Multifandom Drabbles
I apologize for the kinda long post here. I wrote some drabbles for various things a while ago, and I've been a little lazy about putting them on my journal. So I'm just gonna stick them all in this post to avoid flist spam; in the future I'll just post them separately like I do with every other story.
Battlestar Galactica
Title: Game Changers
Characters/Pairings: Kara/Helo
Rating: R
Warning: Language. Sexual Situations.
Prompt: Kara/Helo; "broke the furniture"
Summary: It's all fun and games, until it isn't. Pre-series.
“You’ve gotta be frakking kidding me,” Kara says (or more aptly, slurs), throwing her cards down on the rickety table in front of her (the thing was probably older than the Battlestar itself). “Seriously, you don’t have sleeves, so where the frak are you hiding those cards, ‘cause there is no way you’re a better card player than me.”
It was an off night, as most were, and Kara had been not sleeping, again, and Helo had found her walking around. So, logically, they decide to drink themselves stupid and play cards.
“Fair and square,” Helo replies, holding up his hands as if to display his innocence. “It’s not my fault you’re off your game.”
Kara stands up quickly (managing to wobble only a little), pushes herself around the table, and plants herself in front of Helo as assertively as she can. “Nope, not buying it, I’m gonna have to pat you down or, strip search or,” she manages to get out before she pushes her hands against him and pats him down sloppily, her laughter going from just a giggle to something loud and unashamed.
“Oh yeah, you really think I’m hiding cards or do you just wanna feel me up?” he teases, grabbing her wrist and halting her investigation.
A witty retort rolls around in her head on its way to her tongue, but is foiled by her own balance and she just kind of inelegantly tumbles over. Helo grabs her arms to steady her, standing up from his chair, and somewhere between friendly banter and casual sexual harassment Kara finds herself planted between the table and Helo, the backs of her thighs pressed against the edge.
“Frak you,” she says with a smile, for really no reason at all. And when he laughs (really nothing more than an sharp exhale) and shakes his head, she pauses, fumbles for words she usually has to hold back, and they just kind of regard each other. He’s got that look, eyes ringed in red and a little bit dreamy, that says why the frak not, and since that’s pretty much her motto after four or five shots anyway, she gives in.
It feels good (really good, actually) when she closes the gap between them and he meets her halfway, lips crashing and struggling for dominance (she always wins, but it’s cute to watch him try). His hands stay on her arms for a little while, but soon travel down her sides and up the front of her shirt. First his fingers graze her stomach, and then shoot up so fast to paw at her breasts it’s like he’s never felt any before.
She hops up on the table so she can pull him between her legs and wrap them around his waist, but before she has a chance to do much else the table under her lets out a sad groan, like it’s bummed it can’t be part of the festivities, and gives way under the two of them. She lands on her back against the collapsed table underneath her, hard, and when Helo falls against her she can’t help but let out a grunt as the wind is knocked out of her.
Then he laughs, and she laughs, and he regards her again but that look in his eyes has changed. And maybe the one in hers has too, because she can still feel the heat coiling under her skin, but it’s not quite the same.
Her smile falters, and she remembers why she’s awake in the first place - nightmares, over and over. And they aren’t like they were before, full of chrome monsters and bullets in her brain. No, she misses those, because now all it takes to make her wake up in a cold sweat is checking off a box that says ‘you pass’ when really you fail fail fail.
“What do you say,” he interrupts her thoughts, his breathing heavy and his voice tired, “we grab another drink and I kick you ass at cards a little more?”
And she thinks, yeah, maybe having someone who will stay up until gods know when so you don’t have to go to sleep, and who doesn’t ask why (because he knows, they all know, maybe not the specifics but they know), is something worth not screwing up because she tends to frak too much when she drinks too much. Thinks that maybe that’s why the frak not, even if she’d pretty much give anything right now to break every table in this godsdamn ship with him.
So she nods and answers with an “I’d like to see you try,” and lets him help her up.
Dexter
Title: Mistaken for Strangers
Characters/Pairings: Deb/Quinn
Rating: PG
Warning: Language.
Prompt: Five acts meme; Deb/Quinn, sharing, UST
Summary: It's not that she hates weddings.
“What are you doing out here, Morgan?”
Deb spins around and sees Quinn standing off to the side behind her. She throws her hand up to show the cigarette between her fingers and gives him a look.
He gives her one right back. “Yeah, I see that, but the whole fucking reception is outside, you didn’t have to come all the way over here,” he says, pointing out the fact that she has, in fact, walked a considerable distance away from the reception.
She shrugs unconvincing. “I didn’t wanna foul up the place.”
“Sure,” he says like he doesn’t believe her.
“What’s it to you anyway?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
Deb just nods, alternating between taking drags of her cigarette and sipping from her bottle of beer.
But he can’t let it go. “It’s just, it’s your brother’s wedding, and you look fucking miserable.”
Sighing, she turns back around and glares at him. “Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special. Is that the line you use on all the ladies?”
She expects a laugh, or a sneer, but instead gets an apologetic face and a quick smile. “Come on, don’t do that. You know you look fantastic tonight.”
His comment is both predictable and wholly unexpected at the same time. She smiles nervously and breaks eye contact. “Yeah well, you don’t clean up so bad yourself.”
“Thanks.”
They stand there looking out at the horizon like they’re expecting it to say something to pop the awkward silence ballooning up between the two of them. Deb chews on the inside of her lip and takes a few huge gulps of her beer before looking over at Quinn like she expects him to say something too. He doesn’t.
“So are you just here to make conversation, or…” she starts, sarcasm lacing her voice.
“Needed a little fresh air myself, thanks to the open bar and champagne and everything,” he says with a grin and a wink.
Deb swallows another gulp and nods.
A pause, and then, “So why are you really hiding all the way out here, Morgan?”
She shrugs, and then backs up a little so she’s standing closer to him, so she doesn’t have to look back to talk to him. “I’m just not a huge fan of weddings, you know?”
“I don’t think your brother is either, to be honest,” Quinn mumbles.
She shoots him a glare, but it softens, because it’s true. “Well, that’s just Dex. He’s never liked being the center of attention.”
Quinn leans just slightly against her to keep his balance, and she gives him a little push with her shoulder to upright him again. She’s not sure he noticed. “It’s just, I dunno, I don’t see the point,” she adds.
“Of weddings?”
