like your club a lot more. It’s just so much more…” you scrunch your nose and giggle when you feel him begin to play with your hair. “More you.” You nod, proud that you finally found the words you wanted to say. 

He pauses in twirling your hair, he breaths a laugh. “‘More me’, hm?”

“Yeah! It makes me feel safe,” you laugh, “It’s like being surrounded by your muse you know?” You smile at him. 

Vil pulls you into his arms. You feel him shivering and you wrap your arms around, being mindful not to rumple his suit too much. “Never change, my Sweet Potato.”

“I’m not planning to!”

Another breathy laugh as he brushes his nose against the skin of your neck. Your skin warm with a building blush. You two stay like that: happy, content in each other's arms before he speaks again: “you’re not allowed to converse with Diamond ever again, do you understand me?”

“He’s a potential customer though! I have to talk to him! Also, he seemed like an alright guy-”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

You pull away from the hug crossing your arms, forcing your cheeks to cool down as Vil stares at you with sweet eyes. “That’s not fair. You’re not even my boyfriend.”

“I can change that very easily, Sweet Potato.”

Your cheeks begin to burn as you let out the most pitiful yet happy noise out of your throat. 

<The Next Chosen Characters>

Thank you for reading!

[micheldechevin]

Red carnations

Its me, ya boi....back at it again with....a Vyn fic. I've gotten severe Tears of Themis brain rot. Well anyway. Feel free to kudos on Ao3 if you like! Link to the fic on ao3 Pairing: MC x Vyn Richter Series: Tears of Themis Rating: T Word Count: 1800

Sitting in his study, Vyn felt strangely lonely. It wasn’t like him to miss anyone, but it had been more than two weeks since he last spoke to Rosa due to another large case that needed all hands on deck at the Themis office. Even so, he couldn’t help but almost ache from her absent; whenever she crossed his mind, his chest would tighten. He was far past accepting that these were new feelings in his life and it wasn’t the mysticism of ‘Love at first sight’. Still, the ache that accompanied these feelings was something he was struggling to get used to. So unique and admirably was she, that he struggled to stand in her blinding light some days, and yet much light a moth to the flame he would do so anyway. A few scorch marks on his heart was nothing compared to the valued time he had with Rosa.

The last time they were together they had gone to the local gardens to see the freshly Bloomed Carnations before going to dinner at a spot Rosa was sure he would love. He barely remembered the food, but the Blooms were so vivid in his mind because he couldn’t help but remember how wonderful they matched her. How it seemed like every flower in the garden only accented her beauty. Vyn remembered that he also bought her a bouquet of the Red Carnations because he knew it would be the last time they would see each other for at least a week and he thought they would remind her of him.

That raised a question he had tormented himself with again. Did she think of him often? By now Vyn was willing to wager that she did think of him, but to what end? For how long? How often? He wanted to know every part of her thoughts and feelings, every inch of her heart and while it was so easy to read what she felt on her face, he wanted to know specifics to hear her voice say it. She knew in so many words the contents of his heart; something he spilled in front of Wayne, but he wasn’t so sure she trusted him to be so open nor believed it was real even when he had explained it to her. He craved her trust.

With a sigh, Vyn shook such thoughts from his head, returning his attention to the patient file before him, much like her, he also needed to do more work. An excellent distraction from the aching absence of his ‘special one.’

----

It was after several hours of focus when Vyn’s phone rang, pulling him out of his current task to see the name pop up on the screen; much to his joy it read ‘Rosa’. Again his chest squeeze as he answered her call. “Rosa? Hello.” His tone was even and pleasant, though it was probably hard to miss the undertone of relieved.

“Dr. Richter! Hello! I haven’t talked to you in a while, but we just finished! We won the trail!” Vyn was taking in the excitement in her voice, the corners of his lips curving up into a smile. Though he had so desperately missed her, she was happy and that was almost worth it to him; he couldn’t help but wish that he was the cause of the happiness. “Can we meet up?” He heard the pause in her voice before continuing. “I mean, if you’re not busy. Sorry I should have asked that first.” The smile was quickly replaced with a slight frown. She never needed to ask—rarely was he too busy for her, for anyone else? He was too busy but never for Rosa.

“I am not busy.” He pushed the file off to the side with his freshly written notes. “I would like to see you again, perhaps, since it is dinner time I could come over and we could get take out from some place that you like?” Vyn would have offered to take her out somewhere, but he wanted to monopolize her from the rest of the world for a moment. Everyone else got to see her, now it was his turn. “I have a gift for you.”

“Huh? A gift?” He could hear the surprise, which was another success to him. He enjoyed pulling all different emotions from her. “You didn’t have to do that! Just hanging out is nice!” Her voice sounded far away for a moment, quickly he realized it meant she was switching ears.

“I did not have too, that is correct. I wanted to.” Vyn stood from his desk, stretching his back. “If you are home, I can come over now so we can decide what we would like to eat.” Pleased, when there was a hum of agreement on the other end of the line. “Then I will be there as soon as I can be. See you, Rosa.” Hanging up the phone, he gathered the gift he had made for Rosa before heading out.

---

It was sometimes later when Vyn knocked on Rosa’s door, which she opened immediately with a smile so bright it lit up his world. “Dr. Richter, you made it.” Stepping back, she let him into the room. Quickly, he took off his shoes and turned towards her wondering if she thought he might not come. Of course he would, he always would.

“I did, indeed.” He smiled at her—hoping that she felt the warmth he constantly felt with her. After a moment of just admiring her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hair clip that looked hand made. It had a red carnation on it, much like the ones in the garden they had visited although a little more crude. Still, her eyes lit up as she looked at it despite her earlier protests that he didn’t need to do that.

“It’s beautiful, Dr. Richter! Now I have two hair clips from you that I can wear.” Once again, success—she was happy, and it was all because of him.

“Here, let me put it into your hair.” Vyn stepped closer to Rosa, gently, tenderly, lovingly running his fingers through the strands for as long as he could get away with before pinning the clip in place. His hand slid down to her cheek, his thumb brushing against her cheek bone. This was a little more daring before; he hadn’t shied away from touch—but never so intimate and….electric. But it was as soft as he had found himself imagining a time or two. He could tell she didn’t know what to do as her cheeks turned progressively darker, he breath almost stopping completely. Perhaps he had pushed too far this time. With a small chuckle, he dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Yes, well—What would you like to order to eat?”

That seemed to jolt her back into a working brain, thought I was obvious she was a little shy and nervous now. “Right, sorry. I..Uhm, maybe from that family restaurant?” Rosa was avoiding eye contact, but she didn’t seem mad so that was enough for Vyn. “The one we, ah…” She was digging through her pockets, presumably for her phone. “The one we went too before.” The one where we had been mistaken for a couple. He remembered clearly, there was a level of Euphoria that came with that whole situation, even if he had be...anxious? Though anxious might not have been the right word.

---

“I think that would be good.” He leaned in, the glow from the evening sun reflecting in his golden eyes, radiating a kindness and affection Rosa couldn’t recall seeing before. Never had she realized that as cold as those eyes could get, they could get so equally warm. Her heart was faltering from nerves. Usually, Rosa felt calm in Dr. Richter’s presence, but when he got so close like this—though this was closer than he had ever been, she felt both like she was floating on air, and sinking into the ground. He made her feel things she simply wasn’t used to. It was….difficult, and she wasn’t entirely sure what any of it meant, but Artem’s warning to keep it business was always in the back of her mind—even if it were far too late for any of that.

“Right, I will call. I think they do delivery, if not walking would be nice.” Yes, fresh air would be good right now. “Actually, why don’t we just walk over and order there and bring it back?” Her phone was up in her hand, almost as if it was shielding her from his intense and potentially unearned affection. She still hadn’t pulled part what all of that with Wayne meant. “It’s a really nice evening and I have been locked in the office for a while.” Hopefully, he would bite.

“That can be done, but are you sure you want to walk? I’m worried you might be tired from over working.” Really, he just wanted to stay here, the two of them but he was willing to relent if he must, and it seemed he must when she nodded and put her phone back in her pocket. It was a shame, but he wouldn’t ruin her fun for his own selfishness.

“Yes, I think it would be nice to take a walk with you.” Rosa had already gone to slide her shoes on and grab a light coat that wouldn’t overly heat her but would be nice in the evening breeze. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to go on a walk with you for a while so it’s perfect; one stone and all of that.” She laughed, finally relaxing again.

Vyn smiled at her with admiration, the smile on her face was worth pushing his own desires deeper down and it’s not like they were going to be away from her home all night, just for a little bit and then he could have her all to himself again. Sliding on his own shoes, he followed her outside and waited for her to lock the door behind them. Satisfied that it was locked, Rosa turned to Dr. Richter with a nod before turning to walk in the direction of the Restaurant. Vyn walked next to her, letting the silence of the calm evening settle over them—pondering over what had made him so bold earlier; not that there was any regrets at all. Perhaps he was simply bursting at the emotional seams. No matter, he was here with her now, and nothing could stop the joy creeping through is heart. Like the vines from misplaced Ivy, she was growing into the cracks in his foundation, and he found it harder and harder to mind.

[mldrgrl]

Broken Things 20/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall  See Chapter 1 for summary and notes

The incident breeds awkwardness between them for the rest of the morning.  Katherine moves out of his arms eventually and he helps her to gather her clothes.  She keeps her eyes down as she dresses, leaving things unbuttoned and untied, and doesn’t look at him.

“I just need a few minutes to put some fresh clothes on,” she says.  “And then I’ll see to breakfast.”

“Take your time.  I’ll need to check on the boys and see if the storm did any damage.”

She nods once and then she slips out the door.  He wonders if he should go after her or say something, but he doesn’t know what to say that he hasn’t already.  He sighs and then dresses for the day.

Melvin and Trevor already have the barn open when he makes it outside.  Richard is repairing a fencepost in the hog pen.  The ground is muddy, but the sky is blue and the sun is bright.  

“How are things?” Mulder asks.

“Everyone pulled through,” Melvin answers.  “Trevor said that them sheeps were noisy little buggers.  Queenie was fit to be tied over their restlessness, but they settled once the rain let up.”

“How did George do?”

“Just fine.  We actually moved the goats into the stable before it got bad and I put ‘em in with George.  They kept good company for each other.”

“Roof held up?”

“Just fine.”

“Good, good.”

“Everything alright with you?”

“Just fine.”  Mulder rubs the back of his head and looks away from Melvin.

“Mmhm.”

With Jesse and Jimmy away, there is just too much to be done for Mulder to dwell on Katherine’s reluctance to let him in.  Whatever happened this morning, it doesn’t change the closeness they shared the night before, that he now knows is possible to have.  He’s not angry, he’s just sad for her and for them.  Whatever Jack Willis did to her, if the man wasn’t already dead, Mulder would kill him.

It takes some time to relocate the livestock back to their pens.  The hogs romp and roll in the mud, ecstatic, ignoring their slop initially in favor of getting dirty.  Katherine rings the breakfast bell as they’re mucking the stables and Mulder sends them in ahead of him.  He doesn’t have much of an appetite anyway.

Katherine jumps up from the table when he comes in and rushes to the stove.  He puts his arm around her and takes the spatula from her hand.  “Go on and sit down,” he says.  “I know how to fix a plate up.”

“The eggs might be cold.  I covered the bacon to keep it warm.”

“That’s my fault.  I’m late.”  He kisses her cheek and sends her away.

Melvin scrutinizes them the whole meal.  He can feel the older man’s eyes on him at times and he catches him looking at Katherine as well.  

“It’s already starting to dry up out there,” Mulder says.  “I think we should send the horses out to pasture today, what do you think?  Let them run off any residual nerves and they might enjoy a nice roll in the mud, though probably not as much as the hogs.”

“You want to run the curry comb through the lot of ‘em at the end of the day, go on ahead,” Melvin says.

Mulder chuckles.  “It’s Saturday.  You boys planning on heading down to the bath house tonight?  Faithful Jenny and Blondie would probably like a nice ride.  That black stallion from the postal team, he handles well with a saddle.”

“Why do you call the horse Faithful Jenny?” Katherine asks.

Richard laughs.  Mulder chuckles around a mouthful of eggs.  Trevor turns a shade of red that would make a ripe tomato jealous.  Melvin coughs into his fist.

“Have you ever heard of Old Faithful in Yellowstone?” Mulder asks.

Katherine shakes her head no.  Mulder takes another stab at his eggs and then wipes his eyes and sits back.

“Old Faithful is a geyser,” he says.  “Some members of an expedition were camped nearby and noticed that she erupted with predictability every ten minutes or so.”

Richard pounds a fist on the table and laughs so hard he doubles over off the bench.  Mulder shakes his head, but has to laugh with him.

“We got Jenny from a rancher nearby that couldn’t take it no more,” Melvin continues where Mulder left off.  “He come ‘round with her and asked if we could just buy her off him for a fair price because he was at his wits end.”

“But, she’s a lovely horse,” Katherine says.

“Oh, yes,” Mulder says.  “She’s a good old gal, she was just also foraging in the wrong places and got herself a bad case of the colic.”

“You’re not gettin’ to the best part,” Richard says.

“Why don’t you go ahead,” Mulder tells him.  “You sure do enjoy the tale.”

“The best part is that when Mr. Miles dropped her off he said, ‘I tell you what, you can set your watch by that horse’s farts, I reckon.  Probably gives Old Faithful a run for her money.’”

“Oh, my.”  Katherine’s cheeks redden for a moment and then the corners of her mouth pick up and her lips quiver like she’s trying to suppress her amusement, but she can’t hold it for long.  Her giggles almost sound like hiccups and she covers her mouth with one hand.  Her shoulders are shaking and she lets go with a full belly laugh that has the whole table roaring in no time.

“She’s on a special diet now so her, uh, troubles have passed,” Mulder says, when the laughter has died down.  “But, we got used to calling her Faithful Jenny and so the name just carries on.”

“Poor Jenny,” Katherine says.

“You’re lucky you never stood downwind of her some years ago,” Richard says.

The table breaks up into laughter once more.

