#the rifle is gentle persuasion

[cringefail-clown]

Seer: retrieve firearms

kankri but turnabout!flavoured! i imagine him swapping places with karkat would make him grow up into less of a mightier-than-thou a grade ahole and more rebellious against the empire, mirroring the life of the signless in canon. he still has a long way to go though

[infinite-riches]

TactiCAT

Summary: “LT…” Soap pulled his best puppy-dog eyes as he looked up at Ghost, the tiniest kitten he had ever laid eyes on cupped in his hands. As if perfectly timed, the kitten let out the sweetest meow either man had ever heard. “We cannae leave her here..”

“Johnny…” Ghost gave a defeated sigh, lowering his weapon as he looked at the kitten. She perfectly resembled Johnny. A tiny, fluffy, brown tabby, the fur on her head groomed into a mohawk. “Price will kill us if we take her home…”

Or: The boys find a kitten and fluff ensues

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1791

Warnings: cannon typical violence (no gore)

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by a prompt from a member of the CoD babygirls server, much love to her!! <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): TactiCAT

“Johnny? Sit-rep?” Ghost was in the next room over, downloading any data he could scrape off the security system.

“All cl-” The sound of rustling stopped Soap in his tracks. “Got movement…”

Soap slowly approached, MK14 raised and held tight to his shoulder. His eyes rapidly scanned the dark corner of the room, looking for the cause of the rustling. It wasn’t until there was the soft sound of scratching that he leaned down, lifting a folded newspaper off the ground. 

Soap could hear the featherlight sound of Ghost’s footsteps behind him as the smallest, sweetest pair of blue eyes stared up at him, a tiny squeak filling the silence. Soap slung his rifle over his shoulder, crouching down. He gently held his fingers out, the small fuzzball taking a few steps forward, sniffing his fingers before nuzzling them. With a little persuasion, the kitten climbed into his hand, claws pressing in a little to gain purchase on Soap’s calloused hand. 

“LT…” Soap pulled his best puppy-dog eyes as he looked up at Ghost, the tiniest kitten he had ever laid eyes on cupped in his hands. As if perfectly timed, the kitten let out the sweetest meow either man had ever heard. “We cannae leave her here..”

“Johnny…” Ghost gave a defeated sigh, lowering his weapon as he looked at the kitten. She perfectly resembled Johnny. A tiny, fluffy, brown tabby, the fur on her head groomed into a mohawk. “Price will kill us if we take her home…”

“Okay… and?” It was another moment of Johnny being a total smart-ass. “I’ll hide her in my vest, you can pretend you know nothin’… please, Si?”

“Only because I love you and you’re going to do night patrol with me for the next 2 weeks. Plus you’re solely responsible for her. Understood?” Ghost couldn’t help himself, the two were a perfect pair, matching mohawks and sparkling blue eyes- so much warmth and joy radiating from the pair already.

“Aye, of course! Whatever you want!” Soap placed a gentle kiss on the kitten’s head before speaking to her, “Okay Spike, we’ve gotta get out of here so I’m gonna tuck you in my mag pouch… gonna take good care of you…”

With a gentleness Ghost had only seen used with himself or Soap’s nieces and nephews, Soap tucked the small fuzzball into one of his mag pouches, Spike’s adorable head poking out to take in the view from such great heights. 

The computer from the other room chirped, signaling the drive had finished downloading the data. 

“Time to exfil, Soap. Make sure you keep Spike safe.” 

“Yes, Sir!” Soap called out, a giddy grin on his face as he followed his LT out of the room. 

On the way out of the building, Soap kept close watch on the pouch that Spike was tucked in, a sense of relief flooding his veins every time he heard a small meow or chirp from the kitten. 

They had one long corridor, dotted with doorways, between them and the hike out to exfil when a bullet whizzed past Soap’s ear, nearly nicking his helmet. 

“Get down!” Soap barked, pulling his body back behind the wall, chest heaving. “You got eyes?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Ghost was leaning around the wall, trying to catch any glimpse of movement he could. Time ticked by achingly slow as both men listened for footsteps and Ghost watched for the slightest misstep. 

“Gonna throw flash, cover my six. We’ll push in hard and fast- can’t be many of ‘em if they aren't already pushing us…”

“Aye, on you, LT…” Soap gave a firm nod, hand dropping for only a second to gently push Spike down into the pouch, securing the velcro closure over her head. “Gonna get you out of here, lass…”

It was a flurry of light, sound, and motion down the hallway. But then, one shot, two shots, and a third. Ghost’s M4 didn’t make a dent in the Russian armor. They took cover, pinned down by a swarm of lead. 

“You’re up,” Ghost said. Soap nodded.  Soap and Spike swung around the corner, MK14 leveled. One shot, two shots, and a third. Then… silence. 

“7.62 black tip doesn’t fuck around, Si.”

“Solid?” Ghost cast his glance back at Johnny, doing a quick visual check on his partner. 

“All good, LT. You broken?” Soap is all teeth as he looks over his Ghost, hand absentmindedly petting at Spike through the gap in the pouch. 

“I’m solid, let’s get the hell out of here so we can get this drive to Price.”

It was an arduous hike but not the worst by far. The last strength of summer meant the air was warm but not suffocating, a gentle breeze pushing through the pines as they picked their way out of the valley. 

The sound of the chopper blades seemed to upset Spike, soft mewls of protest sounding from Soap’s vest.

“You’re on your own, Johnny…” Ghost warned as they pushed into the clearing, Price visible in the helo.

“Shh, shh, shh, Spike… if you’re quiet I’ll give you one of the LT’s hoodies to sleep in… you won’t believe how soft it is…” By some stroke of luck, the kitten seemed to be pleased with the trade offer, instantly settling down as they approached Price.

“It’s all yours, Captain,” Ghost called out, handing the drive over and settling in for the flight back to base.

“You boys broken?” Price tucked the drive away as Soap climbed aboard, Nik lifting the helo off the ground moments later.

“We’re all good, Sir. Just another day at the office…” Soap settled next to Ghost, trying his best to fight the sleep tugging at his eyelids.

20 minutes into the flight, as Soap leaned on Ghost deep in sleep, Soap’s mag pouch began to move. Neither Price nor Ghost noticed till the small kitten had popped its head out of the pouch, nuzzling into Soap’s chest before also falling asleep, a gentle thrum of purrs pouring from her chest.

Price gave Ghost a pointed look but the younger Brit simply shrugged and gave a look along the lines of “I have no clue, but we are talking about Johnny.”

The matching mohawk and blue eyes seemed to help Johnny and Spike out in the end, Price caving and outlining very clear rules about keeping a cat with the task force. 

She quickly became the favorite member of the task force.

Gaz found a blank patch in supply, using a quick rough stitch to emblazon ‘TactiCAT’ on the black patch with white thread. He stitched it into Spike’s favorite cushion, one they had saved from an old office chair being discarded. 

In the mornings, Spike accompanied Ghost to the gym, alternating between sitting on the stack of weight plates or screaming until Ghost turned the treadmill on to the lowest setting so she could go for a walk. Every afternoon you could reliably find the small ball of fuzz curled up in the oversized cushion placed in the 141 rec room, right in the patch of sun filtering in from the window. Sometimes, she would exchange her patch of sunlight for the warm space next to Gaz when he and Soap had a moment to spare on video games. Each night, Spike wandered to Soap’s room, curled up in one of Simon’s hoodies at the foot of the bed. Some nights, when Price worked especially late, Spike would wander to his office, welcoming herself into his lap as he worked into the early hours of the morning- they had only been caught a few times but it was enough for Soap to get a photo and place it on the fridge in the rec. 

Spike had settled into a steady routine, loved by every member of the team, and as much as she loved all of the men there was a certain pair she favored. 

It was late at night, Johnny propped up in bed, Spike lying across his legs as he sketched. The small kitten nuzzled into his shin, perking up as Simon quietly slipped into the room, tossing his mask onto Johnny’s desk. A small chirp escaped from the fuzzball, prompting a chin scratch from the Brit.

“Good evening to you too, Spike…” The sweet moment made Johnny’s heart sing as Simon leaned over to kiss his forehead. 

“Long day, lover?” Johnny asked, setting his pencil between the pages and closing the sketchbook. He knew Simon had been holed up in the conference room with Price and Laswell, some important video conference eating away at the day. 

“The worst kind…” Simon grumbled, perching on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. His hoodie followed next, tossed to the foot of the bed for Spike. He swept the other hoodie, now thoroughly covered in cat hair, off the bed, and into the laundry bin. Shirt and jeans quickly followed the old hoodie before Simon all but collapsed onto the unoccupied portion of the bed. Head in his arms, he looked up at Johnny, chuckling as he felt the familiar feeling of Spike’s paws on his back- kneading the tense muscle. 

Simon looks completely blissed out as Johnny tangled his fingers in the soft blonde locks, fingers massaging the Brit’s scalp. “You gonna fall asleep like this? Ya big softie…” 

“Couldn’t possibly… you haven’t even kissed me good night… incredibly cruel, don’t you agree Spike?” A determined meow rang out from the kitten, leaving Johnny slightly stunned as he laughed. 

“Alright, alright… let's get ready for bed, and then I’ll kiss ya all ya want…” Spike only softly protested as she was removed from the warm perch that was Simon’s back, settling as she snuggled up in the still-warm hoodie.

Eventually, the boys were back in bed, only the soft glow of the lamp illuminating the space. Just as Johnny leaned over to kiss Simon, Spike appeared, wedging herself between the chests of the two men. 

“Lass… you’ll get your turn…” Johnny scolded, leaning over again to kiss Simon, soft and full of love– something Simon had been craving all day. Once Johnny and Simon were well supplied with good night kisses, Simon opened his arms, Johnny and Spike both moving at once. 

Spike was faster, happily nuzzling into Simon’s chest. “Sorry love, she beat ya’ to it…” Simon scooped the small fuzzball up, turning over so his back was to Johnny’s chest, Spike still snuggled against him. 

“Aye, she did… it's alright though, like gettin’ to hold you like this, love…” Johnny shifted close to Simon, an arm thrown across his stomach. “Sleep well my little loves. Love you, Si.”

“Love you, Johnny…” Simon whispered, leaning over to turn the light off. 

[historynerdj2]

A Noob’s guide to Day of Infamy

This is Day of Infamy.

*ding*

This 2017 game made and published by New World Interactive using the Source engine, is a game that I am sad about. Not because it is sad, but because it is an interesting gem. It’s like finding a brownie shaped like a piece of turd, but it is made with the most exquisite of fudge and chocolate. It is a good game, even with a few flaws (we’ll get to those, don’t worry). In fact, I dare say that this had to be both one of my favorite first person shooters and my favorite World War 2 games. So here is a quick introduction and tutorial of how to survive this game.

First thing to know is that Day of Infamy is a multiplayer tactical first-person shooter, set in the European theatre of the Second World War. With different game mods, with most of them being some variant of finding a point on the map, and politely telling the enemy already there, to shod off. This gentle persuasion is achieved with the liberal application of both high explosives, and small automatic firearms. The maps range from The beaches of Normandy in 1944, the Streets Salerno in 1943, all the way to Crete in 1941. With such a breadth of time (6 calendar years), and a vast swath of maps (mostly France, Italy, and one Greek map), factions are vast, at the number of 3. The different factions play on certain maps, so don’t expect to see Americans at Dunkirk. Each faction has unique weapons, and units. These units don't affect gameplay all that much admittedly, as it is mostly cosmetic, but they are still nice. You can earn them through leveling up, or alternatively, you can just buy them.

First is the Americans, because of course there is.

With all the classic American WW2 weaponry, like M1 Garand, and Thompson, they will be familiar for many. As for units, once again, many of them will be familiar for those that dabble in WW2 history and/or media, such as the 101st Airborne, or the 1st Infantry Division (better known by the nickname “The Big Red One”). I also want to give a shout out, because I’m pretty sure that this is one of the only games that actually remembered that African Americans actually fought in WW2, in the form of including the 92nd Infantry Division, and the 761st Tank Battalion.

Next is everyone's favorite member of the second world war, the Wehrmacht (Germany).

I say Wehrmacht, because the vast majority of their units are Wehrmacht, such as the 272nd Volksgrenadier Division, or the 29th Panzergrenadier Division. The only exception is the 17th Panzer division, who while listed as Wehrmacht, were historically Waffen SS, so now you guys know which unit not to get. Again, most of the weaponry will be familiar for those who play WW2 shooters, such as the MP40, and MG42.

The last faction are the British… or should I say Commonwealth.

This is another reason why I like this game. You see, NWI remembered that the Brits in the second world war, had an empire, and they are willing to bring said empire into their scuffles. This means that while they do have British units like the famous/infamous Black Watch, they also have many units of Canada, such as the Princes’s Patricia’s Canadian Light infantry, as well as Australians (2/17th Battalion, who also happen to be my favorite) and Indians (12th Frontier Force Regiment). As for weaponry, most will be familiar… provided you are familiar with the British in WW2, such as the Bren, or the Lee-Enfield No. 4. They also have the one exception of where units do affect load out (we’ll get to that) with only the 2/17th Battalion being allowed to use the Owen Mk. 1.

Now that you have been familiarized with the factions, one must remember that as this is a team based game, it becomes like medieval Europe, where class matters. There are 9 classes, each with unique load outs, and purposes. Most of them also have limited slots.

Firstly, we have the basic class, the rifleman. The only class to not have a limit for slots, they are armed with a rifle. It should be noted that just because you are using a bolt action for the most part, you’re still deadly. With extra stamina, and access to rifle grenades, it is a very solid class.

Next is the assault class, who solves your issues at close range with the liberal application of an smg. Following that, is Support, who provides support by using a light machine gun, like a Bren or BAR. After that is the trifecta of basic shooter classes of Engineer (use explosives), Machinegunner (MOAR DAKKA!), and Sniper (one shot, one kill). Now the unique classes for the game starts now. After that, is Flamethrower, who decides that turning people into a barbeque is only a war crime the first time.

Now, here is the interesting part. You get one Officer, who has the ability to call support of any sort, from the innocent supply drop and smoke screens, to less innocent ones, such as artillery barrages, aerial strafings, and bombing runs. However, they can’t actually call these in, without a radio, which is accomplished with the last class, radioman. With a radio on their back, all they do is stand next to the officer, while they call in an artillery strike that will wipe the enemy team, and half of your team who were caught in the blast. (rule of thumb, you should always have both an officer and a radioman).

After choosing game mod, faction and units, and class, you have your loadout. Everyone has a primary weapon, secondary weapon, access of up to two different types of grenade, and a melee weapon. Furthermore, attachments to your weapon such as slings, bayonets, or scopes. Furthermore, you also have access to vests that can increase the amount of ammo you have. So what’s the catch? Well, weight is a factor, as in the more stuff you carry, the slower you are. Furthermore, your access to this is determined by supply points. You gain more supply points by playing the objective, so play. The. BLOODY. OBJECTIVE!!!

Anyway, items cost certain amounts of supply points, so this means you have to compromise about what you bring in. For example, if you play an American assault, an M3 Grease Gun with a sling, costs 5 supplies, while a Thompson M1A1 by itself costs 6 supplies. So, with this knowledge, prepare to compromise, especially with your first rounds.

After all that has been said, many of you might remember what I have said earlier about their flaws. Well, here they are. Map designs can be kind of poor, and lack of content update. They still support the game, but don’t hold your breath for new content that isn’t fan made (remember, this is the source engine. It’s super easy to mod… so I’ve been told), considering that the last update was back in December of 2017. This ties into the big elephant in the room… lack of players. Because of the lack of long term support, due to it being released just before another major NWI release, Sandstorm Insurgency (also a really good shooter), player counts can be pretty low. This is in spite of the fact that the vast majority of reviewers like the game. Many players often complain that the game is dead, but that isn’t quite the truth. A lot of the players for some reason seem to be on European servers. Of course, this is also the reason why I’m talking about this game.

So in summary, if you want to try a good team-based fps, or a good WWII game, I strongly recommend giving Day of Infamy a try. It comes cheaply too, being 15 USD for the base game, and 20 USD for the deluxe edition, and it can be cheaper during sales. Also, final note, this game also has amazing voice acting, of various types for the various American, German, and Commonwealth units, using a mixture of your typical fps voices, but also many witty, and genuinely funny lines (in that regards, shout out to the commonwealth voice actors, with my favorites being the Scottish and Australian voice) Many of these voices can be found on Youtube.

So take a dive into Day of Infamy, and this has been a Noob’s guide to Day of Infamy, which can be found on Steam. Enjoy the rest of your day.

[accipio]

Hawke can’t help but think of the desire demon again, of its very telling choice of disguise, its ominous threat to give him what he wants. Is what he wants a cage, with a templar holding the key? No, he immediately decides. Of course not. He’s spent his whole life running from that fate; the very idea of it is loathsome to him.