“Marriage,” she corrects, shaking her head. “I mean, love doesn’t stay like they tell you it will when you're a kid. It goes in and out and comes back and doesn’t stay consistent in any…” she pauses, rolling the words around in her mouth, “in any dependable way so it’s like, why torture yourself? Why feel like a failure when it, when it just stops? Breaking up is so much simpler than a divorce, right?”
Quinn doesn’t reply or comment or say anything at all, and Deb suddenly feels extraordinarily embarrassed by her admission. Another long drag of her cigarette turns a quarter of it to ash. “I mean, I dunno, maybe I just don’t fucking like weddings.”
She feels his weight against her shoulder again, but doesn’t push him away this time.
“No, I get what you mean. I get that,” he says carefully, nodding, and his face is kinda really close to hers and she can feel her heart rate increase. He smells like cheap beer, champagne, and Quinn (she hasn’t quite figured out the details of that yet, though).
“Well,” he starts again, his gaze flicking between her face and her hand. “If you give me a drag of that cigarette and a swig of your beer, I promise I won’t tell Anton.”
Then she laughs, fucking laughs out loud, because this is all just, well…what is it exactly? It’s ridiculous, for one, but it’s also…
Nice. That’s what it is - it’s nice.
“I think that’s blackmail, Quinn,” she says, her face dropping to be more serious, before going back to a smile. “But alright.”
She hands him both at the same time, and he grabs the beer from her hand and drinks from it quickly. But when he goes for the cigarette he just grabs her hand, twists it so the cigarette is facing the right way, and takes the drag straight from her hand.
He then hands her back the beer, and she can’t think of how to react, so she just nods, opens her mouth to speak but says nothing, and then finishes off her beer right then and there.
“Thanks, Morgan. For the company,” he adds, before running his hand over his head and down to his neck. He lets his hand drop to his side, and says, “Well, I’m probably gonna head on back to the party,” and jerks his thumb in the direction of the reception.
“Yeah,” she nods quickly, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Alright,” he replies softly, and before he leaves he leans over and kisses her on the cheek like they’re in fucking Europe, pats her other cheek so lightly she can barely feel it, and lets his hand trail down to her shoulder before letting it slip off and walking away.
Deb looks down, and sees her hands shaking so hard that the ash falls off her cigarette like snow.
Title: Permission to Enter
Characters/Pairings: Deb/Quinn
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Sex. Language.
Prompt: Five acts meme; Deb/Quinn - Shower Sex
Summary: It's not that he doesn't want her to. He does. And doesn't. It's complicated.
“Can I come in?”
Deb’s voice is a rough from sleep, but he can hear her over the sound of the water. Knows what she wants to do.
But he doesn’t want to. Well, that’s not true. He does. It’s just -
Well, it’s complicated.
And no, he’s not one of those people who can’t stand someone else in the shower with them; maybe when he’s late for work, sure, but now, on a Saturday morning, with a slight hangover? Sounds pretty close to perfect. He’s shared his shower with plenty of women - so no, it’s not that. It has less to do with now and everything to do with then. Specifically, everything to do with how then won’t stay where it belongs.
He imagines it how it would be if this were a perfect world without befores and afters, though; sees Deb dropping the sheet she’s swathed herself in and stepping in carefully, self consciously covering her breasts until he pulled her close to him. Then she’d sigh and breathe in, coughing a little when she sucks in water instead of air and he’d bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Then he’d spin her around and get behind her so she could stand in the warm spray, and she’d run her hands over her head and through her hair, stopping to touch his face just slightly when her hands graze it.
A bar of soap in his hand would give him an excuse to run his hands over her body, down her stomach and thighs, but Deb isn’t really one for formalities so she’d grab his other hand and stick it between her legs, begging him to touch her without actually begging (‘cause she doesn’t do that).
He’ll have been hard pretty much since she first pressed herself against him, so he’ll waste no time in getting her as ready as he is. With a grunt she would signal that she needed him now, thank you very much and he would her walk closer to the wall so she could put her hands against it. He would enter her from behind with a moan, running his hand up her stomach and to her breasts, and she would probably start rambling obscenities like she always does when she gets real turned on.
When she comes it’ll be with a shout, never a whimper, and it’ll be so fucking hot he’ll probably follow shortly. He’ll pull out (because he’s not an asshole) and come on her thighs, and he’ll sling his arm around her waist so she doesn’t fall down when her knees give just slightly. Then he’ll kiss her back and shoulders and neck, the two of them leaning against the wall and each other, lost in the hazy euphoria of the afterglow.
But this isn’t a perfect world, and he knows somewhere in between inviting her in and drying her off she’ll say or do something, (maybe not something big, but it doesn’t have to be), and it’ll remind him of Christine. Remind him of how she’d crawl into the shower with him almost every morning (she called it their “thing,” stained it and ruined it), run her hands over his chest and admit she’d never felt like this for anyone, Joey, and he’d kiss the top of her head and hold her close because he was always scared to admit it back.
And when it happens, because it will, it’ll make him feel like a fool and a spineless bastard; like a broken record that plays almost right but there’s still a piece missing, and it just keeps skip skip skipping back to-
He doesn’t want to do it. Doesn’t wanna start skipping again.
“Hey, did you hear me?” Deb says again, walking closer to the glass door and tapping on it.
But she wants to, wants to come in with him, and fuck if her opinion doesn’t matter too. She’s his partner in so many ways it’s hard to keep them straight. He said he’d take a bullet for her, though he never specified what kind; emotional falls into that category then, he guesses.
So he takes that bullet, bites it, and invites her in. They’re both just trying to pick up each other’s pieces, after all.
Friday Night Lights
Title: Laws of Motion
Characters/Pairings: Tim/Lyla
Rating: PG
Warning: Talk of sex
Prompt: Lyla/Tim; “One day she'll go. I told you so.” (“Talking to Mary,” by Elliott Smith)
Summary: He's not afraid of forgetting her. He's afraid of remembering her wrong.
He knows that he’ll never forget the smell of her hair and the dust at the bus stop that day. She smells like Lyla, and there’s really no way to describe it, but if you held a gun to his head he’d say it’s a mix of mangoes and good intentions and old-fashioned too-good-for-you, Tim Riggins. Because she is too good for him, and if he were a smarter man, he would have figured that out a long time ago and cut his losses.