↭

She’s felt anxious and embarrassed for most of the day.  The hilarity at the breakfast table eased some of her tension, but by noon dinner she had a knot in her stomach.  Her misery is self-imposed.  She knows this.  Mulder has been nothing but gentle and tender with her all day and she returns his kindness with silence.

While the men tend to the horses and get ready for their Saturday trek into town, she launders the sheets and the week’s dirty clothes.  There’s a stain on one of Mulder’s undershirts and she realizes it’s the one he used to clean her hands last night.  The thought of what they did makes her breathless.  She has to grip the side of the washtub to keep upright she feels so faint.

She wants so badly to erase the past and move forward.  She wants so badly for this new marriage she has to feel real.  Last night was as real as it could be, but she had to ruin things this morning.  Perhaps she’s mistaking Mulder’s kindness for pity, and she wouldn’t blame him for it.  She’s pathetic and weak and doesn’t deserve all the nice things he’s done for her.

She refuses to dwell on this now.  She has chores to do and meals to prepare.  It’s why she’s here.  Not to fall in love with her own husband.  She gasps and for the second time, has to grip the side of the washtub.  Is she in love?  No, she can’t be.  She hardly knows him.  She only knows that he’s kind, he’s generous, he laughs easy, he has a slight temper, but isn’t violent.  He’s patient, he’s good to his horses and the men that work for him.  He’s good to her.  

She hears the back door close and she startles at the sound and automatically jumps to start scrubbing the undershirt in her hand.  Mulder knocks softly on the side of the washroom door and smiles at her.

“The boys are heading into town,” he says.  “I told them to go ahead and set out early and I thought I’d go ahead and make supper for us tonight.”

“You can cook?”

“I’m hurt that there’s doubt in your tone.”

“I’m not doubting, I’m just…”

“Naturally skeptical, since I have not yet proven my worth to you.”

“You’ve more than proven your worth,” she says, softly, taking the teasing tone out of the conversation.

Mulder smiles at her and reaches out to cup her cheek.  She wants to believe that she is worth the trouble if he can still touch her so fondly and make her feel so cared for.

“Need help with the laundry?” he asks.

“I’m nearly done, just need to get these shirts scrubbed and hang up this last basket to dry.”

“I can do that.”  He squeezes past her to take the basket of damp clothing and then hoists it up over her head to squeeze back out.  “That pulley you had Richard install is just about the most genius thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mulder takes the laundry away and she finishes with the shirts.  She goes out to the back to pin them up and he lets her take over the line.  She gets fresh linens on the beds, does some dusting, and cleans up the washroom.  Before she’s through, she can smell the hearty aroma of meat cooking and hear the sizzle of the skillet.

“Pork chops?” she asks.

“I confess it’s about the only thing I can cook, but I do it well.”

“Should I chop anything?”

“No, Ma’am.  I’ve had potatoes baking for some time and I brought up a jar of applesauce.”

“There are a few corn fritters leftover from dinner that I wrapped.  We could heat those as well.”

“I think that sounds perfect.”

Katherine sets the table for two.  The pork chops are delicious.  He shows her how to garnish a baked potato with chopped bacon and bits of chives and cheese, which she’d never seen done before.  She tries to imagine an easy life with him and what it would have been like if only they’d met four years ago.

“Have you given any thought to what you’d like in the expansion?” he asks.

Katherine shakes her head.  “There isn’t anything in particular that I can think of.  I would like...well, I would like the porch to stay the way that it is.  Facing west.  I like watching the sunset.”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing that.  I was thinking I might convert the bunkhouse into a guest house.  And I’d like to have an office built on the other side of the kitchen.  There must be something you’d like though.  A parlor?  Sewing room?  Laboratory?”

She shakes her head at him and then laughs.  “A laboratory?”

“Some place for the science things you enjoy.”

“No, thank you.”  Her smile fades a bit as memories fall on her.  “When I was a little girl, all I used to want was my own bookcase, filled with books, but my father said that reading novels was unladylike and would rot my brain and fill it with uppity ideas.  I had a schoolteacher that did not agree, fortunately, and I did most of my reading in secret, with her help.”

“Is that the same teacher that got you interested in sciences?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a favorite novel?”

“Moby Dick always resonated with me.”

“Dense material for a young person, lady or gent.  How did it resonate?��

“The ship’s captain, Ahab, reminded me very much of my father.”  She closes her eyes for a few moments and then shakes the memories of her childhood from her head.  Her family is not a subject she wishes to think about right now.  “Do you think we could put in a magnolia tree somewhere?”

“I’ve never seen a magnolia out in these parts, but we can find out if the soil is right for it.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

She stands then to start clearing the dishes and to clean the kitchen.  Mulder lays a hand on her arm, very gently.

“You could have your own library,” he says.  “A room full of all your favorite books and all the ones you never got to read, but always wanted to.”

“The porch and the tree will be more than enough.”

He lets her go with a bit of reluctance and she goes on with her cleaning.  He heads out to do the evening chores in the barn and stables.  She doesn’t see him again for the rest of the evening.  She is already lying in bed when she hears him come in by the soft tread of his boots on the wood floor that she’s grown accustomed to.  She hears him open his door and there’s a long pause before he closes it.

She twists the wedding ring on her finger around and around.  When she catches herself, she shakes her hands and then starts to do her rosary, but stops that as well.  For nearly her entire life she’s been told that trusting in God and saying her prayers will bring her comfort and peace, but she’s never known it to be comforting at all.  Certainly not in the four years when she could have used it the most.  And she never knew peace until last night when she was with Mulder, so close with him, lying in his arms.

Maybe God led her here, or maybe He didn’t.  Maybe it was fate, like Mulder said.  The point is, if she wants peace, if she wants comfort, she knows where to find it.  All she has to do is get up and walk across the hallway.  Can she really ask him to do this for her though, when he’s already given her so much?  And what has she given him in return?

Katherine sighs and twists her ring again.  Finally, she kicks the sheets away and gets up from the bed.  She unties her hair and shakes it loose before she goes to her door.  It takes her some time to open it and then she stands in the dark for a few moments more before she tiptoes to his door.  The floor creaks softly under her.  She can see the lamplight shining dimly from under the bottom of his door.  It takes her another few moments and a few deep breaths, but she knocks.

Mulder opens the door.  He’s bare-chested and bare-footed.  His suspenders are slung down by his thighs and the top button of his trousers is undone.  He cocks his head in question and she drops her eyes for a few moments, but then looks back up at him.

“Could you hold me?” she asks.

He opens his mouth and then purses his lips and nods.  “Yeah, I can do that.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Problem with Magic Markers

Soooo Critical Role campaign 2 just ended, I've got major brain rot over it and my wonderful gf gave me a wonderful idea for a fic so! This happened! A gift to @spiky-lesbian who came up with this adorable concept and is just generally an all round wonderful person who deserves the world. Also huge thanks to my ever patient, ever helpful beta reader @minky-for-short

If you liked it too, please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3!

-----------

Mollymauk is so proud of Caleb in so many ways and, now they have their lovely lives with their wonderful children, he finds more reasons to be every day.

-----------

Mollymauk Tealeaf had learned many things since he’d become a parent, now five years ago. A short amount of time, he’d used to think, but plenty of time to obtain a lot of knowledge you never thought you were ever going to need in your life.

Like how sandwiches cut into triangles were disgusting but sandwiches cut into squares could be eaten by the hundreds. Like how to make a bath appealing to a toddler with the liberal addition of bubble bath and a willingness to get absolutely soaked playing Sharks with them. Like how a scraped knee and bumped forehead could be cured with his cuddles and kisses alone, like how a promise from him that everything was going to be okay was enough to make it so.

And how silence was very, very worrying.

So when Mollymauk walked past his son and daughter’s room and heard only silence, when he knew for a fact they were in there, he stopped dead. He put any thoughts of getting to go and spend some time with his sewing kit out of his mind. Because he’d been a parent long enough to know that something was up, two five year olds weren’t that silent unless some game was afoot, something they didn’t want their parents to know about. Which meant he should probably at least poke his nose in.

So he knocked lightly on their door, the one covered in whichever drawings they were most proud of that week and a hand painted sign Jester had made for them the day they were born, prettily proclaiming ‘Trinket and Una’s Room!’ amongst a flock of miniature unicorns.

“Sweetlings?” he called gently, “Mind if I come in?”

There was a sudden scrabbling from behind the door and he heard a muffled grunt from Una before Trinket answered hurriedly, “Um...yes! Okay daddy!”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Molly pushed the door back, disturbing the usual scattering of toys left on the floor like the aftermath of a felt based battle. Although it did seem like there was more mess than usual…

Trinket stood in the middle of the room between their two little beds, his backpack at his feet and an expression of perfect innocence on his face that was just a little too polished to be anything but an act. Molly had to admit he’d probably learned that from him.

“Well hello there, little man,” he leaned in the doorway, smiling crookedly, “What game are we playing today?”

Trinket shuffled his feet, “Um...packing?”

“That sounds like a fun game,” Molly’s gentle concern upgraded to full blown wariness, “And where’s your sister?”

Trinket turned a deeper shade of purple, looking down at his fidgety feet that were poking more holes in his innocence by the second, “Um...she...um…”

Which was the point Una helpfully chose to poke her little head out of the backpack, dark eyes blinking curiously and ears flapping, trilling, “Here daddy!”

Trinket flushed guiltily, frowning at her, “Una! I said you had to stay shh!”

Molly took a breath, wandering over to sit down on Trinket’s bed. As his eyes swept around the room, he noted a great deal more chaos in the room. Almost like someone had been going through the toy box and the drawers and bookshelves, hurriedly pulling things out, making quick decisions about what to abandon and what to stuff into a little blue, dinosaur patterned backpack. Molly supposed he should at least be grateful that Trinket saw his sister as worth taking.

“Why don’t you talk to me, babies?” he offered gently.

Trinket swallowed, eyes darting around nervously before the last of the fight went out of his narrow little shoulders and he mumbled, “Daddy...can I tell you a secret?”

Molly had to smile. This was almost a running joke between the three of them, his kids running up excitedly to tell him they had a secret for him before whispering into his ear about some apparently very cool bug they’d seen or that Uncle Caddy had snuck them an extra cookie or that he was the best daddy ever. He loved being brought into their world where everything was brighter and more exciting and there was fun to be found in the smallest things. And where everything was felt so much more keenly.

“Of course you can, sweetling,” he murmured gently, patting the bed beside him, “You can always tell me secrets. Whatever it is, I promise we can make it better together.”

As Una rolled out of the backpack, apparently unconcerned and rather enjoying herself, Trinket clambered up beside him and stood so he could whisper into his ear. Molly tucked his purple curls behind one ear, smiling encouragingly.

Voice already trembling, Trinket leaned in and murmured, “I messed up Papa’s coat.”

Molly absorbed that in silence, feeling his son’s anxious red eyes on him. He leaned back, keeping his face carefully neutral before taking a long, deep breath through his nose, marshalling his thoughts.

“Trinket, I’m not going to lie to you here. We might be in trouble.”

His opinion didn’t change when he actually saw the coat. The coat his husband had been wearing as long as he’d known him and refused to be regularly seen without, no matter how many attempts Molly had made to buy him a newer, less ragged, less musty smelling version. It was more a comfort blanket than just clothing, stained and scorched from numerous spells and spills, old leather worn shiny from overuse. He hadn’t said so in so many words but it didn’t take a genius to guess that Caleb had worn it since before he came to the city. Which meant it had probably come from his parents. And though it was old and faded and stained today, it must have been new when he got it, a costly garment for people like the Ermendruds. The sort of gift that would only be given if your only son was leaving home to join the Academy and wanted to show him how proud you were.

A lot of Caleb’s life was like that. Even as his husband, Molly found himself having to piece things together from passing comments and turns of phrase, things that dulled his love’s eyes and tightened his jaw. Molly had about a quilt and a half’s worth of assumptions and semi-finished anecdotes by this point, telling of a sad and fractured timeline.

But he knew enough to see what the coat meant to Caleb and the place it held in his husband’s black and white, yes or no, yours and mine way of thinking.

The coat that now had a minor gallery’s worth of doodles and drawings scribbled in magic marker across the sleeves and all the way down the back. And if he wasn’t comfortable with Molly washing the thing, he wasn’t going to be okay with this.

Trinket had been fretfully watching his daddy since he’d first pulled the coat out from where he’d guiltily stashed it under his bed. As Molly’s mutely horrified silence dragged on, he only became more and more anguished until he was barely in tears, wringing his tail between his pudgy fists.

“I only wanted to make it pretty,” he whimpered, “Papa will hate me. I won’t be his special boy any more.”

Molly looked up at him, reaching out and putting his hand on Trinket’s shoulder, “Oh sweetling, your papa loves you a lot, you know this isn’t going to change that.”

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the times he’d picked up a pen from Caleb’s desk without thinking much of it, doodling with it until he’d looked up to see his husband gaping at him in scandalised horror. Or the times he’d stolen sips from Caleb’s drink when they were at the cafe, the same way he’d do to any of his friends, but Caleb would frown if he caught him, unable to understand why Molly was taking his coffee?

It was just part of the way his brain functioned, the rules it spat out after absorbing years of poverty and trauma, along with some different wiring that had simply occurred naturally. Mollymauk had learned a long time ago how to fondly work with these Caleb-isms, making concessions where it was best to and encouraging his wizard to gentle the restrictions his brain built when he needed to. It was like tending some kind of creeping vine in a garden, the way he saw it. Sometimes things needed moving aside so it could flourish and sometimes it needed pruning so it didn’t strangle the flowers around it. Caleb had been as brave as Mollymauk could have wished in managing his idiosyncrasies and sometimes he just had to sit back and admire how different the Caleb he lived with today was from the anxious, mumbling wizard he’d first met.

But how much patience he’d be able to muster when it was one of his favourite things in the world, Molly couldn’t say. But he wasn’t looking forward to telling him about it.

“Should I go?” Trinket’s lower lip wobbled, glancing back at his half packed bag, which Una was back inside, the front half this time as she munched away on some snack he must have stashed in there.

