#knuckles is head of demolition

[spiderchao]

Game idea:

Sonic the Hedgehog meets Animal Crossing

[ghostingaces]

We Need To Talk About Glass | 141 x Reader/Oc

Synopsis; There’s something not right about the rookie

Warnings; vague horror themes and foul language

Notes; Glass is technically an oc but I don’t mention a name or physical description in this, even though she has one, is because this is kind of like a screen test for her. The only description so far is she's tall, Irish, and has plale eyes. This au is also inspired by this and this which I absolutely adore. This is my first piece of writing on this site so I hope you enjoy.

Its also only Price and Ghost for now. It’s a bit rough. Part Two here.

▄︻̷̿┻̿═━ 一

Most of the file before him was blacked out.

Rows upon rows of dark lines stared back at him as he flickered through the manilla folder, crime scene like photos of bloodshed tacked to pages after pages of mission reports. Occasionally the repetitive drivel would be interrupted by a disciplinary report, but those were drowned out with commendations.

“No picture?” Prime hummed as he flipped back to the first page.

“No Sir” The Irish Ranger in front of him answers. He's a tall man, bald with keen green eyes, and the rookies former CO. Lieutenant Byrne. A respectable and very capable man. A man who’s knuckles had been bone white on the file when he handed it over, green gaze refusing to flicker over the pictures he had probably seen dozens of times already. He had probably lived through several.

Price cast his gaze back down to the first page of the rookies file. Her name was simple and easy to remember, but distinct enough to suit her stature. He read it twice again just to make sure that it stuck though.

 He rubbed his eyes as an uncomfortable itch overtook them.

“Infiltration, demolitions, interrogation, guerrilla warfare..., Jack of all trades aren't you...” He read over the callsign inscribed on the page “Glass”

The figure in the corner nodded. A scratchy voice echoed from behind the balaclava “Yes sir”

He had barley noticed the woman when she had walked into the briefing room behind Lieutenant Byrne. Draped in all black and of a similar stature to the man, she had seemed more of a shadow then person. By the time Price had realised she wasn't just an apparition, she had retreated into the dark like she belonged there. 

“Before you're cleared for active duty you'll run some sims with the team” He explained. He settled his gaze on where he thought her eyes would be but could only see the shimmer of something staring back at him.

“Yes Sir”

“Even after that you won't be let out on the field for a while, not until you sim scores are perfect. Any objections?”

“No Sir”

“I expect perfection for my team, no room for mistakes.” Price stood from his desk and circled it slowly so he could sit closer to Glass (what was her name again?) and stare into the depths of the shadows that covered her “Understood”

There was what he perceived as a nod “Yes Sir”

“Good.” He grunted before reaching out to the other ranger for a grateful handshake “Lieutenant Byrne, thank you for the introduction but I can take it from here”

“Of course Sir” The irishman smiled aloofly has he shook the captains hand, grip firm, before stepping back closer to the woman “I’ll be out of you hair by the morning.”

Captain Price nodded with an amicable smile and watched as Byrne stepped closer to the woman who had moved to face him. They spoke in hushed voices, a flush of cold sweat gathering across the mans bald head, and what sounds like him snapping out a small ‘behave’ bounced around the room before he moved briskly to the door.  It open with a scream of rusted hinges.

“Good luck Sir” Lieutenant Byrne smile tightly and shut the door behind him.

Good luck?

Price watched him go, head turned towards the door, before looking back to Glass.

She was closer than before.

A lot closer.

He could make out the structure of sharp bones under the black balaclava, high cheeks and an almost roman nose, as well as tired pale eyes that seemed to look perpetually glassy. He looked away when the itch returned. John huffed, callused hands rubbing his eyes softly, and watched in his peripheral is Glass continued to stare.

When the ache subsided, he offered a hand to shake “Welcome to the 141″

The corners of her eye crinkled every so slightly and he caught what looked like a smile in her dead eyes “Happy to be here Sir”

He could feel the ice of her skin through her gloves when they shook hands. Something distinctly wrong settled in his chest as he stared into her almost fake looking eyes. (Iris too glass like, pupils to much like a void)

What was her name again?

▄︻̷̿┻̿═━ 一

There was something wrong with Glass.

Something almost artificial, something uneven in the way she walked. Something doll like in the way she turned her head.

Ghost, the paranoid man that he was, noticed it first.

Noticed the lights that flickered when she walked into the room, a figure that wasn't her appearing in the shadow, before the bulbs would return to their usual florescent glow. The woman didn't seem to notice (or she didn't care) and was content to to carry on with her day. Ghosts eyes would follow her though, catching her gaze in the mirror she walked past. (He knew for a fact all the mirrors in her room were covered)

Her reflection would linger a moment while her body walked on.

Every instance of wrongness was so quick.

Too quick, like she was teasing him. 

Daring him to say something.

He never told anyone he saw it happen

She made attempts to be normal. Well versed on most topics, she held up conversation easily (if you could ignore you own voice echoing back at you occasionally) but her gaze seemed to pierce through you. Glassy. Fake. Eyes more lifeless than the taxidermy deer head his father hung above the mantle.

He’d watch her for the rest of the day. 

He'd watch as she stalked from room to room, lingering in the back, ghoulishly pale eyes fixated on the people that milled about, as if waiting on one to walk off alone so she could follow. Stalking like a predator, like something hungry. 

People had been going MIA recently 

He’d never seen her eat, never drink, never seen a sliver of skin that wasn't the greasepaint covered flesh around her eyes. Hands constantly bound in leather gloves, tall body locked away in layers of black fabric and body armour. However, in spite of the heavy boots she wore, her steps were basically soundless. She moved like smoke.

“Keep sneaking up on me and I might shoot you” He had snapped one day, tone playful but a genuine threat thinly veiled in his words. He wasn't comfortable with her at his back, not with the knife always on her belt.

Glass has simply laughed, the sound as grating as nails on a chalk board, before she slinked off to to bother Soap or linger in Prices shadow, knife hilt glittering like polished gold.

A Celtic cross was carved into the handle.

A similar gold one hung from a thin chain around her neck, weathered with age and handling, but meticulously cared for.

Soap had asked is she believed in God when he first saw it dangling around her throat, polished gold blindingly vibrant against the blood and black of her tac vest. The chain was short which made the sigil sit right on her breastbone, right above rows of magazines waiting to be used.

Glass had chuckled hoarsely, like she thought having faith in something was more of a desperate joke more than anything else, before spinning a painful vague story about a grandmother and family heirlooms.

Ghost new many people in the service who believed in one god or another, he knew how important it was in a job like this to have something to hold onto to ground yourself when the bullets started flying and bodies dropped around you. Knew it was better to have anything than to let horror of the job eat you alive.

But Glass?

He knew no god could help that creature.

[em1e]

⠀ 五条 + 夏 // RECUERDOS ⠀ ༝ ༝ gojo satoru + geto suguru ⠀ ༝ ༝ 3.2k words ⠀ ⚠︎ angsty kinda my b. this is a cyoe type story ! ⠀ — [ part 2 ] you were supposed to be dead, but by some miracle gojo's found you. geto, too.

i. dead

He thought he was going crazy, at first. 

Who wouldn’t? You were supposed to be dead. Go on and call him psycho for seeing you in everything, everywhere. 

The first thing he catches is your scent (it’s like picking up on something so vaguely familiar from childhood - an old memory that makes him double take and look around for what could possibly bring back the reminder of happier times). Gojo follows the smell absentmindedly through the busy streets, haphazardly bumping into other people and muttering half-hearted apologies without pause. He stops when he sees (h/c) hair enter a local grocery store.

It wasn’t possible, right? You were supposed to be dead. He follows behind without much thought, the soft chime of the doorbell making the clerk look up and greet him with a smile. He doesn’t acknowledge them, eyes set on your figure as you head towards the back of the shop - already knowing where whatever you have in mind to purchase is. Gojo keeps his distance, watching from three aisles over as you pick between two different apples, weighing and squeezing and examining until you decide the one in your right hand is much better than the one on your left. You bag the right one and put the left back in its place. From here, he can see your face clearly and he thinks numbly if there is a God out there, surely they are taunting me.

It’s you. You in every way he remembers you. The same soft gaze over everything your eyes meet, the same gentle but deliberate touch, everything done with confident intent. There’s small hints to prove you’ve grown older, that you have changed - more adult, more mature, but deep down he feels it. It’s you. 

He finds himself following a few steps after you as you leave the store. He can feel his own heartbeat in his ears, mind traveling a million miles a second as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation as to what was happening in front of his eyes. You stop at a pop-up flower shop, laughing animatedly with the owner before deciding on a bouquet of your favorite and carrying them away in one hand, the other clutching the rest of your belongings and recently purchased groceries. And he watches as you enter a nearby apartment, watches through the window as you greet the doorman with a smile and offer him one of your flowers, and watches you disappear behind the elevator doors. 

He leaves with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

ii. reunited

You were supposed to be dead. 

He’s brought back to that reminder looking at old pictures of when you went to Jujutsu High with him and Geto. Your smile so wide in each picture, your eyes crinkle in the corners with your arms thrown on either boy's shoulders - the bitter taste returns to his mouth. 

He knows now, you aren’t dead. Some part of his mind rejects the thought, some part of him rejoices in the fact. Gojo’s done some research on his own (also read: stalking) to find you seem to have a normal life. What happened after that fight?

Memories flood back from that dreadful night ; buildings were crumbled around them, and all Gojo could manage to think about after the demolition was where you were. He watched you take a bad hit, watched you fall off one of the many now broken down buildings, and you had yet to reappear among the other faces. Geto, as if sensing his friend's stress, starts to scream out. 

“(y/n)!”  

Geto’s scream is met with silence, and for once in his life, Gojo can’t find it in himself to move forward. To join his friend in his search for something. A corpse, part of your shirt, anything that could show proof of your remains, to prove that you were even there in the first place. 

Geto finds nothing in your wake, falling to his knees into the rubble and digging until his knuckles are all scraped from the cement and brick and glass and digging still when his fingertips are raw and bleeding, hoping to find anything. 

But he doesn’t. Gojo remembers numbly how they buried an empty casket. Pronounced dead with no body to match the call. He’s brought back to wondering why. Why you never told them otherwise, why you never came back to the school, why you never fixed this wrong. Does Geto know you’re alive? Your death absolutely crushed him, molded itself around his heart and formed a tough shell that Gojo finds hard to crack. 

He figures out your routine is just that - a routine. Very plain in every sense of the word, but easy to follow, easy to plan around. 

So it’s no surprise to him when you leave that same grocery store, items balanced meticulously in hand while saying something to the clerk who knows you by name. Without a second thought, Gojo pushes himself away from the wall he had been watching you from, head held high as he walked forward with mock intent to enter the same shop and oops - 

He’s knocked everything out of your hands! 

And consequently, has knocked you down as well. You’re quick to apologize, despite being the one to take the brunt of impact, and go to gather your items as quickly as you can. Gojo crouches to assist you, waving off your apology hastily. 

“No, no, no need to apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.” He ends with a hum, picking up a now bruised apple that rolled out of your bag and offering it to you. 

Here, he can see your face up close, and he takes in every little detail from behind his sunglasses. You finally look up at him as you take the apple from his hand, giving a small smile that makes something in his chest twist. 

“Thanks.” You shove the fruit back into your bag and Gojo offers his hand as he stands up, which you take gratefully. He grips your hand for a second longer than necessary, before letting his own drop back to his side, chin up and head tilting slightly as if he’s really thinking about something. 

“Say, do I know you? Ya look familiar.” 

Your own head tilts in mock of his, eyes scanning his face and figure before your lower lip juts out and you shake your head, “No, I don’t think so. What’s your name?” 

His eyes narrow from behind his dark lenses, though he offers you his hand, “Gojo Satoru.” You shake it with an apologetic smile. 

“Yeah, no, I don’t recognize that. (l/n) (y/n).”

He drops your hand for a second time with a hum, “You must have one of those faces.” 

You shrug, smile ever-growing at him and he wonders if the sun could ever be as blinding in comparison. “It was nice to meet you, Gojo. Sorry again for running into you!” With a final wave, you’re moving past him to go back to your apartment. He knows this because he knows you. He knows you have to go home and start dinner right before your favorite show comes on TV so you can watch it while you eat. Then you’ll clean your kitchen, brush your teeth, and read a chapter from your favorite novel right before bed. 

Somehow, he also knows watching from a distance won't be enough forever. Things still aren't exactly clicking to him. Did you really not remember him? Or were you just saying that? He leaves with the hope of finding out.

iii. living

Gojo doesn’t intend to lose you a second time. He settles this with himself laying awake one night, room dark and mind heavy. If you left for good reason, he’s sure he could accept it. Maybe, with more thought, he could bring you back. Such a selfish hole to spiral down. 

It doesn’t keep him away the next day, already shopping at your frequented store. You come in five minutes earlier than he expects, and to no surprise head straight for the fruits. A perfect apple already in hand, he pretends to look between the selection of remaining apples, head tilting back and forth as he examines ones he knows aren’t nearly as good as the current in his grasp, but putting on a show for no one in particular. 

You step beside him, already giving him that big smile he’d recognize miles away and pick up an apple to examine yourself. 

“Funny running into you again.” You pick up another and compare them with the squeeze test. 

He pretends he’s surprised that you’re suddenly beside him, turning to look at you as if he wasn’t studying you the minute you stepped in the building. 

“Oh, it’s you!” He says after a moment, offering a small smile in return, “Very funny running into you! You wouldn’t believe what I found.” 

He passes you the perfect apple without much thought, not catching your amazed daze at the fruit as he reaches for his wallet to pull out the picture of the three of you and offering that as well. “I couldn’t get such a pretty thing like you outta my head - knew I recognized you from somewhere.” 

You all but gawk at the photo, apple long forgotten as you take in every detail. 

“Is this me?” 

He watches your expression shift from behind sunglasses, unsure what to make of this statement. 

“It is.” He says finally, “Do you . . . you don’t remember?” A small shake of the head is his answer. “This is you,” his arm brushes against yours slightly to point out the obvious, “this is me, and this is Geto. We were all friends back in the day.” 

“You . . . knew me?” Your voice is so small, and Gojo forgets for a moment that the two of you aren’t the only ones in this store, in this reality. 

“I . .. did, yeah.” He looks around and finally takes in the other patrons in the establishment, the workers joking and having a good time and Gojo hates that he’s potentially ruined your week with one photo. “Say, why don’t we get outta here and I tell ya all about it - maybe you can tell me what you’ve been up to, too?” 

It’s like his voice breaks you out of a trance, doe-eyed expression moving from the photo to finally look at him. You offer a small nod, frozen in place for a second longer before giving one more look to the photo and then looking away again. “Sure, that sounds good. D’ya mind me finishing up here? We can go back to mine after and talk?” 

For the first time in forever, you sound hesitant. Unsure. You don’t know what to make of Gojo or of that photo and everything blurs together until you’re stepping foot in your apartment, bags placed on the counter as Gojo enters your home. A silence surrounds you, though it’s not truly unwelcome. For a moment, he can see your discomfort with him - he’s uncertain if it’s because he’s in your space, or if it’s from the new found information. Part of him thinks it’s a mixture of both. 

“Nice place.” He hums absentmindedly, sliding off his shoes with his hands in his pockets, taking in everything as an official guest and not some stranger staring in from the street. 

“Thanks,” you’re moving to keep yourself busy, putting away things and picking up others to make it seem tidier than it currently is, “wasn’t expecting guests, sorry for the mess.” 

Gojo honestly doesn’t feel like anything is out of place - it all feels so homey, so uniquely you that if you told him this is how everything was meant to be, he’d believe you without a seconds hesitation. 

“S’okay, just seems lived in.” He’s careful to not rush in too quickly, not wanting to make you any more anxious than you already are. “Nothing wrong with that.” 