But he’s not (a smart man, that is), and he’s alright with that. Smart men wouldn’t go after their best friend’s girl, but then again smart men wouldn’t have let her meet Jason in the first place, at least not before he’d staked his claim; wouldn’t have let her fall in love with the quarterback instead of him, even if they did have way more in common (but two like magnets repel, isn’t that what he learned?).
Smart men might not make so many mistakes, but if he were any smarter he’d never have the memory of the way that she laughed at his stupid jokes and the way her voice sounded in the morning, of the feel of her skin under his lips or the sound of her crying out his name when she came (she’d say Tim, I love you over and over and damn, he’s pretty sure he’ll never hear anything prettier).
So, he’s okay being an idiot. It’s not like anyone expects different anyway.
You knew she was gonna leave is the first thing out of Billy’s mouth (grease on his forehead and stolen parts in his hands) when Tim finally gets the balls to actually admit out loud that he’ll miss her, that he loved her and she was here with him before and now, well, now she’s gone forever.
He doesn’t say much more than that, ‘cause he’s never been one for flowery words. But if he thinks about how it would look to feel like he does, he imagines it’d be kinda like that time he saw a show about black holes on public access. How they just kinda suck everything in until all that’s left is nothing but an absence of air and light and the feel of her hands on his face and, yeah, he thinks it’d probably look something like that.
He knows he’ll never forget the smell of her hair, but can’t help but be scared that he’ll remember it wrong, remember it as dusty and mute, a memory wiped clean, and instead of pretty clean skin he’ll just feel dirt between his lips, and when she calls his name it won’t be his at all.
Heroes
Title: Play Pretend
Characters/Pairings: Adam/Elle
Rating: R
Warning: Sexual situations
Prompt: Adam/Elle- Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.
Summary: You're forgetting the rules of the game.
“So what did you do today, love?”
Elle sends a quick smile over his way and lingers in the doorway. He can feel a slight breeze on his face from the air conditioning and change in pressure, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine he’s anywhere but here.
“All kinds of fun things,” she says lightly, her voice childish. She walks over to his bunk and slides next to him, shifting her shoulders so that the sleeves of her shirt fall delicately off her shoulders. He can see her bright red, lacy bra peeking out every place it can, and he has to bite his tongue to avoid saying something he really shouldn’t.
“Yeah?” he says instead, and looks at her face. She’s biting her lip and looking away shyly like she’s probably seen some girl do in a movie. “Like what?”
She pauses, putting her finger to her lips and making a hmmm sound. “I wore my prettiest dress and prettiest heels and went shopping with my best friends. We ate at the food court and talked about boys,” she says with as much joy as she can muster, but her voice is painfully sad. She then moves a little closer to him, slinging her legs over his lap and sitting sideways on the bed, knees slightly bent, balancing herself by swinging an arm around his shoulder. “Then I went home and made cookies with my mom for school.” She pauses. “We’re having a bake sale,” she clarifies.
Adam takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. She smells like acetone and strawberries. “We both know very well that none of that happened,” he states simply.
The next thing he feels is a pinch on his arm, and then she scoffs at him for good measure. “Well, if I told you what I actually did then you might think we’re friends,” she says directly into his neck, her breath warm against his skin. “And if you told me what you actually did in here all day, I’d probably die of boredom.”
Fair enough.
“So come on,” she coos, shifting her weigh so she’s facing him and sitting his lap, one leg on either side. “Tell me what you did today.”
He’d protest, but he wonders what he has better do to.
“Oh, went to the beach,” he starts, and closes his eyes again. Runs his hands through her hair and pretends it’s sand. “Got a tan. Watched the girls walk by.”
Elle shifts a little closer to him and runs her hands under his shirt, her soft hands singing the skin on his chest and throwing him off his story. He resumes, clarifying, “But since this is Europe, they’re all topless, right? Fucking beautiful women.”
She pushes even closer to him, her breath hot against his skin, and then there is a rustle of fabric as she shoves his hand under her shirt.
Adam lets out a moan, but regains his focus. “Then I went to a bar, had a few drinks, then took one of those beautiful women up to my room and made love to her all night,” he continues, and with that Elle begins to move against him, and he grunts in frustration at the layers of fabric separating them. “You should have been there, I bet you look very nice in a bikini.”
Wet kisses press against his neck, and he hisses at the sensation.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Elle whispers into his skin, pushes her body up against his and stops her movement. She pushes against his hardness, then quips, “Well, maybe it was, not sure.”
Adam groans, and shifts his weight to get more comfortable. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I am,” she says simply, and then asks, ““What are your plans for tomorrow?”
Cracking his neck, he answers, “Well since you’re so keen to know, I was planning on taking you hostage and using you as ransom for my freedom.” He presses a kiss against her collarbone, and adds, “I might ravish you a little before I call your dad over, just for fun of course.”
She smiles when he kisses her, then pulls back and stares at him like she’s got something to say. Finally, she blurts, “And then when you finally get out of here, you know, make your big escape and save the world or whatever, you won’t forget me here, right? You’ll take me with you?”
Blink one, blink two, and he’s not sure how to reply. “Elle, I’m not your knight in shining armor.”
“Adam,” she snaps, and he sees little sparks dance at her fingertips. “It’s almost like you haven’t even been paying attention to the rules of the game.”
He pauses and studies her face, testing her reaction, before muttering, “Of course, love.” When her face softens, he adds, “How could I forget you?”
“See?” she says, and puts both of her hands on his cheeks to cup his face, her own face inches from his, “that’s the spirit.”
Title: Mix your Metaphors
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elle
Rating: PG
Warning: Language
Prompt: Elle/Peter - umbrella
Summary: I can't even kill him, you know?
Peter still wasn’t sure if Adam’s decision to take Elle along with them after they had escaped from Level 5 was a good idea, but you have to work with the hand you’re dealt. She’d met them on their way out from Nathan’s hospital room, and they’d expected resistance, but instead she just stared with this expression Peter hadn’t been sure he’d wanted to understand. There was anger, sure - they’d escaped, and it was on her head. But the other part, well, it was just hurt.
Of course she was hurt, Peter had thought. She’d wanted to escape Level 5 just as much as they had. And somewhere in there, maybe she wanted to be a hero just like them, too.
Well, maybe not, but it was a nice thought. And besides, as Adam had said to Peter after he’d invited her along, sometimes it’s okay to have a revolver pointed at your temple, as long as it’s in your hand.