“Absolutely not, your papa would never want that,” Molly squeezed his shoulder gently, “We’re going to put the coat in to soak so we can get all this ink out and then we’re going to find him and I’ll tell him what’s happened. But you need to be the one who says sorry, okay?”

Trinket nodded frantically, still clinging onto his tail for comfort, “I am sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know, buddy,” Molly drew him close and hugged him tight, hating to see him so upset, “But we’ll be laughing about this before long, you’ll see.”

Maybe if he said it confidently enough, he’d start to believe it too.

Caleb wasn’t hard to find for a number of reasons. For one, their apartment was very small and there were only a handful of rooms to look in. But more importantly, it was late afternoon on a day where Caleb didn’t have any reason to go down to the Academy and fulfill his duties as an adjunct professor and when his bookshop was closed, as it was once a week. Which meant there was only one place he would be, in his half of their spare room, either playing one of his video games or reading.

Molly wasn’t quite sure what they’d do when one of their kids decided they wanted their own room and were tired of sharing, meaning Caleb would have to store his books and he’d have to store his sewing somewhere else. Or if they had another kid. He’d been toying with that idea in the back of his mind lately.

Maybe best not to float that idea with Caleb right after this.

Mollymauk could feel Trinket in his arms, his offer to pick him up and carry him having been immediately, breathlessly accepted. He could sense him getting more tense, more anxious, growing heavier against him as Molly knocked lightly on the door.

“Ja, come in,” Caleb’s response was immediate, not even needing to ask who it was or having to pause over whether he wanted to see them.

When Molly went in, Caleb was in the old, ratty wingback chair they’d liberated from some sidewalk when they’d first moved in, Molly announcing teasingly that a future professor needed some grand leather throne from which to smoke a pipe and pontificate. Caleb had blushed and rolled his eyes, not even believing back then that one day he would get the job he’d always dreamed of having, thinking trauma and past hurts had stolen it from him.

So now Molly always got a small flush of pride when he saw his Caleb sitting in that chair.

His hair was getting a little longer these days, it’s auburn tangles pulled into a small knot at the crown of his head so it wouldn’t fall in his eyes. His beard was growing a little thicker too, more than the usual rusty shadow that dusted his jawline. Molly absolutely was not going to be complaining about any of that, he liked his husband looking a little more rough around the edges like when they’d first met.

As soon as he saw them, Molly with Trinket balanced on one hip, Caleb’s face lit up with a smile. His smiles had been rare once upon a time but now just the sight of his family was enough.

“Hello,” he set the book he’d been reading to one side, already expecting Trinket to want to sit on his lap like always, “How are my loves?”

Near Molly’s ear, Trinket whimpered mournfully and pressed his face against his daddy’s neck. It was more than an ache to listen to, Trinket idolised his papa, following him around whenever he could, listening devotedly as he explained his work even when it wandered far off the track that his little mind could understand. Molly had no doubt the attempt to brighten up his coat had been a genuine attempt to make him smile and he couldn’t imagine how much it was hurting his little boy, to think he’d upset the man he looked up to more than anyone.

Caleb’s smile dulled a little, seeing Trinket hesitate, immediately realising they weren’t here for playtime, “What’s wrong?”

Molly exhaled slowly, carefully keeping his voice calm and level, “It’s okay babe, Trinket just...did something he wants to apologise for.”

“Oh?” Caleb frowned a little, eyes still fixed on Trinket, arms still open.

Molly opened his mouth, ready to do the hard part but before he could, Trinket bolted upright and tearfully burst out, “I wanted to make your coat pretty because you always like my pictures and I thought you could take them everywhere not just in your pockets but I made a mess and I’m so sorry papa! I’m really sorry!”

For a moment both of his parents were a little stunned, not quite sure what to say as his rambles tapered off into spluttery sobs. Molly warily glanced at Caleb, looking for any change in his blank, closed off expression, any flicker of discomfort, even anger.

After a few beats, ones that felt longer than usual, Caleb only nodded, getting to his feet. Gently, he reached over and put a gentle hand on his son’s face, catching some of the tears dribbling down his cheek on his thumb.

“Little Kätzchen, it’s alright,” he murmured softly, “Please don’t cry.”

Trinket sniffled, blinking blearily, “You’re not angry? Don’t want me to go away?”

Caleb’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, “No! Oh, Trinkie, absolutely not. I’d never want that.”

“But…” Trinket’s eyes were wide, hopeful, wanting to take this relief being offered but hesitant to, “It’s your favourite thing in the whole wide world…”

Caleb chuckled quietly, his smile back with all it’s warmth as he leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“Kätzchen, you and your sister are my favourite thing in the whole wide world.”

Molly nearly yelped in panic as he felt the weight of Trinket suddenly leave his arms before realising his son had thrown himself at Caleb, locking his arms around him tightly. He didn’t doubt for a moment that his husband would catch him, only smiling fondly as he gathered Trinket close and buried his face in his hair.

“It’s all okay,” Caleb whispered against the rust red curls he’d given their son, “It’s okay, little one.”

Molly let them have their moment, letting Trinket cry the last of his tears out happily against his papa’s chest, hanging back and feeling his heart thudding warmly against his ribs. Eventually he was their beaming, bright little boy again, if a little damp, wriggling down from Caleb’s arms determinedly after one last little kiss against his papa’s cheek.

“I’m gonna make you a sorry card. The best sorry card ever,” he promised Caleb, already toddling towards the door, “It’s gonna have glitter.”

“Wow, that kid is definitely my son,” Molly observed wryly once his little lavender tail had disappeared around the corner.

“Then you can clean up the mess he’s definitely about to make,” Caleb chuckled, moving into his husband’s arms.

“Hey,” Molly kissed the crown of his head gently, “Well done. I know that must have been hard for you and...I’m really proud of you.”

He couldn’t see it but he could hear the coy smile in his voice, “Well...I meant what I said. Some coat is never going to be more important to me than my kids.”

Molly smiled knowingly, “I know baby….but you know, if you want to scream into that cushion for a little while, that’s okay too?”

There was a short pause before he felt Caleb’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Thank you, Katze…”

“Is it done yet?”

Molly had to fight a smile. He’d explained to Caleb that soaking his coat would take exactly thirty minutes, knowing his husband fixated on time easily, but still he asked every five minutes on the dot. He’d expected nothing less.

“Not just yet, babe,” he repeated, as he had all of those other times, looking up from the laundry they’d been folding so Caleb would have an excuse to hover anxiously in the laundry room, over the tub of hot soapy water and a little rubbing alcohol his coat was submerged in, “Soon though.”

Caleb gave a small grunt, poking a finger into the water curiously like it was some potion he was working over. After a moment, before Molly could turn back to folding the clothes, he frowned.

“This sleeve isn’t in the water…”

Molly’s smile turned crooked, coming over and putting a hand on Caleb’s before he could move the one sleeve into the tub, “I thought maybe you’d want to look at it...decide if you want to keep that one.”

Caleb blinked, not understanding until he turned it a little and saw the drawing his Trinket had chosen to adorn the sleeve with. It was done in bright red, standing clearly against the dark fabric, unmistakable a child’s drawing. There were four figures there, two taller and two smaller. The first had a set of horns drawn a little too large for it’s head, as well as a tail. The second had a long scarf and a scrawled head of shoulder length hair. The next was much smaller, with another set of horns and a tail but the same scribbled hair. And the last was tiny, with voluminous ears and spikes on the end of it’s fingers. All of them had immense smiles and held hands, a lopsided love heart hovering above them.

As the other scribbles and swirls turned into formless ink in the water, Caleb held this one like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling softly, “I think this one can stay.”

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

(A/N: Some wound description and technically self harm? {wound burning for infection control}, so warnings for that. Just some Eragon and co. during the run to the Varden. This one actually has a bit more setup for Eragon’s book 1/early book 2 characterization, but I’m not sure how I did. He’s hard for me to write. There’s also quite a few mentions of tech and magic mechanics that I’ve worked into MIC, but those will be mentioned more in the tags.)

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya’s awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira’s side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

“Did you see anything worth mentioning?” Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. “There’s supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden’s around here. Must be further up ahead. We’re going slower than I thought.”

“We’re going as fast as we can.” Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn’t just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him.“If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals.”

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom’s scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. “It doesn’t exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication.”

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. “Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated.”

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. “Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself.” She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. “Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back.”

“The Varden rigs them to explode if the person’s fingerprint doesn’t match?!” Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. “What if someone’s kid found it and thought it was a toy?”

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, “I bet it wasn’t the Varden who–”

“No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Knew it.” Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. “You just like seeing things explode.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib.”

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn’t long before the fire was high and the day’s meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

‘Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.’ Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.’

“You can smell things like that?” Eragon asked, surprised. “Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?”

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.’

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. “I know. Sorry. But it’s pretty cool being able to smell things like that.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “Aye, it’s cool. But shouldn’t we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more.”

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

“What the hell were you thinking, girl?” He growled, expression dark.

“Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it’s me?!” The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?’

She put her hands up. “Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I’m already fixing them, okay?” Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire’s thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

“Are you sure that is the best idea?” Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn’t just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. “There’s always magic. You don’t have to–”

“And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I’ve still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that’s out of the question. And I’ll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best.” Arya shook her head. “No, it will have to be burned.”

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. “Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!” He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again– you’re bloody insane, Arya. I don’t want to see this. I’m going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams, Murtagh.” The elf called after him in a singsong voice. “Don’t let the sizzling wake you up!” The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. “Wuss.”

'She can’t be serious about this!’ Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She’s already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–’

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.’ Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.’

Her logic was sound. 'I still don’t like it. But you’re right.’

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.’

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, “That looks like it hurt. You’re lucky it didn’t break.” The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

“Perks of elvish bones, I guess.” Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. “Damn. At least it isn’t necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn.” The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. “Hell, you might have just saved my leg.”

'You’re quite welcome.’

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. “After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn’t too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down.”

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf’s back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. “What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn’t mind a little less risk of that changing though.”

Brom crossed his arms. “It’s up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?”

Eragon nodded firmly. “I’m sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don’t mind it, and it’s the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly.”

“Hey, you and Saphira don’t owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I’m the one that owes you all.” Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. “If you both want to heal it and it won’t put either of you in danger, I won’t complain. It won’t be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really.”

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf’s expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. “You’re welcome. I like to help where I can.”

“Mm. Let’s get this over with then.” Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom’s hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

“Do you want me to do it?” The old Rider’s voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, “You might have to if I flinch and can’t keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back.” Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn’t the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya’s muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon’s stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn’t have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

“That…wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. “I’m not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though.”

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. “There’s something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself.”

“Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!” Came a distraught groan from Murtagh’s sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. “Here, can we….” Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira’s energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon’s hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, 'Your magic tickles.’ and rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.’ Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you’re feeling?’

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.’ As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira’s neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?’

“Very well for such a simply worded spell.” Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. “You’re quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I’ve seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use.”

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon’s direction. The older man’s chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. “Aye, he’s got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I’ve never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well.”

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,’ and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

“Oh! Right.” Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

“Hey!” Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. “What was that for?”

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. “Two for flinching.”

[trickster-tabby]

What's your favorite idea? Mine is being creative. How do you get the idea? I just try to think creatively. Now when you look at this orange, tell me please, what do you see? It's just a boring old orange. Maybe to you, but not to me. I see a silly face! Wow! Walking along and smiling at me. I don't see what you mean. Cause you're not thinking creatively! So take a look at my hair! Cool! I use my hair to express myself. That sounds really boring. I use my hair to express myself. Now, when you stare at the clouds in the sky, don't you find it exciting? No. Come on, take another look. Oh, wait! I can see a hat! I can see a cat! I can see a man with a baseball bat! I can see a dog! I can see a frog! I can see a ladder, leaning on a log! Think you're getting the hang of it now, using your minds to have a good time. I might paint a picture of a clown. Whoa there friend, you might need to slow down. Here's another good tip. Yeah? Of how to be a creative wiz kid. Go and collect some leaves and sticks and arrange them into your favorite color. Blue. Red! Green! Green is not a creative color. Oh... There's one more thing that you need to know, before you let your creativity flow. Listen to your heart, listen to the rain, listen to the voices in your brain. Come on guys, let's get creative! Now let's all agree to never be creative again.

Come on guys, stop mucking around. We only have five minutes until our show's on. That's not enough time. There's always time for a song. What? Who is that? Time is a tool you can put on the wall or wear it on your wrist. The past is far behind us, the future doesn't exist. Oh... What's the time? It's quarter to nine! Time to have a bath. What do you mean? We're already clean. Scrub scrub scrub, 'til the water's brown. Time is a ruler to measure the day. It doesn't go backwards, only one way. Watch it go round like a merry-go-round. Going so fast like a merry-go-round. Let's go on a journey, a journey through all time. The time that's changing all the time, it's time to go to time! But we don't really want to, we're going to miss our show. Don't be stupid, friends! Come on, it's time to go! Time is old, like Victorian times. Like cobbles, and playing, and speaking in rhymes. With cobbles, and chimneys, a simpler times. With cobbles, and sawdust, and batteries, and slime! This tree that is old has circles inside. This tree that is older has shriveled and died. The apple that's fresh is ripe to the core! And I rot over time and I'm not anymore. Time can be told by the moon or the sun, but time flies fast when you're having fun. There's a time and a place for mucking around! Like birthdays! And camping. I'm friends with my dad! And then what happened after the olden days? Time went new and got old like history. Stuff from the past went into a mystery. An old man died. But look, a computer. Everything's cool, it's the future! Time is now, the future anew! And look at all the wonderful things you can do! With gadgets and gizmos, and email addresses! My dad is a computer! Look at the time! It's quarter to eight, there's fish on my plate! It's twenty past day, there's fish on my tray! It's eleven to twelve, there's fish in the bath! It's nine thirty, there's fish everywhere. Fish everywhere. Now you can see the importance of time. It helps us make pizza, it keeps things in line. But when did it start? And when will it stop? Time is important, and I am a clock. If we run out of time, where does it go? Is time even real, does anyone know? Maybe time's just a construct of human perception, an illusion created by- meh meh meh meh MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH MEH- Sunrise, sunset, night and day. The changing seasons, the smell of hay. Look at your hair grow, isn't it strange how time makes your appearance change? Ugh! Make it stop! It's out of my hands, I'm only a clock. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be fine. But eventually, everyone runs out of time.