Perhaps the demon meant something less literal, then. Something like the bond of devotion between a knight and the one for whom he bears his shield. There’s a sort of intimacy in trusting someone enough to allow them to protect you, to let them see you at your most helpless. Hawke considers the gentle yet unyielding strength of the hand in his, the weight of the newfound bond that has taken root between them. Hm. Perhaps being a damsel in distress isn’t so bad.

“You’re not dying,” he repeats, breathless, his doubts scattering in the face of Cullen’s ironclad conviction. He realizes belatedly that he ought to least be slightly argumentative, if only for old times’ sake. “I mean, you’d better not be. Or I’ll turn you into a toad.” Transfiguration spells are actually outside of his magical repertoire, but Cullen doesn’t need to know that.

He’d never found Cullen particularly persuasive back in the days when the Knight-Captain punctuated nearly all of their interactions with some pronouncement or other on the dangers or magic and the profligacy of mages. To Hawke, Cullen was just another lunkheaded templar thug, a petty tyrant who resented everything that he couldn’t force into obedience. And maybe that wasn’t strictly wrong, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. “We both were,” he says mildly, grinning like a smitten idiot as Cullen lays kisses upon each of his knuckles. Maybe it should shame him to be doted upon like a maiden from one of those awful books, but fortunately Hawke has no shame. "But we got over it. Miracles do happen."

As much as he’d rather not see what else the Fade has in store for them, he knows that Cullen is right. They need to find their way out of here, and if he were a betting man (which he hasn’t been since he lost five sovereigns to Fenris at diamondback), then he’d wager every coin to his name that this blighted place will do its damnedest to separate them. Easier for the demons to pick them off if they’re alone, after all. “I hate it when you’re right,” he grumbles, hesitantly letting go of Cullen’s hand and rifling through his pockets for anything useful. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a pair of sending crystals. And maybe a Qunari will be elected the next Black Divine.

His pockets turn out to be empty save for a few coppers, an empty potion vial, and a crumpled scrap of paper. Well, so much for that. He racks his brain for any magical means of keeping track of each other, perhaps some sort of tracking spell… and then the empty vial catches his eye. “Cullen,” he says, careful to keep his tone mild and neutral, “I have an idea. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Cullen does feel like death warmed over, but he is not dying. That'd be too merciful. Instead, like the blue, he knows he has months, years perhaps, of withdrawal symptoms to look forward to.

If there's no crystals growing inside him already, that is. But he'd heard, he'd read from various accounts, some dubious and others reliable, that one knows when the taint sets in. Beyond the infernal warmth, which is all but spent, there's nothing but the familiar post-battle exhaustion, the dregs of adrenaline. If only he could close his eyes and sleep—but that's a terrible idea in a place like the Fade.

"I'm not," Cullen swallows roughly, flexing his fingers against Hawke's, strength slowly returning, "Going to cage you, Hawke. I never could. Maker knows I wanted to, but it would've been a waste. You're a good man who did more good for that city than any of its templars. Andraste would've cursed me if I tried."

No one's cried over him since his final day in Honnleath. His mother hugging him tightly, her gentle sobbing soaking his shoulder as she told him how proud she was. His father too had cried, though his display of emotion was more subdued, less obvious—just one tear down his face, caught at the tip of a nose shaped much like his. "My little templar," she'd said, ruffling his curls, "I'm so proud. Andraste keep you."

Yet their faces are gone, lost to the lyrium. In his memories they are an amalgamation of his and his sibling's features (gods, he forgot to write Mia again), close enough to the truth but not quite.

No, he's not losing anything more to it. It's taken enough.

And Cullen wants to remember this, burn it into his soul as a brand—not the Champion of Kirkwall but Garrett Hawke crying over him. He looks so vulnerable and beautiful, his habitual bravado soberingly absent. So bright, like staring directly into magefire, seeing a hero shed its trappings of glory and fame, reduced to flesh and blood like everyone else. To see fear and fondness in equal measure in his brown eyes.

"As long as you don't tell Varric about this, it's a deal." And Cullen laughs at himself with easy grace, a tender moment the man he was in Kirkwall could've never had.

"I'm not dying," he tells Hawke as he stares into his soul, stated so self-evidently, with such conviction it's blasphemy to argue against it. His eyes have returned to their lyrium-less brown. Though their bloodied sclera remains, white slowly radiates back out from his pupils. His scarred lips kiss every single knuckle in Hawke's hand, a promise with each beat. "It's alright, I couldn't stand myself in Kirkwall either. Maker, I was an ass."

His shuddering grip, lyrium-withdrawal though it might have been from, soothes Cullen—an old friend, a gentle swaying that has nothing to do with the red, present before it. He'll be alright. They'll be alright. They just need to rest for a bit.

"Hawke," he asks, suddenly serious, "This is the Fade, yes? We need to rest before we continue, but we should find a way to make sure we don't lose each other." Kirkwall is easy to traverse, its cobbled streets memorized for them both, but who's the say the demons won't sift through more of their memories, change their current location to something more labyrinthine? Or something all together different, unrecognizable?

[ereawrites]

Diego’s alarm blares you awake at 5:45AM - you know this without even opening your eyes because, unpredictable as Diego is, he always wakes up unreasonably early to work out. You know this because he always texts you at 6AM to bitch about how stiff his shoulders are.

Today, you’re sure, his whole body will be screaming at him. Having shown up at your door last night just after midnight, covered in dust and dirt and bruises, Diego had simply shrugged off your concerns.

“What-“, you started, but he was already sliding past you into your apartment. At least he had the decency to pat your cheek as he passed.

“Nothing to worry about.”, Diego said, rifling through your refrigerator as if it were his own. He didn’t need to know that you keep extra eggs in stock for him, after all. “I jumped out of a window, that’s all. Totally fine.”

His back was to you and you could still see his stupid little smile. “Well, excuse me for not figuring that one out right away. Unforgivable.”. He huffed out a quiet laugh at that, gingerly turning to face you with your last bottle of milk in hand.

“You want this for breakfast in the morning?”

You did. You absolutely did. He dropped off a box of your favourite cereal two days ago, claiming to have been ‘passing by’, and that was total bullshit because the closest store is 15 minutes’ walk away from your house, and he shouldn’t even have known your favourite cereal because Diego Hargreeves was very much not your boyfriend.

Anyway.

His bust lower lip had twisted up into a too-soft smile when you said, “Nah, go for it. Just don’t drink it so fast that you’re sick this time. I’ll be in the bathroom to help fix you up when you’re done.”

-

The window is now taking its revenge. Is this his karma for destruction of property, you muse to yourself as you stretch the kind of stretch that makes your whole body shake, or for waking you up last night? Diego grunts. The alarm shuts off and you hear his phone clatter unceremoniously back onto the nightstand.

“Good morning.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry. Go back to sleep, I’ll be out of here in a minute.”. Bless his soul, he really does sound apologetic. Thankfully, the deep rumble of his first-thing-in-the-morning voice does wonders to put you in a good mood with him.

When you roll over to face him, you’re not quite sure what you notice first: the gentle, bleary brown eyes, or the bruise smacked right across his cheekbone. “Hm, it’s okay. How are you feeling?”

Diego’s palm envelops the back of your hand and gives a quick squeeze. “Great.”, he hums, despite how exhausted he looks. “Thanks for letting me crash here. I’ll bring you breakfast after my workout.” - and you’re at least 60% sure he was born with persuasive powers, too, because the way he looks at you leaves you reeling in the early morning light, and he’s halfway sat up before you can even react.

“Nope. No. Absolutely not. You need to rest today.”, you insist, grabbing his wrist to stop him in his tracks. Diego is a stubborn little shit and he looks at you like you’re an idiot - sweetly, sympathetically, and you’d want to kill him if he hadn't managed to carve out such a soft spot in your chest. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and you permit it if only to admire them. It’s far too early for subtlety and, hey, Diego’s always loved flattery.

“I don’t have time.”

When flattery doesn’t work, reason is your next best bet. A little guilt can't hurt, either, right? You pout up at him. “Who’s committing crimes at 6AM, baby? It can wait.”

(You should not call Diego that. He is not your boyfriend.

His face lights up just a bit.)

“Troublemakers.”

He smirks, and you know you’ve lost with that approach. Diego flip-flops between sweetness and sarcasm as if he's attached to a particularly irritating bungee cord, promising you breakfast one minute and deliberately driving you crazy the next. With a brush of his thumb over your knuckles, he’s moving away and stretching his arms over his head with a groan.

You wag an accusatory finger at him, still squinting in the ray of sunlight that manages to penetrate through your broken shutters. You’ll get him to fix it later this week. “Troublemakers like the guys who crash through innocent windows?”

“That’s different-“

“-In fact,”, you smile, poking at the skin of his gorgeous back in a petty attempt to get his attention solely back on you. “Maybe I should report you to the police. Bring down the crime rates and all.”

“You’d love to see me in handcuffs, huh?”, he quips as he stands and stretches again, giving you a perfect view of those lithe muscles in action. Boy, would you ever. But the smugness in his voice is way too evident, even if you can’t see his face: your only option is to scoff. 

“You’d be lucky.”, which is absolutely true (because you would rock his shit), because you’re pretty sure Diego is all bark and no bite, because you’ve seen just enough of his hidden tender side to really believe all his cocky jokes. You try not to dwell on it too much, but a tiny part of your heart believes that maybe Diego really, really cares for you.

Maybe it’s because of how he leans back over the bed to hold your cheek in his palm. God, he has you crumbling with that look in his eyes sometimes. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

Then his touch is gone, and it’s so embarrassing how you almost chase after it, but you smush your face into the pillow with a sigh. He’s stubborn as a mule and you're too exhausted to put up much more of a fight. Maybe you should just let him go for his ridiculous workout. Let him push his tired body, and let him send you an extra bitchy text in half an hour. You’ll ignore him, really teach him a lesson. See how he likes that.

You're just beginning to snicker into the pillow when Diego bends down to grab his shirt, staggers on his bad leg, and whimpers in pain.

Oh, well. Not a chance he's leaving now.

Three weeks ago, Diego had insisted on giving you some sort of self-defence training, which you had only actually agreed to on the assumption that you’d be able to annoy the shit out of him with it later. The main focus had been on ‘using the opponent’s size against them’ - this was not the first time you’d understood the reason behind all the Batman jokes - and, oh, this is the perfect opportunity to test your new skills.

With all the grace of a drunken bull, you leap from the bed, nearly tripping on the tangled bedsheets, and wrap your arms around his waist. Diego reaches out to steady you even as you're dragging him back towards the bed, tumbling down with him in tow and turning the impact into a roll that leaves him on the far side of the bed, with you curled tightly around his back, arm draped across his chest. The final step is to sling your leg over his hip, effectively pinning him with the least possible pressure on his sore muscles.

“Honey-”, Diego begins, but then you're running your fingers through his hair and it dissolves into a quiet little oh that you’re sure looks perfect on those pouty lips. It strikes you that this is the first time Diego has let you hold him - you're always the little spoon, on the rare occasions that both of you give in to the desire to touch each other, and you’re shocked by how right it seems to feel him melt into your touch. All the fight vanishes from his body in seconds.

“…I sleep better when you’re here, you know.” - and it’s not using any tricks to get him to stay, it’s just the plain truth. Diego’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s partially for selfish reasons that you want him to stay in bed, you admit, but mostly because he deserves a rest for once. You worry for him more than you would ever let him know. He probably figures it out, anyway, once you give in and drop your forehead to rest against the back of his neck. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to care - it’s much nicer to just enjoy how he kisses your wrist on the next brush of your fingers through his hair.

He’s leaning into your hand even before he pretends to grudgingly concede. “Just another hour.”

You’ll see about that.

[mooniefics]

bye bc i have not been able to get the thought of like,, you working as the candidate manager for the warrior program (aka glorified babysitter / school counselor) and reiner slowly falling for u over the years

—  you’d first met him around a month after he returned from paradis, after he was finally debriefed and given countless ideological assessments, and he was just exhausted by the time he was finally allowed to see his family again but he still woke up early the next day to go with gabi to training. he saw how happily gabi greeted you, how warmly you smiled back, and he thought that if anyone was taking care of his little cousin over the years he was gone, he was grateful that it was someone who came off as nicely as you did.

—  your first conversation initiated after gabi dragged him over by the arm and introduced the two of you herself, but you didn’t get to speak long before you all had to go your separate ways. the way you tucked a piece of gabi’s hair behind her ear and gingerly wrapped your arm around her as you led her off to her classes for the day makes his heart flutter.

—  you two made small talk when you ran into each other, sometimes talking about the kids, sometimes talking about yourselves, nothing terribly personal, but he always found himself feeling much lighter after he got to see you.

—  reiner accompanied you once when you chaperoned the kids’ recreational time in town and sat on the bench beside you while you both watched them all play around at the park you usually took them too. your voice was soft and affectionate as you told him that you sometimes forgot that they were just children, letting it slip that you couldn’t help but feel disheartened that they had been made to grow up so fast. you were worried that he, the one revered as the most loyal warrior, would report you for disrespecting the methods of marley, but he only sighed, smiling sadly as he replied, “me too.”

—  one day when the kids were training, you and the warriors were standing to the side watching them, discussing casually amongst yourselves as you watched them run laps with all their gear. on the last go around, udo fell flat on his face, and before reiner can even turn to see your reaction, you were already running over to make sure he was okay. the exercise instructor forced you to wait for udo to make it to the end on his own, but as soon as he reached finish line, you rushed him away into the main school building. when you didn’t return for a few minutes, reiner ventured in to see where you’d gone, he found you both in an empty classroom—you kneeling in front of udo, handkerchief in hand, gently wiping the tears and dirt from his cheeks and telling him that he had done a good job, that everybody makes a mistake once in a while, that he was just as capable as the other candidates. he stood beside the door, listening to you comfort udo, feeling his own eyes watering as he did. he wished he had someone like you when he was young.

—  the first time the two of you had a proper, in-depth conversation was the evening that the mid-east allied forces had declared war against marley, the only two left at the privacy of his quarters, sharing the last bottle of wine leftover between yourselves. the facade of perfect patriotism that you had both been careful to maintain had dissipated, whether because of the alcohol or because of the gravity of such impending doom weighing at your hearts. he’d learned that you’d been apart of the warrior program yourself, an unselected trainee in the class just a year below his own. you told him that was how you’d managed to secure yourself this position, but he said that it was much more than that, that you were a natural at a position that require such patience and compassion. the way your lips had turned up into the smallest of smiles made his cheeks flushed. 

“i heard the war is going to be mostly naval. i doubt we’ll have to worry about any of us being shipped out to fight any time soon.”

you took a long sip from your glass, finishing off what remained, taking in a deep, pensive breath. “god forbid they send any of those kids away to the battlefield. god forbid they send you away.”

“me?” he said after a moment of silence, an odd sort of tightness cinching around his heart and lungs, squeezing tighter with every fine detail he noticed in your sorrowful expression—warm eyes filled with sympathy, mouth drawn down into a delicate frown, brow slightly knitted.

“you’ve seen enough. you’ve gone through enough, more than anyone should have to go through by themselves.”

reiner felt a lump beginning to form in his throat, an almost tangible ache echoing through his chest. that was the first time someone had ever told him that before.

—  despite the worsening tension of war, reiner saw that you were just as cheerful as ever with the kids, bringing them sweets and desserts you made yourself when you got the chance, taking them out on their weekly outings and making sure they were doing alright just as normal. but he could see the way your face would shift when one of them piped up with something regarding the current battle being waged, spouting out the same propaganda he’d been force-fed for his entire life. you would only smile, patting them on the shoulder or rubbing their back, responding with a simple assertion that you were sure marley’s troops were doing great out there before changing the subject

“they’re so young. sometimes i forget they’re only children.”

your words from the park bench flitted across his mind, the words that you silently spoke when your eyes widened at gabi’s proclamation that marley’s glory would forever prevail, or when your lips pursed briefly at the four of them squabbling over who would inherit which titan.

“they’re too small to be holding such big weapons. those rifles they give them are taller than they are. it’s.. it’s...”

perverse? distressing? horrible? it was all of those things, and so much more. but you saw it. you didn’t egg them on like porco or zeke, you congratulated them without drenching it in more and more lies. you didn’t see them as soldiers-in-training, you didn’t see them as warriors, you saw them as they were. as children. you cared for them like he did.

—  when the time came, you were shipped off to fort slava alongside the warrior unit, your training and your extensive experience working with the candidates for the past five years serving as the justification for your necessity. though reiner had wished to be around you more often, he didn't at all enjoy it in this context. seeing you in a full soldier’s uniform, skin dusted with dirt and gunpowder, a helmet that only seemed to have more and more dents and scratches in the metal with each day that passed—it felt so incredibly wrong. you didn’t belong in the trenches of war, and yet he still saw you running about every morning, previously soft hands becoming roughened and scarred, growing thinner and thinner from the stress and minuscule rations that were barely enough to get everyone through the day. and yet you were lively, still tending to the kids and attempting to give them a space away from the warfare outside when you could all retire to the unit’s dugout at night.