Now they sat outside on the curb of a sad little roadside diner, so cliché it’s almost cute. Elle didn’t want to be inside anymore, because she’d gotten into a fight with Adam and didn’t want to look at his “stupid, old man face,” as she said. The minute she’d walked out the door, Adam had pointed at Peter, and then at the door, and told him to follow her and make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.
Peter never thought of himself as someone who would take orders so passively, but he supposed what you think about yourself and reality sometimes don’t quite match up. So he followed after her, under the pretense that he didn’t want her to get hurt. Which he didn’t, of course.
He found her sitting on the curb, huffing and puffing and mirroring the sky above her, all crackling sparks and thunder.
“I hate him, Peter,” she said when he sat down beside her, her face snapping over to look at him. “He’s not a good person.”
Peter put his hand on her knee, and she stared at it like it was burning her. “Aw come on Elle, he’s not so bad,” he said, pausing slightly. “Okay, I mean, he can be a little pushy, but he’s got a lot on his mind. He’s trying to save the world,” he finished, nudging her with his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know that kind of stuff really turns you on, Peter,” she said with a raised eyebrow, “But you shouldn’t trust him.”
Maybe not, Peter thought, “But I’m supposed to trust you, right?”
A bright flash behind the clouds above them, followed quickly by a hard smash like two cars colliding. Elle jumped. “Yeah, duh,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Don’t I look trustworthy?”
Peter laughed, staring at the show above them. Elle moved closer to him every time there was a flash and a smash, which was becoming pretty often.
“You’re afraid of lightning, Elle?” Peter asked, pointing to the sky. “You?”
Boom, and Elle’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm. She twisted the fabric between her fingers. “Not the lightning, dummy,” she said patronizingly. Then she shuddered, and sighed. “The rain.”
As if on cue, tiny sprinkles started above them, barely anything, but Elle took a sharp breath in and starting clicking her fingernails together. “Sometimes I um, well, you know, lightning and water,” she explained, stumbling over her words and laughing nervously.
Peter was going to suggest going back inside, but the minute he opened his mouth she glared at him, hard. “No way,” she snapped. “Not until it’s a downpour, I just-” she said, obviously flustered. “I can’t even kill him, you know? So frustrating.”
No, he didn’t know, but he nodded anyway.
They sat for a few moments more, and the drizzle turned into a slightly harder drizzle. So Peter pushed her away and took one of his arms out of his jacket, sliding it around Elle and up over her head slightly so she was covered from the rain.
Elle pushed up against him without shame, sliding her arms around his ribs and pushing her lips quickly against his. It was quick, chaste even, and she pulled away from him just as fast, staring at him with an impish smile. “You really dig this knight in shining armor stuff, huh?” she whispered. She then settled against him, murmuring into his chest. “It’s cool, I kinda like it. You’re like my own personal umbrella, taking me under your wing and stuff.”
Her metaphors didn’t quite match, but he smiled nonetheless.
Title: Manual Labor
Characters/Pairings: Elle/Luke
Rating: PG
Warning: None.
Prompt: Elle/Luke - camping
Summary: Sometimes you've just gotta get your hands dirty.
“You’re not doing it right.”
Elle glares over at Luke and sighs. “This was your idea.”
She’s right, it was. They’d been on the run from the company for a few days now, sleeping wherever they could. Usually they found decent places, but tonight they were too far deep in…wherever the hell they were and hadn’t seen a town for miles, let alone a motel. So tonight, they were sleeping outdoors.
Although Elle was initially pretty vocal about how horrible it would be, how bugs would get in her hair and dirt all over her clothes, Luke was a little excited about it. He hadn’t been camping for years and years, but he’d always liked it; it’d always been the best excuse for him to leave his house for days on end with stranger’s families and pretend they were his own.
“Can’t I just spark it and we’ll be done?” Elle whines, bringing him out of his thoughts.
He frowns. “Don’t you wanna learn how to do it the right way? I mean, what if you, I dunno, lose your powers and have to start a fire?”
When he mentions losing her powers, Elle almost looks scared, but recovers quickly. “That’s never gonna happen, so-”
“Just sayin’,” he interrupts, “if you need to one day, you’ll thank me. Plus, what else are we going out here anyway?” he says with a sigh, like he doesn’t believe his own words, because he can think of a million things he wants to do with her that have nothing to do with basic survival skills, but he’s not about to mention that.
Elle sighs, and in a rare moment, admits that he’s right; there isn’t anything else to do. Luke can’t help but sigh again; can’t help but want to touch her, but doesn’t quite know how.
The sound of the stick rubbing against the base is starting to grate on his nerves, and she still isn’t doing it right. So he takes initiative and scoots over behind her, reaching around her so both of her hands are beneath his.
“What are you doing?” she stammers, like she’s completely out of her element and unsure what to say. She rubs her thumb against the stick between her palms nervously.
“Showing you how to do it right,” he replies, and slowly begins to move the stick between her palms before she starts to pick up the pace and he lets go, his hands ghosting over hers. He leans a little against her shoulder so he can say in her ear, “you have to uh,” he pauses, “do it faster.”
She nods wordlessly and settles against him, and he’d be surprised if she couldn’t feel his heart beating wildly against her back. The junction between the sticks starts to get hot, really hot, but isn’t really going anywhere yet, and probably isn’t going to go anywhere at all unless he does something about it.
So he lets his hand fall just slightly below hers, and just slightly heats the pieces of brush they’re using for timber with his power. Not a lot, nothing she could notice, but just enough that it starts to smolder and burn, and soon enough a spark, not from her hand but from the stick, ignites a small fire.
“Oh my god,” she says, just staring at it while Luke frantically puts more kindling on it so it doesn’t die out immediately. Once it’s sizeable enough to stay lit, he looks over at Elle. She looks so completely surprised at what just happened, like she can’t quite process it. “Luke, I-I did it.”
“Yeah, you did,” he lies, but just a little and he doesn’t feel bad about it, because the look she’s giving him, like she’s never done anything like this before, is worth it.
Elle breathes in deep, and then smiles widely. “Without my power. I did it,” she says, mostly to herself as she turns back to the tiny fire.
“Yup.”
“Shit,” she says, shaking her head. Then she turns toward him again and pushes her lips against his without warning and without hesitation, and Luke is one hundred percent sure that he must have died sometime before and this is just an awesome, awesome dream.
Elle pulls away, and says quietly, “Thanks, kid. Got anything else you want to teach me?”
He swallows hard. “Depends,” he hesitates, but is feeling a little brave right now. “do I get the same reward each time?”