Isn't it nice to finally be outside on such a beautiful day? Yes, and I've packed us a delicious chicken picnic. Huh? Heh, hehehe! Ugh! Pesky bee! Hmm, he seems upset about something. I wonder what will happen. It makes you sad, doesn't it? That there's so much hatred in the world. I hope you don't mind if I ask you a question. A little baby pigeon! Have you ever wondered why we're here? What's it all about, you've no idea. And everywhere you look, all you see is hatred, and darkness, death, and fear. But, you know, it doesn't have to be that I hate you, and you hate me. Cause even though we're different, it doesn't make a difference, and we can live in harmony. I know you don't know who I am, but maybe I could hold your hand, and together we could understand about love. Huh? I feel tingly! Yes, that's love, my friend! And it's time for you to learn all about it. Hehehehe! Love is a place, love is a thing, love is a place, love is a thing, love is a place, love is a thing, love is a place, love is a thing. And do you ever feel like life's unfair? Cause everybody hates you, and no one cares! But if you follow me, maybe you will see that love is everywhere! But what is love? Is it in the sky? No, it's a feeling, deep inside! Because I'm hungry. No, you're lonely! I can see it in your eyes. I don't understand. Don't worry, you will soon! Come and meet some of my friends they know all about love! Come on, just over the rainbow! Oh look, there he goes, flying through the sky! Maybe we should follow him, or we'll get left behind. Yes, but there's lots of chicken left, and I'd like to eat the chicken. I'd also like to eat the chicken, let's do that instead. So here we are with all my friends, and they love you, all of them! Yes we do! It is true! We love you! And you love us too! Heh, I love you too, furry boy! Hehe, harder. Now we've eaten the chicken, I don't know what to do. Maybe we should look for our friend, isn't that what friends do? And we have finished the chicken picnic. To love each other is to care, to be kind. And to share! I love my friends so I get my hug! I made this for you, cause I love you so much. I love my pet, cause he's a crab. I love this tree, and I love this stick, and I love this mud. No no, that's not how it's done, you must save your love for your Special One. My Special One? Everyone has a Special One. Even me? But I am lonely. Yes, it's true! But do not worry. You're confused, but that's okay. Let me put it another way... This is the story of Michael, the loneliest boy in town. This is the story of Michael, the ugliest boy in town. Ugly and weak, they called him a freak, so he lived on his own underground. He lived on his own underground. He lived on his own underground. You see? Everyone has a Special One! Even Michael! Your heart beats hard like a big love drum, calling for your Special One. So be patient, cause just maybe, your Special One will come! He's made for her, and she's made for him. That's the way it's always been. And it's perfect, and it's pure. And it's protected with a ring. That's the way that all love goes. And like a flower, it grows and grows! And it's forever, and forever! And now we all worship our king, our king, our king, our king. His name is Malcolm. He is the king of love. We must feed him. We must feed him gravel. Or he becomes angry. Mmm, gravel. And this is your chance to start anew, and all we're asking you to do is change your name, clean your brain, and forget about anything you ever knew. And your heart will find its home. And our love will never go! Now wear this ring, and join the king! And you will never be alone. Aah! Oh, there you are. We've been looking for you all afternoon. We're sorry we upset you. But look, we've brought you the last boiled egg to cheer you up! For me? Father! Ugh! Pesky bee!

Oh, I guess it's my turn to choose a card. Let's see. Hmm! What is the biggest thing in the world? Hmm, that's a tricky one. A mountains? A sky. A windmill! No. If only there was a way to learn more about the world. Yes, if only there was some way to learn more information about this. Wow, look! I'm a computer. I'm a computery guy. Everything made out of buttons and wires. I'd like to show you inside my digital life. Inside my mind there is a digital mind. Oh, maybe you could help us answer this question. What is the bigg- Clever. I'm very clevery guy. Count to a fifty in the blink of my eye. And print a picture. And then I'll tell you the time. Time? Help you to find something you're wanting to find. Know it's easy to be a clever, smart boy like me if you just do it all digitally. Wow. I'd like to be as smart as a computer. Actually, we already have a computer. Great! Great news! Now, before we begin our journey, I just need to get some information from you. What's your name? Where do you live? What do you like to eat? I live in my house. Spaghetti! Well, my name is Dr- Great news! Now, just a few more questions, and we'll be on our way! Wait a second. What's your favorite color? Stop talking. Do you like cow's or goat's milk? Be quiet. Do you have brown hair? What is your blood type? Are you allergic to- Shut up! Don't touch me! What? Welcome to my digital home! Everything made out of numbers and code. Huh? Wow, we're all computery! Oh yeah, wow- wow- wow, this is a computer. I don't get it. How can it be? If I'm sitting at home, but I'm inside the screen? But you're not you. You're your digital you! Virtually real, but controlled by real you. But if he's not quite real, then I'm not real too! And you not real you, he's inside your real you. Oh wow, how amazing, and interesting too, but in this digital world, what can we do? What can we- Hey, good question! Well, it's up to you! In the digital world, there's over three things to do. Wow, look, a pie chart. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Wow, look, a bar graph. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Wow, look a line graph. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Wow, look, an oblong. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Wow, look, nothing. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Nothing. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Nothing. Digital style! Do a digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! Digital dancing! Hey, this is fun! I am a stupid one. I am going to paint a picture of a clown. My dad has a computer. You are not invited to the party. Wait, wha-

Hmm. Something's different. Hmm. Something's... Missing. Hmm. Is it this guy? Fish and chips. Steak and beef, chuckitachow. Grapes and eggs. Steak. Eggs. Are you hungry? You look to be a bit hungry. No. Doo doo doo doo, lots of people get hungry. That's your body. Hungry comes from your body. Get off me. But your body, it musta have to be healthy. What's that? A tasty snack. You don't wanna go and eat a snack like that. Greedy to eat all that. You'll end up with your teeth all grey. Doo doo, da doo doo. Doo doo, da doo doo, do it healthy. Haha. Food is talking. Let's get healthy now! Hello? You need to know. What's right from wrong. You see, the body is like a special house, with blood, hair, and organs in the different rooms. Oh look, there's Mr Bladder in the basement! Hahaha! What? Now, food comes in through the chimney, mouth, and goes from room to room greeting the different organs. Hello! Now, the good, healthy food is very nice and polite to the organs, and so is invited to stay for a party! Yay! But the bad, not healthy foods are very rude and must leave through the catflap. Rude! That doesn't make sense. Doo doo, da doo doo! A doo doo, da doo doo, do be healthy! Hello? What's that? A tasty snack. You don't wanna go and eat a snack like that. Greedy to eat all that. You'll end up with your gums all grey. Yeah, but... Something's... Wrong. Exactly! How do we know which ones are the healthy foods to eat? Well, that's easy! The food groups can easily be sorted using the simple health shape. Choosing normal, plain looking foods, such as bread, cream, white sauce, and aspic keep the body ticking over just nicely. Isn't that right? Eh, I need to go. But wait! What's this? Fancy, show-offy foods like cooked meat, fruit salad, soil foods, and yolk. Ugh! These foods will clog up the body with unnecessary details. Oh no, look, it's all broken and on the floor! Everything tastes great! But maybe we should wait before we put in on the plate! Enough! Or it could be too late! I don't wanna do this anymore! For my snack, I choose a pizza slice! Bread and cheese, and tastes of nice! What's that? A pizza slice? But you're better off with plain white sauce. What's that? Plain white sauce? Plain white sauce makes your teeth go grey! Does it matter? Just throw it away! Why not try something else on your tray? Oh, what's that? A lovely pie? But you're gonna end up sad inside. Ugh, sad inside, you're gonna make me sick! I choose some ice cream beef! I've cream beef makes your teeth go grey. What's that? A kidney bean? Kidney bean makes your teeth go grey. But everyone has their teeth go grey, just eat yeast and it'll go away! But how much have you had today? Too much yeast makes your teeth go grey. How bout some onion paste? Looks like fun, have a taste. Ugh! That wasn't onion paste! You shouldn't eat food from a stranger's plate! A stranger's plate! A stranger's plate!

Goodnight, guys. I miss you. Ooh, somebody's sleepy! Huh? Hehe hehehe, but that's silly! No! How can you be sleepy if you don't know how to have dreams? No, I don't want to know. I don't want to know how to have dreams! No! No! Dreams are movies that live in your head! Stop! Every night when you sleep in your bed! And you can have a dream about riding a horse! No! Or you can have a dream about drowning in oil! No! No! No! No more songs! Aah! Oh, looks like someone's having a bad dream! A bad dream! Can you file these files please? Uh, yeah. Sure. But hey, um. Wouldn't it be funny if one of these files came alive? Yeah. I am a file and you put documents in me. And, and... A doo doo doo, a file. Funny, silly file. Doo doo doo. You know, it did like a song. No. That sounds really boring. But I was like yeah, that's not even the same bucket. Hahaha. I am the cool guy, I guess. Laid back and sad. Nowadays, I hurt my leg today. Huh? Well, that's rude. No clothes. What's your favorite idea? Mine is being creative. How do you get the idea? I just try to think creatively. When you look at this orange, tell me please, what do you see? It's just a boring old orange. Maybe to you, but not to me. I see a silly face. Boo. Walking along and smiling at me. Boo. I don't see what you mean. Cause you're not thinking creatively. I don't like it. It's really not good. Now take a look at my hair. Boo. I use my hair to express myself. It's not very good at all. Not good. Boo. Not good. Rubbish. Boo. Boo. Boo. Not good. Go away. Don't stop now, friend. Your voice is music to my face. Huh? Geh? Or you can have a dream about eating a treat. Or you can have a dream about buying a hat. Or you can have a dream about losing your friends. No... Or you can have a dream about burning your friends. Time is a tool you can put on the wall or wear it on your wrist. Huh? The past is far behind us. You? The future doesn't exist. Time went new and got old like history, stuff from the past went into a mystery. You made me die! But look, a computer. I'm a computery guy. Aah! Everything made out of buttons and wires. I'd like to show you why we're here? What's it all about, you've no idea. And everywhere you look- Nooo!- all you see is hatred, and darkness, death, and ice cream beef? Ice cream beef makes your teeth go grey! Does it matter? Just throw it away! Why not try some fish on my tray! What? Where am I? We are in the universe, planets live inside the moon! A rocket ship can go to the moon! Sports ball! Let's play sports! Cricket ball! Red card! Magnet, and I'm friends with metal, I attract it! And it's my best friend! Let's dig a hole at the bottom of- Make it stop! Bee bop, ba doo bop, I teach you how to buy a canoe! I am a file and you put documents in me. Green is for go, but red is for not go. You can be crushed by a bus. Let's learn about gel! I know about gel! Stinky mouth! Music is your favorite thing. Uh... I wonder what will happen.

What's your favorite idea-

[c0ry-c0nvoluted]

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

White privilege. The phrase implies special rights. The phrase implies having a jumpstart in the race by way of DNA. What it doesn’t imply is that that white-skinned Jim or Judy is gonna win that race, just that the game is rigged in their favor.

I don’t hate the concept. The validity of it, I mean. It honestly rings some-kind-of-true in my brain when taking into consideration the general social status of people of color. But there’s a problem with it. Not in its validity, but in its generality, its assumption, and the overall affect it has on our society.

The biggest and most obvious problem with it is that there are tens of millions of white people (if not hundreds of millions worldwide), who are all struggling just to make ends meet (if they can at all). There are “poor white folk” everywhere. And there are white kids who are terrorized by their own parents. There are white boys and girls getting bullied at school or in their neighborhood. There are white people suffering at the hands of violent criminals, scam artists, corporations, policemen… And I’m not talking about white criminals suffering, here...

I worked with this insanely gorgeous blond who was one of several dozen (I don’t remember the actual number) of women who were raped by this cop in my city (San Diego). He’d follow them from clubs, pull them over, take what he wanted from them, then send them on their way. He got away with it up until he didn’t, but how many cops still do? His choice of victim was young and white, as are most serial killer victims, but does their skin color matter? In the sense that they’re preferred as targets, yes, but not in the sense of right and wrong. Their white skin, in this case, wasn’t doing them any favors.

But let’s get back to the topic at hand.

Is “white privilege” real?

Well that depends on what you consider “white privilege” to be, and I think that’s where our signals are getting crossed. I think that if you look at it on a more psychological level you’ll see that, yes, “white privilege” is a real thing in that “white people are less likely to be demonized or judged negatively based solely on their skin tone.” (But not on their appearance. If a white person is dressed like a thug, he/she is going to get negatively judged the same way a Hispanic would. Whereas vice versa, if a black person was dressed like a total bookworm, they’re going to get judged as such, not as a criminal.) But blacks being judged more often solely on skin color is 100% true. Black-skinned people have been demonized throughout our nation’s history (and many other nations) and this demonization, along with insidious, covert attacks on black communities by those in power, have caused two things (among a plethora of others, but two for the sake of my point). 1: It’s caused non-blacks who are not racist but are just recognizing the patterns they’ve been force-fed by the media, to unintentionally relate black-skin with ignorance, violence, and criminal behavior. And 2: It’s brought about disparity, anger, and emotional trauma in the black community that is the cause of the higher crime rates in those communities and more black-on-black crime than white-on-black crime (by the people, I mean. I’m not counting by the government because that’s a whole other fuck-storm of shit that isn’t only aimed at blacks, but at any who are considered “lower-class,” which, yes, the majority of blacks in our country are. That’s not to say there are more poor black people than poor white people. I really doubt that’s the case. But the percentage of blacks or other minorities who are poor vs the percentage of whites who are is likely leaning in the direction of exactly what makes “white privilege” a valid argument. But I’m not a “facts” guy. The numbers are just ways to distract from the problem, so you’re not gonna catch me quoting them to cry foul on the BLM movement. The reality is that yes, there are probably more poor white people total than blacks in this country, but the psychology, the demonization of blacks, is a real thing.)