You finally gesture towards the living room, grabbing waters from your fridge and passing him one as you sit on the couch. He takes this as an invitation to sit as well, keeping his distance while you tuck your legs under you with them crossed. He opens his mouth to start, but you beat him to speaking while openly staring at him. 

“What’s with the sunglasses? I don’t think I’ve seen you take them off . . . well, ever.” 

Gojo almost wants to laugh at the question when you ask. You used to know. Surely this wasn’t all an act, right? 

“Light sensitivity,” he says simply with a shrug. A silence falls over you again, and you relish in it while looking around your apartment. “What kind of questions do you have?” He asks finally, deciding someone has to break the silence and he seems to be the one with less anxieties. 

You suck in a breath, meeting his gaze and then looking away. 

“Who . . . How do I know you?” 

You know he’s already explained it to you, but it seems just partial. Clearly, there’s more. Other things, whatever they may be, are missing. 

“We went to high school together,” he leans into the couch, arm slinging over the back, “you, Geto, and I were really close friends.” 

“Were?” You parrot, practically begging for more than the small crumbs he’s provided you with. 

“Were,” he repeats simply, “you disappeared one day after-” flashes of you falling from the building come to mind, “after school one day. We never saw you again.” 

“Oh.” You say quietly. “Did anyone . . . look for me?”

“Yeah,” he feels his chest tighten, Geto falling to his knees and digging desperately, “never found anything. It’s almost shocking to see you here now, honestly.” 

When he finally looks back over to you, you’re staring holes into the floor. 

“I woke up in a hospital a couple years ago,” you say without being prompted, “I didn’t . . . Couldn’t remember who I was or what happened. The doctors told me there was an earthquake in the area and an older couple found me in the rubble of a destroyed building . . . I never . . .” 

“Never got your memory back?” Gojo finishes for you, taking in how much you struggled to talk about this. You shake your head. 

“Not fully. Eventually I remembered who I was, I guess, but not really anything else. There wasn’t any record of me anywhere so I was basically . . . I dunno, a nobody. Started from scratch.” 

He watches you intently, trying to decide if this is really all true. You have no reason to lie to him, right? This couldn’t all be some ploy?  

“Can I see the picture again?” You ask so softly that Gojo doesn’t think he could ever deny you. He pulls the photo out of his pocket and gently passes it to you. You stare at it, taking in every detail like it’s the first time you’re seeing it again. “Who did you say this other person was, again?”

“Geto,” he hums, “he was one of our closest friends.” 

“Was?” Your eyes shift from the picture to him. 

He nods, “He and I sort of fell out, after a while. We don’t really talk anymore.” 

You nod in return, seeming to understand. Silence washes over the two of you again, and Gojo makes no move to change it this time. 

The two of you spend the next few hours trading questions between each other - you asking Gojo how things were in the past, and Gojo returning with how things are in the present. He learns you’re a school teacher at a local elementary school (and you love all of your students with your entire being), that you are still the kind hearted person he remembers you once were (how you go out of your way for others is admirable), and that you were thinking about getting a new pet (but you’re unsure if you’d be able to give them proper attention). 

He leaves with more than one of his questions answered, and with an invitation to come back around anytime on your tongue as he walks out of the apartment. He knows the offer is something he will take to heart. 

iv. memory

Knowing what you do now feels . . . weird. Gojo has made it a point to drop by every now and then, a ‘healthy check-in’ he likes to call it, but you suspect he just wants to rebuild whatever bond you’ve lost from the past few years. You don’t mind, honestly, happy to reconnect. 

He happily talks about your past, retelling memories in hopes of maybe bringing something back, but it never does. He avoids talking about Geto (you suspect it was a bad falling out) and you don’t pressure him to speak about the male.

No one could imagine your surprise when you see the enigma walking around the streets on one of your days off. 

He holds himself high, a confident aura surrounding him so thick you freeze when he passes you. You’ve never been one to be so direct, stunning even yourself when you turn on your heel and tap his shoulder gently. He makes it no urgency to face you, posture unchanging as he takes you in. 

He eyes you up and down, and you almost wonder for a second if maybe he isn’t who you thought you were. The picture you’re basing his looks on is what, 15 years old? Should you really be betting the entirety of introducing yourself on that? 

“Something I can help you with?” He asks, voice much softer than you expect it to be. 

It pulls you out of your own stunned silence, blinking at him, “You’re Geto right?” You almost cross your fingers he says anything but no. 

“I am, who are you?” 

You breathe a small sigh of relief, shoulders visibly relaxing. 

“I’m (l/n) - (l/n) (y/n), I knew you looked familiar.” You don’t see how his eyes widen slightly, too distracted by your own excitement to notice. “Gojo has been telling me about how we used to know each other, it’s crazy you’re here right now!” 

“(l/n)?” He repeats, still taking in everything that is you. “Haven’t heard from you in a while . . .” You were supposed to be dead. 

The thought weighs heavy in his mind, and he wonders for a moment if maybe this is some cruel trick by a curse. Maybe this is God punishing him for any of his wrong doings. 

He doesn’t realize you were talking to him until you’re tilting your head at him expectantly, waiting for a reply. 

“Sorry,” he waves apologetically, “I spaced out. This is just quite the surprise.” 

“It’s alright,” you offer a smile, “I was asking if you’d like to catch up? If you’re not busy, of course.” You add quickly, not wanting to suddenly take up his day if he already had plans. 

The curses at his side voice their concerns, their need to talk strategy and plan, but Geto returns your smile and gestures to a nearby cafe, “I have some time.” 

You don’t realize how nervous you are until you’re sitting down with your drink, Geto sitting across from you with a smile that you don’t think has left his face since you got his attention. 

“So,” he starts after taking a sip of his drink, “where have you been all these years?”

[fieldofdaisiies]

paring: Tamlin x OC | type: angst | words: ~900 words | warnings: violence, abuse, domestic abuse | masterlist | for @tamlinweek

There's blood on the side of the mountainT here's writing all over the wall Shadows of us are still dancin' In every room and every hall

The bright green has long faded, the spark has long extinguished, his eyes now empty, dull, dead. Deep, blue crescents underline them and tears glisten within them. Pits of brutal, endless cold stare back at him, and somewhere within the icy eternity there is only regret, remorse, and pain. 

He grips the sink firmly, knuckles bloody from punching the wall and white from how tightly he is holding on. His whole body trembles, shaking so fiercely he is surprised he hasn’t fallen to the ground yet.

A strangled sob crashes into his ragged breaths, head tipping back, only so the sob can turn into a wail of pure agony and misery. Destruction.

He destroyed it. Her. Feyre. He broke her. Made her leave solely through his actions. She is gone and he lost her. She will never return. And he destroyed himself along with her. His own heart. His own soul. She is gone, and within him there is nothing but agony. Agony and remorse. 

Tamlin pushes off the sink, wipes one bloody and wounded hand over his face, brushing back a few strands of damp hair. He leaves the bathroom to return to the place where it happened.

His knees hit the ground first, shards of glass and wood ripping into open wounds that had no chance to ever close, to ever heal.

A cold breeze, like frost and ice against his skin, creeps in through the broken windows, howling as it blows through the empty rooms and hallways. Apart from a few sentries, almost everyone is gone. He is alone. Alone, broken, around him, where there once used to be sunshine and lush, blooming flowers, nothing but endless vastness, demolition and darkness.

Just like within himself. Tamlin knows that there will never be a way back from this. He destroyed it, her and himself, and there will never be happiness within him again, nor within his court. He failed as High Lord, as lover, as male. He failed. 

And the consequences…it isn’t hard for him to admit it. He deserves the consequences. For what he has done. And for what happened back then. For what happened to his mate. Reverie. He deserves it all for not stopping what happened to her. For being the reason why she lost her life. He deserves it all. All that is coming for him now, he deserves it. Losing Feyre. He deserves that he lost her. She shouldn’t have ever been bound to him. 

He deserves every bad thing, Tamlin thinks, for not being able to protect the few people in his life that ever truly cared about him.

He cries out — not from the physical pain erupting in his knees where now new and old wounds meet, but from the kind of pain that hurts so much worse. The pain that lasts, stays with you, haunts you day and night. It’s emotional pain. 

What happened here this day, what happened with Feyre, what he did to Feyre, it all stemmed from panic, from the panic of losing the person he loves. And it brings him right back to that fateful night centuries ago when he lost his everything. When he lost his sense of life, the sole thing that brought him comfort and happiness.

The night that changed everything. The night that made him turn his heart into stone, and the night that wrenched his soul. 

“Are you happy now?” Spit drips from the High Lord’s mouth, almost like venomous poison from a viper. “Is this what you wanted?” The High Lord stalks forward, grabbing Tamlin by the collar of his shirt. “Look at me when I am talking to you.”

But Tamlin can’t. He can’t meet his father’s gaze. 

The bloody wings on the ground, in the midst of the shards, are the only thing he can focus on. And the light within his chest, or rather, the absence of it. The light that has been extinguished. The light that no longer is. The feeling is dead and what is left within his soul is nothing but a deep, endless void – cold and dark. The bond is gone. Dead. And will never return.

Tamlin knew the moment his heart was shredded into pieces. When he could feel her pain through the bond. When he could hear her wail in his mind. Her sobs. Her cries. His father, knowing about their mental bridge, had made him feel everything. Made him see it all. Everything he did to her. He knew she was going to die that night. He knew she was dead by the time he arrived.

Tamlin’s vision is blurry with old and new tears, his body shaking so hard he is no longer sure he is sitting. Maybe he is floating. Falling. Landing hard, but it doesn’t matter. No pain will ever compare to what it means when your mate dies. 

“You brought this upon her.” The High Lord smirks and grabs Tamlin’s chin. “Mingling with the rival court. Wasn’t your silly little friendship with Rhysand enough?” His thumb presses down on his son’s chin, adding just enough pressure to make it painful for Tamlin while their eyes stay locked. “No, you had to fuck his little sister as well. My son, the traitor. Scum.”

With a harsh shove to his shoulder, the High Lord steps away. “Clean that up. All of it.”

Tamlin doesn’t remember if he nodded. If he said something. There is only the flaring, hot pain deep within his chest, spreading like a rapid, burning fire, lava blazing through his veins. 

She is gone. Reverie is dead. His mate is gone. Was killed. Was murdered by his own father. 

And with her, the bond died as well, leaving him utterly empty. 

tags: @thesnugglingduck @sirenpearldust the song is by Olivia Rodrigo

[l-lend]

Creator Self-Promotion

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics you posted. If you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

"But K, I don't write but I still create can I still play?"

Post your last 10 pieces and give us a play by play. What was the inspiration? Any fun facts you can share with us?

Anyway let's get on with it

1. Fishing for Compliments - Merman!Crosshair x F!Reader

A sigh passed the young woman’s lips as the sun began to disappear beneath the waves. The waves rocked her quaint vessel as if it were a mother soothing her child. Her meal as well as a plate of identical food remained untouched as she kept her gaze to the depths. Every ripple of its surface a reminder of the mounting minutes that her company kept her waiting.

2. Drop Me a Line - Wrecker x F!Reader

The young woman stifled a yawn as she continued to work the mass of dough to her standards to be plopped into pans to bake. She continued working the dough sparing glances to the chrono on the wall as the sky outside began to lighten with the sunrise. Her pulse spiked when the chrono was checked again. She abandoned the lump of dough as she snatched up a pastry box. The bell chiming as the door opened and closed.

3. Budding Romance - Rex x F!Reader

“And you’re sure you’ll have them there.”

“A bit of faith would be nice, Anakin.”

4. Skin in the Game - Wrecker x OC (Rina) (18+ Please view responsibly)

Wrecker was on the hunt. Thankfully the Marauder held only a few spaces to hide away as he searched the ship. His target tucked away by the sensors. Vibroblade twirling between his fingers while his idle gaze stared at the screen. The demolitions expert took a breath, hoping to find answers.

5. Hair Support - Tup x Reader

The days of the Clone Wars tended to drag on in between assignments. Thankfully, the Republic saw it fit to dispatch your research team with a clone legion escort to ensure the lush jungle planet would not eat you and your colleagues alive. It was in the sweltering heat of the afternoon that one of your study binges was interrupted. You shook your head knowing who dared tread into your tent.

6. Interrogations - Echo x F!Reader (18+ Please view responsibly)

The former arc trooper sighed. Another fruitless attempt at slipping free of his bonds. The chair he was bound to chilled any amount of exposed skin. The room kept dark to prevent him from gathering his bearings. He bided his time, waiting for the tell-tale clicking of his keeper. It was a whisper at first but grew louder as the automatic doors parted.

7. Personal Tastes - Hunter x F!Reader

Strands of meat sizzled and spat as she flipped the tangled mass. Her work distracting from the pair of eyes watching you from the doorway. Her culinary tasks from the staccato chops of a knife to peppers to the accented clink of a mortar and pestle offered a calming tune.

8. Just This Once, Everyone Lives - Rex x Reader

Your bottom lip remained captured between your teeth as the speeder came to a stop. The building looming over the city streets twinkled in the night. A beacon for personnel to gather while dressed to the nines. A hand curled around yours, smoothing over your knuckles.

9. Keep Away - UniversityAU Wrecker x Reader

You filed out with your fellow undergrads as your last class for the afternoon let out. the professor's voice offering mention of the end of the first sprint. You traversed amongst the student body's current before veering off to a corridor. The current loosening its grasp the closer you ventured toward the sanctuary of paper and ink.

10. Nothing Fight - Crosshair x F!Reader

It could be easy to say Clone Force 99 had a culture separate from the sea of clones. Clone medics would be reassigned in the blink of an eye and nat born medics often assigned whoever pissed off the higher ups. This led to your current long term assignment. Having a medic on board being the main reason one of your patients was released to his squad early pending observations.

NPT - @photogirl894 @rain-on-kamino @tecker @techs-stitches @littlemissmanga @annwayne @fakegingerrights @merkitty49 @moodymisty @starrylothcat

Wanna promote your work here too? Do it!

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Night Guard

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 8: Sleep Deprivation

tw for PTSD, insomnia, childhood trauma, mentioned non-consensual drug use

Logically Tom knew that meeting with Knuckles’ therapist wasn’t supposed to feel like going to the principal's office.  Doctor Sherman had said when he first met them that he wasn’t there to cast judgment over them, he was there to lead Knuckles’ support team, which included them.  Still, there were many times when Tom left the doctor’s office feeling like he was getting a bad grade in parenting.

That’s what it had felt like today.

Maddie and Tom were called in after Knuckles finished his session.  Doctor Sherman never told them the specifics of what he and Knuckles talked about, but he would give them a heads up if Knuckles had ‘homework’ that they might notice or need to help with.  Sometimes he’d give them homework too.  And sometimes he’d reveal that Knuckles wasn’t just ‘weird’, he was legitimately, clinically mentally ill.

Since he first came to live with them, they’d gotten used to Knuckles roaming the halls at strange hours of the night.  Sometimes he’d even leave the house.  Tom had convinced himself not to worry about it.  It wasn’t like with Sonic, where he was running out looking to find trouble.  Knuckles was just patrolling.  The worst he might find would be wild animals and he could more than handle himself against them… In fact they’d had to have several conversations about hunting licenses and limited freezer space to convince him to stop bringing his nocturnal run-ins home with him.

And while Tom and Maddie had more control over Knuckles now than they used to, it was really just because he liked them enough to allow them to set boundaries.  ‘No patrols’ wasn’t a hill they were looking to die on.  They’d definitely never worried that it was anything other than what it was.  It was just a weird Knuckles habit.

Except apparently it was a Symptom.  Specifically ‘hypervigilance’.  Because Knuckles had post-traumatic stress disorder.

Which, duh.  Hindsight was twenty-twenty.  They’d clocked Sonic’s separation anxiety and Tails’ social anxiety because they were so obviously anxious in those situations.  Knuckles’ constant training, tendency to attack any stranger near the house, and multiple late-night perimeter patrols didn’t look like anxiety.  Not like how the other two showed theirs.