She laughs and twists her hair between her fingers, breaking eye contact momentarily before looking right back at him. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
Battlestar Galactica
Title: Game Changers
Characters/Pairings: Kara/Helo
Rating: R
Warning: Language. Sexual Situations.
Prompt: Kara/Helo; "broke the furniture"
Summary: It's all fun and games, until it isn't. Pre-series.
“You’ve gotta be frakking kidding me,” Kara says (or more aptly, slurs), throwing her cards down on the rickety table in front of her (the thing was probably older than the Battlestar itself). “Seriously, you don’t have sleeves, so where the frak are you hiding those cards, ‘cause there is no way you’re a better card player than me.”
It was an off night, as most were, and Kara had been not sleeping, again, and Helo had found her walking around. So, logically, they decide to drink themselves stupid and play cards.
“Fair and square,” Helo replies, holding up his hands as if to display his innocence. “It’s not my fault you’re off your game.”
Kara stands up quickly (managing to wobble only a little), pushes herself around the table, and plants herself in front of Helo as assertively as she can. “Nope, not buying it, I’m gonna have to pat you down or, strip search or,” she manages to get out before she pushes her hands against him and pats him down sloppily, her laughter going from just a giggle to something loud and unashamed.
“Oh yeah, you really think I’m hiding cards or do you just wanna feel me up?” he teases, grabbing her wrist and halting her investigation.
A witty retort rolls around in her head on its way to her tongue, but is foiled by her own balance and she just kind of inelegantly tumbles over. Helo grabs her arms to steady her, standing up from his chair, and somewhere between friendly banter and casual sexual harassment Kara finds herself planted between the table and Helo, the backs of her thighs pressed against the edge.
“Frak you,” she says with a smile, for really no reason at all. And when he laughs (really nothing more than an sharp exhale) and shakes his head, she pauses, fumbles for words she usually has to hold back, and they just kind of regard each other. He’s got that look, eyes ringed in red and a little bit dreamy, that says why the frak not, and since that’s pretty much her motto after four or five shots anyway, she gives in.
It feels good (really good, actually) when she closes the gap between them and he meets her halfway, lips crashing and struggling for dominance (she always wins, but it’s cute to watch him try). His hands stay on her arms for a little while, but soon travel down her sides and up the front of her shirt. First his fingers graze her stomach, and then shoot up so fast to paw at her breasts it’s like he’s never felt any before.
She hops up on the table so she can pull him between her legs and wrap them around his waist, but before she has a chance to do much else the table under her lets out a sad groan, like it’s bummed it can’t be part of the festivities, and gives way under the two of them. She lands on her back against the collapsed table underneath her, hard, and when Helo falls against her she can’t help but let out a grunt as the wind is knocked out of her.
Then he laughs, and she laughs, and he regards her again but that look in his eyes has changed. And maybe the one in hers has too, because she can still feel the heat coiling under her skin, but it’s not quite the same.
Her smile falters, and she remembers why she’s awake in the first place - nightmares, over and over. And they aren’t like they were before, full of chrome monsters and bullets in her brain. No, she misses those, because now all it takes to make her wake up in a cold sweat is checking off a box that says ‘you pass’ when really you fail fail fail.
“What do you say,” he interrupts her thoughts, his breathing heavy and his voice tired, “we grab another drink and I kick you ass at cards a little more?”
And she thinks, yeah, maybe having someone who will stay up until gods know when so you don’t have to go to sleep, and who doesn’t ask why (because he knows, they all know, maybe not the specifics but they know), is something worth not screwing up because she tends to frak too much when she drinks too much. Thinks that maybe that’s why the frak not, even if she’d pretty much give anything right now to break every table in this godsdamn ship with him.
So she nods and answers with an “I’d like to see you try,” and lets him help her up.
Dexter
Title: Mistaken for Strangers
Characters/Pairings: Deb/Quinn
Rating: PG
Warning: Language.
Prompt: Five acts meme; Deb/Quinn, sharing, UST
Summary: It's not that she hates weddings.
“What are you doing out here, Morgan?”
Deb spins around and sees Quinn standing off to the side behind her. She throws her hand up to show the cigarette between her fingers and gives him a look.
He gives her one right back. “Yeah, I see that, but the whole fucking reception is outside, you didn’t have to come all the way over here,” he says, pointing out the fact that she has, in fact, walked a considerable distance away from the reception.
She shrugs unconvincing. “I didn’t wanna foul up the place.”
“Sure,” he says like he doesn’t believe her.
“What’s it to you anyway?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
Deb just nods, alternating between taking drags of her cigarette and sipping from her bottle of beer.
But he can’t let it go. “It’s just, it’s your brother’s wedding, and you look fucking miserable.”
Sighing, she turns back around and glares at him. “Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special. Is that the line you use on all the ladies?”
She expects a laugh, or a sneer, but instead gets an apologetic face and a quick smile. “Come on, don’t do that. You know you look fantastic tonight.”
His comment is both predictable and wholly unexpected at the same time. She smiles nervously and breaks eye contact. “Yeah well, you don’t clean up so bad yourself.”
“Thanks.”
They stand there looking out at the horizon like they’re expecting it to say something to pop the awkward silence ballooning up between the two of them. Deb chews on the inside of her lip and takes a few huge gulps of her beer before looking over at Quinn like she expects him to say something too. He doesn’t.
“So are you just here to make conversation, or…” she starts, sarcasm lacing her voice.
“Needed a little fresh air myself, thanks to the open bar and champagne and everything,” he says with a grin and a wink.
Deb swallows another gulp and nods.
A pause, and then, “So why are you really hiding all the way out here, Morgan?”
She shrugs, and then backs up a little so she’s standing closer to him, so she doesn’t have to look back to talk to him. “I’m just not a huge fan of weddings, you know?”
“I don’t think your brother is either, to be honest,” Quinn mumbles.
She shoots him a glare, but it softens, because it’s true. “Well, that’s just Dex. He’s never liked being the center of attention.”
Quinn leans just slightly against her to keep his balance, and she gives him a little push with her shoulder to upright him again. She’s not sure he noticed. “It’s just, I dunno, I don’t see the point,” she adds.
“Of weddings?”
“Marriage,” she corrects, shaking her head. “I mean, love doesn’t stay like they tell you it will when you're a kid. It goes in and out and comes back and doesn’t stay consistent in any…” she pauses, rolling the words around in her mouth, “in any dependable way so it’s like, why torture yourself? Why feel like a failure when it, when it just stops? Breaking up is so much simpler than a divorce, right?”