—  one night, reiner had woken from his sleep and was too restless to return to it, unable to ignore the distant sounds of gunfire and shouts from outside, staring up at the ceiling from his bunk and allowing himself to drift away into his thoughts. he remembered all the nights he’d spent like this in his own home as a child, barely able to force himself to sleep for a few hours despite knowing that he had another long day of training ahead of him. but he turned over on his mattress at the sound of soft murmuring, the sound of sheets shifting and the quiet protest of the flimsy bed frames squeaking. in the dimness of the lantern that sat at the foot of gabi’s bunk, he saw you seated at her bedside, looking down at her as you spoke.

“are you okay? do you want me to wake up reiner?”

he couldn’t make out gabi’s mumbled response, but he saw the small silhouette of her head shaking from side to side on her pillow.

“i know he’s been looking tired lately, but i promise that he won’t be upset if we wake him up for a moment.”

another unintelligible reply from the young girl just barely occupied the air. a part of him wanted to step out of his bunk and see what she needed, but another, more persuasive thought kept him still, laying silently, watching on to see how you would tend to her. he knew that gabi admired you deeply, the fact that you’d managed to win her over was something that impressed him, but at the same time didn’t surprise him at all. he couldn’t imagine how anyone could dislike someone as gentle and thoughtful as you.

“you’re a big girl, gabi, so am i. but that doesn’t mean we don’t all need a little bit of help sometimes. it’s scary out here, and i’m so proud of you for holding your own out there. it’s okay to be scared.”

you were quiet for a moment, allowing for gabi to speak, a hand reaching out to gently stroke the side of her head and run through her hair. a quiet, genuine laugh slipping from you when she concluded.

“i promise i won’t tell anyone. i’ll get back to my bunk as soon as you get back to sleep. deal?”

he caught the end of an affirmative nod from his cousin, and the two of you fell silent. you stood for a moment to tuck the covers around her, sitting back down and returning to your soothing motions, looking almost like a dream in the glow of the soft illumination at your side.

he realized in that moment what that feeling in his chest was, the one that made his throat tighten just the slightest bit, that made him feel light as air for those few fleeting moments before the spell of you in his gaze was broken by some menial interruption. but the interruption didn’t come this time, nothing to remind him to bury his feelings and not ruminate on them long enough to figure out exactly what they were. he had been running from this revelation for far too long, and he knew exactly why—because it would be unfair to burden you with these feelings that he knew he shouldn’t have.

he loved how you made him feel. he loved seeing how cheerful you were even when it was too early in the morning for him to even be properly awake himself. he loved seeing how you smiled when the children hung onto you on your days out. he loved that you could see the appalling indoctrination of marley’s military might on it’s citizens for what it was. he loved how you saw him for more than his failure four years ago. he loved how tender you looked stroking his younger cousin’s hair, assuring her that you wouldn’t leave her until she was fast asleep. he loved you, honestly and wholeheartedly.

it was a selfish desire, a longing that he would have to keep to himself for your sake. but, in moments like these, where the vision of having something more seemed so close to his outstretched grasp, the thought of sharing his final years together rather than in a respectful coexistence, he found it so difficult to resist temptation. 

if only he had more time.

24 / 7 reiner brainrot. i have an unfathomable amount of love for this man ( ; ω ; )

[bluerose5]

Guilty as Charged

[You can also read it here on AO3.]

Word Count: 1,210

"I don't get it."

Thane glanced over at Shepard out of the corner of his eye.

"Get what?" Thane asked, hesitantly poking at the mystery slop that Mess Sergeant Gardner had thrown together for the crew.

It had taken a lot of persuasion on John's part, but he had eventually convinced Thane to emerge from Life Support long enough to share a meal in the Mess. They had already touched on a number of topics. Future missions, past achievements, current struggles. Stuff like that kept them talking for a while, but the lapse in conversation was inevitable.

Surprisingly, the silence between them turned out to be more comfortable than awkward. Side by side, their legs would bump against each other underneath the table. Oftentimes, when they would reach out for something like a napkin or some silverware, their fingers or arms would brush. Skin against scales like a gentle caress.

Despite how his heart raced at every touch, Thane tried to maintain his composure. Abandoning his food, Thane gently pushed his plate away, opting to take his cup of tea in hand instead. He cradled it, careful of the heat as he lifted the drink to his lips.

Once he took a sip, he spared another glance in Shepard’s direction, curious as to why he hadn't replied yet.

The answer to that wasn't quite what Thane expected.

Shepard hadn't replied because he was too busy staring at Thane’s lips instead. The attention made Thane's body warm. His scales started to take on a thin, glossy sheen of venom, causing them to become more vibrant and iridescent. In the light, they downright glistened.

Of course, as soon as Shep realized he had been caught, he cleared his throat and averted his gaze.

"Just, you know—" John trailed off with a shrug. "I don't get why people call you a 'bad boy.'"

"Oh?" Thane regarded him questioningly, head cocked to the side. "I would ask who called me such a thing, but I don't need to. Let me guess. Kelly?"

"Kelly," John agreed.

"Hmm..." Thane thought it over, then shrugged. "Maybe she thinks that because I've killed people for a living."

"Thane," John huffed. "Let's be honest here. I kill people for a living, but when I do it, people either call me a war hero, a war criminal, or a terrorist. Nothing in between."

Well, he couldn’t really argue with that.

"I just don't understand why people label you a 'bad boy' when you're anything but." John continued with a shrug. "I mean, your whole philosophy is about making the galaxy better. What's so bad about that?"

Thane chuckled, setting his tea aside in order to give John his full attention.

"Does it really bother you that much?"

"Nah," John said, "I was only curious more than anything."

"Fair enough."

Then, Thane recalled how John was staring at him a moment ago, full of desire and longing. It made Thane feel wanted in a way he had thought he was done with. It felt almost selfish to pursue him, but Thane knew that was ridiculous.

Kepral's Syndrome didn't magically stop him from living his life, despite his most recent actions suggesting otherwise. His emotions didn't automatically stop developing. John was aware of his condition. He could decide for himself what that would mean regarding whatever this was between them.

Besides, Thane wanted to do something bold for a change. He wanted to make the move.

Reaching out, he placed his hand on top of Shepard’s. John tensed slightly at first, only to relax when Thane gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Too much?" Thane asked.

John instantly shook his head. Turning his hand over, he laced their fingers together.

"Not enough," he countered, sounding somewhat breathless, even to Thane.

It only bolstered his confidence.

Leaning in closer, Thane lowered his voice, fixated on the man before him.

"If you'd like," he said, his voice reverberating with emotion, "I could give you a private demonstration."

He slipped his hand free and grabbed his dishes. Shepard followed his lead as they trashed their scraps and placed everything in the dishwasher to be cleaned, shuffling over to the side of the Mess. They attracted a few stares, but nothing too concerning.

John furrowed his brow at Thane and asked, "A demonstration on...?"

As he trailed off in confusion, Thane smirked. He closed the distance between them, hands upon John's hips as he pointedly met his gaze and then eyed his lips.

Shifting closer, Thane heard the slightest catch in John's breath, their lips only about an inch apart.

But the kiss wasn't going to come. Not yet, anyways.

Thane took a deep breath, delighting in how elated he felt just from their proximity alone.

"Only on what we've been talking about for the past several minutes," Thane answered. "Give me some time, and I'll show you how bad I can really be."

John’s eyes widened, pupils blown, but he didn’t back down from the challenge.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Maybe it’s a little bit of both.” Easing the edge of his shirt up along his sides, Thane’s fingers skirted along the sliver of exposed skin right above the waistband of his pants. John shivered but stayed in place. “It wouldn’t be any fun if I told you, though, would it?”

“No,” John breathed. “I guess not. I mean, there has to be some anticipation, right?”

“Right.” Reluctantly, Thane started to pull away, but John didn’t let him get far before he was closing the distance between them again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“What?” John pouted. “You’re leaving already?”

“Blame yourself,” Thane told him. “I’m doing that thing that you mentioned the other day about spending more time with the crew. Garrus and I talked shop some. Now, he insists on joining me in Life Support to ‘fix’ the specs and modifications on my rifle.”

“And you’re letting him?” John asked, both incredulous and amused.

“Sure, why not?” Thane rested his hand on Shepard’s arm, stroking his thumb over the rough skin. “If he starts to do anything too outlandish, then I’ll put him in his place, simple as that. Besides, have you seen how... intense he gets while he works? Very focused. Real good with his hands, too.”

“Ah, so the truth finally comes out.” John tsked at him, feigning disappointment. His arm flexed the slightest bit as Thane started to trace his fingers along the outline of his muscles, mesmerized by the strength hidden beneath the surface. “You’re insatiable.”

Thane didn’t know whether John was making the reference in relation to himself or Garrus, not that it mattered much.

“Guilty as charged.” Thane didn’t even bother trying to hide it. There was no point to. “Although, I’m certain that similar could be said about your feelings towards our resident turian.”

“No comment.”

“Of course not,” Thane said. Eventually, he took Shepard’s hand in his own. “Regardless, you’re more than welcome to join us, you know.”

“Three’s not too big of a crowd?”

“Nope. If anything, we can always make room for one more.” Together, they walked out of the Mess hand-in-hand, ignoring the eyes that followed them. “Just try to keep up.”

Shepard chuckled.

“I’ll do my best.”

[strangerobin]

Rue: Chapter 5 (Jasper Hale x OC Imagine)

Just some familial bonding and a new discovery.

**Note: Introducing Adeline's little makeshift family :D The problem with thinking too much is that the more you think, the longer the story gets, and you try to give more backstory to each side character until you get totally distracted by them lol So expect more appearances from Adeline's little family ;) wink And expect this to be a slow slow burn Also I hope I've done justice to Alice's and Jasper's relationship (which obviously deviates heavily from the book but whatever); it's as said before, it's always sad to see a relationship dissolve, especially when it's not because of the lack of love for each other But not every relationship works till the very end, and it's alright It's still a precious part of life**

When she was warm and fed, Adeline retreated with Loreen into the latter’s room. The raging storm in her chest was finally calming by the child’s careless humming as she laid in Loreen’s double bed, guarded by plushies and dolls of all sort. While Loreen was parked next to her enormous hand crafted dollhouse, deftly placing each doll into their designated place. There was something she had noticed that was nagging at her.

“Why are you wearing gloves indoors?”

Loreen started and whipped her head towards Adeline, clearly made uncomfortable by the question. “Um… well you see…” The child spluttered, momentarily staring at her hands before finally shrugging nonchalantly and tugging the pair of gloves off. “You’re right, I suppose they are ridiculous, aren’t they?”

She threw the pair of gloves over her dresser before stooping to stuff the rest of her miniature dolls into the dollhouse and diving into bed. Her attention already distracted by something else like any child would do.

“Ohhh! What’s this Addie? I never saw this on you before.” She pointed to the little silver locket around her neck. Clearly fascinated by the intricate carvings on the locket. “It’s absolutely gorgeous!”

“Oh this old thing?” Adeline fingered the trinket, felt the grooves and the carving underneath her thumb. It was funny how she could look at it now with a sterilised sense of calm but god forbid lose control so easily faced with the man in the woods.“It was from a friend.”

“Pretty.” Loreen murmured. Leaning closer to check out the trinket, she touched it gingerly with a finger and was immediately absorbed by it. “Must be very important if you’re still holding onto it after all these years.”

That struck a nerve and Adeline quickly tucked the locket beneath her bathrobe and shot Loreen a smile, abruptly changing the subject. “Well aren’t you chatty tonight, Lorie.”

“Well you know what I’m down to chat about?” Loreen shifted her little body so that she was on her stomach, cheeks in her hands, sizing Adeline up with her brown eyes. “Your absence.”

“You sure you want to talk about this, young lady?” Adeline laughed, amused by the child’s antics.

“I do.” Was the child’s serious reply.

“Well you have Anakin. And Teddy. I think you hardly need me around.”

“Anakin’s a tyrant, he never takes no for an answer. And he’s surprisingly very persuasive when he wants. And Teddy… Teddy’s fine, he’s a good a soul. But he’s a bit of a bore.”

Adeline snorts. “Good soul? Good lord Loreen where did you learn to talk like this?”

Loreen pouted cutely. “See this is all Anakin’s work. He’s just no fun really. I miss having you around, I need another girl to talk to!”

“Oh sweetheart I’m sure some of the neighbour’s kids would play with you.”

“They’re such children! I couldn’t possibly play with them! I’m surrounded by goldfish everywhere!”

“You’re a child yourself. And you’re not in an aquarium, Loreen.”

“Yes I am, so I really need you here with me. Besides Father never comes. I mean you’d actually be pretty undisturbed here. He calls us disappointments anyways. He only ever has time for the elites!”

Adeline smiled ruefully and reached a hand pat the little one’s head. Here she was, worrying even her little sister. “He will be around more, if he knew I was here.”

“Ahhh to be a favourite child.” Loreen sighed dramatically.

“Seriously, where did you learn to speak like this?”

“What? Because it is unbecoming of a child?”

“Exactly.”

The pair stared the other down until finally Loreen cracked.

“I might have been rifling through Netflix a bit…”

“And?"

“And I do so adore those British period pieces.”

“There we have it! I think I might need to talk to Anakin about you-“

“Oh you are odious!” Loreen pouted again, before latching onto Adeline’s arm. “Please, please, pretty please! Don’t rob me of my only joys in life! Anakin’s barely even bothers with me half the time and have you seen Teddy? No! Because he’s always out to do some boring stuff and I’m always alone! I’m bored out of my mind! I'll read anything in this house, I even read the dictionary to pass time!”

Adeline laughed again. “Alright, little lady. I’ll let you be, so long as you go to sleep right now.”

Still grumbling, Loreen got under the quilt but nonetheless snuggled close to Adeline.

“Sweet dreams dear.”

She watched the child close her eyes. Lucky child, she wished she was back in that little cottage, snuggling up to her sister, a fire roaring in the hearth. When sleep was easy and her dreams were not tainted by her demons and shadows of regret.

But just as she felt the tendrils of an oncoming nightmare, she felt a small hand reaching up to her forehead. Adeline soon felt a warmth enveloping her body, her head was on a pillow of cloud. And just before she fell into a dreamless slumber, she thought she heard a whisper.

“Sleep well, Adeline.”

*

“Jasper are you sure?” Alice asked worried, hurrying after the man as he strode with purpose.

“I’m sure.” They were at a car dealership in Minnesota. Alice had been stumped trying to scour for possible leads for Adeline, but something had changed for Jasper. Instead of the usual moroseness that clung to him, he seemed to have been rejuvenated by some unknown spark, there was a new found confidence in him of sorts. It mystified her, he was acting like a child who had been let on a secret that he only knew.

“I’ll drive you to the closest airport and you can take the next flight home.” Jasper said as he led her to the car he had bought. “Then I’ll continue on from there.”

“And how exactly are you going to find her, Jasper?” She quizzed. “If a seer can’t even find her. And she leaves practically no scent for anyone to follow if she wants.”

Jasper turned to look at her then, really looked at her; she scrutinised him equally hard on her part. Searching for an answer.

And it hit her like a bullet to the chest.

She understood then.

“She’s your mate, isn’t she?”

Jasper looked away guiltily before giving her an affirmative nod. “I think so… yes.” His eyes clouded over then, reminiscing. “It took seeing her again to confirm it. But I… I feel her in my heart, this small tugging… incessantly. Even now I can feel it, pulling at me, urging me to move, to be closer.”

“Oh Jasper. That’s wonderful news.” She had to congratulate him, despite still reeling from the shock and the ever-growing pain inside her heart. She really shouldn’t be selfish now.

“Alice.” Her hand was clasped into his large ones, and she eyed their intertwined hands before gently letting them fall. One look at him and she saw the heartbreak and sorrow in him. How torn he must be feeling right now, the dilemma he was in. “I’ve hurt you, Alice.” He finally murmured. “And it wasn’t even my intention.”

But how could she forget that for every little emotion she had, Jasper felt it tenfold more. So intense was his sense that if her heartbreak was already eating at him, it must have been excruciating when he had seen Adeline the night before.

“Perhaps I really shouldn’t..." Deliberating internally with his own doubts and concerns, Jasper struggled to find the right words to express himself. "She doesn’t want to see me... not anymore anyways. Why throw away everything we’ve built...”

Alice watched on as she was reminded of her times with Jasper then. The Quileute tribe may deem him dangerous for his skill and experience in the army, he might have had a hand in the Southern Vampire wars; but the Jasper she knew, the man she had loved was always a sweet and gentle man. Sentimental yes, empathetic even more so. All the years he had spent shielding her, simply being there for her. Alice knew that if she took away this chance from him, it would always be a regret on his part. And this wound would continue to fester like cancer, eat at him, until it ultimately killed him from the inside. Until there was nothing left but a shell of a man.

He deserved more than anyone, to love and be loved.

And if all he needed was a push, she would gladly give it to him.

“Go.” She beamed at him through her unshed tears. “Go find her and make it up to her.”

“I’m not even sure if there’s anything that needs my making up to her.” Jasper whispered in exasperation, but his caress betrayed a gentleness that was almost innate in him. She leaned into his palm one last time.