But there’s a problem with looking at this as “white privilege.” Number one: if we do that we (unintentionally) discredit any white person who is or has suffered. Those who are, or have suffered, will absolutely not take kindly to being told that they are “privileged”. And what happens when they are told this? It makes anyone with white skin who has suffered or is suffering (and there’s a fuck ton of us) think to themselves, “Oh, fuck no! You think I got it good? You think you’re the only one who has problems? You think you’re the only one who’s getting fucked by the system? Well fuck you, and your white privileged bullshit excuse to whine to the guilt-ridden middle class to get your free handouts! The government has fucked me over more times than I can count!” And what does this mind-state do? It creates a racial class-war between those who have white skin and are suffering, and those who have black/brown skin and are suffering. And who wins in this scenario? If you guessed “the upper-class” you get a prize. (Whatchoo want, a fuzzy bear? A goldfish in a plastic tub? G’ahead. Pick something nice out. You earned it.) So now you got poor white people with guns itching to shoot any black person with or without a gun who supports a movement that indirectly claims that their suffering is invalid. And what does this “civil class war” accomplish? It creates more “criminals” for the fucking private-owned prisons to make money off of, further separating the upper-class from the lower, creating more suffering, more anger, more hate, MORE RACISM.

So is white privilege real? Psychologically, yes, to the extent that our society psychologically favors white skin over black/brown. But has it ever made me any more money? No. Has it ever stopped the cops from pulling me over and searching my car? Fuck no. I’ve been detained, searched, followed, fined, towed, impounded, harassed more than most people you know, regardless of your color. I’ve lost count of how many damn times I’ve been harassed by the cops in my city. Shit, I wrote a goddamn rap song about it back in the early 2000’s called SDPD, smashing on the fuckers for harassing a guy who was just trying to get by. And I was NEVER a criminal. I NEVER had any weapons or hard drugs (ok, some pills and plenty of pot, but…), I was NEVER robbing anyone or breaking into cars or homes or gang banging (maybe just a smidge of graffiti, but that shit’s art), or causing any kind of…ok, no, there was some drunken shenanigans, for sure, but that was mostly my boys, not me. Lol The point is, being white DID NOT stop me from getting constantly harassed by the cops in my city. You know what did? A new car, less homies in the ride, no smoke blowing from the windows, and a slightly more tempered demeanor while driving. I still bump my rap music, but I’m not in a car full of teenage “trouble-makers”. I still speed, but I come to a complete stop at them signs, bruh. I still run red lights, but I look reeeal fucking carefully when I do. I still zip in-and-out of lanes on the freeway, but I keep it below 80 (mostly). So the only thing that’s changed is that I “appear” to have more money (with a nicer ride), and I show more maturity in being on the road. My skin color hasn’t changed, but my run-ins with the cops have.

The bottom line: Crying out “white privilege” ain’t gonna help anyone but the rich who’re sitting back and raking in the dough off all the drama and weapon sales and fines and arrests and damaged property that needs to be rebuilt. So don’t make our society’s problem about a skin color. When you do that you divide people into groups when you should be uniting them. Divided we fall. I know most of your intentions are righteous, (and this goes out to white people too who’re acknowledging their “privilege”), but you’re doing it wrong. You’re creating enemies by unintentionally discrediting anyone with white skin who has suffered at the hands of the system, claiming that you own the rights (the privilege?) of deciding that they’re the ones who are privileged, all while they’re slowly rotting in inequity right beside you.

THE ENEMY IS NOT A SKIN COLOR. THE ENEMY IS A CLASS.

And that class is the rich. The 1%.

Are most of them white? Yes. But will that stop them from stealing money from poor white people? From bankrupting small businesses with corporate industry? From putting blue-collar white people out of work and replacing them with machines? From taking their homes when they can’t pay back their loans? From putting them in prison when they fight back right next to you for equality? No. Because the 1% only care about profit, and they don’t care who they have to manipulate, rob, demoralize, or demonize to get it, or what skin color those people have. Let’s get our heads right. Open them angry eyes and see who the enemy really is. And fight THAT enemy, not the enemy that their manipulation has created for you.

How? The real solution to “white privilege” and inequity and inequality is a very simple concept but an incredibly complex task. It involves creating a society where money is obsolete. When this happens there will be no more inequality. There will be no “superpowers” or 1%. There will be no poor. There will be no rich. There will be no profit other than the profit of betterment, progress, knowledge, discovery, science, quality of living. But there’s only one way to make money obsolete, and that’s by removing labor from our society. Sound crazy? That’s because you don’t realize how close we are to doing it anyway. A fully automated society is right around the bend, my dudes. We have the technology to make ALL LABOR OBSOLETE, in which case no one will have to work, in which case money will have no significance. What will have significance? RESOURCES. But this is a topic I’ve discussed before and will again soon and more directly. So for now what can we do? We demand a society that serves the people’s interests, not the corporations’. Unfortunately I can’t tell you how to this because I’m not into politics, I’m into actual change, not perpetuating the same system that’s fucking us all. My advice? Start spreading the concept of a RESOURCE BASED ECONOMY as loud and as often as you can. This type of society eliminates corruption and inequity and is only just now becoming possible thanks to advancements in technology. Look into it. Spread the word. AND STOP CREATING SEGREGATION AMONG OUR PEOPLE. Please, for fuck’s sake, stop adding to our problems and start moving towards eliminating them. #fightsmarter2020 Thanks for reading. -cc

[grilledcheeseandguavajelly]

Oh My Love, Don’t Cry When I’m Gone - Sally McKenna x Reader

Oh boy, okay. This is SMUT, and I don’t really write smut, and I definitely don’t write smut like this. It’s different and choppy but this is how Sally McKenna lives in my brain so. Yeah. I’m going to stop rambling and just please don’t tear me apart!

Thank you to @thatgirlintheleatherjacket for reading this and telling me other people might like it. And thank you to @paulsonix @littlebitobssssd @gavin0zx @soft-astral and @mysweetdelia for being so sweet and convincing me to post it!!

~Enjoy!~

The first time you saw her, she was crying.

Yelling, mostly, but crying. Some addict was pushing into her personal space and she shoved at him, her voice lowering to a growl. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was pissed.

And goodness, was she sexy when she was pissed.

He smacked her across the cheek and you gasped. She whirled on you, immediately softening when she saw the look on your face. But you had been caught, and so you ran. Ran back to your room and locked the door.

She was at the bar that night, and she was crying.

She told you everything, about the man she had been chewing out. About how he had promised her, had left her there, ready to watch her rot as he took all of his pleasure off of her kindness.

You checked out the next day. As you walked out the doors into the bright sunlight you turned, and she was there. Standing in the middle of the lobby.

And she was crying.

~~~

“When was the last time you were fucked?”

Sally gasped at the question, her fingers finding your hand on her cheek. Desperate eyes searched yours and she shook her head softly, brows pushing up.

“Oh, my dear, sweet Sally…”

Tears fell and you swiped them away, resting your forehead against hers.

“When was the last time you felt… anything?”

~~~

It became a habit after that, your own personal addiction.

At first you would find her, go on a mad hunt and drag her up to her room.

But after just three consecutive days, she started waiting for you in the lobby, tears falling the second you crossed the threshold. And with her hand gripped into yours as she pulled you into the elevator, you almost thought you understood why she had needed those drugs.

Because you needed this. Needed her to know how special she was. Needed to give her everything. Needed to watch her lose her last shred of sanity as she screamed your name.