Quinn doesn’t reply or comment or say anything at all, and Deb suddenly feels extraordinarily embarrassed by her admission. Another long drag of her cigarette turns a quarter of it to ash. “I mean, I dunno, maybe I just don’t fucking like weddings.”
She feels his weight against her shoulder again, but doesn’t push him away this time.
“No, I get what you mean. I get that,” he says carefully, nodding, and his face is kinda really close to hers and she can feel her heart rate increase. He smells like cheap beer, champagne, and Quinn (she hasn’t quite figured out the details of that yet, though).
“Well,” he starts again, his gaze flicking between her face and her hand. “If you give me a drag of that cigarette and a swig of your beer, I promise I won’t tell Anton.”
Then she laughs, fucking laughs out loud, because this is all just, well…what is it exactly? It’s ridiculous, for one, but it’s also…
Nice. That’s what it is - it’s nice.
“I think that’s blackmail, Quinn,” she says, her face dropping to be more serious, before going back to a smile. “But alright.”
She hands him both at the same time, and he grabs the beer from her hand and drinks from it quickly. But when he goes for the cigarette he just grabs her hand, twists it so the cigarette is facing the right way, and takes the drag straight from her hand.
He then hands her back the beer, and she can’t think of how to react, so she just nods, opens her mouth to speak but says nothing, and then finishes off her beer right then and there.
“Thanks, Morgan. For the company,” he adds, before running his hand over his head and down to his neck. He lets his hand drop to his side, and says, “Well, I’m probably gonna head on back to the party,” and jerks his thumb in the direction of the reception.
“Yeah,” she nods quickly, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Alright,” he replies softly, and before he leaves he leans over and kisses her on the cheek like they’re in fucking Europe, pats her other cheek so lightly she can barely feel it, and lets his hand trail down to her shoulder before letting it slip off and walking away.
Deb looks down, and sees her hands shaking so hard that the ash falls off her cigarette like snow.
Title: Permission to Enter
Characters/Pairings: Deb/Quinn
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Sex. Language.
Prompt: Five acts meme; Deb/Quinn - Shower Sex
Summary: It's not that he doesn't want her to. He does. And doesn't. It's complicated.
“Can I come in?”
Deb’s voice is a rough from sleep, but he can hear her over the sound of the water. Knows what she wants to do.
But he doesn’t want to. Well, that’s not true. He does. It’s just -
Well, it’s complicated.
And no, he’s not one of those people who can’t stand someone else in the shower with them; maybe when he’s late for work, sure, but now, on a Saturday morning, with a slight hangover? Sounds pretty close to perfect. He’s shared his shower with plenty of women - so no, it’s not that. It has less to do with now and everything to do with then. Specifically, everything to do with how then won’t stay where it belongs.
He imagines it how it would be if this were a perfect world without befores and afters, though; sees Deb dropping the sheet she’s swathed herself in and stepping in carefully, self consciously covering her breasts until he pulled her close to him. Then she’d sigh and breathe in, coughing a little when she sucks in water instead of air and he’d bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Then he’d spin her around and get behind her so she could stand in the warm spray, and she’d run her hands over her head and through her hair, stopping to touch his face just slightly when her hands graze it.
A bar of soap in his hand would give him an excuse to run his hands over her body, down her stomach and thighs, but Deb isn’t really one for formalities so she’d grab his other hand and stick it between her legs, begging him to touch her without actually begging (‘cause she doesn’t do that).
He’ll have been hard pretty much since she first pressed herself against him, so he’ll waste no time in getting her as ready as he is. With a grunt she would signal that she needed him now, thank you very much and he would her walk closer to the wall so she could put her hands against it. He would enter her from behind with a moan, running his hand up her stomach and to her breasts, and she would probably start rambling obscenities like she always does when she gets real turned on.
When she comes it’ll be with a shout, never a whimper, and it’ll be so fucking hot he’ll probably follow shortly. He’ll pull out (because he’s not an asshole) and come on her thighs, and he’ll sling his arm around her waist so she doesn’t fall down when her knees give just slightly. Then he’ll kiss her back and shoulders and neck, the two of them leaning against the wall and each other, lost in the hazy euphoria of the afterglow.
But this isn’t a perfect world, and he knows somewhere in between inviting her in and drying her off she’ll say or do something, (maybe not something big, but it doesn’t have to be), and it’ll remind him of Christine. Remind him of how she’d crawl into the shower with him almost every morning (she called it their “thing,” stained it and ruined it), run her hands over his chest and admit she’d never felt like this for anyone, Joey, and he’d kiss the top of her head and hold her close because he was always scared to admit it back.
And when it happens, because it will, it’ll make him feel like a fool and a spineless bastard; like a broken record that plays almost right but there’s still a piece missing, and it just keeps skip skip skipping back to-
He doesn’t want to do it. Doesn’t wanna start skipping again.
“Hey, did you hear me?” Deb says again, walking closer to the glass door and tapping on it.
But she wants to, wants to come in with him, and fuck if her opinion doesn’t matter too. She’s his partner in so many ways it’s hard to keep them straight. He said he’d take a bullet for her, though he never specified what kind; emotional falls into that category then, he guesses.
So he takes that bullet, bites it, and invites her in. They’re both just trying to pick up each other’s pieces, after all.
Friday Night Lights
Title: Laws of Motion
Characters/Pairings: Tim/Lyla
Rating: PG
Warning: Talk of sex
Prompt: Lyla/Tim; “One day she'll go. I told you so.” (“Talking to Mary,” by Elliott Smith)
Summary: He's not afraid of forgetting her. He's afraid of remembering her wrong.
He knows that he’ll never forget the smell of her hair and the dust at the bus stop that day. She smells like Lyla, and there’s really no way to describe it, but if you held a gun to his head he’d say it’s a mix of mangoes and good intentions and old-fashioned too-good-for-you, Tim Riggins. Because she is too good for him, and if he were a smarter man, he would have figured that out a long time ago and cut his losses.
But he’s not (a smart man, that is), and he’s alright with that. Smart men wouldn’t go after their best friend’s girl, but then again smart men wouldn’t have let her meet Jason in the first place, at least not before he’d staked his claim; wouldn’t have let her fall in love with the quarterback instead of him, even if they did have way more in common (but two like magnets repel, isn’t that what he learned?).