“Bring her back will you, I have a hunch we’ll be the best of friends.” She breathed. Watched as a new resolve hardened in his eyes.

“Yes ma’am” The same reply he had given when she first greeted him in that little diner in Philadelphia.

Her heart might break just a little bit more.

*

Jasper was driving his new car, not quite sure where his destination was yet. Simply letting the pull at his heart guide him.

Though to be honest, his mind wasn’t particularly on the scenery or the drive. He needed the time to think, to sort out the mess that was in his mind.

A soulmate bond.

When Carlisle had mentioned to him all those years ago; he had struggled not to be cynical about it. Because yes, it was rude; but also because he didn’t quite believe in all that bullshit after his time with Adeline and then his affair with Maria. Maria had simply manipulated and ensnared him into a web of lies and then proceeded to use him and mould and knead him into whatever she needed him to be then. There was no deeper emotion other than the feeling of being exploited by the woman.

But Adeline. Adeline, she had straight up ripped out a wide gapping hole in his heart. Do people ever get over a heartbreak like that? He had wondered.

It was really Alice who had calmed him down over the years, shed new light on his existence as a vampire, provided the companionship he so desperately needed. Helped him control the bloodlust.

If Adeline had never reappeared in his life, if she had never passed through Washington for whatever reasons, if she had not stopped to find Renesmee. Why, he thought, they might never chance to meet. He would continue his peaceful and contented life with the Cullens and Alice; and she would have continue on her merry way.

But nothing in life ever goes as planned.

The moment his eyes finally beheld her form again after centuries, he knew then. He knew then that she was the one he had been waiting for all along. Perhaps it was the way how the world seemed to have changed; how it brightened like never before. Or how alive he felt in that moment, how his dead heart almost, almost started beating again. Or how when she had left, the pain in his heart, how excruciating it had been, as if it were ready to tear itself apart. Maybe it was just the way that when she was around, every feeling that he had was intensified.

And when he felt that unknown tugging at his heart, it had all but cemented his belief.

But now that his sentiments were all but confirmed, there were other concerns that warranted his attention.

He thought back to the night they had met, rewinding and examining every little detail that he may have missed. Sure it was excruciating, but he needed more facts to pursue. He needed a plan of action to lure Adeline out of her shell, to make her at least talk to him. He didn’t think that a reconciliation was possible after her rejection, but surely some answers were long overdue.

He recalled how she had trembled at the mention of her father, how desperate she had wanted to escape from him.

Her grandmother Henriette had once told him that: there are things that are out of their control, things that are better left in the dark. Her father had needed her and what could a single unwed woman do but to comply to her parent’s wish. He had been young and rash then, had dismissed it all in a fit of fury and anguish, had chalked it up to his lack of wealth and class. But now that he thought of it, perhaps they were half truths mingled with white lies, told to protect him from a greater evil for his own sake. A tyrannical patriarch figure who was also probably a very ancient vampire.

He briefly considered just what he was getting himself into.

As he cut the line to leave the highway at the next exit, he felt another strong tug at his heart as if it were a signal that he was on the right track.

He had just passed a giant billboard that said.

Welcome to Colorado.

*

When Theodore, or simply Teddy, returned from his ‘dull and tedious tryst with his insipid chess-loving company’ as Loreen quoted, or as the man himself reiterated impatiently ‘a simple chess meeting in Denver’, he was met with a chaotic household gone rogue.

“Well aren’t you dapper, young man?” Adeline drawled from her couch she had claimed for herself, parked right in front of the TV. Sizing up the man, she took note of his wind swept black curls, the tweed blazer and the crisp silk shirt and the shiny black dress shoes. In turn, Teddy was also eyeing his sister intently.

“Is that my bathrobe?” The finely-dressed man asked incredulous, one hand on his hips, the other pointing accusingly at the former.

“What?!” Adeline defended, refusing to budge from her position. “You have grand taste. And it’s comfy.”

“And is that my Rockies t-shirt?”

“So it seems to be.” Adeline shrugged nonchalantly.

“Anakin! She’s even drinking my wine now! And she’s gone through my entire chocolate stash!”

“Oh go bother someone else won’t you!” Was Anakin’s annoyed reply.

But as Loreen had put it, Teddy was a good soul and all was forgiven soon enough with peace restored within the makeshift family.

Yet underneath the calm lurked a quiet unease.

The family was quick to notice, the listlessness and jitteriness Adeline was emanating. The more they tried to press her, the more withdrawn she grew, refusing to divulge in whatever she had hidden.

For Adeline, she had thought she was seeking safety and shelter among her half-siblings, but in confinement she was growing evermore restless. She stubbornly ignored the void in her heart, a strong reminder that an essential part of her was missing from her life. One she had all but forgotten until the fateful run in. Instead she paced the halls all through the nights, had taken to drinking coffee at night and wine in the morning. And when she rested, sleep was always fitful, plagued by strange dreams and nightmares and long-forgotten memories.

Her intuition was never wrong, it was the only gift she could fall back on in times of crises. And right now, she could taste it in the air, hear it in the wind. Something was about to happen, a reckoning of sorts she was sure, and here she was waiting for a sign.

Adeline downed another flask of coffee as she sat in the chill with a simple blanket to keep herself warm. The stars were out and she was studying them as they moved across the late evening sky.

She desperately needed a sign. This state of limbo was slowing driving her insane. She needed a way out, an escape.

“Hey.”

“Hey you.” She didn’t need to turn, she knew only one person who would be brave enough to disturb her in her reverie.

Teddy gently sat down beside her. “You’re not sleeping.”

“I can’t.” Adeline frowned and rubbed her face, exhaustion evident in her system.

“Well all that caffeine isn’t helping.” Her half brother smile and pointed at the flask in her lap.

“Well, I don’t want to sleep.” Adeline retorted with more bite than was needed.

“Adeline.” Theo admonished softly.

She shot him a warning look, though the corners of lips were slightly upturned good-naturedly. “Teddy.”

Teddy bless his soul, always the same kindhearted and gentle soul that he was. Loreen might call his person boring, but Adeline liked how he was always constant and steadfast… like an evergreen. There was a reason why he had always been her favourite out of all her siblings, not even her history with Anakin could beat this. For him, she would shield him from every hurt, every danger; and sometimes she wondered if she had done all that was good for him. If she had done right by him while raising him to be the man he was today.

“Well? What is it that you want to ask then?” Adeline rested her head on her knees and gestured for Teddy to voice his concerns.

He studied her intently for a second, as if finding the right word to begin with. “Something’s happened. Anakin tells me you were in a pretty bad state when you came but he wouldn’t divulge further said you didn’t tell him as well.”

“So I didn’t.”

“Well you can tell me. You know I’m your most trusted confidant.”

Adeline had to laugh at that. “Yes you are, my beloved brother.”

An easy silence enveloped the two as they sat shoulders touching, head tilted towards the open galaxy. This was the only thing she ever missed, in between running around the country, and hiding away from her father. This heartfelt connection with the only few people with whom she could be herself; a permanent residence, a pillow under her head at night. She had given up something similar, years ago when she was still young and naive, and very much in love, desperately so.

Now, she didn’t let herself dream on.

“Do you... do you remember New York?” Adeline dug her fingers into the wet earth, the dampness of the earth filling her nostrils immediately. “Do you remember Harlem, 1921?”

“That night when you drunk the entire club under the table?” Teddy turned to eye her carefully, even after all these years, he was still sensitive about that little fiasco she had pulled to spite their father, and probably to spite herself too. “Yeah I remember that night.”

Adeline kept her head down, her hand playing absentmindedly with the loose soil. “Do you remember when you asked me don’t you have any regrets in life?”

“And you had said yes, more than you will ever know.”

“Well…” There was a catch in her throat now and she swallowed hard to speak. “Do you have any regrets yourself Ted? Just something… anything.”

Teddy frowned as he contemplated the question Adeline had raised. But then she didn't think he had any; moralistic Teddy, gentle Teddy, worry-wart Teddy, he had too much foresight to let himself make grave mistakes like she did. “Nothing major really. Although… there is a place my mind always goes back to…”

“Which is?”

“The little diner in Philly, 1948.” The brunette hesitated, stealing a sidelong glance at his sister before continuing. “The one you were adamant we left immediately. I always thought that there was something… someone waiting for me there… and I always wonder what I would’ve find there if we had gone in.”

“Our ultimate demise probably.” Adeline shrugged.

“And why are we talking about regrets now?”

She hummed in response, turning to give her brother a tired smile. “Because, it seems my biggest regret has decided to return now to haunt me, out of vengeance.”

*

Jasper pulled into the local inn parking lot, killing the ignition as he did.

Georgetown Mountain Inn.

The modest sign glowed in the dark night.

He had circled round the interstate for a day and a half, and then into Denver city, letting his newfound instinct guide him on his search. And it had ultimately lead him to this quaint historical mining town just west of Denver.

He breathed in the fresh alpine air.

This felt just about right.

Or so he thought.

“Ruelle? Never heard the name young man if I might say so myself. You looking for someone?”

The innkeeper shook his head at his inquiries the next day. Georgetown was only a small town after all. If it’s residents had never heard of the name, then the chances of finding a Ruelle in the town was close to slim. Distracted, the man had then turned back to the phone call he was on, entirely unaware of the subtle shift in emotion of his customer.

“Marie. You got the van out? I phoned up the Emersons last night. Anakin says he’ll be round before 11 to take a look at it. Afterwards he’s got business with Ted down in Denver that’ll keep him there for a week. Ask Jim to hurry over will ya?”

The innkeeper was still on the phone when Jasper turned to leave.

“Who’s looking after Loreen? Heard they got family staying over for a while to look after the kiddo. Beats me Marie... I’m sure they’ve still got good folks in the family.”

Without a plan or even a clue, Jasper decided to cruise round town and then up the lake to take his mind off Adeline. Even if the disappointment was slowly eating at him; he had been so sure of himself, but now doubt was settling in. Perhaps he had been mistaken indeed, everything was only a figment of his imagination, wishful thinking on his part. But then again, no sane person on the run would think to use their real name, no? He reasoned with himself. He knew he wouldn’t, and he didn’t think Adeline was stupid enough to do the same. So not all hope was lost yet.

Up ahead, his line of sight fell on a quaint little house nestled within the mountainous terrain overlooking the lake.

Casually pulling into the drive; he was just able to catch a pair of brothers heading out. One was much tanner than the other and though neither looked quite related to the other, but there was a little something that made him believed that they were related. The elder was fixing up the jeep parked on the driveway while the younger one was lingering at the door, taking to someone inside the house.

He recalled the phone call his innkeeper had made that morning.

Jasper strained his ears to listen to their conversation while pretending to make a u-turn at the end of the drive.

“You sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you Ad?”

“I’ll be fine Teddy, just go. Don’t let your students down. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“Grandmaster.” A little girl, one he had missed before, chimed cheekily.

But the man, Teddy, was still unconvinced. “You still haven’t told me what’s troubling you Ad.”

“I’ll think about it.” The woman in the house replied.

“You’re still jittery.”

“It’s the caffeine.”

“Ad-”

“Bruh you coming or what?” The elder by the car shouted back towards the house.

“This isn’t over.” The younger man muttered before scrambling down the terrace towards the jeep.

There was a ringing in Jasper’s ears as he leaned forward in his seat to catch a glimpse of the woman who turned to usher the child back into the house before closing the front door.

And just as the door closed, he thought he glimpsed a pale face framed by brown curls and a pair of blue eyes.

[mercurypilgrim]

D&D Shenanigans - Continued

So where we left off last time, the party had been dragged off to a reformation camp, except the warlock who ended up weaseling his way out of completely deserved trouble again with his stunning persuasion rolls.

The poor DM is now doing a solo session with me (the shifty half-elf archfey warlock who is a lying liar who lies), and we start off after the other two had been carted off in a prison cart and the Warlock is now alone in front of the paranoid Burgomaster.

The Warlock decides to put the sleaze on and kiss ass, which he does a decent job of.

The Burgomaster decides the shifty hedge-witch looking dude should probably prove himself, which he does by demanding he get information on a political rival.

The Warlock of course agrees to this, and sets off with some more slimy compliments and promises.

Promptly leaving and making sure he isn’t followed, he decides that the best thing to do is to start a revolution.

So, he puts that ridiculous persuasion skill to good use and rounds up some disgruntled merchants and sets off to the political rivals house, intent on becoming the double agent he was always born to be.

Skipping past a section in which he crit fails on a perception several times but still gets himself in with the newly founded resistance, he’s on his way back to the Burgomaster with news of a false rebellion brewing in another village. The Burgomaster, believing him and absolutely horrified, sends half his guards to quell the imaginary rebellion.

The Warlock, laying on the charm with a shovel, gets the run of the place and immediately decides to go snooping.

He finds a closet, a snazzy book, and a man tied up in a room.

After interrogating the man, making use of the closet and his disguise kit, he sends his new buddy off to join the resistance and merrily walks himself to the Burgomaster’s sons room, who it has been hinted is responsible for several horrible incidents of magical experimentation.

The door is warded, but with a liberal application of Minor Illusion, the emo hellion of a son believes his father is calling for him and opens it.

Darting inside, the Warlock finds a veritable treasure trove of magical nonsense, including several skeletal cats, some life-size dolls carved to look like children, and a creepy rug.

Rifling through the desk yields some notes on advanced spells, which he pockets, but before he can pilfer anything further, the son comes back.

Hiding behind a bookcase, the Warlock decides that now is the best opportunity to put on a bit of a show.

Many applications of Minor Illusion later, the son is shivering in his drawers as a Ghost of Christmas Past style phantasm (the Warlock with a barely-scraping-by performance roll and some dramatic smoke) is asking him about his crimes.

He confesses, and this ends the string of good luck the Warlock has been riding on.

The son begins to systematically roll high enough to shred each layer of bullshit the Warlock tries to lay on him, ending up with the son losing patience and going invisible, about to enter combat.

The Warlock decides this is some bullshit, and runs away.

He rushes to the Burgomaster who he has now proven himself to, and rolls high enough to convince him that his son has turned traitor.

Fully getting on board with this, the Burgomaster decides to take the word of this stunningly untrustworthy individual, and decides his son needs to be confronted.

Which is helpful, because the son bursts into the room to see the Warlock whispering into his fathers ear like Grima Wormtongue to King Theoden.

Rightly pissed off, the son ignores his father accusing him of betrayal and, with a hand wave worthy of a Jedi, uses Suggestion on his father to convince him he’s been lied to.

The Warlock whips out Counterspell, only to find his Counterspell is also Counterspelled. After a few moments of completely deserved bafflement, the warlock realises he is now in deep shit.

Panicking now that this 9th level spellcaster is about to obliterate him, the Warlock pulls one last gambit out of his bag of tricks.

With his final spell slot, he casts Crown of Madness on the son who, by sheer luck, fails.

The command is given to attack one of the guards and the son dutifully is compelled to obey, and the Warlock decides to add one last twist of the knife by rolling for Persuasion and shouting about how the young man is working for Strahd.

The guard takes a small amount of melee damage from the skinny wizard, and promptly crits on his return swing.

Two more guards join in the fray, and a final one rolls a crit and separates the sons head from his shoulders.

Completely horrified, the Burgomaster is released from the Suggestion when the caster dies, and rushes to his son.

In a moment of complete callousness, the Warlock goes to comfort him and gains his complete trust by spinning another tale of revenge, after which he sneaks up while the family are grieving and raids the sons creepy lab.

All but one of the skeletal cats are dead now, but with a only-just-made-it roll on Animal Handling, he gains the trust of the last one. It follows him as he makes a speedy exit, and the DM and myself are left shell-shocked at the turn this supposedly gentle evening has taken.

We’re still not sure how to explain this to the rest of the party.

[sanguinechaos]

hello what is UP im back at it again with another borderlands oc didnt even intend to make her at first but my friends were like [gentle persuasion meme] so here she is but wait, comes with an actual description this time

❖ Collects and repurposes bones and skulls. Smaller ones are used/sold of a decorative while bigger ones get used as planters. Does have a tendency to hoard them (for that desert plant witch aesthetic) so her shack is basically littered with them even if they aren't always in use. And besides, bonemeal is useful in agriculture.

❖ Cryptid levels of gardening. Wherever she stays tiny succulents in tiny plant pots probably start showing up. Has an encyclopedias worth of knowledge on herbal medicine and agriculture. Grows whatever she can get her hands on, whether for food, decoration, medical uses or murder. And several strains of weed. Had decided that hydroponics are for heretics. ❖ Knows what local plant species get you off your tits, or dead, depending on your objective. Doesn't usually try it on herself cause she's not that stupid, and bandits are in no short supply. They can easily be convinced to try potentially deadly concoctions with a mere promise of food. Just in case you started thinking she has morals.

❖ Not gonna hesitate to grind someone into mulch if they dare steal from her.