Knuckles insisted he was fine, of course.  He wasn’t scared of anything!  Head Healer Sherman asked him to continue logging his patrols (this was how Tom found out that Knuckles had been logging them as part of his therapy homework).  The healer seemed to think that Knuckles would struggle to reduce his patrols to half the amount–Knuckles would prove him wrong!  He would go on no patrols tonight, just to prove how not scared he was!

‘Head Healer’ Sherman said that the most important thing was to push his limits without overextending himself.  But that Knuckles should definitely try to get some rest.  The way he said it bordered on worried.  Which was when Tom realized he didn’t know how much Knuckles slept.

That just added to the feelings of guilt as they left the office.

Still feeling the gnaw of shame, he slept lightly that night.  Lightly enough to hear the telltale thump of the attic steps lowering.

Tom had gotten used to hearing Knuckles’ footsteps in the night.  The thought had him feeling guilty once more.  It seemed so obvious now that that wasn’t normal.  He knew that showing you what was and wasn’t healthy was what doctors were for, but he wished he could’ve seen it on his own.  Maybe he could have done something earlier.

In the course of one day, Knuckles had broken down a school wall, crushed a kid’s arm, got suspended, and exploded their car.  (Their third car demolition in two years.)  But the worst part of the day had been when Knuckles had a panic attack.  And yeah, Tom knew the one who had the worst of that was Knuckles.  But watching his big, tough kid fall to pieces with him powerless to help was its own brand of agony.

Tom would do anything to avoid any of them living that moment over again.  Getting out of bed at 3am was a small price.

He left the lights off so he wouldn’t wake Maddie and crept out of the room.  The hallway was dark but the floor below was illuminated by moonlight across the floor.  He could see Knuckles’ outline standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Tom walked quietly, but Knuckles didn’t seem surprised when he finally turned to look up at him.

“Hey,” Tom said softly as he sat beside his eldest, leaving a little room between them.  “Just… hanging out of the stairs tonight?”

“I said that I would not patrol the perimeter tonight,” Knuckles said.  “So I will stand watch instead.”

Tom nodded and hummed like he was considering this.  Really he was considering how best to convince Knuckles to go back to bed.  He remembered how Doctor Sherman had told Knuckles to get some rest.  Tom knew the doctor couldn’t tell him everything, but Tom almost wished he could see these patrol logs.  Instead he asked:

“When did you last get eight hours of sleep?”

“Eight hours?”  Knuckles turned to him and even in the lowlight Tom could make out his confusion.

“Uh… how about six hours?”

“Consecutively?”

Oof.  “You know… Doctor Sherman did tell you to go get some rest.  Maybe that should be the challenge you tackle tonight.”

Knuckles turned away.  “Someone must keep watch.”

“I could keep watch?”  He didn’t know if he could actually pull an all-nighter anymore, but Tom was willing to stay up a bit if it meant Knuckles would get some sleep.

“I mean no offense Tom, but I am not only physically stronger, but have better vision, hearing, and sense of smell than you.  Also I am beginning to suspect you cannot sense electricity.”

Tom turned to stare at Knuckles’ profile.  “You can sense electricity?”  Was this an echidna thing or… a mental illness thing?

“I can sense that you left the light on in the garage,” Knuckles said by way of response.  His nose scrunched as he spoke, though he didn’t look angry.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” he rubbed his nose with one big mitt.  “The twitchy one over the door.”

“You mean the flickery one?”

“To me it feels twitchy.”  His nose twitched as though to emphasize.

Tom still wasn’t sure if this was a real thing or not.  But Knuckles had never had delusions.  Maybe his superpowered alien echidna son could sense electricity.  Stranger things had happened.

“Does it bother you?” Tom asked.

“The twitching?”

“The electricity.”

Knuckles merely shrugged.  “It is not as bad as some of the other places I’ve been.  There it felt like the pins and the needles.  Here it is like… the crickets.  They make noise, but it’s not terrible.”

Silence fell between them and Tom noticed that he could hear the crickets.  Crickets and frogs and night birds and all sorts of creatures.  He’d long gotten used to the sounds of the forest.  The ‘twitching’ electricity probably didn’t bother Knuckles that much.  But still…

Tom stood.  “I’m gonna go turn the light off.”  The ‘twitching’ probably wasn’t all that was keeping Knuckles up, but if it would help at all, then Tom would try it.

He flicked on the porch light and let himself out.

Knuckles followed.  “I will go with you,” he said.  “But this does not count as patrolling the perimeter.”

Tom frowned.  This sounded like another loophole.  Was Knuckles going with him just another instance of hypervigilance?

The two of them walked down the front steps to the driveway, then headed around the side of the house to where the garage sat.  Tom kept eyeing Knuckles as they went.  He was used to Knuckles scanning around himself, looking for danger.  But now it wasn’t a ‘quirk’.

Tom had always heard the phrase that ‘crazy people don’t know they’re crazy’ but nobody said anything about the sane people around them also not being able to tell they were crazy.  Everything Knuckles did made perfect sense to him, so Tom hadn’t questioned it.  He cringed to think of how, in Knuckles’ very first appointment, he’d tried to tell the therapist that Knuckles ‘wasn’t a threat to others!  Well, not unless he thinks they’re a threat to him…. Which is almost everyone.  But we’re working on it!’  Like Knuckles was on par with Ozzie, barking at the mailman.

Now he watched the way Knuckles kept looking around, like there were invisible threats around every corner, and felt like he’d let his kid down.

“What do you think will happen if you weren’t on guard?”  Tom asked.  How did Knuckles’ mind work?  

Knuckles’ eyes and quills flared red and Tom stopped, shocked.  The echidna banged his fists together, sending red sparks flying.  “Back off!”  He barked so loud that Tom jumped.

Was he having another panic attack?!

Knuckles bolted toward the garage and then suddenly stopped.  Tom got a second surprise: a huge black shadow peeled away from the garage and loped away into the trees.  Knuckles’ quills stopped glowing.  Tom could still see Knuckles’ silhouette burned into the back of his lids.

His oldest turned to him, looking quite unimpressed.  “If I were not on guard, you would have been eaten by a bear.”

Right.  Fair.  But also:  “I probably wouldn’t get eaten by a black bear,” he said.  “Probably not even a brown bear.  Bears aren’t that big of a concern…”  They usually ran away from people, Tom and Knuckles must have just surprised this one.  “I think you could rest easy inside, knowing the bears are outside.  No need to stay up standing guard, you know?”

That said, Tom’s head was definitely on a swivel now.  Which was ironic because Knuckles was actually laser-focused on the spot where the bear disappeared.

“Anything can happen when you are asleep,” Knuckles said.  “I have avoided it whenever possible for most of my life.  I am not sure I could force myself to sleep even if I wanted to.”

Tom let himself in through the garage’s side door.  Sure enough, the light was on inside.  It flickered once before he hit the switch and the room went dark.  “Maybe Doc–Head Healer Sherman–could give you—” what did Knuckles call meds? “--a remedy?  To help you sleep.”

“I do not want to sleep though,” Knuckles said as he followed Tom back toward the house.

“I know, but you need to.  And if you can’t–”

“I must be able to wake up when I need to,” Knuckles said firmly.  “I have to be in fighting condition in a moment’s notice or else I could wake up captured by an enemy.  Or worse.”

Tom was about to asked what was worse than waking up imprisoned, but Knuckles answered first:

“I was sleep poisoned the first time I killed someone.”

Oh.  Tom sometimes forgot–or liked to forget–that Knuckles had a body count.  But them ignoring this stuff and acting like Knuckles was a weird, but otherwise normal kid, was probably another stone on the path to Knuckles having his breakdown so… he engaged:  “How did sleep meds cause you to kill someone?”

They rounded the house and started up the front steps.

“I was under attack, but my mind was clouded and my body did not act as I commanded.  I defended myself, but used too much strength.”

Tom pretended to scan the side yard for bears but really he was just trying to hide his expression.  He’d seen Knuckles crush stone with ease.  It was easy to forget when he was giving you a joint-cracking handshake, but that was Knuckles being gentle!  What could he do to a person if he didn’t control that strength?  And then Tom wondered: how was Doctor Sherman going to help Knuckles get over his hyper vigilance when Knuckles had to be vigilant every time he touched something more fragile than stone?

He realized he’d been quiet too long.  “I’m sorry,” he said, both for the long pause and for what happened.  “That sounds… traumatic.”

“…It is not my best memory.  But not my worst either.”

Tom let Knuckles enter the house before him, once again hiding his expression.  If that wasn’t Knuckles’ worst memory, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was.  Knuckles didn’t volunteer it and Tom didn’t pry.  He wanted to get Knuckles to share more with him, but he’d already gotten him to share more than Tom bargained for.

Maybe he should ask Doctor Sherman how he should react when Knuckles dropped these little trauma bombs?

Knuckles turned at the bottom of the steps.  He faced the front door and crossed his arms.  It looked almost like a parade rest.  Tom realized his eldest didn’t intend to go back to bed now.

“Maybe you could try to get some sleep,” Tom suggested.

“I think you should get some sleep,” Knuckles said.  “I can withstand far greater sleep deprivation than you.”

Tom shook his head. “How about this?  I’ll go to bed when you do.”

Tom couldn’t see in the dark as well as their resident echidna warrior, but he could sense Knuckles’ frown.  “I will not be going to sleep for a while, yet,” he said.  “I am not tired.”

Tom was, but he sat down on the steps beside Knuckles anyway.

They sat for a long time in silence.  Knuckles didn’t move an inch the whole time.  Tom meanwhile was wondering if sitting had been the best choice.  Seeing the bear had given him a hit of adrenaline, but now his body was hungry for rest.  How could he get Knuckles to feel like going to bed?  He wished he’d asked Doctor Sherman.  That was the kind of question a dad who wasn’t getting an F in parenting would ask.

Maybe Knuckles needed to forget about the bad stuff that Tom had unknowingly dredged up.

“What’s the best sleep you ever had?”  Tom asked.

“What?”  Knuckles finally moved to look at him.

Tom shrugged sleepily and readjusted, resting his arms on his knees and leaning against the railing.  “Just curious.  What’s a time when you slept really well?  For me it was after the first time we battled Robotnik.  Sonic and I went on a pretty long journey together and I wasn’t used to all that danger.  I passed out hard.  Woke up feeling great.”  Even though his house had been destroyed.  It was almost a yearly event at this point.  “How about you?”

Knuckles tipped his head to the side, contemplating.  And contemplating… And contemplating.

Tom actually thought he wasn’t going to answer.  His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and his tired brain was running out of excuses to keep them open.

Then Knuckles started talking.  The words came haltingly at first, but grew more confident the longer he spoke.  “Once… When I was very, very small.  I had been ill.  I was nearly well again, but they made me stay at the healer’s hut one more night.”

He paused a long moment, gathering his words, or trying to remember, Tom didn’t know.  “It was raining… There were pots around the hut to catch water leaking through the roof.”  He spoke as though he’d only just remembered.

Tom smiled to himself.  His eyes had gone and shut themselves without his permission.  “That sounds cozy,” he mumbled.

“The healer was making medicine,” Knuckles continued.  “She had water boiling over the fire and she was crushing herbs together.  The whole room smelled like tea.”

Tom’s chin dipped and he jerked up, then sagged back down.  Oh dear, he was going to lose this fight, wasn’t he?  Was Knuckles sleepy at least?

Knuckles yawned as if in answer.  “Father was with me.  He worried after me…  Not unlike you do now…”  He said this last part so quietly that Tom wasn’t sure it wasn’t a dozy dream.  “I slept in his arms.  It was the first true sleep I had had in days.”

Tom remembered that feeling.  Falling asleep and being carried to bed by his dad.  Having a nightmare and sleeping between his parents.  He wished they could give that to Knuckles too.  Make him feel that safe in their home.

A gentle hand found his shoulder and Tom startled awake.  It was brighter than he expected and he scrunched his eyes closed immediately.

“Hey,” Maddie said softly.  “You okay?”

“M’fine,” Tom said, squinting his eyes open.  Oh.

It was morning.

He looked up at Maddie who couldn’t seem to decide if she was amused or not.  “Were you down here all night?”  She asked.

Tom rubbed his eyes.  “I came to check on Knuckles… Guess I fell asleep instead.”  Darn it.  He looked beside him to see Knuckles sitting on the step.

“Knuckles?”  Maddie asked.  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

Knuckles stared down at his shoes.  He seemed almost ashamed.  “No,” he said.

Tom’s shoulders sagged.  He and Maddie shared a look.  He didn’t want to say that Knuckles’ first night of no patrolling had been a failure, but it definitely hadn’t been a success.

Maybe Doctor Sherman wouldn’t pass judgment on Tom, but Tom would pass it on himself.  Somehow, someway, he had to figure out how to make one of the strongest people on the planet feel safe.

[jazzythursday]

Careless (667 words)

He’d gotten careless.

It was a simple mistake, but a careless one all the same. He’d gotten distracted, and the ratio of one chemical to another was just a bit not right, just enough to—

It was carelessness, is all it was. Stupid. Idiotic. He can’t afford to call himself a demolitions expert if he can’t even handle semi-compustables without fucking it all up.

He’s still staring at the remnants of the exploded vile in his hand, tiny rivulets of blood running from the bits of broken glass embedded in his skin. He’s never liked being hurt, he’s never liked blood. It makes him feel fragile, and a bit like the times he was a child getting rapped on the knuckles for not trying hard enough in lessons, even though he was trying so hard. He flexes his hand. It burns, but not much, not as much as it probably should, and he should really get something to clean up the mess, but he’s just staring, staring and staring and wondering why he hadn’t thought to measure twice, why he hadn’t—

Jesper finds him like that, hunched over his work table, staring.

He’s very gentle as he handles Wylan into a chair and cradles his arm, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he inspects his hurt hand to look over the injury. Wylan feels frozen, like he’s stuck somewhere he doesn’t know how to find his way back from. Bracing for some kind of punishment—from who, he isn’t sure. Berating himself for being stupid enough to make a mistake he knows he’s better than and caught between the past and the present, in some cold and numb place in the middle.

Jesper catches his eyes. “Well, it looks like you’ll get to keep all your fingers.”

It draws a rough laugh out of Wylan, and he feels himself start to thaw. “Is that your professional opinion, Jesper Fahey?”

“Yes, and that’s Medik Fahey to you. Sit tight, love, and if you’re a good patient, I’ll even throw in a prize.”

Wylan snorts, then winces, because being out of his head means he can properly feel how much his hand actually hurts, and he finds that it does. Ouch.

Jesper gets out a pair of tweezers and pulls out every piece of glass, cleaning the cuts and wrapping them until Wylan has a bandage that runs from his fingertips up halfway to his elbow.

Jesper drops a kiss into the palm of Wylan’s hand when he’s done, soft and infinitely sweet in ways that Wylan cannot begin to define, in ways until recently he did not know he could have.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it.

Jesper shrugs one shoulder and tilts his head, “Anytime. Well—not any time, please don’t make a habit of demo-disasters, not that this was a disaster, but—you know what I mean—”

Wylan cuts off the ramble with a kiss, marvelling at the way it never fails to make Jesper release a short little swallowed gasp into his mouth as his hands immediately pull Wylan closer. “I know,” Wylan says. “Thanks.”

“Right,” Jesper says, a little breathless. “Right,” he says again, dropping a kiss to the top of Wylan’s head and then flashing the grin that Wylan knows he uses when he wants to be charming. “First things first, I did say you’d get a prize, and I have it on good authority from Nina that waffles make the best medicine. Feel up to getting out of here?”

Wylan let’s Jesper pull him up by his uninjured hand and lead him out of the warehouse and into town. He’ll have to clean up the mess he’s made of his workstation tomorrow, remake the whole batch of flash bombs. But for now, as Jesper fills the silence with easy conversation about what he’d missed at the Crow Cub, the reassuring weight of his arm wrapped around his shoulders, Wylan thinks it can wait.

