#But sometimes the little things hit you in a way that taps into a veritable Wellspring of stored resentment

[itsadamnbeehive]

picky eater rant lol

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 1/5 - AO3 - Next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen... only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe... I'll add them later if I remember any.

(Written as a prompt that got way out of hand for @dani-dandelino and beta'd by @professorjaskier)

____

The path up the mountain was steep, treacherous and fucking cold. Jaskier felt himself slipping on the loose rocks underfoot. He yelped, ready to meet his maker but Geralt’s strong arms wrapped around his waist before he could hit the floor. It was all very reminiscent of a lover’s embrace.

One could only dream.

Geralt had been particularly stoic on the trek up The Killer, barely responding to even direct questions and grunting orders when they set up camp for the night, but there was none of their usual banter. Unfortunately, Jaskier’s fingers had been too frozen to pluck at his lute, leaving a deafening silence between them. To top it off Geralt was now glaring at him from across the campfire.

Jaskier sighed, stuffing his hands under his armpits, pulling his hood closer around his ears. “Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes widened as he seemed to finally register their surroundings, and he let out a low hum.

“Have- have I done something wrong?”

The crease between Geralt’s brows deepened, his jaws clenching. “No.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, scoffing haughtily. “Oh sure. Sure. So that’s why you’re acting all…” Jaskier trailed off, gesturing at Geralt’s direction with a flick of his wrist.

“Hmm.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. We are not doing this!” Jaskier tried to put his hands on his hips but the motion let a biting cold breeze into the thick woollen travelling coat that Geralt had insisted he buy for the journey to Kaer Morhen. “You’ve been grumpier than usual and honestly, I wasn’t sure that was possible. What’s going on, Geralt?”

Geralt let out a long heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wore a weary expression that Jaskier thought was utterly adorable; not that he would ever tell Geralt that. He’d learnt the hard way how much a witcher’s punch to the gut could hurt. Instead, he rested his chin on his knees and pouted at his friend. “Come on, Geralt, you invited me here. No pretending that we aren’t friends anymore.”

Geralt smiled faintly at that and then sighed once more. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“About us being friends?” Jaskier laughed “I stopped caring about that years ago. Your actions speak louder than words, my dear.”

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. He was barely able to conceal his gleeful smirk. This felt like coming home after the stone-cold silences of the last few days. It almost warmed the chill in his bones; almost. It would take a veritable miracle at this stage to fend off the frost bite.

“Done?” Geralt growled and Jaskier nodded. Pressing his lips together. “We have an old tradition at Kaer Morhen, ever since…” Geralt trailed off with a growl. “It’s to protect us, our home.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrow, tongue flicking out to lick his lip, a habit he’d picked up to prevent himself from interrupting Geralt. His witcher often took longer to find the right words, and Jaskier had learnt it was better to be patient.

“Only significant others are allowed.”

Jaskier blinked and Geralt’s words hung heavy in the air.

“I’m. I’m sorry, what?” he gaped.

Significant other?

“You heard me, bard.”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh, wringing his hands in his lap. “But. but we’re. we’re not?”

Oh, if only they were.

“I know that.”

“Then why?!” Jaskier wasn’t proud of the way his voice squeaked, jumping two octaves.

“I. I trust you.”

Jaskier scoffed. After nearly a decade of friendship he sincerely hoped that the witcher trusted him. He had been absolutely delighted when Geralt had extended the invitation to his elusive home in the mountains. He hated leaving Geralt over winter, the cold making his dorms at Oxenfurt seem even lonelier… but to pretend they were dating?

It was a little too close to the truth for comfort.

He was surprised Geralt had asked him at all. The witcher rarely admitted they were friends. Jaskier couldn’t imagine he’d be particularly thrilled about pretending to be lovers, and he had a brilliant imagination!

Unless, of course, Jaskier had gotten the wrong end of the stick. He could be jumping to conclusions. Geralt probably hadn’t meant for them to pretend to be lovers at all. It was just a pre-warning that Jaskier might not be entirely welcome until he earned the other witcher’s trust. They were breaking the rules. That was it.