❖ To elaborate a bit more on the head trauma. Will complain about it loudly and at lenght if you ask about it. Doesn’t like being approached from that side cause she basically can’t hear or see it coming, which is a good way to end up getting shanked. It’s a pretty big weakspot if she happens to get into any physical altercations so she tends to avoid even chancing those.  Her weapon of choice is a sniper rifle cause it works at quite a distance and doesn’t really require depth perception.

❖ Look she’s essentially the twins weed guy. That’s what I’m getting at. She gives them the good kush.

[third-rail-vip]

The Fallout OC Seven Day S.P.E.C.I.A.L.!

Day 4 - Charisma

If in doubt, you can’t fail with the mercenary charmer suit*

How persuasive is your OC?

It took Ivy a couple of weeks to find her feet on how getting her own way/or getting away with things in the commonwealth worked, but after that she was off to a flying start.  She is really good with people - genuine - and they tend to want to help her out with most things she asks for.  And if you ask MacCready, she’s mastered the art of the big brown puppy dog eyes.  

How easily can they obtain information that others may be less willing or inclined to share?

Very easily, especially if they are hiding something because they’re frightened, ashamed or just not confident in what they know.  She is very gentle with people, has a way with making them feel safe and confident that she wants what’s best for them and will do whatever she can to help.  She’s not above dropping the smile with shady characters and resorting to either tricking information out of them, or sounding very convincing in any threats she might lay out - having a merc with a rifle at her back doesn’t go amiss in these situations either.  

How much verbal charm do they have?

She has a way with words, helped by a warm, calm voice.  She’s softly spoken and can carry on a conversation with someone like they are the only person in the world, making them feel like the most important thing in that moment.  It works very well at getting information, or just soothing someone who is distressed or suffering.  

Can they carry themselves with confidence?

If you mean in a dangerous situation, well she *can*, but it takes a lot of nerve when she’s genuinely frightened.  She had a lot of practice pre-war at hiding her fear, it’s just not a mindset that she copes well with having to readopt.  But yeah, if she must, she can be the picture of serene grace and calm confidence.

*I don’t know what it is about it

In case any of you are concerned, those are mk.5 ballistic weaved fishnet tights, she’s perfectly safe XD

[englass]

Threadbare

Pairing(s): John Seed x F! Reader/Deputy

Warning(s): A little bit of Possessive Behaviour near the end (when isn’t there in my fics haha)

Word Count: 9,101

A/N: Gonna use this opportunity to apologise to @starsandskies @softseeds and @seedlingsinner for not getting back to you on your ‘Last Line Meme’ tags, I’ve been working on this and didn’t want to risk spoiling anymore of it than I have 😅 Apologies again, lovelies! ❤️ Now, I hope you all enjoy this inconsistent mess;  I’m just glad that it’s finally over!

Also, side note: this is the final/original version of ‘A Moment In Time’ that I never thought that I’d finish, so... yeah, I actually finished it; oops? 😅

- - -

The room is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of fabric and your calm breathing, only ever holding when your concentration tightens or a loud sound catches your ear. It’s a risky move you’re making, being here of all places. All it would take is one slip up and any patrolling Peggies would come running. In your current position, rifle resting just out of comfortable reach against a nearby night stand and hand gun securely holstered to your thigh, the potential outcome could be precarious.

Still, such thoughts are far out of mind. If anything, for once, your mind is not plagued by the worries, fears and demands of the people. It is quiet, tranquil, filled with an occupied motion that lulls and eases. It is the most peace you have had since this whole debacle began; and secretly, unknowingly even to yourself, you take your sweet time and milk it for all it’s worth. An unconscious action deeply needed.

Every so often you take stock, pausing to look, only to end up staring at nothing in particular, around the room you hold court in. It’s a surprisingly large room and it is as gorgeous and telling as the man it belongs to: all high-class with expensive taste, yet subtly simple – modest in design and openly exquisite in every minute detail. Almost everything, save for the immaculate wooden furniture and feather-soft carpet, falls within the spectrum of blue. It creates an oceanic space filled with a deep and enriching sense of stillness and liberation, emulating the ebb and rise of a tempered wave.

It’s an absent wonder why sloth is visualised as the coercing colour.

You shift slightly, readjusting your position as you turn back to the article of clothing in your lap, eyes layered with an embedded fatigue not aimed at anything in particular. The glaze is misleading, your movements speaking not of a tired body. Instead, they are easily measured with a humble confidence, working at a steady pace with a precise and focused concentration, all benign.

There is an edge of paranoia, sharp and teetering like the point of a knife. It fuels the anvil-heavy weight on your shoulders, makes it hard to breathe even the shallowest of breaths. Worry gnaws at your edges alongside its cutting twin. ‘What ifs’ are a dangerous line of thought, yet even with an empty mind it turns in the background, twisting and coiling like a viper as worry and paranoia feed and pamper it.

The stress of the situation – the position you’ve been made to hold, a final bastion in a red-dyed field – has left a very real and scarring impression upon you. A bitter taste you can’t wash out.

It’s why you draw out your time with a self-imposed task that could be over within a matter of seconds. You drown yourself in an old action and memory, away from the war you have been made charge of.

It actually makes for quite an interesting scene.

Away from the tragedy of a civil war and the reluctant role you play in it, in the confines of a grand modern home, one would see the image of domesticity. A young woman sat on a satin quilted bed, expression relaxed and eyes tinged with oblivion as they lose themselves in a rhythmic motion, effortlessly mending a piece of male attire with a needle and thread in hand. A simple kit that the young lady wields with a conviction that rivals that of a knight and his sword.

Yes, quite a scene it makes.

Admittedly breaking into the infamous Seed Ranch wasn’t the best place to host such an image, despite how well you fit into the frame (obscenely so), but it wasn’t your idea to come here in the first place. No, the Resistance has a way of... puppeteering you. Not that you would ever openly admit to such a thing.

Thankfully you have it on good authority – ‘it better be on good authority’, you had snarled, before stalking out of the door of the outpost you had been visiting – that the youngest Seed would be away for the day. Overseeing another load of confessions and such, you had no doubt. It would be the perfect opportunity to take the ranch for the Resistance; loot the cave while the dragon is away, so to speak. Perhaps that’s why, along with the decrease in guard numbers, you had somewhat made yourself at home, taking your time to slowly wander the grand ranch and really take it all in; all in its full and undisturbed splendour.

Arguably you could do so once it was under the Resistance’s control, it would be a lot easier and less stressful to do so then, but you are not naive enough to believe that they won’t change anything once it’s theirs. No, it’s better to see it as it’s intended to be, before that travesty occurs.

Yet, despite your initial wanderings into the many, many rooms around the ranch, it was John Seed’s bedroom – of all places – that had caught your eye. It is why you are currently perched contently on the man’s king sized bed as you tend absently to one of his shirts.

It’s truly silly when you think about it, it’s just a shirt after all, but it turns out that sewing your younger sibling’s toys and clothing growing up has ultimately left a very lasting impression upon you. You had found solace in the action growing up and you still felt it now, more so than ever with the violent turn your life has taken, and you wanted nothing more than a brief moment to try and capture that same tranquility once again.

Although, in all honesty, even you know that you’re not potentially endangering yourself like this for a reason so small and seemingly petty.

With your modest sewing kit on the night-table next to you, and the faintest whisper of the birds songs outside, you pause to look over your work. It’s not turned out too bad, it won’t be the worst you’ve ever done, but not the best either. Not that you believe for a second that John would actually appreciate the gesture, no matter how perfect it turned out.

John Seed, though mainly known for his slippery lawyer ways and role within the infamous Eden’s Gate, was a very rich man. His life before Eden’s Gate, before being reunited with his lost siblings, had him as a rather successful property attorney from what you’ve heard, and it’s from that life and accumulated wealth that’s allowed the project to get as large and domineering as it has done.

It’s also allowed him to lavish himself in some of the most luxurious, and most audaciously expensive, brands that you’ve never heard off. Not only was he good looking, tall and slim with a lean frame painted with tattoos and gifted with a pretty face home to a devilish smile, but he dressed impeccably well.

It was near impossible to not initially swoon at such a charming character, but sadly he was a bit of an open book. The exterior may be exquisite, utterly unique and persuasive in how it draws you in, but it’s too easy to read and you find it’s pages to be littered with an underlying venom and rage; a bitterness that may be understandable, but hardly justifiable.

It was actually quite sad when you chose to sit down and actually think about the man and his siblings, to sit down and try to read them as best as you could. Each of them were broken in their own ways, left in disrepair, from the lives they had lived. You had even gone so far as to read Joseph’s physical book, the bible by which Eden’s Gate knelt before, to see if it could tell you more. The question of how they became – how you know them to be – a guiding hand as you flicked through the yellowing pages and over painful words.

Theirs was truly a sad story.

Still, you know it is no excuse for what they have done, or what they continue to do; and yet there is a part of you that, secretly, knows that you do this simple gesture for more of a reason than out of habit or past influence. It’s a simple but nice gesture and, although you don’t feel like it’ll be appreciated, you’re sure it’s something that they – John in-particular and especially so – have never been given before. At least not willingly.

If anything, with how rich John is, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just brought a new shirt from an equally fancy, if not tear-inducingly expensive, brand without even batting an eye. That’s if he didn’t get it custom made. You’re pretty sure your average store doesn’t sell plane printed jackets and Eden’s Gate belt buckles after all.

Even so there’s no need to waste money, even if he can burn it and still be well off, when you can just as easily fix it. Besides, it’s actually a really nice shirt. Even with its predictable colouring.

Despite all the terrible things the man has done, and will no doubt continue to do, you can’t help the small smile that blooms across your lips. The knowledge that the Baptist, the dreaded Reaper, of Eden’s Gate has a favourite colour and is so shameless in embracing it is strangely humanising to you; and also surprisingly sobering.

At a leisurely pace, mind now hollow with an echoing sorrow, you pierce the fabric and loop the needle through the gap between the strand of thread and pull, creating a knot. You do this a second time, creating another knot to make sure it stays, before you reach for the small scissors in the kit beside you, cutting the remaining thread loose.

With a soft touch you run your finger over the fabric, silently marvelling at its heavenly texture as you thoughtfully look over your finished work. The thread you’ve used isn’t as high quality as the shirt itself is made out of, a fact that actually irritates you, but it’s the best that you own and you find yourself sighing in resignation; leaving it be.

Yes, it’ll have to do.

With a lingering gaze you start to slowly turn the shirt back to being inside-in, taking your time to enjoy the quiet that’s fallen over you. It’s only as you go to straighten the shirt, holding it out in front of you and giving it a final, critical look-over, that the silence breaks and you’re startled out of your revere.

Looking toward the bedroom’s door with wide doe-eyes you are shocked to see none other than the Baptist, John Seed, himself standing at the threshold. Eyes equally as wide, but much more bemused than your own, staring at you as you internally curse your luck with a tensing jaw.

He isn’t supposed to be here...

“You know, I must admit, Deputy,” he drawls with an intriguing lilt, ocean eyes dragging over you as he leans his lithe form against the door frame with crossed arms, completely at ease despite the situation, “I never pegged you for a housewife. It makes for quite an... interesting image. Did you also happen to cook me a meal and do the laundry by chance, darling?”

His smile is mocking, sharp and cruelly delighted, and it has you flushing in a mixture of shame and restrained anger. The fact that you’ve been caught in such a position puts a nasty dent in your pride. You know how this looks: the fearsome Deputy, poster child and head of the rising Resistance, sewing; and not just sewing, but sewing the damned enemy’s – a man on your given blacklist – shirt of all things.

It’s a colossal embarrassment.

You’re also aware of what this could do to your reputation if this got out and you don’t need John Seed, the smuggest bastard around, to gloat over that. Nor do you want him making smart quips that you know he’s more than likely going to constantly torment you with now over the radio for everyone else to hear.

Life’s a living hell at the moment as it, and you don’t need something like that being added to the proverbial pile. The humiliation would kill you quicker than a piece of shrapnel from a plane crash.

“Oh shut up,” you snip, “like I’d do you the honour; and if anyone makes for an interesting image around here it’s you, unexpected as you are,” you sass lowly. “Honestly, when are you going to do us all a favour and just fuck off. Maybe you should go and play with that little toy collection of yours like a good little brother instead of harassing all of us, now that would be an interesting image.”

It’s hardly even a half-baked comeback you give him, your bite a mere brush of teeth, yet it’s still enough for his expression to turn into something testing. A tick in his jaw as his icy eyes pierce you like a needle, pinching and uncomfortable; attention grabbing in the worst way possible.

The look is near enough water off a duck’s back. If you’ve come to learn anything from your few, but nonetheless taxing interactions with the man, it's that he won’t take the risk of action unless he’s a hundred percent certain that he has you right where he wants you; where you can’t or won’t fight back.

He wants things, people and confessions alike, handed to him on a gem encrusted platter. Given to him so he can play his twisted little games and break all his new and precious little toys. Always pushing past limits and breaking you down until you can do anything else, but give him exactly what he wants. Spoiled brat.

Perhaps John isn’t as absolved of his sin, carved into his chest like a fatal warning, as he thinks he is.

Closing his eyes John kisses his teeth with a restrained annoyance that is difficult to miss. For all his talk of wrath, and how well you embody it, he puts you to shame in how well it suits him, wearing it like a second skin and parading it like a model wrapped in Prada.

“As much as I’d love to spend my free time doing things that don’t concern you or your petty Resistance, it’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it dearest,” he hits back with a chilled, but airy quality. “After all, you’ve made yourself quite a fixture in my life as it is, and I don’t believe for a second that you’d actually want out of that.” There’s a hint of something knowing in his words that doesn’t sit right with you. “And in case you haven’t noticed, but this is my home that you’re trespassing in. I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the law actually; you hardly have a warrant after all, Deputy,” he bites, cruel and vile and so self-satisfied.

For a brief moment the twins of worry and paranoia raise their heads with salivating jaws, itching like an infection to tear into you as you suddenly start to fret over John’s motives for this back and forth; along with the simmering anger that lurks beneath the water.

The anticipation of what his next rage fuelled actions could be is rattling. You can’t tell if he’s going to laugh this all off like some sort of bad joke or straight up lunge at you with the likes of a wild animal by the end of this. He can be rather unpredictable, and it’s that unpredictability that makes him so feared throughout the Valley. It’s what makes him so dangerous.

Yet it seems you can do nothing but poke the bear lately, your own frustrations and stresses giving you a false and reckless bravado. Albeit with a soft and unthreatening tone.

“And do I look like I care? We’re at war John, I’m pretty sure anything goes; your methods have already proven that. Now, are there any other normal past-times that you want to mock me for while I’m here, or am I free to go?”

Internally you wince. That came out a lot more defeated than you intended it to be. Still, you hope he at least concedes on this petty back and forth of yours and actually lets you leave–

“I’d hardly call your level of wanton wrath ‘normal’, Deputy. Tell me, what is your total body count at the moment? How many innocent lives have you gorged yourself on in order to fuel that gluttonous soul of yours, until it’s satisfied with the carnage you leave in your wake? Don’t worry though, you’re in safe hands. I’ll be sure to give your soul a good scrubbing once I get you in my chair. Starve it out of you until you bleed across my floor...”

You don’t say anything, merely roll your eyes and gently shake your head at the flip in attitude, continuing to look and touch up the shirt in your tender hold. He’s likely lost in his own warped thoughts if the way he stares through you for moment is any consolation. However, even lost in thought, you’ve found that John is not one to keep quiet for long, and he quickly proves that notion right.

“You know,” he says suddenly, conversationally; tip of his tongue wetting his lips as he looks for all the world like he just discovered the weight of gold, “if you wanted to confess to me you could of just called. Really, you needn’t go through all this trouble just to make my life easier, darling. I could have set up a welcome party and everything for you. Pulled out the red carpet, set it all up and made it all nice and perfect, for you... just for you, Deputy.”

It doesn’t make sense to you how he can warp what strangely sounds like the most sweetest and innocent of words into something so filthy, sinful and ultimately twisted; as if whispered around a forked tongue made of false promises and sugared venom. He’s an expert at his craft, you’d give him that. Sadly though you can’t help but skim over your absent companions playful jabs and blasé observations with a newfound air of caution.

The beast of worry looks at you with a telling, razored grin.

“... Flattered,” you drawl warily.

For such a simple and plain response you don’t feel that his boyish grin – filled with an emotion that is so foreign on the sadistic and calculating man that you feel the lazy shift of fear beside the intent prickle of paranoia and worry; something self satisfying and grateful and speckled with awe – is justified.

Like the flippancy of the wind John’s expression shifts, fluidly, into an emotion akin to a played up indignation. He sharply huffs through his nose.

“You should be. I make so many exceptions for you my dear and you do nothing but repay my kindness with more bloodshed. It’s rather rude of you in fact.”

“To be fair,” you cut in with a tired glower, careful with were you step in this game of twister, “your kindness leaves much to be desired. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, so forgive me for misconstruing your intentions.” It’s said with the most blatant sarcasm, dripping thickly like molten tar, and yet John lights up like a town on the eve of Christmas. The remains of his coiled agitation shifting into an unwarranted giddiness.