Maybe he can afford to be a little careless about some things.

[inkformyblood]

Soap gets hurt. Roach stays with him. (Established Soap x Roach, Ghost x Soap x Roach, canon verse)

Pain isn’t dissimilar to one of Soap’s demolitions; if he could choose, he would want it to be entirely the same, all loud and bright and instantaneous like a building crashing down into a plume of dirt and dust, the intoxicating scent of smoke in the air and lightning in his veins. It would be something he chose with the press of a button or the flick of a switch, something solid, something tangible.

Not whatever the fuck this is.

“Roach,” Soap mumbles, whines, really because he’s owed some small measure of feeling bad for himself and he’s comfortable here, sprawled across Ghost’s slightly larger than average bed. Promotion came with some benefits it seemed. “You don’t need to fuss, I’m fine.”

Roach makes a vague clucking noise low in his throat, the same one that always reminds Soap of a chicken. Specifically a cartoon one, something drawn with a rough smattering of watercolours outlined with a pale defined line. He doesn’t, however, stop brushing his fingers over the bandage wrapped around Soap’s forearm, mindful of the stitches beneath.

Soap sighs, tipping his head back into the makeshift pillow he’s made of Roach’s thighs. There’s a buckle digging into the nape of his neck, irritating but not enough for him to put effort into moving. The cut had looked worse than it had been, a side effect of adrenaline sharpening his focus while numbing everything else. His teeth had only barely stopped buzzing by the time he had left medical with a fresh rattling pill bottle and one of his boyfriend’s being similarly rattled and plastered to his side.

“Where is Simon anyway?” Soap asks, cutting a glance over to the door. He couldn’t remember the time between the training exercise and now clearly, but some instances stood out better than others. He remembers bare hands pressing over his wound, gloves roughly torn away and dropped without a second thought. It had been good, a closeness he had once thought impossible without cracking open his rib cage and decorating it with pieces of moss and bacteria to make a home. He also remembers that one fucking step up into medical, the jarring slip and slide that happened every fucking time and never got any less painful at the sudden swoop of his stomach as he is convinced each and every time that they’ll drop him.

Roach blinks up at him, his eyes pale without the cover of his glasses. “He’s picking up some food,” he signs, the gestures almost slurring together with his displeasure to move from his perch. It’s almost like having a lap cat sprawled across him, unwilling to move no matter how much Soap could drag at his bulk and presenting his claws as both threat and reluctant promise because how could he think of moving him?

It makes him laugh.

Roach grins along with him, dissolving to draw shapes across Soap’s palm. It tickles, leaving behind a flickering after trail and his fingers twitch on reflex, catching hold of Roach momentarily. There is a heavy scar that wraps around his forefinger, a raised ridge of indented reds and pinks that would burn in the summer and ache in the winter, and Soap squeezes it in the facsimile of a kiss. Moving is still not an option but he hopes Roach understands all the same.

“Try to sleep,” Roach signs, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Soap’s knuckles. “I’ll wake you when Ghost gets back.”

Soap should try and argue, but he can’t think of a single reason why other than to be difficult. He manages to grumble something from beneath drooping lashes and heavy breathing before he collapses into sleep. Roach is there, Ghost would be back soon. Everything would be fine. He could weather pain if it meant being with them.

[msweebyness]

Mirrorverse Crossover- Aurore

Hey hey hey, it’s Weeby with the next installment of Mirrorverse! Things are getting tense between the well/mannered fairy and the wacky witch! Enjoy! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002

Sitting ramrod straight and feeling supremely out of sorts, BluRore looked with trepidation at her counterpart, the witch giggling like a madwoman as she swung her legs back and forth. Every so often, she would sneak a glance at the fairy, before descending into another fit of laughter.

“Is there a reason you’re somehow acting even more disturbed than usual?”, BlueRore asked tersely, folding her hands as she looked at MimRore with uneasy irritation. What was with her?

The mad mage let out another fanatical laugh before answering her counterpart.

“I’m just excited to talk to a version of myself that thinks ‘goodness’ is the way to go in life, dearie!”, she tittered, gagging at the word ‘goodness, “It fascinates me how someone with my face could be so dull and dense!”, she went on to taunt, giving the fairy a twitching grin.

BluRore took in a deep breath at these words, her entire body going tense. If she wasn’t so well-trained in holding her composure…

“Oh, no…”, Sabrinocchio murmured nervously, her fingers making hollow clicking sounds as she twiddled them anxiously. If there was one thing her fairy godsister hated, it was having her intelligence called into question.

“I wouldn’t say that I’M the dense one here, my dear. Your head is barely attached to your shoulders on a good day.”, BlueRore said tersely, her wand gripped tightly in her hands. MimRore only smirked in response.

“Well, if you were smarter, you'd notice that something isn't quite right. But it seems...”, she taunted cheerily, before a sudden poof changed her physical form into that of a small purple bat!, “You're blind as a bat!”

Promptly changing the other blonde back to normal with a flick of her wand, BlueRore said in slight irritation, “I would ask what you mean by that, but I know I won’t get a straight answer.”

“Would you like a curved one?”, MimRore asked teasingly before she cackled like mad at her own joke.

The fairy’s eyes narrowed as she sensed that something was indeed different. Something felt…wrong.

“Enough with the games. What do you mean by ‘not quite right’?”, she demanded sharply, only getting a devious grin in response. It was then that one of the heroes seemed to figure out just what was missing from the picture.

“Uhhh, guys? Where’s Mireille?”, Demolition Denise piped up with a nervous edge to their voice, shooting a hard glare at Mireides as the goddess snarkily raised a hand and waved, “OUR Mireille.”

With rising horror and fury, BluRore noticed that MimRore's giggles had turned sinister, and became louder by the second. Shooting to her feet, she shot her counterpart a piercing death glare.

“What have you done, you vile witch?”, she snarled, clenching her wand so tightly her knuckles were white. MimRore only stuck her tongue out.

“Wouldn't you like to kno-“, she had begun to taunt only to cut off with a squeak.

Holding her glowing wand to the manic girl’s throat, BlueRore demanded, “ANSWER!”

“Okay, cool your blue tits, I just hid her somewhere!”, the loony sorceress said shakily, before regaining her ‘composure’ and smiling deviously once again, “But I won’t tell you where...unless...”

“Unless. What?”

“Unless you can defeat me...”, the wacky weather witch began dramatically before she jumped on the table and struck a dramatic pose with her arms raised, “IN A MAGIC DUEL!”, she thundered

BluRore looked wary as she ventured to ask, “That's it? A duel? There has to be a catch.”

“No catch, fairy! If you win, your little kitty goes free as a bird, no harm done!”, Mimrore said cheerily, before she added with a wicked glee, “But if you lose...”, before she paused ominously.

“Out with it!”

“YOU’LL HAVE THE CHICKENPOX FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!”, Mimrore shrieked, letting out a shrill evil laugh. BluRore looked unimpressed. As did the rest of the villains.

“Really, Rorie?”, IsmaScar asked in clear disappointment, “That’s it?”

“Oh, and one more thing!”, MimRore then went on to say as her smile turned eerie and dark, “Your precious pussycat princess will remain trapped, and what becomes of her will be up to me and my friends!”

This was met with roaring approval from the villains, who already began to plan what they could do with the lioness.

“Just do what she says, 'Rore. She clearly can't be reasoned with.”, Reshmabela piped up through the bubble, hollyhock beginning to grow around her feet, a sign that she was nervous.

“Fine. But Nino, Lacey and Ismael, the ones from MY world, will judge this match. I don’t trust your three witch friends to remain impartial...or not to intervene on your behalf.”, BlueRore said firmly as the three witches in question glared and muttered curses at her, “You’ve laid your terms, and those are mine.”

MimRore pouted but decided to play along, “Oh all right.”, as she secretly held her fingers crossed behind her back.

“I see that.”, BlueRore said sharply.

“Fine.”, MimRore huffed, irritated at the fairy’s vigilance, “But my friends at least get to watch! It’s not fair for you to have cheerleaders while I don’t!”, the witch insisted, the other villains piping up in agreement. No way did they want to miss this!

“You're the one who decided to kidnap my girlfriend!”, BlueRore snarled, only a couple seconds away from strangling this lunatic.

“Whatever, busybody!”, the witch said, sticking her tongue out, before she grinned malevolently and began to bounce on the spot, “Let’s assemble our spectators...and LET THE DUEL COMMENCE!”

—————

A few minutes later, everyone was in the main courtyard, villains seated on one side and heroes on the other. The blue-clad fairy and cackling witch were standing face to face as the two other fairies and genie prepared to judge the match. Snapping to gain everyone’s attention, IsmaGenie began to review the rules.

“Alright, here’s the lowdown: basic junior magic duel standards apply. No turning invisible, no targeting the spectators or judges, no fatal magic attacks. Got it?”, the genie said, BlueRore nodded solemnly. MimRore giggled maniacally and nodded as well…hiding crossed fingers behind her back.

“Okay. Turn back to back, ten paces outwards, then the duel begins.”, Fairy Godbro then instructed, before backing away with the other judges. Everyone watches with rapt attention as the two took their paces…only for MimRore to slowly fade from visibility as she passed behind a tree, making the heroes scowl, and the villains snicker. Their wacky witch had this in the bag…or did she?

The judges were about to intervene, but it seemed BluRore was a step ahead of them. Narrowing her eyes, she aimed her wand upward, deflecting the rays of the sun intensely in the direction where MimRore had gone, causing the witch to let out a yelp.

Following the sound, BlueRore cast her magic towards the witch, forcing her to turn visible again. MimRore scowled and stamped her foot, glaring daggers at the smirking fairy.

“Come on, babe! You can still kick her ass!”, Mireides cheered, with a few of the other villains adding their own encouragement. MimRore straightened up and prepared her next trick.

Gaining a wild and sadistic grin, her hands beginning to thrum with magic. BlueRore’s eyes widened as MimRore suddenly turned towards her friends, aiming some manner of curse. The heroes’ eyes widened as they realized the intent, while the villains watched eagerly to see some carnage.

Acting quickly, she created a glimmering blue disk of magic and flung it in the direction of her friends, just in time for MimRore’s hex to hit it head on and bounce right back at the witch. MimRore was flung several feet before falling back on the ground, her clothes and hair smoking.

“Nice one, Blue!”, Simon Pan yelled, “You’ve got this in the bag!”, earning him glares and scowls from the villains, and a small fireball flung in his direction by the goddess of death.

As Demolition Denise was talked down by their friends from sending the (slightly nervous) goddess flying, MimRore was absolutely seething. How was this fairy so ahead of all of her tricks?!

Having enough, she decided to pull out her trump card! Glowing with a malevolent purple aura, her body began to change as BlueRore watched in fascinated horror. The sorceress morphed into a giant, purple misshapen creature that vaguely resembled a dragon, breathing a spurt of pink flames and sparks.

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW, PIXIE PUNK?! EVERYONE KNOWS THAT FAIRIES CAN’T SHAPESHIFT!”, MimRore shrieked, more sparks flying from her lips as she laughed in frantic glee.

To her credit, BlueRore did look nervous for a brief moment, before her eyes sparked with an idea and her demeanor turned steely.

“Perhaps not.”, she said ominously as she aimed her wand, “But we can change others.”

With that, she sent a bright bolt of blue magic at MimRore, and when the flash cleared…a small wooden puppet version of the ghastly creature sat on the ground. A tiny squeal of fury emerged from the toy, as the heroes laughed and cheered with glee. The villains were far less enthusiastic.

To add insult to injury and secure herself the win, BlueRore conjured a small gilded cage around the witch-turned-puppet, that thwarted her efforts to change back, enraging her even further.

“Now, this cage prevents you from using any magic that I don’t permit you to! And if you want me to set you free and allow you to change back…return my kitten to me, now.”, the fairy said firmly.

Seeing she had no real other options in the moment, MimRore hissed, and the dazed lioness appeared in the midst of the makeshift battleground, immediately being tackled in a hug by BlueRore.

“Mir, I was so worried! Are you alright? Did she hurt you at all?”, the blonde fairy babbled, pulling back to check her partner for any injuries. Laughing softly, Miremba grasped her girlfriend’s hands and rested their forehead against hers.

“I’m fine, Baby Blue. Thanks to you.”, before the two shared another hug as the other heroes came to check on their friend. In the fluster of conversation that followed, BlueRore dissolved the cage and MimRore changed back to normal. Pulling her knees to her chest, she sulked over her loss to that prissy pixie.

She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see her girlfriend, giving her an encouraging smile as their hair flickered in the sunlight.

“Don’t worry, Cuckoo Bird. We’ll get ‘em next time!”, Mireides said resolutely, turning and give the heroes a stony glare. No one got away with humiliating her ‘Rore.

And there you have it folks! BlueRore may be proper, but when it’s time to kick ass, she doesn’t mess around! Thanks to Sparky for his help with the opening conversation, and Artzy for the idea of how to end the duel! Keep an eye out for Artzy to release Zoe! Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Meddling Mar Monday

About time we checked in on the Demolition Brothers! The chapter index can be found HERE

Alma's kitchen was full of spices and vegetables that Jak had never seen before -- or maybe he had, but they'd been pickled and preserved beyond recognition in Haven. These were fresh, filling the room with vibrant reds and yellows and greens, and Jak couldn't help wondering what they tasted like raw. He gave his hands a perfunctory rinse at the sink and stood awkwardly beside a long strand of hanging peppers, waiting to be given some kind of direction. Daxter seemed far more comfortable, cracking his knuckles and opening cabinets without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Alrighty, where's your measuring cups?" he asked.

Alma snorted. "Measuring cups? I use the scale! Go get my pot of salt off the table -- black lid -- and don't you dare drop it, Pequeño! That stuff is expensive!"

She glanced down at Mar. "You gonna wash your hands or what?" she asked.

Mar unwrapped his arms from around the caprid fawn's neck and signed, "Or what."

Behind Alma, Jak groaned. Was this what it was like to be Torn? In sharp gestures he warned Mar, "Don't push her buttons, we need this to work out. Do you want to go back to the tower?"

"No!"

"Then be nice! Treat her like she's the Bird Lady or something!"

Mar pouted and wrapped his arms around Cabbie again. Jak noted the disapproval on Alma's face and grimaced at Daxter. They weren't off to a great start. Daxter grimaced back, but held up a hand as if to calm Jak.

Jak might not have remembered a lot of what he'd been like at Mar's age, but Daxter did. And Daxter could hazard a guess as to the root of Mar’s contrariness.

"Sorry about Junior," he piped up in a lighthearted tone, "He has trouble transitioning between activities, especially in a new environment. In my experience, you gotta set a clear expectation and timeline, and then stick to it."

Jak blinked. "Wait, really?"

His best friend gave him a wry look. "You were exactly the same, pal. I have experience."

Alma appeared to be considering this for a moment. At first, Jak thought she would agree to give Mar a few more minutes to switch between tasks. But then she pointed a skinny finger towards a low door at the back of the kitchen.

"If you aren't gonna help make bread, you can take Cabbie and go help with the caprids," she said, shrugging the shoulder that sat lower.

"Don't have to wash your hands for that."

Mar frowned thoughtfully and considered his options. If he helped outside, that would mean he was still playing with Cabbie, right? And then he'd get to see more caprids! So far they weren't much like crocadogs, but they weren't boring like yakkows, either. Mar liked animals, especially the ones that could play with him.

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he asked, "Can I feed them?"

"They've already been fed today," Alma answered, "Don't believe them if they act hungry. They'd eat the house if they could. Just fill the water trough alright?"

Mar let himself out the back, and almost immediately came back in.

"Where's the water?"

As Alma had her back to him, Jak quickly relayed Mar's question. The woman didn't look up from tossing flour and water into a bowl.

"See those big meshes out there? They harvest fog. The barrels underneath catch the water. Use the tap to fill up a bucket -- turn it off before you walk away!"