Smart men might not make so many mistakes, but if he were any smarter he’d never have the memory of the way that she laughed at his stupid jokes and the way her voice sounded in the morning, of the feel of her skin under his lips or the sound of her crying out his name when she came (she’d say Tim, I love you over and over and damn, he’s pretty sure he’ll never hear anything prettier).
So, he’s okay being an idiot. It’s not like anyone expects different anyway.
You knew she was gonna leave is the first thing out of Billy’s mouth (grease on his forehead and stolen parts in his hands) when Tim finally gets the balls to actually admit out loud that he’ll miss her, that he loved her and she was here with him before and now, well, now she’s gone forever.
He doesn’t say much more than that, ‘cause he’s never been one for flowery words. But if he thinks about how it would look to feel like he does, he imagines it’d be kinda like that time he saw a show about black holes on public access. How they just kinda suck everything in until all that’s left is nothing but an absence of air and light and the feel of her hands on his face and, yeah, he thinks it’d probably look something like that.
He knows he’ll never forget the smell of her hair, but can’t help but be scared that he’ll remember it wrong, remember it as dusty and mute, a memory wiped clean, and instead of pretty clean skin he’ll just feel dirt between his lips, and when she calls his name it won’t be his at all.
Heroes
Title: Play Pretend
Characters/Pairings: Adam/Elle
Rating: R
Warning: Sexual situations
Prompt: Adam/Elle- Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.
Summary: You're forgetting the rules of the game.
“So what did you do today, love?”
Elle sends a quick smile over his way and lingers in the doorway. He can feel a slight breeze on his face from the air conditioning and change in pressure, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine he’s anywhere but here.
“All kinds of fun things,” she says lightly, her voice childish. She walks over to his bunk and slides next to him, shifting her shoulders so that the sleeves of her shirt fall delicately off her shoulders. He can see her bright red, lacy bra peeking out every place it can, and he has to bite his tongue to avoid saying something he really shouldn’t.
“Yeah?” he says instead, and looks at her face. She’s biting her lip and looking away shyly like she’s probably seen some girl do in a movie. “Like what?”
She pauses, putting her finger to her lips and making a hmmm sound. “I wore my prettiest dress and prettiest heels and went shopping with my best friends. We ate at the food court and talked about boys,” she says with as much joy as she can muster, but her voice is painfully sad. She then moves a little closer to him, slinging her legs over his lap and sitting sideways on the bed, knees slightly bent, balancing herself by swinging an arm around his shoulder. “Then I went home and made cookies with my mom for school.” She pauses. “We’re having a bake sale,” she clarifies.
Adam takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes. She smells like acetone and strawberries. “We both know very well that none of that happened,” he states simply.
The next thing he feels is a pinch on his arm, and then she scoffs at him for good measure. “Well, if I told you what I actually did then you might think we’re friends,” she says directly into his neck, her breath warm against his skin. “And if you told me what you actually did in here all day, I’d probably die of boredom.”
Fair enough.
“So come on,” she coos, shifting her weigh so she’s facing him and sitting his lap, one leg on either side. “Tell me what you did today.”
He’d protest, but he wonders what he has better do to.
“Oh, went to the beach,” he starts, and closes his eyes again. Runs his hands through her hair and pretends it’s sand. “Got a tan. Watched the girls walk by.”
Elle shifts a little closer to him and runs her hands under his shirt, her soft hands singing the skin on his chest and throwing him off his story. He resumes, clarifying, “But since this is Europe, they’re all topless, right? Fucking beautiful women.”
She pushes even closer to him, her breath hot against his skin, and then there is a rustle of fabric as she shoves his hand under her shirt.
Adam lets out a moan, but regains his focus. “Then I went to a bar, had a few drinks, then took one of those beautiful women up to my room and made love to her all night,” he continues, and with that Elle begins to move against him, and he grunts in frustration at the layers of fabric separating them. “You should have been there, I bet you look very nice in a bikini.”
Wet kisses press against his neck, and he hisses at the sensation.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Elle whispers into his skin, pushes her body up against his and stops her movement. She pushes against his hardness, then quips, “Well, maybe it was, not sure.”
Adam groans, and shifts his weight to get more comfortable. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I am,” she says simply, and then asks, ““What are your plans for tomorrow?”
Cracking his neck, he answers, “Well since you’re so keen to know, I was planning on taking you hostage and using you as ransom for my freedom.” He presses a kiss against her collarbone, and adds, “I might ravish you a little before I call your dad over, just for fun of course.”
She smiles when he kisses her, then pulls back and stares at him like she’s got something to say. Finally, she blurts, “And then when you finally get out of here, you know, make your big escape and save the world or whatever, you won’t forget me here, right? You’ll take me with you?”
Blink one, blink two, and he’s not sure how to reply. “Elle, I’m not your knight in shining armor.”
“Adam,” she snaps, and he sees little sparks dance at her fingertips. “It’s almost like you haven’t even been paying attention to the rules of the game.”
He pauses and studies her face, testing her reaction, before muttering, “Of course, love.” When her face softens, he adds, “How could I forget you?”
“See?” she says, and puts both of her hands on his cheeks to cup his face, her own face inches from his, “that’s the spirit.”
Title: Mix your Metaphors
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elle
Rating: PG
Warning: Language
Prompt: Elle/Peter - umbrella
Summary: I can't even kill him, you know?
Peter still wasn’t sure if Adam’s decision to take Elle along with them after they had escaped from Level 5 was a good idea, but you have to work with the hand you’re dealt. She’d met them on their way out from Nathan’s hospital room, and they’d expected resistance, but instead she just stared with this expression Peter hadn’t been sure he’d wanted to understand. There was anger, sure - they’d escaped, and it was on her head. But the other part, well, it was just hurt.
Of course she was hurt, Peter had thought. She’d wanted to escape Level 5 just as much as they had. And somewhere in there, maybe she wanted to be a hero just like them, too.
Well, maybe not, but it was a nice thought. And besides, as Adam had said to Peter after he’d invited her along, sometimes it’s okay to have a revolver pointed at your temple, as long as it’s in your hand.
Now they sat outside on the curb of a sad little roadside diner, so cliché it’s almost cute. Elle didn’t want to be inside anymore, because she’d gotten into a fight with Adam and didn’t want to look at his “stupid, old man face,” as she said. The minute she’d walked out the door, Adam had pointed at Peter, and then at the door, and told him to follow her and make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.