More than you needed to breathe.

~~~

Tears coated her cheeks as she rutted against your thigh, eyes darting around her room. They always did that, back and forth, across those four walls that pressed in on her like a virus and kept her trapped.

“No baby... no,” you whispered, grabbing her jaw and pulling her face back down to yours. “Focus on me. Right here. Right now.”

She nodded, a strangled choking sound forcing its way out of her mouth as you pushed your thigh up higher and gave her more friction.

You lived for this moment, when she lost control of herself and let her body take what it wanted from you, your skin slick from her arousal. She grabbed for your hand, twining your fingers together and bringing them to her stomach, forcing them down, down.

You tutted. “No no, not yet.”

She groaned, hand abandoning yours and gripping into the back of your neck, forcing your mouth against hers.

You sighed against her tongue, relishing in the way she touched you, the way she always had to be touching you. Her cold fingers pricked against your skin, grounding you into her, into the moment. And you knew your warm hands did the same for her.

A little more, just a little more of her grinding on your thigh, taking her pleasure from you, and then you were skimming your fingers up her thighs. She knew what was coming, what she needed and she moaned, the low sound filling the quiet room and making your hips jerk involuntarily. You raked your nails down her thighs in retaliation and she whimpered, scraping white teeth over a smeared-red lip.

You reached up to stop her, running your thumb down her lip and pulling it from between her teeth. But then she took your finger into her mouth, sucking on it like it wouldn’t completely wreck you on the spot.

That was enough, you thought, and your fingers were sliding under her. You bumped her with your thigh, pushing her off of you for a split second so you could slip your fingers against her.

She smirked, your thumb caught between her teeth, and moved her hand from where she was balanced on your leg to grip your wrist, forcing your fingers into her as she sank down on them.

She groaned around your thumb and you pulled it out with a pop, not wanting to stifle whatever sounds she was edging closer to.

She wasn’t loud. Not by any means. Not until she came. But now, I’m the middle of it all, you were constantly blessed with sighs, gasps, breathy whimpers. It kept the room quiet, kept the air still, and made your skin vibrate with the anticipation of what would come next.

A soft hum as she set her pace on your fingers, and then your mouth was on her, kissing the tears off of her cheeks before finding her lips and twining your tongue with hers.

She squirmed, quickening her pace, rolling her hips against your fingers and pushing them deeper, deeper, deeper. A whimper. A needy gasp against your mouth.

Her sounds were steady with her rhythm, falling out of her with every thrust into your hand.

You hated yourself then, breaking away from her mouth at the thought that you were capturing those sounds, keeping them from threading through the room and heating you from the inside out.

You settled instead for her neck, and something inside of Sally snapped, flipping a switch on the dirty girl she tried so hard not to be.

“Yes,” she groaned, fingers twisting into your hair as you scraped your teeth down her neck. “Oh go- god, fuck me, yes.”

You chuckled against her skin, licking a line up her jaw and catching the salty tears that had fallen there. She shivered, muscles tensing as you found her collarbone and sucked.

A strangled moan slipped out of her mouth and you smirked against her skin, humming. “There’s my girl. There’s my beautiful girl.”

She yanked on your hair, pulling your mouth away from her clavicle. Eyes glassy, black with lust. They bored into you, tears welling and falling and welling again. “Say it. Say you love me.”

“You know I do, Sally,” you whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek before gripping your hand into her hip.

“Say it again.”

You searched her eyes, using your grip on her to slow her pace so she would listen. Really, truly listen. “I love you, Sally. I love you so, so much.”

With that you curled your fingers and she whined, her head dropping forward onto your shoulder as she doubled her pace.

Her hips broke their rhythm, jerking against your fingers, against your hip. Nails raked greedily through your hair. Over your scalp. Hands held your face. Fingers tracing your features. You could tell by the way they shook that she was close. She was so close.

It took everything you had not to tighten your grip on her hip, shove her down into your hand and thrust your fingers so deep that she broke into a million pieces. But you let her take it at her own pace, let her squeeze every inch of pleasure out of you herself.

She slowed then, hips thrusting deliberately against your hand so that your fingers hit that spot inside of her, and she stuttered over a moan as she threw her head back, biting her lip.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, fingers skimming up her side and cupping her cheek, forcing her eyes back to yours. “I’ve got you.”

Tears dripped off her nose, eyes rimmed red. “Don’t— ah.. oh fuck...”

Her hips snapped harder, erratically, and you moved the palm of your hand so she ground against it with every thrust.

“Please don’t leave me...” she choked out, the whisper clouded by tears. She licked them off of her lips, blinked hard, panted around them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you cooed, holding her gaze as you curled your fingers and thumbed at her clit, yanking her hips down onto your hand.

She gasped, a hopeful smile twitching at her lips, and then she fell apart, her hoarse screams shattering the silence as she collapsed against you. Her teeth found your shoulder as you coaxed her orgasm out of her, stroking her through each shudder and twitch until you couldn’t tell if the wetness under her mouth was saliva, blood, or tears.

She licked over your shoulder, the air stinging as she let it go, and then she was trailing sloppy kisses up your neck, up your jaw.

“I’m sorry, lovely,” she whispered in your ear, sniffing. “I didn’t mean to...”

You glanced over and saw red pooling up from the teeth marks on your skin. A trail of it running across your neck from her kisses. You stroked your fingers through her hair, tucking her face into your neck. “It’s okay, baby. I know... it’s okay.”

She shuddered one last time and then you withdrew your fingers, helping her settle back onto your thigh. She was pressed against you, a little bit too hard, and you relished in the feel of her. So real. So alive.

Her panting stuttered as she lowered herself down and rested her ear against your chest. She hummed, her hand covering your heart and flexing against your skin.

The room was cold and your shoulder was stinging, blood dripping down your arm and onto the sheets. But you didn’t dare move. Not now. She needed you here, needed you to hold her. If you shifted, even just to reach down and pull the blankets over you both, she would tense. Panic. Cling to you and beg you not to go.

And you couldn’t do that to her. Not to your Sally. So you sat, quietly combing your hands through her hair and holding her while she sniffed and sobbed against you until she fell into a soft sleep.

And then she was gone. And you were alone.

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

(A/N: Some wound description and technically self harm? {wound burning for infection control}, so warnings for that. Just some Eragon and co. during the run to the Varden. This one actually has a bit more setup for Eragon’s book 1/early book 2 characterization, but I’m not sure how I did. He’s hard for me to write. There’s also quite a few mentions of tech and magic mechanics that I’ve worked into MIC, but those will be mentioned more in the tags.)

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya's awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira's side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

"Did you see anything worth mentioning?" Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. "There's supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden's around here. Must be further up ahead. We're going slower than I thought."

"We're going as fast as we can." Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn't just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him."If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals."

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom's scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. "It doesn't exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication."

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. "Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated."

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. "Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself." She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. "Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back."

"The Varden rigs them to explode if the person's fingerprint doesn't match?!" Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. "What if someone's kid found it and thought it was a toy?"

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, "I bet it wasn't the Varden who–"

"No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands."

"Knew it." Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. "You just like seeing things explode."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I've laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib."

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn't long before the fire was high and the day's meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

'Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.' Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.'

"You can smell things like that?" Eragon asked, surprised. "Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?"

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.'

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. "I know. Sorry. But it's pretty cool being able to smell things like that."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "Aye, it's cool. But shouldn't we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more."

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl?" He growled, expression dark.

"Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it's me?!" The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?'

She put her hands up. "Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I'm already fixing them, okay?" Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire's thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

"Are you sure that is the best idea?" Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn't just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. "There's always magic. You don't have to–"

"And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I've still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that's out of the question. And I'll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best." Arya shook her head. "No, it will have to be burned."

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. "Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!" He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again– you're bloody insane, Arya. I don't want to see this. I'm going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, Murtagh." The elf called after him in a singsong voice. "Don't let the sizzling wake you up!" The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. "Wuss."

'She can't be serious about this!' Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She's already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–'

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.' Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.'

Her logic was sound. 'I still don't like it. But you're right.'

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.'

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, "That looks like it hurt. You're lucky it didn't break." The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

"Perks of elvish bones, I guess." Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. "Damn. At least it isn't necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn." The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. "Hell, you might have just saved my leg."

'You're quite welcome.'

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. "After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn't too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down."

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf's back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. "What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn't mind a little less risk of that changing though."

Brom crossed his arms. "It's up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?"

Eragon nodded firmly. "I'm sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don't mind it, and it's the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly."

"Hey, you and Saphira don't owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I'm the one that owes you all." Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. "If you both want to heal it and it won't put either of you in danger, I won't complain. It won't be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really."

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf's expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. "You're welcome. I like to help where I can."

"Mm. Let's get this over with then." Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom's hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

"Do you want me to do it?" The old Rider's voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, "You might have to if I flinch and can't keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back." Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn't the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya's muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon's stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn't have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

"That...wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. "I'm not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though."

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. "There's something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself."

"Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!" Came a distraught groan from Murtagh's sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. "Here, can we…." Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira's energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon's hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, 'Your magic tickles.' and rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.' Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you're feeling?'

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.' As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira's neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?'

"Very well for such a simply worded spell." Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. "You're quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I've seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use."

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon's direction. The older man's chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. "Aye, he's got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I've never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well."

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,' and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

"Oh! Right." Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

"Hey!" Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. "What was that for?"

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. "Two for flinching."

[kisuminight]

There is a ship that jumped to an unknown place, so it could keep going. So the adventures could continue. And that ship and her passengers jumped so far, to another place entirely. Another when. Another world.

They find familiar things. Familiar places, just a half-step off from normal. Aching echoes of a time unsullied, but still stained by memories and the creeping rot of war. Their species does not exist; perhaps no longer or mayhaps it never did. 

It might be for the best, that no one and nothing knows them now, not even the oldest beings in this brave new universe that they tread. Their path is long, longer still to those with frailer mortality than they, and soon there are tales of the always adventuring ship and her always changing crew that doesn’t really change at all, no matter what species they seem to be at the moment. The myths spread.

Then they stumble across a truly familiar planet. A place that was home, and hated, and loved. Torn up by their war, and then tore up their hearts. Everyone remembers the brave girl in her armor. It’s enough to make them want to see if they can find her again. If maybe things aren’t so different after all.

There’s shore leave. Reasonable shore leave for them which is months for the little planet whirling around on it’s axis. They hide their ship in the shadow of the moon, cloak themselves in ways that none of them really forgot, no matter how distant the pain eventually grew in their memories.

And then the (co-)captain comes back from a trip down-planet with--”What the scrap did you do to your spark!”

This is not how new Cybertronians form. They do not get what is the equivalent of Earth-pregnancy. Ratchet is ranting.

“Sari had to come from somewhere, who knows how Scorponok started her originally,” because the Scavengers are visiting, and Spinister is more interested in poking at the scans of Misfire’s latest damage from a hair-brained stunt to worry about antagonizing the former CMO.

Not something we had on Caminus, Lotty confirms, and the fact that she had wanted extra scans from Nautica’s more specialized equipment means they now have Brainstorm and Perceptor in there too, on top of the fretting Drift.

It shouldn’t have been possible, not through a holoform. Except it did happen. Because Ego was too damn smug, though that a couple days of fun was enough, and left a bit of his light behind. Light which is a little too close to a spark. Oops?

Peter Quill grows up having space adventures. Not that his name is actually Peter Quill. That’s his Earth-name, when they sometimes come stopover to have shore leave. Earth is a comfort, even an unfamiliar Earth--for all that they’re having to get craftier about avoiding detection when they jump into the solar system. Look that those humans advancing! They’ve gone and made it all the way to the moon. They’re sending out greeting messages!

Magnus is sternly disapproving over anything involving messing with probes and/or other space tech. No, Whirl, sending it back with cybertronian expelatives is not a good idea for a prank. Brainstorm, no tampering.

Peter Quill grows up as Star Lord (Rodimus is so proud of the name that his bby chose. So proud).

He’s an infant as far as the LL is concerned. He’s doing the thing Sari spent the first 100+ vorns of her life doing, which is looking like he’s human when he’s really not. He gets kidnapped off of shore leave by a gang of space pirates.

Yondu+crew are trying to apply a space translator when the tiny human starts cursing them out in multiple space languages. Okay? Is this a new thing that Ego’s children can do? Because Earth is supposed to be a no-go zone.

(It’s a no-go zone and yet there’s a giant #%@ space ship parked behind the moon. None of their sensors detect it. Apparently none of anybody else’s sensors detect it either. That thing dwarfs their ship. No fools, they get right the hell out of there. The ravagers aren’t stupid enough to stick around when they’re that massively outgunned.)

Threatening to eat the kid does not calm him down. Nothing does, until someone starts a round of drinking game/stories about that stupid ghost ship, Ellie, and it’s stupid not-changing (ridiculously changing) ghost crew. The kid is not screeching anymore, which is an improvement. He is correcting the stories that he is not supposed to know anything about, which is not.

After about the third interjection along the lines of “no, those two are the same person. Yes the Hatchet is the medic, he’s just grouchy. No, that’s Mims, he’s not a space-cop anymore” and a whole lot of booze, it’s an even toss up of whether the kid is just plain irritating or actually kind of amusing. Even if he clearly doesn’t know what the heck he’s talking about because that red-and-white one with the attitude (no, the other red-and-white one with an attitude) is clearly a serial murderer of some kind.

They keep the new kid alive until the next planet, which is half miracle, until they get stuck docking at a planet next to a ship with a name that just doesn’t translate in any of their systems or in any of the (very sketchy; this is a place where Yondu’s crew are “welcome”) port authority’s databases. It vaguely says something about W.A.P--such a weird name for a ship--and it’s kind of stupidly huge.

“Baby brother!” shrieks the tiny kid standing by the loading ramp, which gets them side-eyed by the two other crew members sticking by her.

“Why,” asks a huge bruiser with metal skin that looks a lot like scales, “do you have the brat with you?” Brat sounds half endearment, half iritation, and entirely too protective.

The only reason that Yondu+crew get out of that one alive is because they haven’t actually landed yet, and Grimlock is a bit more concerned about losing Sari next to the kidnappers than going after them. Yet.

*

I can’t really decide how it goes from there. Scavengers and LL crew chasing the Yondu+crew around the galaxy because they took the bby! Obviously they’d get caught. Realistically it’d probably be soon, but I kind of like the idea of them managing to run for, like a couple of space years and then eventually getting pounced on and having Roddy go “You’ve been missing for the [cybertronian equivalent] of a week! Are you okay?!!!”

Realistically Yondu+crew would probably end up very dead (esp. given Drift, the fact that Roddy’s baby getting kidnapped would probably make him cry, and very, very horrible memories of all involved about what functionalists and their ilk would do to a Bby!cybertronian that had an odd conception turning everyone’s reaction up to wartime levels of must-kill). But also the LL crew sometimes makes friends. So, probably most of the crew would end up dead (excepting Yondu because plot armor and also probably Cybertronian hacking getting to the messages from Ego about fetching his poor, orphaned kids) but some would survive.

Roddy does not die in this. Roddy carried the matrix. You think that Ego’s light is gonna do him any harm? Boy, you are seriously overestimating yourself. Also, the whole LL crew’s clear narrative surrounding shouting in the face/defeating false gods will def. come into play. What, like it’s the first time they’ve picked a fight with an evil planet? (Technically yes, given that not!primus was a puppet under someone else’s control, and not actually evil).

Yes, I am using the MCU version of GOTG, because that’s the one I’m most familiar with, unfortunately.

Also, the idea of having our favorite shipfull of LLighter’s running around just mucking up plotlines.

Lost light -> LL -> Ellie. It’s a joke that really only makes sense in English, but I was a little sad that it never got made in the comic itself. So, in this ‘verse, the Lost Lighters all just call their ship “Ellie” to the point where the mythos around her basically thinks that is there name.

Cybertronian does not have an entry in any translators, not matter how universal they are. It’s so frustrating to everyone else.

Since it’s my AU, Rung is also alive. Everyone cool with that?

[etherealwaifgoddess]

Birthday Gifts

Main Characters:  Bucky x Reader

Summary: Set  in the What He Wants AU, it’s Bucky’s birthday and he receives a very surprising gift from our main character, and also gets himself exactly what he wants for his birthday :)

Warnings/ Content: Tooth rotting fluff 

Word Count: 2,173

Author’s Note: We’re back in the WHW AU, my lovelies!! Our boy has been carrying around that ring of yours for a while now and it’s starting to get prettttty heavy in his pocket. I had the idea for this all the way back when I was originally writing WHW and I really looked forward to sharing it with you all one day. Well, the day is today! For anyone not familiar with What He Wants and the one shots from the same series please check out the master list HERE

XOXO -  Ash

Birthday Gifts

Bucky takes to carrying the little black box with your engagement ring in his pocket every day. It starts out because he’s afraid to leave it around the apartment where you could potentially find it, but then it becomes a comforting habit. Some days when he’s overwhelmed by his love for you he wonders if that’s the moment. Something as simple as the way your eyes light up when you’re pelting him with snowballs after you’ve shoveled out your walkway make him wonder if he should just drop to one knee and do it. But he waits, biding his time. Bucky wants it to be special and memorable when he finally proposes to you. He mulls over what he’ll say some nights when he’s having trouble sleeping and thinks he has some pretty good ideas. 

The winter drags on and it’s a brutal one, you spend a lot of time cooped up together in your little apartment when you get snowed in. Bucky feels like you’ve been together for a lifetime with all the time you’ve spent together and he almost takes advantage of Valentine’s Day to propose but decides last minute that it’s too cliche. 

March rolls around and you start planning Bucky’s birthday party and his gift. You know exactly what to get him and have the plans set into motion. Bucky grumbles at all the attention, not particularly fond of it or of his birthday in general. You ask him often what he wants, just to be sure you’re not missing something else to get him. Bucky starts just answering with a long, drawn out sigh after the third time you ask. He knows exactly what he wants, and he’s going to get it. Birthdays are for gift giving and Bucky decides that his gift to himself is going to be you as his wife. 

The closer it comes to his birthday the more anxious he is, the ring sitting heavily in his pocket. He’s set in his decision to ask you but worries all the same. March 10th falls on a Wednesday so you make simple plans to take him to dinner in town and then go up to the Avengers Compound for the weekend to have a party with his friends. Pepper has been extremely helpful setting things up and letting you throw the party there. She’s a wonderful friend and you talk with her several times a week, glad to have a close female friend in your life again. 

When the day finally arrives Bucky is a giant ball of nerves and you worry slightly that he’s going to wear himself out. The team at the center keeps things low key out of respect for him, bringing in a small cake and a single joint gift for him. He’s moved by their kindness and genuinely appreciates their efforts. He thanks each person quietly later, blushing under all the attention. 