"Okay!" Mar hopped back down off the step and into some kind of courtyard between buildings. Metallic jangling and caprids bleating nearly drowned him out.

Alma turned her head. "Close the door!" she called, "Don't let the little criminals in here!"

Upon hearing Jak's snicker, she scooted the bowl towards him. "Here, young-arms. Mix that until it's evenly goopy."

Well, that couldn't be too hard, right?

Wrong.

Jak's first attempt sent watery flour splattering across the counter, Daxter, and anything in range. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Alma didn't berate him. She grumbled about wasted dough, but it was under her breath.

"Not so hard, boy! You aren't trying to kill it!"

Being told not to kill something was a bit of a reversal from what people normally demanded of him. It was all destroy, destroy, destroy. And while Jak could admit -- and would admit freely -- to taking pleasure in the destruction of things, like mining platforms and KG bases, he'd always hated being ordered to destroy people. It was much too close to what Praxis had wanted to make him into. A soldier; an executioner. Made to destroy and good for nothing else.

I can do more than destroy, he insisted to himself, I'm gonna have to if I want to survive out here. How am I supposed to take care of Dax and Mar if I can't even make dough without ruining it?

But he couldn't ask for help. He'd look like some useless city-slicker who didn't know how to work! Gingerly, he pushed his fist into the gooey mixture again. It wasn't a very nice texture, all sloppy and wet. Gritting his teeth, he mixed and pushed until it clung to his hand from every side of the bowl. The texture was awful. He closed his eyes and told himself to ignore his skin screaming at him.

"Is...is this right?" He lowered the bowl to show Alma.

The landlady eyed it critically, rubbing her chin. "Good enough. Now we add the yeast."

Daxter hopped up onto the counter and nudged Jak sympathetically. "I got this. You get that gunk off your hands before you blow a gasket."

Gratefully, Jak ceded the bowl and did his best to scrape his hands off on the rim. The landlady probably wouldn't want him washing this stuff down the drain, he guessed. He suppressed a shudder and rubbed his fingers together under the pump water until the stickiness dissipated. Felt too much like metalhead guts.

"City boy," Alma scoffed.

Jak bristled. "Stick your hands in metalhead entrails a couple hundred times," he shot back, "and maybe you won't like the texture anymore either."

Alma lowered her brows at him. "Don't take that tone with me, chico," she warned.

"Then don't make assumptions about me," Jak retorted through gritted teeth.

Don't snap. Lower your voice. Hands where she can see them. If you're dangerous where people can see you, you'll get yourself and the guys kicked out.

For a moment they held each other's gaze, neither willing to back down in a silent standoff. Then Alma thumped her cane against the floor and scoffed.

"You've got some fire to you, boy. Good. I don't want any mealy-mouthed suckups in my house -- but you still better watch your mouth, eh?"

Jak grumbled an assent and flicked the last of the flour mixture off his fingers with a shudder. Dark eco hypersensitivity was a special kind of hell. It had been mercifully absent during their time in the convalescence ward, but the heat of the day seemed to be drawing it out again.

"I'm gonna check on M-" Jak caught himself at the last second- "My brother."

"Don't let any caprids in the house," Alma warned dismissively.

"And get your things up to your room! We don't have bellhop service here."

Daxter checked the yeast and tossed some flour onto the counter. "Uh...about that. Yeah, what you see is what you get. We don't have any stuff."

Alma half turned and looked around her kitchen skeptically, as if expecting to see a hidden pile of luggage. When no such baggage appeared, she shook her head -- whether it was in judgement or sympathy wasn't clear.

"When they come get you this evening to show you how to get groceries," she said to Jak, "Tell 'em Alma said you need a clothing allowance."

The room the boys would be renting wasn't particularly large. There was a sink, a tiny cook top, and a low table in one corner, a bathroom in another, and everything else was open space. Some hooks on the rafters suggested that previous tenants had divided the room with curtains for a while. That was probably the most privacy Jak was going to get in a place like this.

At least I don't have any extra clothes to worry about changing into. That definitely lowers the chances of Mar seeing my scars.

Pushed against the far wall, opposite the bathroom, was a low, wide, bed. There were no blankets on it, and the pallet was old and worn. But it was better than most places Jak had slept in Haven, and he wasn't going to complain as long as there was room for all three of them. He sank down onto a corner of the pallet and unlaced his boots with a sigh. As much as everyone kept repeating that he wouldn't be put to work, Jak knew it would only last until they saw what he was capable of. Which would mean he'd be able to keep them fed, but in this kind of heat it would probably be exhausting. Better to take it easy while he could.

[vinnylignes]

The Chicago House Scene

How House Music was Born

I recently became a fan of house music and always wondered how it was created. After doing further research I stumbled upon a video called "How House Music Was Born" it was one of the most informational and interesting videos I have watched and talked about how the House music scene in Chicago started.

As disco started to lose its cultural hegemony in the late 1970s and early 1980s, house music's history began. This created a gap that Chicago DJs immediately filled by incorporating funk, soul, and the electronic sounds coming out of Europe. One DJ, Frankie Knuckles, who is frequently referred to as the "Godfather of House," began experimenting with synthesizers and drum machines in the Warehouse, a club located on the west side of the city. He created a new genre that quickly became known as "house" music thanks to his inventive mixing and catchy compositions, which also drew a devoted fan base. It originated as a new version of music for dancing and partying. It emerged during one of the darkest times in the US which was the great depression. The rise in house music was drastic and people would line up outside of clubs just to hear house music for the first time. No one has ever head of this type of music before. Frankie Knuckles a notorious DJ who performed at the warehouse was one of the most popular DJ's for house music at the time.

It was considered as the "coolest underground dance music." They also referred it to a "sound scape". Frankie Knuckles brought in a whole new style of music. Eventually people began to rebel against disco music because they said considered for "Blacks or Gays". On July 12, 1979 There was a night called Disco Demolition Night during an MLB game which resulted in a riot.

Disco sparked a major backlash among the Rock fans at the time. At the climax of the event disco records were being blown up and fans stormed the field in an effort to end disco music. Eventually there was a rise in popularity of house Dj's in Chicago and it all originated from Freddie knuckles. They started learning how to sample music and how to play a smooth DJ set as well as transitioning between songs. Without a question, Chicago has had a lasting impression on the world of music. The city has created an atmosphere that allows house music to flourish, change, and expand its audience, thanks to the contributions of musicians like Frankie Knuckles, Marshall Jefferson, and DJ Pierre as well as current DJs and producers. Chicago's status as the birthplace of house music is still honored and cherished in light of the genre's worldwide renaissance and the emergence of a new generation of house fans and musicians. This was the underground music before underground music was a thing. After doing all this research I think the history behind how House music was made and the House scene is so interesting because of how popular it is today, that it once used to be considered underground and frowned upon. House music provides a beat and soul unlike any other for anyone seeking to experience the real essence of house music. Every dance floor is a haven for those who share a passion for the groove, every beat tells a tale, and every track is a journey. House music is more than simply a genre in the city where it all started; it's a way of life. Here are some of my favorite house songs at this moment.

[dark-elf-writes]

My tumblr keeps crashing so idk if this sent the first time, feel free to ignore if it did.

Shikamaru leaps from the window without looking back, mind whirling with questions and possibilities in equal measure. Naruto, his Naruto, is the fourth hokage’s son.

Channeling chakra to his feet, Shikamaru smoothly touches down on the roof of another building without breaking stride. He doesn’t bother to stop at the faint exclamation of surprise from the window he just left, even if it did come from the Yamanaka clan head. Though why the man is surprised about his chakra control despite knowing his skill with the shadows is something he can consider when blood isn’t thrumming in ears like a second heartbeat.

Naruto, his mind repeats in a mantra. He has to find Naruto. To tell him about his past and maybe, just maybe, secure a spot in the golden haired boys future. At his side perhaps.

In what feels like an instant, Shikamaru finds himself inside an old apartment complex, more suited for demolition than living creatures, and speeds up a staircase filled with cracked wooden boards. He moves into the hallway at the top floor, the only one without a locked door separating the stairwell from the apartments, and comes to a stop outside the one at the end.

The door, he notes as rage swells in his chest again, is littered with kunai marks and faded insults that spoke more of desperate efforts to wash away than time. Just as he raises his hand to knock, a faint shuffle and the squeak of a window sounds through the door before all movement inside comes to a stop.

Lips curled into a frown, Shikamaru raps his knuckles on the door. “Naruto,” he calls out with a near desperate edge to his voice.

Silence.

“Shikamaru?” The battered old door opens slightly to reveal perfect blue eyes peering out of the crack hesitantly.

The sight makes something in the back of his mind settle, even as another part wells with anger. Those eyes shouldn’t have to be wary, not because of him or anyone else in Konoha. It’s the very least the son of the Fouth Hokage deserves. The very least Naruto deserves.

He didn’t even notice that he’d been staring until the door opened completely to reveal a concerned look on Naruto’s vulpine features and a sharp glint enter lovely eyes as he took in Shikamaru’s no doubt ruffled form.

But it’s neither of these things that make the air leave Shikamaru’s lungs for what must be the tenth time that day. Naruto…Naruto was wearing a sunset orange kimono with frayed edges and hemmed sleeves.

Looking up from the slight flare where the kimono is belted tightly around the other boy’s hips, Shikamaru watches as Naruto shifts uncomfortably for a moment before straightening from his defensive curl.

So beautiful, he thinks and for the first time in what feels like ages his thoughts are approaching coherent again.

Shaking his head slightly to clear those thoughts from his head, Shikamaru forces himself to come up with a way to tell naruto about his father delicately. It would do no good to beat around the bush, and of course he would have to avoid being too blunt. But how could he balance the two so that Naruto would take it well? Maybe he would-

“I know who your father was!”

…damnit.

Ahsjndnsn I believe it got eated (bear with me I have a headache)

Shika just blurting it out. Naruto is gaping at him, not entirely sure he heard him correctly (terrified what it means both if he did and did not. Hope was a fragile thing, spun glass more likely to blow up in his face just like everything else has, but…

Naruto has never been one to turn a way from even the slightest hint of warmth, of friendship, of everything Shikamaru was offering)

So he listens, and just like that, with a truth shared between the two of them in a rundown apartment in what passes for konoha’s slum, the world changes.

[ajgrey9647]

Architectural Reconstruction of the Innermost Self/Painting the Red Door Black

Song Fic inspired by Paint It Black performed by Ciara

Fists hammered in terror upon the heavy door, smears of blood streaking the metal from split knuckles and wildly clawing fingers. The bright, scarlet liquid did not register to Jason in his frenzied mental state nor did the stinging pain from the fresh wounds. Battering the door like a butterfly in a glass jaw was the only measure of relief he could find in the isolation room.

I see a red door and I want it painted black No colors anymore, I want them to turn black I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

The slow cracks etching their way down the beams of his mental architecture was more painful than he’d ever considered. Priding himself on his physical toughness, Jason was left breathless by Drakkon’s cold psychological scalpel. The tyrant was literally driving him insane.

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black With flowers and my love both never to come back I see people turn their heads and quickly look away Like a newborn baby, it just happens every day

The Red Ranger’s innermost self was being eviscerated, the intricate structure of his mind under demolition and reconstruction despite his resistance. The large sunny rooms with their rich red tapestries shuddered and creaked with the steady accumulation of pressure. His core identity, personality, memories, values were weaved upon these unfurled banners.

I look inside myself and see my heart is black I see my red door I must have it painted black Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

Stitch by stitch the red threads began to unravel, row after row, dissolving into nothingness, a blank slate. The agony of this action was indescribable. Jason felt that he himself was fading. The lights were dimming in those rooms, growing ominously dark, leaching the familiar comforting red into oblivion.

The hope Jason had hidden away in this sacred place sputtered and winked out of existence. Drakkon had always told him that no one would ever come to save him and he wasn’t lying this time. His friends already thought him dead, no was coming to rescue a ghost.

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue I could not foresee this thing happening to you If I look hard enough into the setting sun My love will laugh with me before the morning comes

And that’s what he felt he was becoming, as he finally dropped to his knees on the rough floor. Shredded, torn fingers tangled in his unruly, greying mane as wails and screams of pure misery passed his dry, split lips. He yanked harshly at the handful of hair, ripping it from his scalp.

Hateful whispers blew through the darkening rooms of his mind.

‘Failure.’

‘Weakling.’

‘Pathetic.’

‘You deserve to be an animal.’

‘Atone.’

The demented tendrils of Drakkon’s new floorplan seeped into and through the cracks of Jason’s mind, rearranging and shifting and redecorating. The blighted and horrendous updates could not be stopped no matter how his mind resisted and fought. A new color was taking center stage, snuffing out the remaining crimson.

Black.

I wanna see it painted, painted black Black as night, black as coal I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky

The new tapestries glimmered into reality from an unseen loom, weaving Drakkon’s programming into the fabric. They snaked along the black walls, hanging like silk about the rooms above the lush ebony furniture.

Dangers nested within the shadowy corners. No escape, no where to run inside your own mind. The last vestiges of Jason Scott huddled in the middle of the main room, pleading for help in a place where no one else could be found. The swirling, billowing blackness crept closer, teasingly licking the last red glimmer.

‘No! Stop! Please, don’t do this!’

From the depth of a far corner, ember canine eyes opened with a soft swish of a thick, heavy tail. Clack of nails on dark, hardwood floor as the creature rose from the shadows. The large dog’s head came into view first, startling Jason’s surviving red. Sharp, white teeth showed brightly against the lifted muzzle as it bounded to stand protectively around the vulnerable color.

Drakkon peered into Jason’s dark eye, the white left one staring sightlessly ahead. His captive was teetering on a tightrope; he just needed a featherlight push now.

I see a red door and I want it painted black No colors any more, I want them to turn black I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Hmm, hmm, hmm...

“Come now, my good boy,” he cooed. “You’ve resisted long enough. Now it’s time to learn obedience and take your place at my knee.”

[xprojectrpg]

Moment of Awesome - Jessica Jones: Following the destruction of Murderworld, Jessica and Arthur look through the debris, finding no lead on the kidnapper, but taking the moment to discuss more sensitive topics.

A flash of gold light faded from the car interior, leaving the man before Jess looking deflated.

Arthur Centino sighed from the middle of their assorted collection of debris. The robotic hand had been the best find, but the rest was a scattering of battered and pulverized office equipment. A burned and bent USB. What must have once been a coffee cup handle. The ripped remnants of some sort of high end fabric. A crushed taser with teeth marks. What might have been pink parasol made of steel. Everything coated in a sickly looking layer of concrete dust.

The man shook his head and clenched the one leather glove he had removed in a white knuckled grip. He'd offered very little explanation to his conspirator, so Jess had the lunchtime entertainment of watching the blond cautiously touch all of their finds one by one. He'd been hesitant, almost reluctant, at first, but had increased in speed and resolve with each new item.

Whatever had happened, it wasn't a victory.

Jessica, somewhat bemused, watched Arthur, her eyebrows coming together as he clutched the glove. She finally broke the silence they'd been sitting in. "Listen, I know you're into some hippie shit because I have literally seen you drink kombucha, but what the fuck are you doing?" Despite the actual words, this was offered almost gently, perhaps to interrupt something she felt was becoming too intense.

Arthur responded with a slow blink, as if clearing clouds from his mind. It took him a moment to refocus. Jess received a soft laugh as Arthur visibly unclenched, coming back to his usual ease. "You know, I'd never thought about what this all looks like from the outside." Another laugh.

Watching Arthur reorient himself had deepened Jessica's frown to something more along the lines of concerned and dubious. "What what looks like?" she asked, a little pointedly - a person who did not enjoy feeling like she was missing the point.

"Oh," he said with a self-critical shake of his head. "Right. I've got psychometry plus the luck."

Jessica closed her eyes and vented a breath through her nose. "Please pretend some of us don't have every mutant power indexed in our heads."

Arthur wiggled his fingers. "I can see memories on objects," his look drifted to somewhere else as he explained, "the past, sometimes the future. Just the strong stuff, really, like how I now know what it feels like to be attacked by a cougar."