Good Lord, you’ve not even spent five minutes with this man and already you’ve got a killer headache.

“Oh? Should I learn by your example then, my dear Deputy? From this... quaint little gesture of yours, hmm?” He’s eyes hungrily roam over your lap, no doubt acutely aware of the way your thumb has comfortingly been brushing over the silken fabric of his shirt. “Not to say I don’t appreciate it mind you.”

You can’t stop the roll of your eyes nor  the huff that accompanies it. “Trust me, John, there’s no gesture here.”

He makes a sound in his throat, chimed with a badly contained mirth. Slightly, barely visible from your perch on his bed, he leans forward with something almost predatory in those sea-deep eyes of his. “Then what’s that in your lap?”

You turn to hold his gaze, icy and sharp with a smugness that screams of a known victory. He’s got you there. Your teeth grind into each other as you will for a retort to come to mind, but nothing does. With a heavy exhale through your nose you turn to the ceiling and pray for the strength to survive this ordeal.

Not that you’re completely confident that you will. With a swift flare of frustration one of your hands shoots up, palm facing skyward, in a half-arsed admission. “I don’t know. I don’t know, okay, I was just trying to be nice I guess.”

“Nice? You?” John barks mockingly, “Oh don’t make me laugh, Deputy. You’re a killer; there’s not an ounce of mercy in that tainted soul of yours. After all,” There’s a humourless chuckle, a glint of something vicious in his sea-deep eyes, “what ever happened to serve and protect?”

The look you throw him is completely disbelieving, practically aghast from insult, but there’s also a familiar rage resting within the glaring pools of your eyes that John knows rather well. Truthfully, it’s not something he’s ever seen in you before, more a muted irritation than straight up fury, and it thrills him something fierce to see it threatening to come into full bloom.

Conflict has never been in your veins. You came from a quiet and career driven family, to the point where your parents were hardly ever around. Arguments were rare, and if they did happen they never lasted long. You didn’t have the courage, nor stomach, for such things; and despite how much this County has twisted your placid instincts into something sharper, more aggressive and impatient, some things will just never change.

Lips in a tight line, brow furrowed and eyes ablaze in a dirty glare, you look away from him; down to your lap then across to your resting rifle. He’s not wrong, and ultimately that hurts worse than anything physical that he could very well do to you. The battle of your morals – your conscious – against your duty, against the pedestal that everyone has hoisted you up onto like some sort of savour – another Joseph almost – , is a constant one.

“Then what does that make you?” You ask quietly, something cruel lurking beneath the surface of your own waters. “What makes what you do so good, so much better and different than everyone else? Because you believe your brother, because he believes he talks to God?” There’s a huff of a laugh, a mocking condescension hissing with fangs bared, “don’t make me laugh, Inquisitor.”

John’s away from the door frame before you can even blink, a warning shift that tells you that this is no longer a strained, but casual banter between enemies. There’s a familiar glare in his eyes, dark and treacherous like the deepest waters and daring you to get a little closer, to swim a little deeper; to say another word against his brother.

Despite your writhing worry at the sudden tension in the air, twisting and flailing and coiling, you take a deep breath, let it suffocate you a moment too long, and then let it go. Tracing the lines and scratches on your rifle as your shaking anger lessens into a quiet ache. You’ve never been able to maintain it for long; you’re just glad that it no longer makes you break down crying anymore.

John on the other hand...

“Joseph,” he starts, voice so tight that it trembles, “wants to save people.”

“And you don’t?”

There’s a pause; a subtle shift.

You watch as John’s jaw gets tight, his head tilting the slightest amount to look down his nose at you; arms crossing over his chest in a defensive gesture as he leans back against the door frame again; a faux display of casualness.

It’s all the answer you need.

Slowly you nod your head, an acknowledgment even though you needn’t give one. A murmured ‘right’ scoffed under your breath. In all honesty you didn’t expect him to be so (indirectly) honest with you. In a way you can very much respect that, appreciate it even, but in another it only has the beast of worry grinning hauntingly at you; a new dread crawling up from the deep. It’s twin sewn from paranoia slinking up beside it with an equally telling flash of teeth.

Surely he can’t be doing this just for Joseph, just for the Project; there has to be something more that he’s gaining out of this. There has to be.

“Atonement,” the word is drawn out, a slow and delicate dissection, “is the absolution of sin… without it we are left to fester in the disease of our past transgressions. If we are not absolved of sin then we can never even begin to hope to be allowed entrance into Eden. However,” the baptist gives you a pointed look, head ducked and eyes alight but shaded, a stray strand of hair falling loose, “that decision must be genuine. They must want to atone, otherwise what would be the point?”

There’s a bitten laugh that scraps between his teeth; bared in a feral frustration that speaks of long talks and discussions that lead to nowhere but dead-ended roads. A hand claws through his hair, putting that stray strand back in place as he looks to bite at the inside of his mouth; eyes briefly cast to the side.

The afternoon sun, gradually turning richer as time goes on, catches against the satin blue of his vest, making it shimmer like the clearest of Caribbean seas. With his gaze turned away from you for the moment you can see the way the light glazes them, can see the hellfire for all it’s worth beneath those choppy waters; the rage given a flare of new life with the setting sun as the shadows stretch and consume, turning the once clear and shallow waters of his eyes deep and foreboding.

You think you may actually be starting to see some of the truths that lie within the Book of Joseph.

There’s a hesitant inhale; a steadying breath.

“But, it is the will of The Father to save everyone, regardless of if they are worthy of it or not.”

Looking away from the shirt still in your lap you turn to John, many questions on the brain, but only one that gets voiced.

“So you don’t think I’m worthy?”

John blinks. A moment of consideration before he meets your curious gaze; stars glinting against a multitude of emotions, all buried and unspoken, but telling all the same.

“I don’t think you believe yourself to be worthy.”

The bluntness of his response catches you off guard, eyebrows jumping high in surprise. It’s straight to the point in a way that you never imagined him to be, and you can’t help the interested ‘oh’ that melts on your tongue in response, lilts in newfound curiosity as your head tips to the side ever so slightly. “What makes you say that?”

You half expect a smile and some sort of jab, another dig to attempt to provoke you and prove a point that only he is fighting to prove. Yet, he does nothing of the sort. He’s quiet, simply watching you, and it’s with a strange type of realisation that you realise that, not only is he back to looking relaxed and at ease, but so are you; the tension lost and in its place lies a peculiar air, a feeling of contented melancholy almost; an accepting moment of reprieve within the wheel of fate.

“You’re still here,” he answers simply, an airy awe cushioning his tone, “if you didn’t want to be convinced then you would have left a while ago. You wouldn’t be asking me in the first place.”

There’s a tightening anxiety in your chest, a truth struck too close. Are you really that easy to read? Is your dissatisfaction and growing suspicion of the Resistance –  coupled with your thirst to learn more about the local cult and its founders – really that obvious? You should hope not, such things will get you into trouble if you’re not careful. Satisfaction over discovering such things would certainly not bring you back if that were the case.

“Tell me, Deputy,” there’s a new glint in John’s eye, a new interest piqued, “what is it that you’re looking for exactly? Because whatever it is apparently can’t be found within your little Resistance, otherwise you wouldn’t be entertaining me like you are, nor would you be concerning yourself over such a touching gesture.” Surprisingly there’s a lack of sarcasm to his tone this time around as he loosely gestures toward your lap, where his shirt still lies under your gentle touch.

You suck on your tooth for second, petulantly glancing away with a quick, but weak rebuttal of, “It’s not a gesture.”

A familiar, if not slightly fonder and more teasing, lopsided smile lights up across John’s face. This strange companionship of yours back on steady waters. “If you say so, my dear.”

The warmth of the gradually setting sun is a welcome blanket at your back, the stillness between you both comfortable despite the different lines you draw and stand on in this war. Faintly you can hear the chatter and motions of the guards outside, the rumble of distant engines, but they quickly fade into the background as you genuinely consider John’s words.

Just what are you looking for?

You’re not too sure, and you don’t suppose John would appreciate such a response no matter how honest it may be. Really, if you were to be insanely honest with yourself, you would guess you are looking for a reason to stop; a reason to turn your back on those you are fighting for and not those who you are fighting against.

No matter how many times you humanise the Seeds, excuse their actions on past situations, you can’t justify what they’ve done. You may one day forgive them, when all is said and done and this whole sorry war is nothing more than a story for the grandchildren; but you could never forget the horrors they have put people through, the uncountable and unimaginable things they have done to get to where they are now; to both you and the residents of the County.

Yet, does that justify what the residents of the County have done? Does that excuse the crimes and damages conceived by the Resistance? No, no if things were even a sliver close to normal, if you were actually a proper deputy and not so damn green, then maybe everyone would of been locked behind bars by now; and you would be no exception, right beside them with blood covered hands.

The world has never looked so grey to you as it does now; and that honestly scares you worse than any cult.

“But please,” John continues after a beat, breaking the silence, “indulge me; what is it you’re after, my dear? What is it that you are really searching for?”

Absently your thumb brushes over the fabric in your lap, a heavy hesitancy causing you to take your lip between your teeth, biting at the skin there until the taste of copper hits your tongue. Eyes downcast as you debate with yourself over how honest you can be with John, how raw you’re willing to let yourself became in front of someone like him; as an enemy, as an ex-lawyer and – maybe, just maybe – as a friend.

You look up at him, see the interest and something else that you can’t quite name dancing like fireflies over a lake’s still surface. Watch as he patiently waits for you, for what you think and have to say… It’s a nice change, if not a little strange.

Without a thought you smile at him, a beam too tight that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, a huffed laugh under your breath. “Nothing much,” you squeak, “although a decent meal would be a start.” The laugh lingers on your breath, eyebrow cocked and lips tilting into lopsided smile; an intended joke.

John looks wholly unimpressed at your bid at humour, his own eyebrow raising casually in a silent question. Surprisingly though he doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t call you out or outright accuse you of lying, even though you both know that you just did.

Ultimately, it leaves you with a new type of uncertainty, anxiety rising once again as the smile slowly falls from your face. Still, you push past it as best you can, clearing your throat awkwardly as you decide to stand from your seat on the bed, looking and then making your way toward the set of draws on the left where you had found his discarded shirt.

You feel, but still try to ignore John’s eyes on you as you place the shirt back in (what you hope is) its original resting place, neatly folding and fitting it between others not unlike itself. Briefly you brush your fingers over the collar, savouring the uniquely expensive feel of the shirt before closing the open draw. No doubt you’ll never get an opportunity like this again. It’s a little sad in a way.

With a quiet hum you turn – back facing John – toward the bed, and with a casualness as if you own the place you start brushing down and straightening where you’d been perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the creases.

Admittedly, with the sudden lack of conversation, John’s silence is really starting to get to you, a familiar edge of paranoia creeping into the forefront of your mind like scavenging rodents. You listen with a keen interest as you finish your work, the rustling of fabric and your own soft breaths the only sounds that really catch your ear.

With your back facing the infamous Baptist you would have thought this would be a great opportunity for him, your more laidback and docile nature on full display for him to take advantage of if he so wished to. It really would be a perfect opportunity.

Yet, as you turn around, once more with a hum at your work, you find that John hasn’t moved from his spot in the doorway. If anything he still looks very much at ease there, completely comfortable and unconcerned as he rests his lean frame against the door, arms and legs casually crossed as he simply watches you with soft eyes; reflective pools that refuse to hide even the tiniest of emotions. Yet, strangely enough, you suddenly feel as if time is impervious to the both of you. As if there is no one else in the world, but you and John.

The sparkling sapphire of his eyes, deep and as unfathomable as the ocean, whisper in dulcet tones the promise of a loving caress within the safe haven of his gaze. An unexpected gentleness in the sorrow of a buried plea, a want for something never owned, but always craved. Such a display of tenderness, from a man that you know to be cruel and volatile at times, is so far removed from the usual turbulent seas in his eyes that it makes you feel breathless.

His face – strong defined jaw, coupled with an immaculately trimmed beard, and skin a naturally tanned hue that looks as smooth as the silk of his shirts – is not masked by barely contained snarls of rage like it often can be, nor the sharp displays of malicious mockery and petulant pleasantries that hiss between his fangs when bared. Instead he bears a freedom and fondness that has your heart racing, a strange vulnerability on his suddenly boyish features; an unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant, warmth stroking over something deep within your chest that you had feared you were starting to lose.

A thought skims across your mind, and is banished just as swiftly as it had appeared; but even so it leaves an impression that you can’t help but entertain. No matter how futile and unachievable it may be; a hopeless romantic forever at heart.

Lost in fanciful scenarios that will never come to be you don’t notice the way that John also takes you in, cataloguing every minuscule detail and committing it to memory with a keenness that rivals the amount of silver on his tongue.

With where you stand, still and serene in the heart of enemy territory, the large window of his bedroom holds proudly behind you. The fading afternoon sun casting a light pastel orange across the earth and room, beaming through the glass and haloing you in a warm and intimate glow, your form mesmerising and ethereal with how at peace you look when held within such a divinely born light.

Your eyes, typically brimming with a wrathful defiance and a gluttonous need for misguided justice, are a demure beacon that glitters like the limitless galaxies within the cosmos. A flare of hope and unconditional love, soft and reassuring, for all of those that catch a glimpse of your guiding starlight. And although he feels unworthy, tainted and irrefutably damaged as he is, John also feels unbelievably blessed to bare witness to such an otherworldly sight; to be gifted with the absolute vision that is you.

And, for a moment that never quite ends, John can’t help but question how you could be hell-incarnate when heaven touches you oh so sweetly.

There are many words John Seed would have used to describe you, none of them necessarily complimentary or flattering, yet in this shared time between the two of you – just the two of you – only one word comes to mind as he unknowingly, longingly gazes at you.

Angelic. Yes, angelic you truly are. Stunningly and perfectly angelic.

John can’t remember the last time he felt this way about anyone, if he has ever felt like this at all even, but suddenly he finds that nothing else matters to him. Not the Project, not his brothers, and not even the work that he should be doing but that he had slipped away early from, because – frankly put – he was tired. He was as fed-up with this war and the responsibilities placed upon him as he suspected his dear Deputy to be. Both falling foul to your shared sin of sloth in regards to the duties you uphold.

Yet, John at least holds direction and dedication to the work divinely placed upon him. Knows what the end game is and strives to achieve it to its fullest potential, but you? You’re wavering; you’re doubting. Straying away from the path you are on, looking into the distance for something else, all the while refusing to even acknowledge the right one. The one alongside him.

You may not say it, nor ever even admit it, but John knows exactly what it is you are looking for. Knows the evidence that you’re desperately trying to compile in order to build a strong case in favour of yourself and the choices that you’ve been making, wanting to justify yourself and the many actions that you’ve made until this point between you both in the name of your feeble Resistance. And John also knows that he and his siblings are partially to blame for that.

If it wasn’t for them, you wouldn’t have to try and stand alone for yourself in your own self made courtroom. Wouldn’t have to stand before your self-conscious as you pleaded your guiltlessness before your own guilt. But, really, that’s why you needed a lawyer; that’s why you needed him. John could help you with that, could show you a better path where you could be free of such shackles. He would stand and defend you where no one else would; he would protect you when no else could.

He just wished that you’d let him. Wished that you would just sign the contract laid out before you so he could aid you, so he could fight for you. Yet, you still refuse to bless him with the payment of his favoured word. You still refuse to acknowledge just how in debt this battle will leave you without his help. It’s a small ask, a tiny payment, for a lifetime of rightful assurance.

Yet, John wonders if maybe it’s not just the courtroom that he wants to defend you in.

In his previous life, before the Project and his reunion with Joseph, John likely wouldn’t have even paid you a second glance. You’re a bit of a Plain Jane, have a very girl-next-door sort of look about you. Yet, in the wake of this interaction, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun, John can’t think of anyone more beautiful. So human and down to earth; lost and conflicted, yet certain and firm. You really are an oddity, and one that John finds himself genuinely wanting to learn more about.

True, he had always had an interest in you, especially when this war between you first began, but it had always been a professional interest (despite what many thought or claimed). You needed to join the Project, Joseph decreed it so, and although his interest had risen to a slightly more personal level it was still business; without you he wouldn’t be able to reach Eden. His fate was in your hands.

Yet, fate seems to want to play you both into each other’s arms, for if it didn’t then surely this sacred moment between you both wouldn’t be happening. Surely, if this wasn’t meant to happen, John wouldn’t be longing for the love that Joseph promised him – the love that only you could give him – like he suddenly and hopelessly is.

John knows where he stands in this war, it’s a fixed point that he can’t move away from even if he eventually decided that he wanted to, but really his dear Deputy is still undecided. You still have a choice to make in this divine plan; you still have time to choose. And, funnily enough, it looks as if you’ve already started to make that choice. That curiosity of yours, you being in his home – on his bed – looking so domestic, like a wife waiting for her husband… to John this is a sign, a hint, a mere taste of the future that he’s always secretly hoped and longed for. A prophecy in its own right.