Dinner at his favorite Italian place is an equally subdued affair, just the two of you in a back corner booth away from the rest of the patrons. Bucky wants to relax and enjoy the perfect night with you but he’s so close to proposing that it’s all he can think of and wants the night to last as long as possible. When the tiramisu arrives he nibbles at it slowly, drawing out things just a little bit longer. He notices you getting impatient, “Getting a little restless?” He asks lightly.

You try to hide your frown, worrying about his present back at the apartment. “It’s fine. I just... I didn’t think dinner would take quite this long. We still have to get home so I can give you your gift.” 

“Does it have an expiration date or something?” He jokes.

“Or something.” 

Bucky shrugs, he knows he can't drag things on forever despite his nerves. He plans on proposing as soon as he gets his gift and can’t wait to see your face when you see your ring for the first time. You hurry through paying for your meal and drive as far over the speed limit as your dare on the way back, much to Bucky’s amusement.

Bucky might not have his full super soldier senses anymore but he hears a faint tapping sound as soon as you enter the apartment. He’s lost trying to place it as you lead him into the living room and have him sit on the sofa. Setting up your phone to record and placing it on the TV stand to capture the moment, you head back to the bathroom to collect his gift. Bucky is completely unprepared for what you return with. 

The tiny brown and white King Charles Spaniel puppy is wriggling in your arms, the blue bow barely staying on its head as it tries to lick your hand. Bucky’s jaw drops open, stunned, as you bring the puppy over to him. “Happy birthday.” You say in a sing-song voice as you hand him the puppy. 

“You got me a puppy?!” Bucky’s whole face lights up as soon as the puppy is in his arms and he’s holding it close to his face, letting himself be drowned by puppy kisses. The moment is filled with pure joy and you’re glad you remembered to set up the video on your phone to capture it. “Does he have a name?” Bucky asks, settling the pup on his lap to pet him and ruffle his ears. 

“Not yet. He’s your gift, I figured you should get the honors.” You tell him.

“Hmm. What about Poe?” 

“That’s unique. I really loved Poe’s work when I was younger too. Annabel Lee was one of my favorites.”

“Uh. Yeah. Me too.” Bucky looks sheepish and his cheeks are tinged red by more than just puppy kisses. 

“You didn’t mean the author, did you?” 

“I loved his character in The Force Awakens and then he just gets even better in the next two movies!” 

“You are such a nerd!” 

“Come on! Poe is brave and loyal, what better name for a dog?” 

“I just didn’t realize what a giant nerd you were. Out of all the movies you’ve watched and all the books you’ve read getting caught up on the 20th century, and somehow Star Wars became your default?”

“It’s an epic love story! And then it becomes so much more than that too. You watched them with me, so if I’m a nerd you’re one too.” 

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe and it’s freaking out Poe who’s wiggling his little butt trying to go check on you. You hold up your hands in defeat and stifle your giggles. “Fine, fine. At least we’ll be nerds together.” 

Bucky is still fawning over his new pet and you wonder if the poor little guy will ever be put down around him. “He’s perfect, mouse. How did you pull this off?” 

“Well, you kinda fell down a rabbit hole of looking at puppies online last month after you saw that SPCA ad. You kept showing me pictures of this breed, remember?” 

“They just have the cutest faces. And these floppy ears!” Bucky all but smooshes his face against Poe’s and you can’t help but gawk over what a big softie he is around the pup. 

“I know... I know... So I called around the local shelters until I found this little guy who had been brought in as a newborn. He was technically ready for adoption on Monday but they agreed to hold him for me until today. Martha ran out to get him while we were at dinner. I knew the motorcycle was going to be a tough gift to top but I think this worked out.” 

“This is better than the motorcycle, he’s so perfect. You always know just what to get me.” 

“Happy birthday, babe.” You move closer to Bucky so you can give him a kiss and Poe does his best to hop up and join in. You both laugh and give him all your attention again. 

“So, remember I told you I was going to get myself a gift this year?” Bucky asks. His tone is off, suddenly low and hesitant. 

You nod, “Yeah. I told you, you should get it, whatever it was. It’s good you want to do something for yourself.”

“I didn’t get it yet. I need your help actually.”

“Okay, whatever you need.”

Bucky hands you Poe and slides down onto the floor in front of you. His hands are shaking when he pulls the small black box from his pocket and you swear your brain short circuits when you realize what he’s doing. 

“After HYDRA took me in ‘44 I stopped thinkin’ about my future. Didn’t see the point of it, even after Steve got me out. There wasn’t a chance to do more than get through one battle, then the next, and then even after that it was missions with Steve and gettin’ through one day at a time. After Steve... well, you know what happened. But then came you. And you pushed me and challenged me to stop and think about the future. You have been so patient, and kind, and unbelievably strong while I figure things out and now I can’t stop thinking about the future. Our future. So now it’s my turn to ask you somethin’. Y/N, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Bucky flips the box open revealing the ring and your breath catches in your throat. 

Inside the box is the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. You know it’s custom made because its pattern and metals are identical to Bucky's arm. The sizable diamond in the middle is a light grey-blue that’s reminiscent of his eyes and you wonder who made this perfect creation that is Bucky in ring form. You realize you still haven’t answered and jump, startling all three of you. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes.” You say in a rush. 

Bucky lets out a relieved, happy sigh and pulls himself up on the sofa to take you in his arms. Poe wiggles away before he’s squished and is bouncing up and down next to you as Bucky pulls you onto his lap and slides the ring on your finger. It feels surprisingly delicate and the way it catches in the light makes tears well in your eyes all over again. You’re both crying and kissing and you realize your video is still going. Laughing, you show the ring to the camera and then shut it off. 

“Now we have both moments on video.” You tell Bucky who is still grinning ear to ear. Settling back on the sofa so you can cuddle in with him and Poe you finally ask him, “So, who made this? It’s perfectly you.” 

Bucky nods in agreement, “It better look like me, it’s from me. Well, the arm technically. Shuri was able to get the metal from a few different places on my arm and made the ring from that. You literally have a piece of me now. And the stone is from the royal vault, Shuri insisted we use it.”

“I need to thank her next time we talk, it’s amazing. I love it. I love you.” You lean into kiss him again and Poe yips. “Yes, I love you too Poe. I can’t forget, we’re a family of three now.” 

“God, I love the way that sounds.”

“Me too. So does everyone know you were planning this or do we have announcements to make?” 

“Announcements are needed, I want to show off this little guy to the gang anyway. Shuri, T’Challa, and their mother know about the ring but not that I planned on giving it to you today.”

“Why don’t we make a quick video and send it to your group chat? Then everyone can find out about Poe and the engagement all at once. We need to call Pepper and make sure she’s okay with us bringing him up this weekend though.” 

Bucky grabs his phone and you make a quick thirty second video showing off your ring and Poe, and send it off to the group. A minute later both of your phones are exploding with messages from your friends congratulating you both. Pepper actually demands you bring Poe along for the weekend so that’s settled, and you get a video call from Shuri who needs more details and to ensure you love her creation. 

Bucky settles into bed that night with you curled up against his chest and Poe resting behind his bent knees. It hits him that he’s surrounded by love, by his family. He’s amazed by how quickly his life took a different turn after Steve died. It’s been six months and he’s gone from existing out of habit to really living and having a family to call his own. Bucky can’t imagine what the next six months will bring but he’s looking forward to finding out with you and Poe by his side. 

Tag List Lovelies: @my-current-fandom-is @blacklightguidesnic @amazonianbeauty@ladyemofhousestark@abswritesfandoms@rupestria @dark-night-sky-99

[yangssunglasses]

SSM Day 1 Prompt: Far From Home

Read on FFnet

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Into the Jungle

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This was Sakura’s first solo mission outside of the village. A training mission, the young kunoichi reminded herself firmly as she slowly picked her way through the dense tropical foliage, careful not to trip over gnarled roots. Her sandaled feet were sinking into the muddy ground, giving her a disgusting slimy feeling between her toes. Sakura clenched her jaw in determination, trying not to think of all kinds of worms that lived in this muck and were probably touching her skin right now.

She had researched the conditions in this terrain before the mission, but nothing could have prepared her for the oppressive, wet heat of the southern jungle. Sakura was bathing in her own sweat but no amount of toweling could make her dry in this muggy atmosphere. Even breathing was harder because of the moisture in the air. And the smells! At least Sakura wasn’t overly reliant on her nose to find the way. She imagined even Kakashi-sensei would have gotten a headache from the hundreds of various smells mixing together in a confusing cacophony. Intense flower fragrances were only overpowered by the all-present scent of rot and decay, which both only partially hid the more subtle animal musks. She almost wished for a gas mask like those worn by Rain ninja.

Sakura stumbled along the path that wasn’t really a path, not one made by humans by any means. She would have preferred to jump on the trees like she was used to doing back home, but here it would have been nigh impossible with all the tangled, slippery and unstable branches forming a dense labyrinth of a canopy. She was better off on the ground, closer to the goal of her mission.

Shishou, why? Sakura sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She wearily adjusted the shoulder straps of her backpack that were biting into her skin. She’d been trekking through the jungle for five days already and her exhaustion had been steadily building up in that time. In preparation for the Sand chunin exams, Tsunade sent her alone to gather a certain type of mushroom that only grew in this specific rainforest. The chance to encounter enemy ninja was extremely low, wild beasts and poisonous plants on the other hand… Obviously, Sakura was expected to deal with any danger she would face like a well-rounded, self-reliant chunin. Still, it would’ve been useful to have someone to watch her back. On top of that, she planned to make use of this occasion to bring back some exotic toxins for her own personal study. As a result, she didn’t get much sleep at night and her backpack was bursting with specimens collected on her way.

A suspicious rustle coming from the bushes put her on alert. In a blink of an eye, Sakura whipped out a kunai and scanned her surroundings for the threat, heart in her throat as she strained to sense anything or anyone approaching her position. When a small critter skulked out and quickly ran through the open space to its next hiding spot, Sakura’s shoulders slumped in relief. She turned away to continue her march, a kunai in hand.

Cutting the lianas and foliage in her way, Sakura came into a bit of an open space. A marsh area stretched wide before her. Sakura looked suspiciously at the dark surface, rotted logs and algae drifting in the still water between clumps of high grass. Then she gave out an excited gasp when she spotted a strip of land in the middle, positively brimming with the mushrooms she was looking for!

With a burst of speed, she rushed across the murky water for the small island, not caring about the splashes. She squatted to inspect the mushrooms closer, then grinned. They were perfect!

Sakura worked quickly, cutting the stems of mushrooms so they could grow back and sealing them in a special storage scroll. She straightened up and stretched languidly in satisfaction. With her main objective reached, she could finally go home. She hefted the backpack on her shoulders again and turned around—

Only to face a gaping maw filled with rows of sharp teeth.

Sakura did something which for a ninja was an unforgivable mistake—for a split second, she froze. It was completely involuntary, an instinctual reaction that could not be purged with any amount of training. The animal part of her brain took over, choosing to stay still as she stared into the jaws of death in total shock, unable to react. And no matter how little time it took for her reflexes to kick in, it was still going to be too late and she knew it.

In a flash of blinding speed, something violently pushed her back. Sakura fell, hitting her head hard, but the boggy soil somewhat softened the impact. Blinking through dark spots flying in front of her eyes, she registered electric blue flashing lights, followed by a pained roar and a smell of smoke and burned flesh. She scrambled up on her knees to see what had happened. She was certain someone had just used a lightning jutsu.

What she saw took her breath away. There was a man standing tall over the fallen beast’s carcass, breathing hard, a bloodied spear clutched in his hand. His hair was black, wet and wildly tangled, his body dark with what looked like mud and possibly paint (for camouflage, the analytic part of her brain supplied). Her gaze wandered lower and she couldn’t help blushing when it hit her that he was wearing only a loincloth.

Then he looked at her and she stopped breathing for a moment. Even though he was wearing a mask, she got an impression that he was checking up on her too from the way his stance relaxed after a few seconds.

Before she could gather her thoughts, her mysterious savior turned to already leave. Sakura gasped loudly. Red was dripping from his other arm down his elbow. “Wait! You’re hurt!” she called out to him.

Sakura pushed herself to her feet and fought through the wave of dizziness. She suspected she might have a mild concussion. She groaned, cradling her head and walked to him, spending more concentration than usual on the simple task of channeling chakra to her feet so she wouldn’t sink in the bog.

“Wait,” she repeated, softer than before. “I’m a medic-nin, I can heal your injury. You don’t want an infection to get in. Let me repay you for saving me.” She gave him an imploring look.

The man—no, the boy, she noticed, as he wasn’t much taller than her and he seemed younger than what she initially thought, maybe around her age—stilled in consideration, then gave a small nod. Sakura smiled in relief.

“Okay. Okay,” she said, gathering her sluggish thoughts. “First, let’s get to the stable land. Do you know any safe place to camp nearby?”

The boy nodded again and headed off, but after a few moments he doubled back when he noticed her lagging behind in disorientation. He took her gently by the arm and Sakura thankfully leaned on him. She didn’t even bother to watch where they were going, trusting that he’d get her there. If the ease with which she came to depend on him seemed a little strange her, she didn’t think much of it.

Finally, they made their way to a secluded spot at the foot of an ancient tree. It was easily defensible, with the wide, solid trunk behind their backs, rocks to the left and thick bushes to the right. No more chance for the wild beasts getting a drop on one of them.

“Thanks,” Sakura told the boy as she put her weight against the tree. She shrugged off the heavy overflowing pack from her shoulders. It landed with a thud on the ground beside her. She pulled out her medkit and water canteen before looking at him. “Come here,” she said softly.

Warily, he approached her. “Don’t worry, I’ll just clean and bandage your wound,” she reassured him with an easy smile. “Please, sit.” She patted the even spot next to her.

He stuck his spear upright into the ground, then kneeled at her side. Their thighs brushed and he abruptly straightened up, breaking the skin contact. Still tense, his hand curled around the weapon, as if he was not ready to let it go.

To break the awkward pause, Sakura coughed. “Um, your arm? Please.”

Very gently, she put her hand on his and pried it off the spear. He didn’t fight her. Sakura held his arm with her left hand and poured water from her canteen over the injury, cleaning it. The gash wasn’t very deep, but it was long, bisecting his upper arm from the shoulder almost to the elbow.

“Alright,” Sakura muttered, feeling around the wound. “Do you feel any unusual pain?”

In response, she got a headshake.

She pulled a roll of bandages out of the medkit. “I’ll wrap it for now,” she explained. “I’d stitch it up for you, but it’s not necessary.”

The smooth wooden mask tilted questioningly.

“I’m sorry, but my concussion will mess up medical ninjutsu. I need to rest for a bit and when I’m better, I’ll heal it completely for you. Can you hang on that long?”

The boy inclined his head in affirmative and she rewarded him with a smile. “Pinch me if I start nodding off, okay? I need to stay awake for a few hours.”

She wrapped his arm quickly and professionally, then let it go. They settled side by side against the tree, Sakura with her knees drawn up to her chin, the masked boy cross-legged.

“By the way, my name is Sakura. Can you tell me yours?” she asked in a friendly tone.

He gave her a piercing look through the mask and she sighed. “I guess no,” she mumbled dejectedly. “You’re not much of a talker, are you? Trying to stay silent and mysterious, is that right?”

Even though she couldn’t see his expression, he radiated amusement.

She huffed. “Very well, be this way. I’ll go first and tell you a bit about myself. You’re probably just dying to know what I’m doing in this jungle, aren’t you?” she said with a self-deprecating snark.

Against her expectations, the boy propped his cheek on his hand and leaned towards her in a listening posture. Sakura’s expression lit up.

“Okay, so it all started when my shishou ran out of sake…” she began telling her story animatedly.

.

The masked stranger looked down at the girl he had rescued. The night had finally fallen and she had gone to sleep, deeming enough time had passed since she had hit her head. Her head was now resting on his thigh where he had gently moved it after noticing how uncomfortable she was, sleeping on the ground.

He had started a campfire before it had gotten too dark but he didn’t trust the flames to scare away all of the night’s predators. So he kept a silent vigil over the girl—just like he had done every night for the last week.

Unbeknownst to Sakura, her mysterious savior wasn’t really a stranger to her. And when he was sure she was fast asleep, he finally took off the cumbersome wooden mask.

When Aoda had informed him of an intruder entering his territory, Uchiha Sasuke had found himself in a predicament he never would have foreseen. Had it been anyone else, he’d have dealt with them with no mercy or hesitation, but Sakura was a complication he couldn’t get rid of with his usual methods.

Tsk, excuses. You could knock her out, drug her, cast a genjutsu on her, or toss her out anytime you wished, but you’re still too soft, Ssasssuke-kun. Too weak to defeat Itachi. The sibilant voice of Orochimaru mocked him inside his head while the cursed seal pulsed with burning pain. Sasuke grabbed his neck and clenched his jaw, taking the punishment.

It had been almost a month since his sinister teacher left him with nothing, no supplies, not even clothes on his back and told him to become the apex predator of this jungle. Sasuke spent the time honing his instincts as well as the mastery over the lightning techniques, but it was all put on hold when Sakura entered the picture.

With one look, he could see she’d gotten stronger, more confident, more capable in their time apart, however at first he was incensed that she would take such a big risk, coming there alone. She didn’t know all the dangers of this jungle and she had no one to watch her back. Sasuke doubted she possessed the same immunity to poisons like the one he’d built up through Kabuto’s disgusting cocktails and sadistic injections.

He treated following Sakura, watching over her while staying out of her sight as just another form of training. He had more than a few close calls when she almost found him out. Her powers of observation greatly increased and Sasuke learned not to underestimate her. He was becoming convinced he could leave her and she’d make it fine back on her own, when she relaxed her iron-clad guard for one critical moment and almost ended up as crocodile food.

His body moved on instinct when he jumped in between her and the attacking beast, a razor sharp fang slicing a long gash on his arm when he pulled it away just before the massive jaws would have clamped on it. It was the worst injury he’d sustained during his stay in the jungle. When Orochimaru sees it, Sasuke would suffer a “penalty” for damaging his future perfect body. Not that he cared much. Surviving Orochimaru’s cruel and unusual ideas for punishment would only serve to make him stronger, more resilient, more prepared to kill Itachi.

At least Sakura was going to leave soon, which was a relief to Sasuke. He didn’t relish the perspective of her running into his teacher or anyone that would be sent to summon him back to the Sound base. In the morning, he’d escort her to the edge of the forest.

Sasuke was jolted when the girl sleeping on his lap unexpectedly shifted. She made a distressed sound in the back of her throat, her face scrunched up funnily. Sasuke carefully brushed away a longer strand of her hair which was tickling her nose. She settled down immediately, but he didn’t pull his hand back. Very gently, he traced over her cheek and earlobe with his fingertips.

Sakura gave out a contented hum, so he continued touching her. This night, being far away from civilization and possible onlookers, Sakura’s obliviousness to his real identity—it all gave him an unparalleled privacy. He couldn’t help himself. No one would ever know, not even her.

He petted her hair, marveling at the silkiness of it, he greedily brushed his fingers on the smoothness of her bare arm, then back up. He stroked her nape, then along her jaw and chin, stopping just shy of her lips.

That’s when Sakura turned her head upwards, green eyes foggily peeking at him through the eyelashes and he froze in shock.

“Sasuke-kun,” she murmured with a drowsy smile, hand closing around his.

“… Sakura,” he said, feeling at a loss. She caught him without the mask, now what?

“I missed you… so much… Sasuke-kun…” she slurred sleepily.

“Aa,” he rasped through a tightened throat. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here,” he told her in a low tone.

Sakura mumbled her agreement and closed her eyes, drifting off. Sasuke released his breath. With a bit of luck, she’d dismiss this conversation as a strange dream. In any case, this was a warning. This one annoying girl made him lose his focus, his edge too easily. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Sasuke picked up the mask and fastened it on his face.

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Sakura woke up refreshed and after sharing canned rations with her masked companion, she had felt good enough to attempt the medical ninjutsu. There was just that nagging feeling in the back of her mind, like she was forgetting something vital…

“Did anything happen when I was asleep?” she asked.

For a split second, she thought she might have seen him tense up. Then the boy shook his head once. Nothing.

Sakura still worried at her lower lip in thought, then let the matter drop. It was probably nothing. She must have dreamt something and simply forgot. That wasn’t unusual. She then turned her mind to more important things.

Delicately, she unwrapped the bandage from his injured arm and put her hands over the scabbing, reddened wound. Green chakra enveloped her palms and seeped under his skin as she concentrated on knitting his flesh. This was a fairly simple healing and it didn’t take long for her to finish, leaving behind smooth, untouched and pink skin where otherwise there would have been a long, ugly scar. Sakura ran her hand down his arm one last time, making sure all was in order. She noticed a small, oval birthmark just below his elbow, which struck her as odd, but not malignant, so she left it alone.

“All done!” she announced with a smile, raising her gaze to the slits in his mask.

The boy tentatively tried moving the arm and found no difficult or pain. He inclined his head in thanks.

“You’re welcome. You saved my life anyway, so this is the least I could do.” Sakura stood up and put on her backpack. “Now, how do I get out of this jungle?”

The boy touched her shoulder and pointed the way, before setting off in the lead. With his help as a guide, Sakura traveled a long distance across the jungle in a matter of hours. Soon her surroundings became familiar.

“I recognize this place… It’s near to where I entered!” she said excitedly and nearly ran into the boy’s back when he abruptly stopped.

“What, why did you stop?” she asked. He crossed his arms and she understood. “Oh… right, you’re not going back with me…” she said quietly, looking to the side, before lifting her face up to him. “Then, I guess this is where we say goodbye.”

Sakura formally bowed. “Thank you for saving my life and guiding me out of here. I owe you.” Then she straightened up with a smile. “I hope we’ll meet again and you won’t be wearing that mask,” she added with a sly look.

He shrugged, giving her the impression that he would consider it, but no promises.

Sakura chuckled. “Maybe not then. Well, I’m going. See you next time!” she said as she pivoted and started walking.

After a dozen steps, she looked back. He was standing where she’d left him, still like a statue. She raised her hand and waved.

He waved back, the darker spot of the birthmark visible from the distance. Sakura was taken aback by the familiarity of his posture, there was something about it that she’d seen before…

She continued walking for a while, mulling over this and then the realization hit her. She whirled around, casting a desperate look.

“Sasuke-kun?! Sasuke-kun, is that really you?”

But the masked boy had already disappeared into the jungle.

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AN: Sorry for the lateness of this entry. Happy SasuSaku Month! XD

[milkcartonbastard]

Somewhere Only We Know

Fandom- The Outsiders (Johnny Cade x Ponyboy Curtis.)

Notes- Fluff. Nobody requested this? I just oddly want to write for The Outsiders? I wrote this to a cover of Somewhere Only We Know by Max Schneider and Elizabeth Gillies. It's on YouTube and you all should give it a listen.

If you all want to, send me some questions to my ask box, cause I’m a bit bored.