"Fucking Sharon," Jessica muttered as her brain processed - the other thing. "Memories on objects. That sounds - inconvenient." She slid a glance toward him, down to the glove in his hands, her expression shuttered. "See anything useful?"

Another sigh through clenched teeth. "Just panic and fear, and only a handful of imprints. I was hoping for more."

"I figured." Jess lifted a shoulder, but her disappointment showed anyway, in the twist of her mouth and the way she looked back down at her own hands. "I figured. Considering the level of that demolition and the organization it'd take to kidnap more than a dozen kids."

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XX

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 6.1K

24 Relona

A sprout, so pale in its orange it looked white, crested the soil of the pot—a burst of the sun before it began a new day. Sometime between this morning’s watering and this evening’s, the bud decided it was time to experience life outside the comforting coolness of its soil. 

Kazi thumbed the little sprout. “Hi, buddy.”

The sprout mushed, its fuzzy bulb tickling, and she slowly retracted her hand, not wanting to accidentally kill it. She watered the soil, mindful to hydrate the sprout without drowning it, and then leaned back on her haunches. 

A look through the sunroom’s windows revealed her sister on the wraparound porch. She wanted to show Daria her sprout. Out of anyone, her sister would understand the significance of this moment. 

However, Daria was enjoying the comfortable heat of the evening, peeling beans for tonight’s dinner. Matches sat beside her, helping. Based on Daria’s stained cheeks, the demolitions expert was telling her a crude story. Kazi decided not to interrupt. It was more amusing watching her sister’s strained smiles and encouraging nods as Matches laughed at something he said. 

Beyond the porch, seated among an elder tree’s roots, Nova and Hound talked. Tree foliage provided ample shade to hide their expressions. Based on the article she found Nova reading yesterday, she assumed he would be working with Hound for the foreseeable future.

A sharp command rang through the cracked-open windows. 

“Again,” Fox said. 

Wiping at her forehead, Neyti glared at Fox. 

“Don’t give me that look.” Fox crossed his arms over his chest. “You can do better—you will do better. Again.”

Huffing her frustration, Neyti faced Cody, lifted her balled fists, and lunged for the man’s hand. One jab with her left hand, a quick feint with the right, and a final punch with the left. Her knuckles collided with Cody’s palm. His smile was soft with encouragement. Neyti looked to Fox.

“Better,” Fox said. He assessed Neyti for a moment and then motioned to the table where Daria and Matches sat. “Get some water.”

With a satisfied nod, Neyti waltzed through the backyard’s ferns, plopping into an open chair and accepting a glass of water from Daria. Another glass went to Cody, who squeezed Daria’s shoulder. 

Kazi looked Neyti over once, confirmed the little girl was well, and then returned her attention to Fox. His black shirt clung to his skin, and sweat slicked his curls back. He’d spent the entire afternoon working on his project, the fallen tree finally taking shape.

Its shape bewildered Kazi, though. She didn’t understand why Fox was building a—

“You have a nice set up.”

Kazi flinched, glancing over her shoulder. Court stood beneath the sunroom’s partition, still dressed in the same black jumpsuit the men had found him in. At least it looked tighter and crisper, freshly washed.

“Thank you,” Kazi said, regaining her feet and dusting her hands together. Court regarded her, his head tilted in assessment. Nonplussed, she cleared her throat. “You know, you don’t have to stay inside, if you don’t want to. There’s a lake, and the jungle is full of hiking trails.”

A dismissive nod preceded his approach, and he surveyed those outside. “How often do you work?”

Studying his side-profile, the reddish hue of the setting sun set the whites of his eyes on fire, Kazi hedged, “I work a normal schedule.” 

He was silent, unblinking, and she glanced at the elder tree where Nova sat, wondering if Court needed to talk to someone. Needed…help. Then again, he held himself with a stable composure, seemingly collected and unaffected, rather than a man facing a potential mental collapse. 

“Are you interested in getting a job?” Kazi asked.

His lips twitched. “We’ll all need one. What do the former commanders do?”

She waved toward the windows. “They work these missions.”

“And their income? Where does their pay come from?”

“Most likely their contact.” Moving toward the game table, she pretended to tidy Wolffe’s puzzle, an attempt to create distance. Maybe she was being rude, too wary, but she couldn’t muster the shame to care. “But I don’t actually know. If you’re interested in joining them, I would talk to them about it. I can get Wolffe—”

“I’ll talk to him later.” Court twisted away from the windows. Those deadened eyes fell on her eyes, sharp and probing. “Wolffe said you work for the government. What do you do?”

“I’m an analyst.” Tension curled in her stomach, uncertain as a fog descending on a harbor. “I track military exports.” 

Court didn’t need to know about her private work for the magistrate: the intel she continued to analyze concerning the missing and deserted clones. With the men’s help, Fox’s expertise in slicing especially, the scrubbed and manipulated data had protected their missions. So far.

“You must have a high security clearance.”

“Somewhat.” Kazi shrugged. “The Security Institute was founded less than two years ago. It’s still rudimentary compared to Imperial governances in the Mid and Inner Rims.”

“You work with a band of rogue clones, yet you serve in Imperial forces.” Court took a step in her direction. “Why do they trust you?”

“I may work for the government,” she said slowly, “but that doesn’t mean I support it.”

A twitch overcame Court’s face and he opened his mouth. Soft footfalls interrupted, however, and a moment later, Wolffe appeared. A black work shirt replaced his usual white, the sleeves rolled to his forearms; his usual gray poncho was nestled in the crook of his elbow.  

Inclining his head to Court, Wolffe faced her. “We’re going, Ennari.”

Kazi frowned. “Where?”

“Out.” Wolffe extended his hand. “To dinner.”

“Neyti?”

“Daria said she’ll watch her. Cody is making dinner. And Nova’s setting up his telescope for Neyti to use tonight.” A satisfied smirk, similar to the one Neyti had sported a few minutes ago, completed his smug demeanor. “Any other questions?”

Smiling, she placed her hand in his palm. “Where are we going?”

The red sun burnished the wooden flattops of Hollow’s Town, the sky spired with brilliant orange and creeping navy blue.

Kazi and Wolffe wandered the Marketplace’s walkways, the colorful canopies withdrawn to allow the evening sunshine to warm the stalls. Small crowds loitered on the streets. Wolffe, with his hood drawn, blended in well. 

He was on edge, though, his tells noticeable only because she had studied him so closely for months. A rigid set to his shoulders. A forced casualness to his stroll. An occasional flex in his fingers, even though they were clasped behind his back. 

The Imperial presence was confined to Canopis, at the moment. But Kazi knew, from the blaster strapped to his thigh, Wolffe didn’t trust them to remain in the capital, and he wanted to be prepared. Since he was as obstinate as he was mistrustful, she didn’t suggest they return to the house. Instead, she reached for his hand. 

Warm fingers curled around hers, slow and tentative. A thumb smoothed a light circle to the back of her hand. 

Their stroll slowed and they rounded a corner. 

Strong spices wafted through the air, as palpable as the steam from roasting meat. The crowds here were louder, busier. Kazi leaned into Wolffe, resting her other palm against his bicep. His muscle bunched; his fingers twitched in her hand.

“Neyti spoke to me,” she said. They paused near a stall selling Elucan wine, and Wolffe looked down at her, his eyes widened in surprise. She’d spent the last few days debating whether or not to tell him, but his opinion mattered, and she needed to share it with someone. Someone who understood the importance of this moment without turning it into a lecture or demands for the future. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“She trusts you,” Wolffe said, eyeing an expensive bottle of white wine. “Has she said anything else?”

“No.” They moved to the next stall. “She was looking at my adventure book when she spoke. That’s how I knew she wanted to go flying the other day. She told me.”

A splinter of darkening sunlight lit Wolffe’s face and the slight curve of his mouth. Her eyes narrowed.

“You have an adventure book?” he asked. A hint of amusement softened his tone.

“Yes.” He huffed a quiet chuckle and she rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to smile. “My mother got it for me when I was young and I filled it with a bunch of photos from my trips at sea.” She paused. “My parents called me their ‘adventurous’ kid. Hence, the name of the book. Real original, I know.”

Ahead, the walkway ended and they exited the Marketplace, aiming for downtown. 

Wolffe kept their pace slower, more idle, as if trying to delay their arrival at the restaurant. “You don’t think you’re adventurous anymore?”

Kazi laughed. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It happens when you get older—you lose interest in stuff like that,” she said. “You mature and realize life is different.”

“Would you think differently if you still lived on Ceaia?” Wolffe’s tone was inscrutable, assessing.

“No, and it doesn’t matter.” She gestured to their surroundings. “I live here now.”

“Do you want to live here?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.” His hand stiffened in hers, and she pursed her lips, sighing. “We’re safe, that’s what matters. And Daria’s medicine and healer are here, and getting Neyti adopted is easier—”

“What?” Halting in the middle of the empty walkway, Wolffe stared at her, brows furrowed and mouth parted. “You’re putting Neyti up for adoption?”

Kazi winced, releasing his arm. “It’s…been one of my goals since we first arrived here.” 

Bewilderment wrinkled his features as he searched her face, and she gritted her teeth, berating herself for being so careless.

“Her application has been processed,” she said. “Now it’s simply a matter of when a family shows interest.”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Wolffe straightened, his jaw clenching. “You love that little girl, Ennari.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He started to protest and she cut him off. “It doesn’t. I was never meant to be a mother, and Neyti needs someone who is.”

“Why.” The word was flat, harsh like the press of his lips and the glint in his eyes. 

“Because.” Her cheeks warmed and she averted her gaze, shrugging blasely. “I’m not the affectionate, loving type that Neyti needs—that any youngling needs.”

“You’re not…” Wolffe scoffed, his grip around her hand clammy and tight. His face lowered to hers. “Who told you that shit?”

“Wolffe—”

“Who.”

“Stop it.”

The things her mother told her—the things she knew were true—weren’t his concern. And she wasn’t in the mood to humiliate herself in front of him tonight. But Wolffe scowled at her, his demand unwavering. 

“You weren’t here those first two months,” Kazi said stiffly. “You didn’t see her. She lost her mother and that relationship isn’t replaceable.” 

“I’m not arguing it is,” he hissed. “But she needs a mother—”

“Yeah. She does. And I’m not that woman.”

“You can’t give her up—” 

“I’m her caretaker, and I decide what’s best—” 

“And if I want to step up?”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped. His nostrils flared and she gritted her teeth harder. “Neyti is my responsibility, and mine only. Not yours.” She swallowed. “Anyway, we haven’t even been together for a month—” 

“I’ve cared l—” Wolffe faltered. Working his jaw, he regarded her for a long, stilted minute, and then he shook his head. “Don’t be rash.” He clutched her hand harder. “That’s all I’m asking. Something comes up, we talk about it.”

For a pent breath, she considered him. “Fine.” 

Anger still clenched his jaw, and annoyance pinched his mouth, but Kazi refused to cave. 

She meant it, what she said. Wolffe might want to fill a role in Neyti’s life, a role that was needed, but his missions were his primary concern. They came first; she had learned that lesson the hard way. And she wouldn’t allow Neyti to form an attachment only to lose another parent. She wouldn’t allow another little girl to lose her papa. 

Kazi continued along the walkway, and Wolffe fell in step beside her, their hands still interlaced.

“Please don’t tell the others,” she said after a few paces. “Daria doesn’t know. Neyti doesn’t even know, and I don’t want it to get out. It’s possible nothing ever comes of it.”

A heavy sigh heaved from Wolffe. His thumb continued to circle the back of her palm. An instinct. Or afterthought. 

The sun had finally set, the dark blues and grays of a tumultuous sea bathing the horizon.

A group of males, loud and rowdy, strolled toward them. Wolffe tugged her closer and they crossed the street, evening’s shadows casting him as a more imposing figure. 

Stilted silence yawned between them, nearly physical in its discomfort. 

Surveying the darkening sky, Kazi broke the silence. “Why are your brothers teaching Neyti to spar?” 

Wolffe released a low chuckle; some of his tension ebbed away. “We all learned when we were young.”

“Your upbringing was quite different.”

“Learning how to protect yourself is a good skill for anyone to learn.” He gave her a pointed look. “You should learn too. You and Daria.”

“Daria? The one who’s getting weaker and weaker with each passing month?” Her smile lacked mirth, and Wolffe winced, a silent apology in his squeeze of her hand. “I agree it’s a good skill to have. But it’s ultimately pointless. A real soldier will always be able to overpower me.”

“You don’t learn self-defense to win a fight,” Wolffe said. “You learn it so you have a chance to escape and run. To survive.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Frustration roughened his voice, and they paused on the edge of a walkway, waiting for an aircar to pass. “You’re acting too flippant with your life. I don’t like it.”

She sniffed. “I understand what you’re saying. And I think it’s good that you guys are teaching Neyti.”

He observed her through narrowed eyes, as if debating whether to believe her. “Promise me you’ll fight. If it ever comes to it—promise me you’ll survive.”

“Wolffe—” 

“Kazi.”

The seriousness in his face, the tightness of his grip, told her he wouldn’t drop this. That he cared about this, and that she owed him a truthful answer. 

Holding his gaze, she said, “I promise.”

Signs flickered to life, buttery yellow and warm. People enjoying a meal or drink busied the restaurants and cantinas’ patios. 

They walked in silence. While Wolffe’s quiet was contemplative, Kazi was second-guessing their conversation about Neyti. 

And if I want to step up?

The words were a kindle to that soft glow within her. Dangerous, if she truly analyzed the situation. But she didn’t, avoiding the glow steadily escaping her control, and instead concentrated on tearing apart the question.

Because, really, he had no business suggesting it. They were friends, and they were trying this thing between them, and he didn’t even realize the hurt he would cause when he—

“Do you feel alive?” 

The question yanked her from her thoughts, and she blinked at Wolffe. He was staring straight ahead, the neutrality in his features forcibly apathetic. 

“Do you?” Kazi asked curiously.

Rolling his shoulders back, he shrugged. “Growing up, we were told we were soldiers. Nothing more. Nothing less. We were soldiers. That was it.” 

They paused outside the restaurant, its sign lucent white, and he faced her, his expression guarded. Vulnerable.

“I’m not convinced I’ve known what it feels like to be alive. Outside of basic instinct to survive. I didn’t know that feeling. Even as a boy,” he said, his voice lowering. Hoarsening. “But being here—seeing my brothers safe, the lot of us doing what we want…” His fingers flexed around hers. His gaze remained guarded, and yet it grew softer. Gentler. “I think I’m starting to.”

“You deserve it,” she said. Because he did, and sometimes, she wasn’t convinced he believed it. “To rest. To put yourself first. To go after what you want. You deserve it all, Wolffe.” The evening’s darkness enveloped his face, soft hands holding him, though the restaurant’s white light sharpened his scar. She brushed a finger across his cheek. Just beneath his scarred eye. “You deserve to live.”

He twisted, his lips grazing her palm. “You do too.”

Her smile was weary, similar to the exhaustion he couldn’t seem to shake. They were both trying. 

“Eluca was supposed to be safe,” Kazi muttered.

Setting aside her datapad, she lifted her face to Wolffe. He was hovering behind her, one hand braced on the back of her chair, the other flattened to her desk, while he read over her shoulder.

Both the local news and her private comm line with Fehr and Carinthia lacked information. 

Dinner had been a quiet affair. An assortment of sauteed vegetables, steamed rice, and freshly baked bread filled their stomachs; a glass of whiskey and a mug of Elucan chocolate mush further emphasized the ease of the early night. Whatever tension had survived their conversation on the walkways soon winked out, replaced by blue-white stars winking into existence.

Their soft laughs and relaxed demeanors were ripped away, though, when a military vehicle arrived. Stormtroopers leapt from the vehicle. They stormed the cantina across the street. 

Within three minutes, it was over. Two bloodied males were dragged away.