Yet, as much as he wants to fight for you, to defend and cherish you, he regrettably knows that the time for such things isn’t quite here yet. It’s close, certainly within his reach, but you need to meet him the rest of the way. You need those final damning pieces of evidence before you’ll come to him. You’ll want every piece of evidence available before you’ll walk your chosen path; and although he shouldn’t interfere, John could very easily acquire such evidence for you. He could very easily make such evidence for you. A little more time, a few strings pulled and a couple of sins stripped, and he could give you everything you need and so, so much more.

The temptations of the promised future are a fruit too sweet not to savour.

Eden’s Baptist watches with a fresh interest as you sigh heavily, chest rising and falling with the action, as you start to walk towards him. John’s chest tightens, flutters under the way your sparkling eyes meet and hold his own, only a hint of uncertainty, a fleeting touch of something questioning – do you feel it too? Do you feel this like he does? – on your face before you look away, glance down like a bashful bride, and come to stand next to him.

He doesn’t move from where he’s been leaning against the door, doesn’t even dare to breathe in case this moment is blown away like ash on the wind. Yet, when nothing happens and all he can focus on is his and your own gentle breathing, he takes a gamble and swallows thickly, slowly turning his head so he can look down at you next to him, naturally pretty despite the odd scratch and speck of dried blood on your well worn clothes.

The tension is palpable between you both, not so tight that’s it choking you, but tight enough that you can certainly feel it; hear it moan like a bow dragging steadily over a cello’s strings. Although, not as ominous as one would first suspect, but more melancholy; a rich sadness. As though despite how much you might want and wish for something, it will never come to pass; a sad inevitability that you can do nothing but walk past, never to stop and consider. Or at least you shouldn’t, for only heartbreak lies down those withered and desolate roads.

Which is why you shouldn’t stop, why you shouldn’t be wanting to reach out with a tender touch, a reassurance to this greedy want of yours for something more out of this moment, for more out of this strange connection and unlikely companionship you have discovered between the two of you. You shouldn’t feel this safe when standing next to the man that wants to starve this Valley into submission. You shouldn’t feel so at ease around a man that derives a sick thrill out of torture and the power it gives him. You shouldn’t feel like you’ve finally found a home when you’re sitting on his bed with his shirt in your arms.

You can’t deny that you’re attracted to him, that there clearly is some sort of unexplainable connection between the both of you, but whatever this connection may be… it can never be explored. It can never happen. You will never side with Eden’s Gate, and even if you decide that you can no longer be with the Resistance, it’ll be for the same reason why you can’t join Joseph’s cult. Ultimately, your decision, whatever it may be, will change nothing. Just like nothing will change John’s decision.

Ruled by the cry of your heart and the attachments it’s quick to make you hesitantly lay your greedy hand upon him, turning slightly as your right hand crosses you in order to gently grip his toned arm; the familiar feel of uniquely expensive silk sliding pleasantly

against your skin.

You feel him tense under your hand, arms tightening from where they are still crossed across his chest, but you don’t blame him. Really you’re not even too sure what it is you’re doing, this will only hurt you more when you walk away from whatever this could’ve been if things were different, but you always have had a bit of a penchant for torturing yourself with things like this.

So no matter how much the ‘what if’s’ will wound you in the future you still immerse yourself in the feel of him, of the way he relaxes as your thumb brushes back and forth in a comforting gesture against his arm, the smell of his cologne naturally intermingling with his natural scent… it’s a bitter torture that already has the tears coming to your eyes, but still you stay a little longer; heart hopefully romantic even though you know better.

This – the two of you – could never work.

“Deputy…”

“You know,” you cut him off, the slightest fracture in your softened tone, “I didn’t mean what I said earlier, about your planes. They’re not toys; they’re really cool actually,” there’s a buried laugh under your breath, a small smile that speaks of a brief reminiscion, “the way you have them all set up, cataloged with their little name plates… it’s really cute. It would be super cool if you had them hanging down from the ceiling though; like, having them act out dog fights and things almost. Can you imagine it?”

You giggle there, head ducking as you get lost in thoughts and bitter imagines – helping to set them up, walking in and seeing them like that, being lifted and twirled under them like stars in the sky – that will never be.

This war has taken everything from you, has made you doubt and lose sight of who you were before. Even your dreams for the future, regardless of who they may be with, have been tarnished by the stains on your hands and the things you have been pushed into doing. How could you ever have a normal life after this? Who would want a life with you after all of this? It all seems so impossible and far too far out of reach for you now.

Although it may be cruel, your wandering thoughts and the reminder they bring is a good grounder, and in turn your smile sours; even as one blooms sweetly across John’s face, a light dusting of pink across his cheeks.

For the better, you don’t see it.

“Anyway, I better go; got a County to save and all that after all. I’ll see you around though, John,” you pause, hesitate, desperately cling to this fleeting moment that’s finally reached its end, “take care of yourself now, sweetheart. Lord knows we need to...”

With nothing else to say, that quiet piece of compassion laid out before him like a final offering, you leave; letting go of his arm with a parting squeeze and a faint caress as you pull away, walk past him and out the door until you’re eventually lost to him yet again. A weary ghost bound to forever wander the lonely battlefield.

John doesn’t follow you, doesn’t even reach out to stop you like a part of him begs him to do, and instead merely turns to watch you leave. Head down and arms wrapped comfortingly around your waist. He really should stop you, force this moment to last for as long as he can get it to, but he doesn’t; and that surprisingly hurts him, letting you go. Yet, the pain it brings only hardens him, makes his thoughts straighten and become resolute in the face of the same realisation that had dawned on him only moments before hand.

And as the sun sets over the horizon, the sky streaked in sunburnt northern lights, colours shifting like water with the flowing of time, John finally moves to sit in the same place you had been on his bed; alone and lost in thought. Reaching out to pick something up off his nightstand as he draws his elbows to rest on his spread knees. His hands cupped against his mouth and securely around your forgotten sewing kit, as he stares blankly at your abandoned rifle.

Another sign in and of itself.

Although you hadn’t been looking at him when you had left John had certainly been watching you. He had seen the way that your eyes had glistened like unsteady waters as the courtroom erupted into a debate that you felt that you couldn’t win; the choice taken from you as your morals and exploited loyalty raged and dictated the sentence you should face.

He knows you felt it, knows that there is something special between the two of you, and that it’s taken this moment between you – this one act of rebellion stemmed from your curiosity – for him to see it; for him to finally grasp the meaning behind his brother’s plea.

You were right when you had questioned him on his lack of care regarding the Atonement; how he doesn’t care to save those that don’t believe, how he doesn’t want to put in the effort for those that will only put it to waste. If their motives are not genuine then the process is entirely pointless. Although, John won’t deny that there is a certain gratification in having such control over someone. Forcing them to say yes, purely for their own survival, is not the intention, but it certainly works all the same. After all, Joseph hasn’t exactly scolded him for his methods; especially if he gets a little therapy and self management out of it.

But what of you? What do you have as an outlet, as a way to cope and make the prize all the more sweeter? Better yet, what is the prize that you’re working towards, because John certainly has his in mind, and it won’t just be the end of a cruel and uncaring society.

You’re a puppet, both in terms of your occupation and the leading role you’re now being made to fill, dancing on fraying strings. Strings that John could fully free you from, help to cut you loose, if only you would just say ‘yes’. He’d be able to properly protect and defend you then, reassure you in your choices and how the things you’ve done were never truly your own; your caring nature merely exploited by those that you were forced to associate with while under the influence of shock. The trauma brought on by that helicopter crash disorientating you and leaving you vulnerable toward their manipulative and pressurising ways.

At least if you were to say ‘yes’, John would be able to safely guard you and your surprisingly tentative character. He would be able to love and cherish you, hold you close like no other, and make it so that you would want for nothing while in his arms. He could actually keep you in his bed, smother you in the pleasure that he would gladly give you as his beloved; chain you there as he ravished you and the softness that you would offer him, that you allowed him a tantalising glimpse of.

If you said ‘yes’, then John would finally be able to secure you and your loose strings, worn and threadbare under the continued pressure of your wailing guilt, to his own tangled ones; knotting them together until they have been sewn into something new, becoming one and the same. And when that finally happens, you will be entwined around a silk too rich and blissful to be so easily frayed.

[squidproquoclarice]

She’d ended up believing in a rough world that would pounce on gentleness in a woman, so it had mostly to be kept hidden except for perhaps a few cherished people held heart-close. It had been Jake who’d been softer, who greeted visitors to the cabin with hospitality, while she’d insisted on telling them that if they meant any harm, she would happily show them the business end of her rifle. She’d loved Jake for that sweetness, even as she’d been exasperated by it, felt like she was the realist while he was a dreamer. But then with Arthur she’d gone and married another man like that, one who wanted so much to believe in the innate goodness of people. Something in her had been drawn to that, as much as she hadn’t wanted to admit it, had wanted to call women who gave into that trust just silly fools.

She would always be ready to fight if it was needed. She wanted to teach Bea that she had the strength and courage to stand fast against a world that didn’t care much for girls and women. She’d told Arthur, and still meant it, Nobody’s taking nothing from me ever again. Been so determined to become a wolf, all golden eyes and teeth and claws, so that she wouldn’t be just another sheep for the devouring. But she’d learned to find that calm center within her too, that place that was something untouchable, where that gentleness could grow without apology.

If blind, fearful loyalty had been Arthur’s sin well into manhood, hers had certainly been blind, stubborn pride for three decades and more. Always sure she knew best, and anyone trying to tell her otherwise was offering mortal insult to the point she might even turn her back on them. She’d lost people by that. Nearly lost Caroline, but Arthur’s urging her to see if amends could be made. It wasn’t that he was that much more persuasive in his words than Jake. It was how they both were that long-ago Christmas, still a bit battered and bereft and tired, knowing that he was grieving those he’d loved too, she’d been more able to listen to the value of trying to make amends. Las Hermanas had been where she’d finally started to give way to love rather than pride.

Love was the thing, as Calderón had said. Love was strength, and she’d learned to accept that more and more as the years went by. Showing love to strangers, even, dangerous as it could be, the actual love that Jesus had preached. Even love of those who’d gone before her, laced with pain and grief as it was, held strength. She couldn’t live her parents’ life as she’d been ridiculously, unreasonably determined to for so long, and the sense of shame and failure had faded from that. But she loved them still, and always would.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Ain’t a Favor

Summary: Something I wrote on the fly, based on the fact that my horse THREW ME OFF THE OTHER DAY

Not a part of modern!reader or game!reader (with the kid) series. Just a lil bit of fun.

Limping precariously through the woods, you breathed a sigh of relief when the tops of the canvas tents and overhangs appeared in the midst of the green leaves of Clemens Point. Your back was killing you, your arms stung where the dirt grazed it, and your ankle was throbbing within the confines of your boot.

“Who goes there?” you heard John’s voice call out from the brush, him appearing just seconds after, clutching the rifle tight.

“S’me,” you groaned, slightly short of breath. “Relax.”

John’s shoulders eased as he dropped his guard. “Welcome back, Y/N. Was wonderin’ where you were since your horse beat ya here.” His voice was light with a laugh.

You rolled your eyes in response, hobbling faster to enter the clearing of the camp. Bustling as usual, your gaze immediately fell to your horse, who was grazing peacefully amongst her herd.

Stupid mare.

You groaned and headed toward your tent, determined to remove your dusty clothing and take a relaxing bath in the river. While a hot bath would have been the better choice, you weren’t keen on saddling up again to ride out to the next state over. A few others spotted you and asked what happened, you just ignored them and reached out for the tent flap, entering with a huff.

You weren’t expecting to see Arthur sitting on the cot, scribbling something in his journal. Upon your entry he looked up, the smile that crossed his lips immediately replaced with a look of concern.

“The hell happen to ya?” he asked, standing up to face you. His rough hands caressed you gently to inspect the damage.

“I was riding back from Rhodes when Clara spooked at a rattler. Threw me right in the dirt,” You grumbled, gesturing toward the red-tinged black shirt. “Bitch left me and ran right back here.”

You could tell by the way his lip twitched that he was holding in a laugh. As his blue eyes swept across your body, he chuckled. “That all? I was thinkin’ you got into a scuffle with them Lemoyne Raiders again.”

“That’s what I should tell everyone,” you said thoughtfully. “Got the nicks and bangs to prove it.”

“You’re okay though, right?” he asked, his tone more serious. “Nothin’ broken?”

You sighed and shifted your weight, the throbbing in your ankle getting worse. “Hopefully not. Ankle’s hurting something fierce though. Got twisted in the stirrup.”

Wordlessly he gestured for you to sit. You did so, and he briefly dug into his satchel to produce a clean rag and a roll of bandages. He started on your arms first, wiping clean the dirt and gravel that still covered your skin. Though slightly raw, nothing was too deep to require any serious treatment. Next, he carefully lifted your leg and laid it across his knees. Giving you a small glance, he carefully grasped your boot and slid it off. Your sock was to follow, you wincing as the constricting fabric freed the swollen joint.

Arthur sucked air in between his teeth as he observed the damage. This was your first time seeing it as well, not bothering to check initially. Your ankle was twice its normal size, red patterning to blue with early bruising. Though he said nothing, he ghosted his thumb across your skin. You flinched slightly, though held still as he lightly placed his hand under your heel to lift it, using the bandage to wrap it gently. You watched him silently, always so amazed how this rough man could be so soft with you.

He was done within a few minutes, the bandage providing decent stabilization. “Anywhere else, darlin’?” he asked.

“My back…” you responded, turning slightly to unbuckle your gun belt and pointing to your lower back.

“Good thing ya didn’t land on your guns, sweetheart,” Arthur commented. He dug in his satchel once more, producing a bottle that contained what looked like some sort of oil. “Here…”

You faced him again, his hands nimbly unbuttoning the front of your shirt. He tugged the now loosened fabric from your pants. You shrugged it off, your chemise remaining to cover your torso.

“May I?” He asked, his fingers lingering over the sheer fabric. When you nodded, he gripped the hem of it and slowly peeled it off. Nude from the waist up, you were always comfortable to be exposed in Arthur’s presence. He gestured for you to turn, and you shifted yourself to face away from him.

His fingers grazed across your back, light as a feather. He trailed downward, you flinching as he ran over the tender area. He made a low noise, and the sound of the bottle uncorking was soon to follow. You heard the slapping of the viscous liquid on his hands, most likely trying to warm it up. Moments later, his touch returned. Slick with the oil, he smoothed his thumbs over the unhurt muscles first. You didn’t realize how far the ache traveled until he worked out the tension. Though slightly sore, it felt wonderful.

You let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes as he slowly worked on your back, kneading at any extra knots he found along the way. His touch worked evenly down until he was just above the tender area. He was being careful; his hands even lighter now. He must’ve felt you tense in anticipation when he paused. “Easy, Y/N. Can’t help ya if you’re stiff as a board.”

You knew it was going to hurt, of course. You breathed deeply, trying to keep yourself relaxed as best as you could. He continued, gingerly running his palm. You flinched once again, your back arching away from his hand. Landing on the hard-packed earth did more damage than you thought.

“Easy…” he murmured again, his voice as soft and supple as his massage. You slowly relaxed, allowing yourself to curve back to him. His palm rested against you, unmoving. Though the oil was warm, it felt cool and almost soothing to you. “There you go.”

His hand circled the spot, so light that it almost tickled. The circles turned into spirals, bigger and wider, before starting in the center again. Each time he placed a little bit more pressure. The pain lessened with each pass, though the light pressure against it felt so good.

He worked on you with ease, always careful not to be too heavy-handed. It almost felt as if he were tracing patterns into your skin. The ache was soon ebbing away, and your body was able to relax.

You hadn’t realized how much you leaned back until your shoulders hit his broad chest. He didn’t seem to mind though, his hands leaving your back to take place on your arms. He was careful to avoid the scrapes that decorated your forearms, instead rubbing soothing circles from your shoulders down to your elbows.

Smiling, you closed your eyes once again. Once upon a time, you wouldn’t have thought this gruff outlaw could be so caring and gentle with you. However, he always treated you like a Queen when you were injured or sick, doting on you and making sure you were comfortable despite your protests. You learned to accept it, only on the condition that you could do the same to him. Reluctant at first, your persuasive argument finally allowed him to agree.

Your eyes opened when a fingertip brushed over your nipple. It was a quick feeling, perhaps it was by accident. Though he did it again, his thumb circling the now puckered knob.

“Arthur?” You questioned, peering up at him.

He only smiled, lightly pinching your nipple. You sucked in a breath, a rush of warmth cascading down your body. “Wh-” You began, stuttering as he squeezed your breast. “What are you doing?”

He gently shushed you, his other hand trailing down your stomach. He paused just at the waistband of your pants, unbuttoning them with ease. His hand slid beneath the cotton of your undergarment. Slick fingers parted your folds, soon finding their target. He rubbed you slowly, circling your center. A shudder rippled through your body, pursing your lips to hold back a moan.

His pace quickened, increasing the waves of pleasure that already overlook your body. The one hand that remained on your breast still played with your nipple. He kissed along your neck, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his lips. You moaned his name, your hand grasping at his arm. Every part of you tingled, melting from his touch.