~~~

   The only forest in Tulsa was abandoned. It always had been, even though it was connected to the park. Johnny never understood that. Why play on a rotting set of swings when you could explore a forest? Why pretend the slide takes you to another dimension when you could imagine you were on a quest through the forest? Johnny wrote it off as parents being too overprotective to let their kids go wondering into a set of woods, but he didn't really have that problem. If anything, he was more of an orphan than anything else. He'd basically raised himself- not counting Mr. and Mrs. Curtis taking him in.

   Johnny had been going into the park's little forest for years. It was quiet and clean- no people there to litter or to muck up the area. Johnny could see animals if he walked softly. He'd seen the same rabbit- it was the same one as far as he could tell- for two years. He liked to call it Henry. Ronald Henrique Rabbit.

   When Johnny was younger, before he really trusted the Curtis family, he would go to the same spot in the woods to hide from his parents. Nobody ever followed him and he wasn't sure anyone knew he'd ever been there.

   "Johnny, where are we going?" Pony tugged on the Cade boy's hand. Johnny was leading him to his favorite spot. His spot. Johnny had already been in the woods once today to set up the surprise. Johnny had decided that he was going to surprise Ponyboy with a date. They'd been together for three months and were taking it slow, but Johnny decided it was time for this milestone. They'd been on plenty of dates before, but this one was going to be special. For both of them.

   "It's a surprise."

   "That tells me nothing." Pony laughed softly, causing a smile to spread over Johnny's face. He looked back at his boyfriend. Pony was looking at the trees hovering above them- their branches dangling like welcoming arms. A soft breeze was making the leaves dance and sway to the bird song serenading throughout the thicket of trees.

   "It wasn't supposed to. Hold on," Johnny stopped walking and turned to Ponyboy. There was a tree laying across the path. It was barely a foot high from the ground. Either way, Johnny scooped Pony up in his arms and carefully walked over the fallen tree. Pony smacked his chest gently, grumbling and giggling.

   "That was so unnecessary. I could have rolled over it and never left the ground!" Pony's cheeks and ears were pink and he was trying to fight back his smile. Johnny kissed his cheek, which caused him to go red instead. Johnny gently put him on the ground and Pony grabbed his hand again. Johnny led them forward again, listening to Pony talk about some books he'd read lately. 

   He'd been reading to Johnny since they gotten together. They had finished Gone With The Wind a few days ago. Johnny was happy with it and Pony was willing to read him more. Johnny had bought a book called Taming the Star Runner after he heard Pony talking about it. He had no idea what it was about, but he would listen to Pony read a newspaper if that's all he had. It was a calming thing, listening to Ponyboy read line after line. Johnny wasn't sure he'd ever heard Pony mispronounce a word or stutter through a sentence. His reading was perfect and Johnny loved it.

   "We're almost there. Close your eyes, okay?" Johnny stood behind the taller boy and put his hands over his eyes. Pony laughed again as Johnny started walking him forward. All they had to do was walk on the other side of a giant tree and they would be there. Johnny turned the corner slowly, trying to make sure he didn't throw Ponyboy of balance. Johnny kissed his boyfriend's shoulder before taking his hands off his eyes.

   "Johnny... wow."

   Johnny had pinned a sheet to a tree, causing it to fall open and stretch towards some rocks that he'd strategically placed. He had a thick blanket laid out on the ground and a picnic basket sitting against the base of the tree. It had PB & J sandwiches and Coca Cola cans inside. There were 3Musketeers in there- since they were Pony's favorite candy bar. The best part hung between three trees and were shining brightly in the setting sun. They were Christmas lights that Johnny had found. They ran on batteries, which was the reason Johnny had spares in his backpack.

   "Do you like it?" Johnny was looking at the look of amazement on Pony's face. His green eyes had the white lights reflecting in them, making his them bright and starry. Pony didn't say anything or nod his head- he just grabbed Johnny's face and kissed him rapidly.

   "It's amazing. What's in the basket? I'm starving." Pony plopped down on the blanket and propped himself up on the pillows that rested at the base of the tree. It was a thick tree, with a trunk that had to at least be six feet wide. Johnny didn't know what kind of tree it was, but he was happy it was there. He'd always come and sit next to it when he'd come into the woods alone. It was a comfort tree that grew with him.

   Pony dug into the basket, his smile growing with every item he pulled out of it. Johnny was grinning while looking at the ground. Pony was eating the sandwich and licking his lips as he went. They were both sitting cross legged and almost felt like little kids.

   The two boys ate in a comfortable silence. They did this most of the time, which was really nice. Johnny never got the same silence with any other member of the gang. Dallas and Darry came close, but neither made him feel as safe as Ponyboy. He really enjoyed Ponyboy's presence and the relationship they had begun to build with one another.

   Johnny wanted the relationship to expand more, hence the surprise date. He really wanted to have a future with Ponyboy. Whether as a boyfriend or not. He didn't think he could live without Pony in his life. He was the best company he'd ever had.

   "I love you, Ponyboy."

   The words broke the silence. Neither of them had ever said that to each other before, not since they were kids and thought that was something you said to anyone. Back before they really knew the feeling that came with those words.

   Ponyboy looked away from the sky and turned his gaze on the teen across from him. Pony's green eyes were wide and his reddish brown hair fell into his face. Johnny wasn't worried about what Pony was going to say back. If they were moving too fast- if that was too fast or too much- then Ponyboy would tell him and he wouldn't say anything again, at least not until Pony was ready to say it. Either way, it was out in the open and Johnny didn't have any regrets.

   "I love you too, Johnny Cake."

   Fuck. Johnny's brain stopped for a second and his braincells ground to a stop. For some reason, he didn't think to prepare if Ponyboy said it back. He was preparing for a negative reaction. For the worse, but here the youngest Curtis brother was- causing Johnny's heart to swell.

   Pony tugged Johnny in for a kiss. It was sweet and gentle, which seemed to jumpstart Johnny's brain. He tugged the book out from underneath the edge of the blanket. He slid it into his boyfriend's lap, which caused Pony to pull away in surprise. He picked the book up and read the title. Another award winning smile spread across his face. The birds chittered above their heads. He thought they looked like mockingbirds, which gave him an idea for their next book.

   "I take this as a hint to read to you?" Pony wiggled the book in his hands, his eyes gleaming and the freckles that laid across his nose looking like stars. Johnny wrinkled his nose up and kissed his boyfriend again. "Alright then. Get comfy."

   Pony lifted his body up with his arms and moved against the tree trunk. Johnny waited until his boyfriend was positioned before he laid his head on his lap. Pony rolled his eyes and smiled. He propped the book up Johnny's chest, causing his boyfriend to smile. Pony cleared his throat and opened the book.

   "Taming the Star Runner by S.E. Hinton."

   Johnny didn't think his heart would ever stop beating if he was with Pony. After all, he loves him.