Kazi had loosed a breath of relief, grateful the two males were the stormtroopers’ targets. Because the moment the black vehicle rumbled onto the street, she’d feared for Wolffe’s life. 

Thought a passerby or patron had reported him. 

Sat, trembling, as she tried to determine a plan of action so he could escape.

The dinner revealed one thing: if it came to it, she would sacrifice anyone to keep her family safe.

Leaning back in her seat, Kazi scowled at her ceiling. “Eluca was the safest option compared to other planets. It was never supposed to be like this.”

Gods, she sounded pathetic. Complaintive and whiny, ungrateful. At least they didn’t live in Canopis; at least Hollow’s Town remained relatively safe and free of Imperial oversight.

Wolffe perched himself on the edge of her desk, folding his arms over his chest. He regarded her with a carefully even expression.

“Do you think it’ll get worse?” she asked.

“Can’t say.” He frowned at the files on her ‘pad. “But things can change quick. I know that firsthand.”

She dropped her gaze to the hands wringing in her lap. “I just want to feel safe. And I know how ignorant and unfair that sounds coming from me when you—”

“You deserve to feel safe, Ennari.” A firm steadiness hardened his voice, a mountain weathering the strongest of winds, unmoved. Quietly, Wolffe added, “We all do.”

Deciding it was too late to dwell on the increasing danger of their situation, Kazi started to untie her braids, a necessary distraction from the thoughts whirling inside, and instead, chose to watch Wolffe.

He was studying her room: the gray, folded sheets of her bed and the matching quilt; the bookshelves along the opposite wall housing her adventure book, a cactus from Daria, and a charcoal sketch Neyti had drawn of the ocean; the white curtains tucked aside, revealing the jungle’s rolling hills. 

“Your shelves could use some personality,” Wolffe commented.

Judgment underscored his tone, and she frowned. “I didn’t know you’re an interior decorator.” 

He threw her a bored look and pushed away from her desk, approaching the shelves. “Why’s your dragon downstairs?”

“She doesn’t match my aesthetic.” At the roll of his eyes, she chuckled, glancing at her closed door. Though her dragon remained downstairs, she swore she could feel its unblinking gaze, observing her in its uncanny way. Sobering, Kazi said, “She’s too much of a reminder of life before.”

Wolffe wandered to her bed. “Before what?” 

“Before everything.” Setting aside her hair ties, she combed her fingers through her hair. “Before my father died. Before Daria and I stopped liking each other. Before the Purge. Before all of this.” Her voice had grown colder, bitter, and she cleared her throat. “I tried to get rid of her but I couldn’t. So she sits downstairs. It was a compromise.”

Reassessing her room, as if she was looking through Wolffe’s eyes, Kazi grimaced. Her bedroom was nothing more than utilitarian: bare, clean, tidy. Lifeless. The only sign someone had recently lived here was the lack of dust. Even her cactus could survive without her. 

The rustle of dried paper interrupted her musings as Wolffe lifted a seed packet from her nightstand. He arched a brow at her.

Her cheeks warmed. “It was a thoughtful gift.”

“This is trash,” he deadpanned. It was her turn to roll her eyes, and Wolffe shook his head, replacing the seed packet back where it belonged. Another slow survey of her room commenced, and then he straightened. His head angled toward her refresher. “Can I use your shower?”

Kazi blinked, momentarily rendered speechless. It was such a random request. And yet there was something bedded into his words, scrupulously layered, guarded: a question, no, a suggestion.  

Perplexed, she gestured to the ‘fresher in acquiescence, and, after a prolonged search of her face, Wolffe disappeared. A few seconds later and the spray of water, a gentle patter, spilled through the cracked door.

Kazi returned her attention to her ‘pad. 

Keying into the datafolders Fehr passed along every month or so, she searched for Ceaia. 

A foolish idea, really. Ever since her arrival on Eluca, she’d avoided the network’s reports on Ceaia. To her knowledge, they were mere assessments of Imperial presence in the Outer Rim. Simply a means to remain informed. Anyway, she would never return to her home planet, so updates were pointless, a dull fingernail reopening a flesh wound. 

But tonight…

The first datafile inside the Ceaian ‘folder presented an overview of the planet: Most of the information detailed the small Imperial force in the capital and the Empire’s disinterest in the planet. Imps bolstered the central government on the eastern continent. Rebellion was nonexistent. Kazi knew all this.

However, the further she read, the more bemused she became.

The rebel network had suggested planet-level analyses of Ceaia’s continents, major cities, and even certain harbors. For some reason, the network was interested in Ceaia.

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Kazi scanned the report closer, but any mentions of the network’s plans were properly redacted. Still, she skimmed the analyses.

Searching…

There were individual files on specific cities and harbors. 

She scanned the list. 

Familiar names flitted past.

She scrolled further, searching for—

Outlook Harbor. 

Her heart stumbled at the familiar name; a cold sweat clammed her palms. 

The rebel network had investigated her harbor—a harbor in the northern continent lacking any connection to Imperial accusations and the Purge. Opening Outlook’s file, she read through it.

Sensitive information redacted—information that clearly detailed the network’s plans—Kazi could only theorize the network’s goals. But there was one line that caught her attention. One line, in the Overview section, that demanded her attention.

Empire rumored to abandon shortly.

The sentence replayed in her mind, a broken holofilm repeating over and over. 

Because, if the Empire abandoned Ceaia, Outlook Harbor would be safe and maybe—

Shoving away from her desk, Kazi massaged her temples, pacing the length of her room. 

It was too late. Things were in motion here, and finding hope within a rumor, a fucking rumor, was asinine.

She had chosen to run, and Ceaia was in the past, and she couldn’t dwell on it any longer. She wouldn’t.

A sudden quiet seeped into her room; a creak told her that Wolffe had exited the shower, and she stilled. 

Everything within her went silent.

A distraction, she wanted a distraction. No, she wanted comfort: She was still running, and she was tired, and her soul was so sore, and she wanted to pause for just a moment to feel something. 

Alive, she wanted to feel alive, and she wanted to feel it with Wolffe. 

Fingers trembling, Kazi removed her sweater, untied her trousers, tossed her clothes and underthings into her hamper. She moved across the bedroom; the resolved beat of her heart, steady, unflappable, complimented her soft rap on the ‘fresher door.

Steam warmed her face, licked her bare skin.

“You’re late.” One of her white towels covered Wolffe’s lower half—tiny around his waist—and he looked down at her, amusement breaking through his practiced composure.

“You showered too fast,” Kazi said.

“Yeah.” His hands bracketed her jaw; his face lowered to hers. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Soft lips were on hers, and Kazi ran her hands up his chest, still damp, delectably warm, wrapping her arms around his neck. Wolffe groaned against her mouth. Tangled his fingers in her hair. Gripped her waist and stroked her spine. 

The heat of his hand to her bare skin, the softness of his touches compared to the desperation in his kiss, the way he held her and touched her, sparked her body to life. Need throbbed in her clit, and gods, she needed something—needed him.

Mouthing beneath her jawline, Wolffe rasped, “Tell me what you want.”

Her thighs hit her bed and she didn’t resist as Wolffe lowered her. As his forearms surrounded her head and his toweled lower half settled between her legs.

“To feel something,” Kazi said. Water dewed his curls and she rested a palm against his chest, basked in the hard, rapid beat of his heart.

He leaned back, just slightly, and let his gaze wander the length of her body. His pupils dilated, the dark brown of his eye and silver of his cybernetic giving way to black. A shiver breathed down her spine, tightened in her nipples, and she could only lie there, appreciating the way he took her in, the same way she had seen him study the bioluminescent flora during their night swims: admiring.

One moment Wolffe was perusing her body, and the next, his mouth was on her breast. 

Gasping, Kazi arched into him, clinging to his bicep. His mouth was hot and wet to her sensitive skin, and she ground her hips against him, desperate for any stimulation. Wolffe choked at the contact. His teeth grazed her nipple and—

“Oh gods,” she whimpered.

“This?” Wolffe flattened his tongue along the underside of her breast and licked to her nipple. “This good with you?”

She released a shaky exhale. “Yes.”

A large hand cupped her breast, and a calloused thumb scraped her nipple. She started to tremble. The clench in her cunt was hard, demanding, and she could only stare at her ceiling, trying to quiet her breathing, calm the racing beat of her heart. 

And, fuck, she thought she might actually come from this—from him caressing her nipples, biting gently into her breasts. Her cunt fluttered at a particular scrape of his thumb, and she bit back a whimper. 

A dazed look darkened his features as Wolffe focused on her breasts. She didn’t understand the appeal: Her breasts were small, small enough his hands easily engulfed them, and yet he seemed unable to look away. Unwilling to abandon them as he dragged a long lick across her nipple and sucked on it. 

Panting, she gripped his shoulder, dug her fingernails into his skin, wavering between pushing him away because the sensation was overstimulating, or holding him closer, giving into the pleasure humming through her nerves and tightening her insides.

A finger brushed through her labia and she tensed, glancing between their bodies. Wolffe circled his finger around her cunt. Light, unhurried circles. 

“This?” Wolffe asked. His eyes were on hers, and the dark brown swirled, drunken with desire. “This good with you?”

“No sex,” she whispered hoarsely. Her labia were so sensitive from his circling, and she swallowed a rising moan. “I can’t—” 

“I understand.” Wolffe tapped her cunt and she could feel her arousal slickening him. “But this? Can I fuck you with my fingers?”

“Yes.”

“What about my tongue?” He licked along her breast again, nipping at her nipple. She shuddered beneath him. “Can I taste you?”

“Wolffe.” Need buzzed beneath her skin, burned in her blood, and she was so fucking sensitive, so desperate for any touch between her legs or her nipples, but he needed to know, first: “I take so long—”

“Good.” He removed his hand, and her hips jerked their protest, her legs trembling with restraint. Satisfaction carved a smile on his face. “I’ve been wanting this for a long time, Kazi. Take your time. I’ll enjoy it.”

Before she could dissuade him, Wolffe was kneeling between her thighs, and he was propping one of her legs on his shoulder; and all she could do was watch, her nipples tingling and her clit aching, shaking with want as Wolffe breathed her in. As he flattened the head of his tongue to her cunt. He licked her.

Pleasure swelled deep inside her and her head fell back. Another slow lick followed and Wolffe groaned against her. The noise was low, guttural, and she gasped, bucking against his mouth. His hands flexed around her thighs, holding her open, restraining her against the bed. 

Sweat thickened the heat beneath her skin and she panted harder; her blood ran fast and hot. Wolffe traced her labia, the tip of his tongue so light it tickled, and then he was sucking her clit, his pleased groans rumbling against her.

Breathy, uncontrollable moans hissed between her teeth. A finger circled her cunt once. Twice. It pushed into her and her hips jerked.

“Wolffe.” Kazi lifted her hips, a silent demand for more, but Wolffe kept his strokes languid, his finger curling upwards and massaging such a sensitive spot she fisted her sheets harder and groaned. 

A second finger slid inside, and she whimpered at the pressure, at the stretch of his fingers. It was so much; more than her own fingers. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Wolffe hissed, stilling his fingers inside her. His eyes snapped to her face. “Am I hurting you?”

Breathing through her nose, she shook her head, blinking dazedly at the ceiling. “It’s just…a lot.”

Wet heat encased her clit the moment Wolffe’s two fingers massaged her upper wall. Massaged a spot that had her panting “More, please more” and her hips gyrating against his face.

Tightness coiled in her lower stomach, and the muscles in her legs bunched. She was shaking; her fingers were curled desperately in her sheets. Her breathy exhales were moans, and the pressure inside her bordered pain. 

Wolffe sucked on her clit harder; he curled his fingers and rubbed that spot over and over and over. All of her tightened, and her legs stiffened, and she felt as fragile as thin glass—

She shattered. 

Honeyed pleasure oozed through her blood, seeping into the cracks of her coiled muscles and soothing them. She was trembling, and she couldn’t move, left to blink at her ceiling as a wet tongue lapped at her, its strokes long, slow. 

A sharp flare in her labia made her pull away. Wolffe gripped her thighs harder, his scowl displeased, but at her sharp look, he released her, gently lowering her leg from his shoulder. 

A little tired, a little sore, Kazi lowered herself to the floor, leaned into Wolffe, and kissed him. He grunted against her mouth, seemingly surprised, but she didn’t bother to stop, pressing lackadaisical kisses to his jaw. Licking the muscled length of his neck. Basking in the way he held her weight as he panted against her ear.

It took her too long to realize he was fisting himself. Fisting and stroking his cock. She leaned back to watch him, beads of cum glistening his tip. It took her even longer to realize the wetness he was using to stroke himself was her own arousal—her own release. Wolffe met her gaze, his eyelids hooded. 

Grazing her palm along his thigh, the muscles shivered beneath her touch, Kazi smiled, cupping his balls and squeezing.

“Fuck.” Wolffe’s forehead fell to her shoulder. His breaths grew ragged, pained.

“Show me,” she said, massaging his balls. “Show me how you like it.” 

Roughly, he guided her hand to his base and fisted himself; the heat of his cock burned and her eyes widened in surprise. He tightened her grip and stroked. A groan warmed her neck.

“That’s it,” Wolffe rasped, using her hand to stroke himself faster. Harder. “Fuck, that’s it.”

Bracing a palm on the bed behind her, Wolffe hissed between his teeth, his hips jerking uncontrollably. 

Kazi traced light, teasing circles to his inner thigh, kissed behind his ear and nipped at his earlobe. Wolffe choked. His body stilled. He bit into her shoulder, and then he was spilling onto their hands, onto his stomach. He rutted into her hand, his semen hot and thick, his moans low and hoarse. 

As his thrusts eased and then stopped, Wolffe released her, his fingers trembling as they ran along her ribcage, like he was reassuring himself she was here. She was with him. Indolent kisses warmed her shoulder, soon followed by gentle licks to the mark he must have left.

Eventually they cleaned themselves and returned to her bed, still naked: soft brushes of fingers to skin, languid kisses to knotted muscles. At one point, Kazi laid atop Wolffe, her cheek nestled to his chest, his hands slowly tracing the knots of her spine.

“This,” he murmured, grazing the center of her back, “I’ve been thinking about.”

Trailing a finger along his own scars, she smiled. The line-drawn dragon tattoo was tiny and simple, her sole tattoo.

“Any significance?” he asked.

“I got it as a reminder,” she said. “That the only person whose got my back is myself.”

Pensive silence enveloped Wolffe as he continued stroking her spine, like he was counting each dent. Soon, though, those wandering hands shifted to her hips, her ass, her ribcage. Curious, lackadaisical touches ensued. Kazi wasn’t any better: feeling his scars, the tightness in his muscles, the fat toning his body. 

They were clay, formed from stardust and molded into individuals: to be appreciated, revered.

Later, the moons casting her bedroom in a bluish tinge, Kazi scanned Wolffe’s side-profile. 

“You can smell my soap? From feet away?” she said, disbelievingly. “Even after a couple of hours?”

“Yeah. And when I’m close to you, like this”—he gestured between their bodies—“I can smell you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I can smell when you’re bleeding.” A nonchalant shrug succeeded her appalled blink. “And when you’re aroused.”

“No, you can’t,” she whispered.

“I can.” Amusement was woven into his frankness. “We were engineered to be exceptional.”

“Huh. I don��t know if I’m impressed or mortified,” she said. Wolffe chuckled, and she smiled, brushing her nose to his shoulder. “So, enhanced smell, sight, and hearing. What about taste?”

A devious glint darkened his eyes, and he edged closer, playing with a strand of her hair.

“You taste”—a wet tongue licked the length of her throat and Kazi gasped; Wolffe pulled back—“divine.”

Laughing, she tried to shove him away, but he resisted, grinning down at her.

“Divine?” she said, scoffing. “All you tasted was my body oil.”

“I was talking about your cunt,” he drawled, smirking at her exasperated shake of her head. Returning his face to her neck, he kissed just beneath her jaw and murmured, so quietly she wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it, “I won’t ever get enough of you.”