Peter never thought of himself as someone who would take orders so passively, but he supposed what you think about yourself and reality sometimes don’t quite match up. So he followed after her, under the pretense that he didn’t want her to get hurt. Which he didn’t, of course.
He found her sitting on the curb, huffing and puffing and mirroring the sky above her, all crackling sparks and thunder.
“I hate him, Peter,” she said when he sat down beside her, her face snapping over to look at him. “He’s not a good person.”
Peter put his hand on her knee, and she stared at it like it was burning her. “Aw come on Elle, he’s not so bad,” he said, pausing slightly. “Okay, I mean, he can be a little pushy, but he’s got a lot on his mind. He’s trying to save the world,” he finished, nudging her with his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know that kind of stuff really turns you on, Peter,” she said with a raised eyebrow, “But you shouldn’t trust him.”
Maybe not, Peter thought, “But I’m supposed to trust you, right?”
A bright flash behind the clouds above them, followed quickly by a hard smash like two cars colliding. Elle jumped. “Yeah, duh,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Don’t I look trustworthy?”
Peter laughed, staring at the show above them. Elle moved closer to him every time there was a flash and a smash, which was becoming pretty often.
“You’re afraid of lightning, Elle?” Peter asked, pointing to the sky. “You?”
Boom, and Elle’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm. She twisted the fabric between her fingers. “Not the lightning, dummy,” she said patronizingly. Then she shuddered, and sighed. “The rain.”
As if on cue, tiny sprinkles started above them, barely anything, but Elle took a sharp breath in and starting clicking her fingernails together. “Sometimes I um, well, you know, lightning and water,” she explained, stumbling over her words and laughing nervously.
Peter was going to suggest going back inside, but the minute he opened his mouth she glared at him, hard. “No way,” she snapped. “Not until it’s a downpour, I just-” she said, obviously flustered. “I can’t even kill him, you know? So frustrating.”
No, he didn’t know, but he nodded anyway.
They sat for a few moments more, and the drizzle turned into a slightly harder drizzle. So Peter pushed her away and took one of his arms out of his jacket, sliding it around Elle and up over her head slightly so she was covered from the rain.
Elle pushed up against him without shame, sliding her arms around his ribs and pushing her lips quickly against his. It was quick, chaste even, and she pulled away from him just as fast, staring at him with an impish smile. “You really dig this knight in shining armor stuff, huh?” she whispered. She then settled against him, murmuring into his chest. “It’s cool, I kinda like it. You’re like my own personal umbrella, taking me under your wing and stuff.”
Her metaphors didn’t quite match, but he smiled nonetheless.
Title: Manual Labor
Characters/Pairings: Elle/Luke
Rating: PG
Warning: None.
Prompt: Elle/Luke - camping
Summary: Sometimes you've just gotta get your hands dirty.
“You’re not doing it right.”
Elle glares over at Luke and sighs. “This was your idea.”
She’s right, it was. They’d been on the run from the company for a few days now, sleeping wherever they could. Usually they found decent places, but tonight they were too far deep in…wherever the hell they were and hadn’t seen a town for miles, let alone a motel. So tonight, they were sleeping outdoors.
Although Elle was initially pretty vocal about how horrible it would be, how bugs would get in her hair and dirt all over her clothes, Luke was a little excited about it. He hadn’t been camping for years and years, but he’d always liked it; it’d always been the best excuse for him to leave his house for days on end with stranger’s families and pretend they were his own.
“Can’t I just spark it and we’ll be done?” Elle whines, bringing him out of his thoughts.
He frowns. “Don’t you wanna learn how to do it the right way? I mean, what if you, I dunno, lose your powers and have to start a fire?”
When he mentions losing her powers, Elle almost looks scared, but recovers quickly. “That’s never gonna happen, so-”
“Just sayin’,” he interrupts, “if you need to one day, you’ll thank me. Plus, what else are we going out here anyway?” he says with a sigh, like he doesn’t believe his own words, because he can think of a million things he wants to do with her that have nothing to do with basic survival skills, but he’s not about to mention that.
Elle sighs, and in a rare moment, admits that he’s right; there isn’t anything else to do. Luke can’t help but sigh again; can’t help but want to touch her, but doesn’t quite know how.
The sound of the stick rubbing against the base is starting to grate on his nerves, and she still isn’t doing it right. So he takes initiative and scoots over behind her, reaching around her so both of her hands are beneath his.
“What are you doing?” she stammers, like she’s completely out of her element and unsure what to say. She rubs her thumb against the stick between her palms nervously.
“Showing you how to do it right,” he replies, and slowly begins to move the stick between her palms before she starts to pick up the pace and he lets go, his hands ghosting over hers. He leans a little against her shoulder so he can say in her ear, “you have to uh,” he pauses, “do it faster.”
She nods wordlessly and settles against him, and he’d be surprised if she couldn’t feel his heart beating wildly against her back. The junction between the sticks starts to get hot, really hot, but isn’t really going anywhere yet, and probably isn’t going to go anywhere at all unless he does something about it.
So he lets his hand fall just slightly below hers, and just slightly heats the pieces of brush they’re using for timber with his power. Not a lot, nothing she could notice, but just enough that it starts to smolder and burn, and soon enough a spark, not from her hand but from the stick, ignites a small fire.
“Oh my god,” she says, just staring at it while Luke frantically puts more kindling on it so it doesn’t die out immediately. Once it’s sizeable enough to stay lit, he looks over at Elle. She looks so completely surprised at what just happened, like she can’t quite process it. “Luke, I-I did it.”
“Yeah, you did,” he lies, but just a little and he doesn’t feel bad about it, because the look she’s giving him, like she’s never done anything like this before, is worth it.
Elle breathes in deep, and then smiles widely. “Without my power. I did it,” she says, mostly to herself as she turns back to the tiny fire.
“Yup.”
“Shit,” she says, shaking her head. Then she turns toward him again and pushes her lips against his without warning and without hesitation, and Luke is one hundred percent sure that he must have died sometime before and this is just an awesome, awesome dream.
Elle pulls away, and says quietly, “Thanks, kid. Got anything else you want to teach me?”
He swallows hard. “Depends,” he hesitates, but is feeling a little brave right now. “do I get the same reward each time?”
She laughs and twists her hair between her fingers, breaking eye contact momentarily before looking right back at him. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”