Though silent, he continued to ravage you with his lips. Fingers soon leaving your bud to toy with your entrance, smoothly sliding one finger in. He dragged against your sweet spot, your hips bucking up in response. You whined, your hand leaving his arm and soon becoming a tangled mess in his sandy locks.

A second finger joined, providing a slight stretch that enhanced your pleasure. You struggled to keep your voice low, chewing on your bottom lip to control yourself. “Arthur…” you mewled. “Oh, God…”

His thumb smoothed against your bud again, hand working magic that would melt you in his grasp every time. Somehow he held you still, preventing you from becoming a writhing mess on the cot. Your hips trembled, your toes curled, you gripped his hair hard, promptly pulling him into a kiss that he did not protest. Deep and passionate, your hot breaths mixing as his efforts weren’t hindered.

Your skin tingled as his calloused hand roved your chest, toying with your other breast. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, leaving no sensitive spot on you untouched. The familiar fire deep within you began to build, a steady climb that made its presence in a small gasp.

He pulled back after a moment, his breathing slightly ragged to match your own. He stared into your eyes, whispering to you, “Are you close?”

You nodded silently, too flustered to speak.

“Let me feel it.” He rumbled, the rough, dominating drawl in his voice sent a fresh surge through you.

It didn’t take much longer, your peak arriving almost explosively as your hips snapped up. You moaned his name one final time, breathless and soft. Pleasure cascaded through your belly, expelling itself onto Arthur’s hand. As your heart calmed, he slid his fingers out, teasingly running his fingertips along your pulsing clit as he did so. You shuddered, whining at the overstimulation as he cupped your cheek. You could feel your own slick on his fingers, thick with the remaining oil.

“Good girl,” he praised, kissing you softly. “How do ya feel?”

You rolled your shoulders, the fatigue that plagued them was nothing compared to how you felt earlier. Yet, the pain was mostly gone. “A lot better…” you sighed in relief, sitting up and turning to face him again. You were perched on your knees, smiling sweetly at him, your eyes grazing over the bulge in his pants that didn’t go unnoticed earlier. “May I return the favor?”

“You were the one that got thrown off, sweetheart,” he pointed out, although couldn’t hide the smirk that painted his lips. “Ain’t a favor that needs returnin’.”

“Arthur, we did say it would be mutual,” you reminded him, reaching out to palm him. “How else am I gonna take care of my sweet, strong man?”

He groaned lightly in response, although gave no intention of protesting.

[imstillabiggay]

Day 2 (Misery Business - Paramore)

‘cause i got him where i want him now

Ben shot up from the couch when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs of the flat. “Oh great, you’re home,” Ben practically cheered as he began taking off the suit jacket that adorned Callum’s shoulders. Callum stared at his boyfriend, confusion written all over his face.

“Yes? I’m-“ Callum started speaking but was cut off when Ben all but ripped the tie from his neck, went ahead with unbuttoning his shirt and pulled the tail ends from his slacks. “Ben, what’re you doing? Can’t we get into the bedroom before you start stripping me down?” Callum pleaded. The first month in the flat together had been adventurous to say the least but in a short amount of time washing the couch cushions ever other day had become tedious.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Ben scoffed yet he turned and walked into the bedroom anyway. Callum followed cluelessly, starting to work on his pants since Ben hadn’t bothered with them. “Ah! Leave those on, loverboy,” over the past few weeks Callum had gotten used to Ben’s weird antics but this was really pushing the boat out. Choosing to go along with it and not question anything, probably due to the fear of Ben’s answer, Callum sat on the edge of the bed and watched Ben rifle through the draws. A couple of minutes later and Ben let out a sound of joy as he pulled out out a fancy looking shirt and a tie. “We’re going out tonight. Put these on,” as usual, Ben left no room for argument and begun getting ready too, pulling the simple T-shirt off his body as well as his sweatpants.

“You took my tie and shirt off, just to put me into a different tie and shirt?” Callum questioned once they were both dressed, Ben looked affronted.

“I took you out of your boring tie and shirt to put you into a fancy tie and shirt. You know nothing, don’t question me,” Ben demanded. It was Callum’s turn to scoff and shake his head slightly. If there was one thing that Callum had learned whilst being Ben’s boyfriend, it was to let him get on with things. Ben would never make Callum do something that he really didn’t want to do but damn could the man be persuasive. “We’re just going to the Prince Albert but there’s no harm in looking nice, yeah?” Ben hummed, giving Callum’s left cheek a small pat before kissing his right cheek and walking past him to stand in the doorframe of their bedroom. “After you, good sir,” Ben bowed as he spoke with that stupid posh accent, but Callum couldn’t help laughing as he walked past, a smile on his face.

When they were walking down the street hand in hand, Callum thanked his lucky stars for a brief moment. After the chemistry between them developed from an affair into a fully fledged relationship, maybe Callum had started taking a couple of things for granted but being able to walk down the street hand in hand would never be one of those things. Warmth and happiness filled Callum’s body whenever he had the luck to be out in public with Ben, considering they hadn’t had that privilege at first. They walked in silence, the silence comfortable, with Ben leaning against Callum slightly, grinning up at the man every so often. Callum noticed the mischievous glint in Ben’s eye but opted to ignore it as best as he possibly could. Ben was up to something.

“Come to the bar with me? We’ll get a seat together later,” Ben promised, pulling Callum over to the bar. Callum stood stock still when he realised who was working, chatting away with the punters as well as Tina, her hair as red as ever even under the multicoloured lights of the bar.

“Ben,” Callum whispered, a slight warning to his tone as he pulled on the man’s hand. It wasn’t like Callum was ashamed of Ben around Whitney or anything like that. He didn’t stop holding Ben’s hand when they walked past her in the square, or stop Ben from kissing his cheek, it was just that he didn’t like to rub it in her face. Whitney had been hurt, and that was to be expected. Even though she had accepted it and moved on, had hugged Callum and wished him the best, Callum didn’t fancy kicking her while she was down.

“It’s been a month, Cal. She’s probably moved on. Come on,” Ben insisted, tugging Callum more firmly along until they stopped at the bar, Callum two steps back with his arm resting gently on Ben’s hip. “Whit, two pints when you’re ready. That good for you, babe?” Callum bit his lip and nodded. Since when did Ben call him babe? “You’re allowed to speak, you know,” Ben laughed and pulled Callum close, landing a kiss on his lips. Callum pulled back just as Whitney muttered something to Tina and disappeared into the staff room. Ben’s eyes followed her. “What’s her problem?” Ben huffed, a smirk on his lips.

“You knew she was here didn’t you?” The proud smirk dropped off Ben’s face and left him looking nothing but sheepish instead. “You’re being cruel, Ben,” Callum whispered but his hand still lay on Ben’s hip. Ben rolled his eyes.

“And you’re being dramatic. I ain’t being cruel, Callum. I’m allowed to show you off now, you’re my boyfriend and I want everybody to see you,” Ben shrugged, making Callum sigh again and rub his forehead. Ben was a piece of work sometimes, but Callum wouldn’t have him any other way. Just as he turned back to the bar to flag down Tina, Callum gave Ben a small squeeze.

“Hey, can we pass on all of this? I ain’t in the mood tonight,” Callum murmured close to Ben’s ear so he would hear over all of the club chatter. Ben looked like he was about to argue but saw the resigned look in Callum’s eyes and thought against it, nodding instead and letting Callum lead him towards the exit this time. A wasted trip.

Once back at home, a tense sort of silence settled over the household, Callum annoyed at Ben for having done that to Whitney and Ben not wanting to say anything to make it worse. The silence only broke when they were laying in bed together, Ben still using Callum’s chest as a pillow despite his anger. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into Callum’s skin. Callum hummed, letting Ben go on. “I wasn’t thinking. I never meant to brag, it just feels good to have you,” Ben whispered and Callum let out a sigh, running his hand through Ben’s hair slowly.

“I get that Ben, really I do. I just wish that you went about it differently. You don’t need to be cruel to show me off,” Callum pleaded. Ben gave a nod of agreement and raised his head to give Callum a kiss. The kiss was gentle and soft, nothing like the kiss that they had shared earlier in the pub but it was ten times more pleasing. Maybe it was nice to share what they had in public, but maybe enjoying what they had in private could be even better.

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

A Woman of Letters (Getting a Feel for Sam Winchester) - Chapter 32

Summary:  You’ve just opened an occult bookstore in Lebanon, Kansas, when you fall for a tall, handsome customer…literally. You soon find out that there’s more to the world than you ever suspected, including you. Discovering your heritage puts you directly in a witch’s crosshairs, though, so the Winchesters offer to take you in and teach you how to protect yourself. As you discover your own family history with the supernatural and your own hidden talents, you can’t help but wish a certain brother was as excited about your interest as you are.

Total length: 43 chapters, 70,247 words - Read on AO3 - Series masterlist

Chapter word count: 1850 words

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Warnings: Canon-level angst and violence

Sam

The few days after their first afternoon together were almost heaven. Sam found he could easily forget the dangers facing them when he was watching Y/N sleep curled into his side. No longer worrying about his mental library reduced his stress enormously, too. He still had moments where he was jealous of Dean and Y/N, but without fail, Y/N would always slip her hand into one of his and give it a squeeze. Y/N’s days were full. She was training with Dean in the mornings, spending an hour with guns and another two hours with hand-to-hand fighting, then studying Latin and mythology in the afternoons with him. When she declared her brain to be fried for the day, Cas would help her practice her persuasive talents. Sometimes she would ask Dean if she could practice on him, and Sam enjoyed watching Dean squirm as she would make him answer embarrassing questions. Sam sometimes wondered if she ever used her talents on him, but was afraid of the answer. When he finally got up the nerve to ask one day while eating lunch, he was pleased with her response.

“Never, Sam. I don’t want there to be anything forced or coerced about us. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I did. The emotional connection we have because of my gift is already a bit of an unfair advantage sometimes.” Y/N blushed, and Sam wondered what she meant. She moved closer to him, and then wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her head on his shoulder. Automatically, his arms wrapped around her and he sighed happily. “What I mean by that is I can read you so easily, now, that I wonder if I react to your thoughts and feelings before you can even experience them. It must be a pain in the neck having me react to things you might not have even had the time to consider.” Y/N moved one of her hands down his back and slid it under his shirt. Sam felt a small spark of desire at the feel of her skin on his, and tried to focus on the conversation. Y/N pulled away just enough that she could see his face, but kept rubbing his back with her thumb. “See? I know what this is doing to you, but you’re not reacting to it.” Sam’s eyes widened. She could tell? “It doesn’t seem fair that I can feel what you feel before you even have a chance to decide if you want to feel it or act on it. The last thing I want to do is start pushing you to actively do things you don’t want to do.”

Sam’s mind reeled. He knew that she could feel his emotions since he let his wall down, but hadn’t realized she was so perceptive. Just as he was about to question her further, Y/N’s phone rang.

Both Sam and Y/N stared at her phone as it blared “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones and vibrated its way across the table. Sam looked at Y/N and Y/N shrugged.

“First of all, the only people who would call me right now are in this bunker, and second, that’s so not my ringtone.” Y/N approached the phone cautiously, then picked it up, showing Sam the caller ID. Sam sighed as he saw the incoming number. “666.” Sam took the phone from Y/N and answered the call, putting it on speaker phone.

“What do you want, Crowley?” Sam frowned deeply while Y/N’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack.

“Well, hello, Moose. I wasn’t expecting to hear your abrasive growling on Y/N’s phone. I was hoping she was smarter than to risk her life by taking up with you.” Sam felt the rage building up inside himself, and took a deep breath while Y/N grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“What do you want, Crowley,” Sam growled slowly, enunciating each syllable.

“My mother on a spit, but you already know that and have a plan in place for her, right? I mean, I know you haven’t just been twiddling Y/N’s thumbs for the past few weeks, knowing that my mother is out there planning all the different ways she’d like to carve the two of you up for Sunday dinner. Surely, by now you have dozens of ideas on how to take her out, considering the vast amount of resources you have in that clubhouse of yours, and you just forgot to tell me, right?” Sam felt his blood boil at Crowley’s words. They were nowhere with a plan for Rowena, but it galled him to admit it to Crowley. As he struggled to come up with a response that didn’t show Crowley how close to the mark his words had been, Y/N spoke up.

“Well, we’ve been trying to find something we can use on her without getting too close, and so far we haven’t found much. Short of trying to take her out with a sniper rifle when she isn’t looking and can’t block the shot, which we can’t be sure that a bullet could even kill her, there isn’t much we can do from a safe distance, and getting close risks her throwing a curse we can’t deflect. The witch killing spell didn’t work, and we’re sure it wasn’t a case of improperly chilled chicken feet, which is apparently a thing, so we’re back at square one. Anyway, Dean and I are starting to look for ways to bind or strip her powers, but we’re not sure that will do much.” Y/N paused while Sam marveled at her words. Dean and Y/N had been working on this without him? Where had he been? “I had a thought, but I haven’t mentioned it to the boys, yet, so I don’t know how stupid or impossible this idea might be.” Y/N gave Sam a worried glance before she continued. “I was wondering if there’s a way to negate all magic in a space. What I mean by that is, could we take a building, and basically hex it or ward it or something so that nothing magical could do anything inside of it? Then, we could lure her in there, she’d be powerless, and we could take her out like a regular human. Or, if guns and knives won’t kill her, we could at least chop her up into tiny pieces and then scatter the pieces around, you know? Even if she can’t die by bleeding to death or whatever, she’ll cause less trouble if she’s in pieces.” Y/N shrugged while Sam kept looking at her in wonder. So much for the kind-hearted, gentle woman he had fallen in love with. Y/N apparently had a badass streak in her, and Sam thought that was about the sexiest thing ever!

“What do you think, Crowley? I mean, do you think she could be killed like any other human if we could somehow strip her powers?”

“I think she’s evil enough that even without her powers she’d be fairly impervious. Let’s just say that if we could find a way to render her powerless, I’d love to take my time finding ways to make her wish she was dead, even if I can’t kill her. Let me know what you need from me to get it done. Oh, and Moose, let’s just say I’ll be more receptive if you let your little Mooselette do the talking. She’s definitely smarter, and much more pleasant, than either you or your brother. Cheerio, darling.”

Sam resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall to watch it crash into a thousand pieces. So much for keeping Y/N away from Crowley. Sam carefully put the phone back on the table and sighed as Y/N wrapped her arms around his middle and rubbed his back.

“It’s okay, Sam. I can deal with Crowley. I get it now, you know, why he’s not public enemy number one. He is irritating, though.” Sam chuckled, then got back to the matter at hand.

“You and Dean were strategizing without me?” Sam tried to keep the hurt out of his tone, even though he knew Y/N could sense everything he was feeling. Y/N pulled away from his chest just enough that she could look up at his face and smirked.

“Actually, no. I was just making stuff up as I went along to keep him happy.” Y/N grinned and Sam barked out a laugh.

“Seriously? You just bullshitted the King of Hell?” Y/N shrugged as Sam stared at his girlfriend in amazement.

“Hey, no different than bullshitting anyone else over the phone. I’m not sure I’d get away with it in person, though. Crowley likes me. He likes you guys, too, though he’d never admit it. Crowley liking me means that I can finesse him a bit when I need to. Also, he doesn’t know how much I know about him, so it gives me an advantage. Honestly, he wants me to be his liaison with you, and I’m okay with that.” Sam couldn’t help but look at his girlfriend in awe. The confidence she had almost stifled the spike of fear that shot through him at the thought of her being Crowley’s bestie. Sam worked hard to shake it off, though. If anything proved how well she could stand up to Crowley, that phone call did.

“Anyway, you may have been bullshitting him, but those were some interesting ideas. When did Dean tell you about the chicken feet?” Y/N stifled a giggle and almost snorted with the effort.

“You mean when a spell fell afoul of foul fowl feet?” Sam rolled the phrase in his head for a minute before groaning with a wide grin. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.” Y/N was trying to keep a straight face, but was obviously proud of herself.

“That was so bad, Y/N. Seriously.” Sam couldn’t help grinning and gave Y/N a gentle kiss, folding her into his arms and wondering what he ever did to be so lucky. His mind got brought back to the matter at hand when Y/N pulled away from him.

“Dean and I were talking one day when we were in the firing range. I was asking about the witch bomb you guys tried to use on Rowena the last time, and why it didn’t work. He was sure the chicken feet weren’t the problem, so killing her really isn’t possible, I guess. That’s when I started thinking about ways that would stop her, even if they wouldn’t kill her.” Y/N shrugged.

Just then Dean walked in and headed to the fridge to get out something to eat for his own lunch. While Dean ate his lunch, Y/N and Sam told him about Crowley’s phone call. The three of them started brainstorming ideas and strategies, and soon they had a plan in place. Dean called Cas while Y/N called Crowley, leaving Sam to sit and wonder if this plan could actually work.

“Crowley? It’s Y/N. We have an idea, and I think you’ll like it, but we’re going to need your help.”