Minutes later, with Wolffe sucking on her collarbone in a way she knew he had no intention of stopping anytime soon, Kazi glanced at the chrono on her nightstand. She grimaced.

“Wolffe.” He grunted his acknowledgement. “I’m tired.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m gonna go to sleep.”

He lifted his head. “You kicking me out, Ennari?”

A tiny, glowing fist pounded against her chest but she ignored it. If she asked him to stay, then she would grow accustomed to his presence. Rely on it. On him. And what if…

Rubbing her chest, she offered him an apologetic wince. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

Understanding gentled his expression, and he inclined his head, reaching for his trousers, forgoing his long-sleeve. 

At her door, Kazi pressed a swift kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for dinner and for…”

“The orgasm?” he supplied.

“Good night,” she said, unable to stifle her smile. 

Amusement crinkled his eyes and he tapped the underside of her chin. “Sleep well, Kazi.”

Masterlist | A Muse | Chapter 21

A/N: To see how I imagine Wolffe going down on Kazi, check out this artwork (18+/nsfw). If you take a look, please show love to the artist by reblogging. The artist deserves it. The artwork has no relation to Star Wars, but I stumbled across it one day and it reminded me of the scene in this chapter. Please enjoy. (Again, if you view it, please reblog it. Liking a post on Tumblr without reblogging does nothing to support the artist.)

[annaphoenix1994]

Ch.119 - Pecking Order

Previous Chapter - Masterlist 1; Masterlist 2 - Next Chapter

Simon fires a hostile wrangler from the ranch; Kiera finds the building plans for the building project.

“Blue is proposed water, green is sewer, pink is for driveways, corner buildings are in red, and yellow is for gas. If they were to dam the river, my guess is that it would be up there at that bend.” Tony pointed out while Kiera walked alongside him to view the property for herself.

“That’s exactly where they’re doing it, love.” Simon chimed in as he was holding the copy of the blueprint she had given him to hold on to.

“Is that your property at the bend?”

“It is.”

“Mrs. Riley, I won’t lie to you, but this will have a major impact on your land. Erosion is my biggest concern at this point.”

“My biggest concern is a valley of condos sucking up our river.” Kiera scoffed, a frown decorating her face.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing that we can do here. On their land, it’s their river.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Tony,” She tilted her head. “That bend as well as the half mile in front of it and behind it runs through our land. 70% of it if I remember right. They only chose the bend because it’s the widest part of the river for the last twenty miles. Guarantee it’s because it’s where it doesn’t freeze in the winter and they can keep sucking on it year-round.”

“You’re probably right, Mrs. Riley, but you can take it to civil court if they propose they operate their mill on that bend if it goes through your land like you say. That’s higher up than what I know, unfortunately, but until then, I can’t stop the river from flowing.”

“I’m not telling you to stop it. We’re going to move it.”

“Wh-? Do you have legal authority to do that?” He asked with genuine concern.

“It’s my land,” She arched her brow. “So since that bend goes through my land, it’s my river.”

“Don’t kill the messenger,” He breathed a chuckle. “You do as you please.”

“I could’ve told you that,” She smirked. “I’ll keep in touch. Thank you for your time.”

Tony nodded, sighing heavily through his nostrils as he watched Kiera and Simon walk towards her truck, Simon opening the passenger side door for her before putting himself into the driver’s seat. “What’re you thinking, love?”

She breathed heavily before looking back at her curious twins in search of her daily reminder to fight for them, smiling at them when Evie flashed a warm smile. “I’m thinking that we’re going to need the help of your demolitions expert.”

“You’re planning on moving the river, aren’t you?”

“Damn right I am. I’m going to ruin his fucking career.”

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle, hearing a scoff come from Kiera’s lips, “I suppose you need to apologize to Baler.”

“Why?”

“You broke the cursing rule.”

“I can break the rule I established, but I can also say it slipped.”

“Mhm, sure you did,” He smirked, reaching over to grasp her hand to bring to his lips, placing a kiss to her knuckles. “What’re our plans for today?”

“Well, it is Saturday. How about we take mom out into town for dinner after Baler gets done with his chores?”

“Sounds good to me. Whatever you want to do, love.”

“Mom needs to spend some time with Baler. She hasn’t seen him all week because of school and his chores. I’m sure she’s dying to get out of the house and do something that doesn’t involve having brunch with Suzanne from work.”

“It’ll be good for her,” Simon nodded. “I’m sure she’s dying to watch the twins.”

“I won’t ask her to unless I really needed to,” Kiera sighed. “I feel so bad for asking her at all. I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring her—”

“Love, one thing she always told me that she never saw it as a problem to watch them. I’m sure she misses raising her own. I know you’d feel the exact same way when our children are grown – you’ll wish ours will have children of their own so you can spoil theirs.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” She chuckled. “Luckily, we have plenty of time – years – before that happens. I’m not ready to see that yet.”

“You and me both.”

They shared a glance at each other before Simon turned onto the road that led to the ranch’s driveway.

“You think Baler is still at the barn?”

“He should be,” Simon breathed a chuckle. “It’s Saturday, so I’m expecting him to finish his chores early and go to the house to play those bloody video games, knowing him.”

“He still needs to be a kid, babe. Besides, Soap got an Xbox too and he and Baler have been playing online together on Battlefield.”

“Of course, he did.” Simon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “So when we go down there to check and see if he’s there, if Johnny is nowhere to be found too, well, we’ll know what’s going on.”

“I guess Johnny needs to be a kid sometimes, too.” Kiera snickered, gazing out the window as Simon turned the truck to take the narrow path towards the barn, seeing a few of the wranglers standing in the circle while two others were in the middle, brawling it out as if their lives depended on it.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Simon scoffed, putting the truck in park before opening the door. “Stay here.”

“Simon, that’s Johnny in the middle of that fight!” She pointed, gasping.

“Goddammit,” He grumbled. “He knows better than that shite! Stay here.”

Once Simon got closer to the fight, the wranglers that were just standing there and letting it happen turned to look at him, fear dressing their faces as they stepped aside. As if his anger couldn’t reach much higher, it was when he saw Baler with a busted lip and eyebrow look back at him. Either he started the fight or got in the middle, Simon didn’t care at that moment. The only thing he cared about was that Baler had gotten hurt and Simon wasn’t there to prevent it.

The same went for Johnny. Regardless of if he started it or not, he was easily smaller than the wrangler that was beating him to a pulp and it was Simon’s job to protect him.

Just like Johnny would do for Simon.

Grasping Brady, the larger wrangler’s waist, Simon effortlessly picked him up and threw him into the dirt, kneeling over him before grasping his collar and forcefully shoving him into the wall of the barn, using his left hand to grasp his collar while his right hand balled into a fist before delivering two hard punches into his nose before he pulled him from the wall and shoved him back into the dirt, using his foot to press against the other man’s neck, “What made you think you could put your hands on someone else, huh?” Simon shouted. “Especially another member of your unit?”

“This ain’t the fucking army no more, man!” Brady panted.

“You better be glad this isn’t the army, you wouldn’t make it the first day,” Simon scoffed.

“Bullshit!”

“Prove it to me, then. Get up and show me how you’d fight another man.”

“I already did.”

“Really? Last I saw, you got your nose busted by Johnny over there before I threw your arse in the dirt. Now get up!” He shouted.

Brady huffed before Simon removed his foot from his neck, letting the man stand up while he slowly got his bearings, balling his fist before lunging at the Lieutenant, groaning as Simon grasped the same fist that lunged for him and pushed him back into the side of the barn after delivering a powerful blow to Brady’s gut, punching him in the jaw again before he fell back into the dirt. “Looks like you don’t have much to prove unless it’s running your mouth, lad.”

“Simon, stop!” Kiera intervened, clutching Baler close to her as she cupped his head. “I think you proved your point.”

Simon shook his head as he shook his fist as a last ditch effort to rid the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Panting, he then turned to Johnny, who wiped the blood from his lip on the back of his hand. “Who started it, Soap?”

“Brady did,” Johnny answered. “He tried to push around the kid.”

“What happened?”

“He-He started taunting him and tried to trip him when we were walking back from the arena after putting the horses up. The kid fought back and Brady punched him and then I stepped in and well… You see how that worked out.”

Simon nodded, his anger peaking once more before moving to rough Brady up even more, satisfied by the amount of painful groans to leave his cracked lips, grasping his collar before pushing him up against the nearby fence, “You’re lucky my wife is standing right there or I’d blow your bloody brains out.”

“You wouldn’t do it anyway.” He taunted.

“Don’t make him prove it, Brady,” Frankie commented, crossing his arms over his chest. “He already beat your ass once, don’t make him blow your brains out.”

“Dirk, get this bastard off of this ranch.”

“No, I-I’ll clean stalls or something I—”

“Your last chance was when you decided to push around my son. I’m not having that. Get your shite and fucking leave.” Simon growled, pushing him towards the bunkhouse with a hard shove, nearly making him fall on his knees.

Brady huffed, stumbling towards Baler, who was still being held by Kiera as she wiped away his tears. Scoffing, he then stopped, “You’re lucky your mommy is here to wipe your tears away.” He taunted.

“You leave him alone.” Kiera warned.

“Yeah? What’re you going to do about it?”

Her heartrate sped up when he spoke, the man towering over her in a last-minute attempt to look as dominant as he could after getting beaten into the dirt by Simon himself. “Won’t you put a finger on me and watch me rip your hand off?” She snarled.

Brady scoffed, “I bet you talking back like that is how you got that scar on your face, huh? A lost fight.”

“Hey, don’t talk to my mom like that!” Baler shouted, quickly getting Simon’s attention when he heard Baler’s distress, quickly making his way towards Brady with silent steps, knowing that the man was too stupid to hear him coming.

“What’re you going to do, little lad? Go crying to your daddy?” He taunted.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Simon spoke from behind the man just as tall as him, except Simon was far more broad and damn far more intimidating. Without giving Brady the option to reply, he firmly grasped Brady’s jacket and shoved him so hard towards the bunkhouse that he fell onto his knees, Simon using his boot to push him down again as he tried to get up. “Take Baler to the house.”

“What’re you going to do with him?” Kiera asked, referring to Brady.

“Making sure the bastard leaves and never comes back. That’s what. Take him to the house. I’ll see you in a while.”

She sighed before she nodded, escorting him to the truck before ensuring that he was comfortable enough to walk on his own. Even though he had only gotten punched, a punch from a man twice the size of him directly to his face was enough to stun the teen’s system. “I’m sorry, momma.” Baler admitted, waiting until she began driving before he even said anything.

“Don’t be sorry, baby. You defended yourself and Johnny was going to die trying to defend you. You let those wranglers see what you stood up for and that speaks volumes,” She assured him. “I’ll help you get cleaned up and you can accompany me in the kitchen while I make dinner. I’ll even make dessert first. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good as long as red velvet cookies are what you have planned for dessert.” Baler breathed a laugh.

“I can do that.”

“So… Is dad going to kill him? I heard him say—”

“No, he’s not. He will if he has a reason to, but he’s just going to make sure he leaves the ranch and never puts us on a resume for his next job.”

“But… He did have a reason to, Momma.”

“Yeah, he did, but he knows better.”

“Mom, he would’ve killed him for talking to you the way he did. He roughed him up because he found out he hurt me and Johnny, but he would’ve killed him if I wouldn’t have been there to see it.”

Kiera’s heart fluttered at the thought, knowing that Baler was right with his assumption. “Well, I guess we’re just glad we left when we did then, huh?”

“When we hear a gunshot go off, I think we’ll have our answer.” Baler shrugged.

“Probably. You think you can help me by taking one of the kids in so I don’t have to make two trips?”

“Sure, but can I carry Evie? Jacob drools on me every time.”

“Of course,” Kiera giggled. “Come on, let’s get inside. Looks like a storm coming over those mountains.”

“Thank God I got my chores done…”

*

“Hurry up, bastard, I don’t have all day.” Simon barked from the door of the bunkhouse, watching Brady lazily pack his only duffel bag.

He was waiting for Brady to give Simon another reason to punch to his gut, but much to Simon’s disappointment, the remark never came.

“Where are you taking him?” Dirk spoke lowly as he approached Simon, Johnny sitting on the couch while Teeter tended to his wounds.

“I don’t know yet. Anywhere far from here.”

“You can take him to the bus station in town, but he’s been here for a few years and has seen a lot,” Dirk shook his head. “With as mad as he is, I’m afraid he’ll talk.”

“Talk about what exactly?” Simon scoffed. “It’s not like we’ve killed people on this ranch.”

“You haven’t, sir,” Dirk corrected. “But before you came along, he did a lot of things for Bud. He got his hands dirty if you know what I mean.”

“Well, would you rather handle it, then?” He asked.

“Of course I can, sir,” Dirk nodded, patting Simon on the shoulder. “I’ll get it taken care of. Get back home to your wife.”

Simon nodded, putting his foot behind him to turn towards the door before he spoke to Johnny, “You need anything, mate?”

“N-No, I’ll be alright, L.T,” He nodded. “You did more damage than what he did to me, I can assure you.”

“Alright, then. Well, thank you, sir.” He said to Dirk, reaching out to shake his hand before Dirk smiled through his mustache.

“Dirk. Sir is too formal for me,” He chuckled. “I’m at your service.”

“Dirk,” He nodded in correction. “Thank you.”

“Ow! Momma!” Baler shouted in pain as he sat on the arm of the couch while Kiera stood at his knees, cupping his chin as she dabbed a cotton swab of alcohol against his busted lip.

“It’s going to hurt, baby,” Kiera cooed. “I can assure you that a busted lip isn’t that bad. It’ll be numb for a bit but you’ll be as good as new after a week.”

“Doesn’t fucking feel like it!”

Kiera pressed the alcohol-soaked swab against his lip again, making him wince at his vulgar language, “Language.”

“I think I remember telling you that you owed the lad an apology, love.” Simon snickered from the door, hanging his jacket up on the hanger before ridding his feet of his boots at the door before meeting her in the living room as she tended to Baler.

“What did you do?” The teen questioned.

“Nothing—”

“Your mum dropped the f-bomb this morning in front of the twins.” Simon answered.

“Ah, ah, ahh!” Baler taunted. “Breaking your own rules, I see!”

“It slipped—”

“Yeah, well so did I just now!”

“Alright, you know what? Simon, hold this q-tip against his lip while I go get some whiskey and a towel for him to bite on—”

“What?!”

“Extra measure. Whiskey will hurt more.”

“N-No, I’ll man up and deal with the rubbing alcohol.” Baler nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” Kiera hummed. “Besides, you’d rather me dress your wounds instead of your dad here. He’d hold you down and not give you a choice.”

“I don’t doubt it…”

“Where are the twins, love?”

“They’re in their crib for the night. I fed them while Baler took a shower. After I get him cleaned up, I promised to make dessert before dinner.”

“I think he’s earned dessert before dinner.”

“I sure did. I may have not been able to take a punch like a man, but I sure did get up.”

“That’s what’s important, lad. You defended yourself and risked it again just to protect your mum.”

“If you can’t, then someone needs to when she can’t defend herself.”

Simon smirked, watching Baler close his eyes as Kiera’s delicate fingers cleaned the scuffs on his face, putting the unused medical utensils away before removing her latex gloves. “You can go to your room to play your Xbox if you want, baby. I have Simon here to keep me company while I make dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered,” She smiled. “I’ll come and get you when the cookies are ready. In fact, I’ll even bring you the first one.”

“Cream cheese icing?”

“I’ll bring the fucking bowl.” She whispered, winning a laugh from him before he excused himself towards his bedroom.

“Does that mean I get my dessert before dinner?” Simon whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She hummed, leaning her head against his shoulder as his warmth pressed against her back, keeping her secure. “Of course. After dinner.”

“Always a bloody tease.”

“Gotta keep it fresh, babe.”

“It’s like that even without you testing me, love.”