“So…” he trailed off, not knowing how to voice his question. Geralt, helpfully grunted in response. Jaskier rolled his eyes and tried again. “Are you nervous about breaking the rules?”

Geralt frowned, that adorable little crease on his forehead deepening and Jaskier yearned to smooth it out with a press of his thumb, but alas the witcher remained grumpy and unobtainable. “They won’t know,” he huffed.

If Jaskier had been eating or drinking at that moment, then he certainly would have choked on it or spat it out all over the floor in his shock. As it was, he almost fell off the log he was perching on. “I’m sorry?”

“They’ll make assumptions. We won’t correct them.”

Jaskier was sure that his jaw would never leave the floor. “We. we won’t?”

“No.”

“Alrighty…”

An awkward silence fell over the camp. The crackling of the fire suddenly sounded louder than any tavern in Oxenfurt. Jaskier could hear every breath like a hurricane blowing through the camp, the howling of distant wolves clawing down his spine. What felt like hours was probably only seconds when the silence became too much to bear.

“Oh ho ho, no. No, no, no. No. I’m sorry. What the fuck, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I should have asked sooner.”

“Do you even know what you’re asking of me?” Jaskier peered suspiciously at the witcher, wringing his hands in his lap and flexing his fingers. He desperately wanted his lute, his notebook… something, anything.

“Just don’t correct them?”

Jaskier snorted. “Just don’t correct them?” he asked incredulously “Oh sure, it’s that simple. Geralt, my dear, you’re asking me to pretend I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier barely managed to conceal his flinch.

Pretend.

Hah!

If only it were that simple. He was a pretty decent actor, most graduates of Oxenfurt were, but to act like he was only pretending to be in love with Geralt? That would be perhaps his toughest role to date.

And it would fucking hurt. Especially since Geralt hadn’t seemed to have realised he would have to do the same.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier tilted his head at the witcher, brushing his fringe from his eyes, his hand shivering from the cold. The penny had apparently dropped; finally.

He smirked, “Well, I was thinking we’d only have to kiss but if you insist?”

Geralt growled and pushed him onto the floor.

____

That night had been a particularly awkward one. The biting cold meant that Jaskier had to curl up into Geralt’s side to prevent himself from freezing to death. Geralt would normally wrap his arms around Jaskier in his sleep, making it more comfortable for both of them. But when he woke Geralt was lying rigid next to him; only staying as close as absolutely necessary and nothing more.

They ate their breakfast in silence, with even Jaskier’s normal chatter and noise absent. Jaskier was starting to get really sick of silences but he knew that Geralt needed a chance to process. The witcher would only blow up in his face if he said something now. It was a struggle for both of them. Jaskier was always desperate to fill the silence. He never enjoyed being left alone with his own thoughts and chattering about everything and nothing helped to calm the anxiety inducing void, and yet he knew that Geralt sometimes needed time. He would normally be scribbling away in his notebook, or carving patterns into the dirt with his boots, anything to keep busy, keep moving. Instead, he tapped out silent lute fingerings on his leg beneath the cloak and chewed on his lip, only stopping when he tasted the sharp tang of blood.

It was only after they had packed up camp and been walking for a few minutes that Geralt finally spoke, seemingly calmed by Roach’s reins in his hand.

“We should plan.”

Jaskier, still shivering under his cloak, snorted; a cloud swirling in front of his face like he was some kind of draconid. “Plan?”

“Hmm.”

“Pray tell me, dear witcher, what are we planning?”

Geralt grunted, gesturing between them, a trace of a blush on his cheeks which utterly delighted Jaskier. The blush meant that Geralt could only mean one thing, and Jaskier was having a ball!

His grumpy, allergic to feelings, witcher wanted to plan how they were going to convince a keep full of witchers that they were not only dating but seriously involved. Geralt wanted to talk about it. That was a first. Perhaps the witcher was treating this like just another contract to prepare for. That thought made Jaskier’s heart clench in his chest.

Just another contract.

Fuck.

He plastered a bright smile on his face before Geralt could notice his inner turmoil and clapped his friend on the back. “What’s there to plan?” he asked cheerfully, voice full of fake camaraderie. “We’re pretending to be in love, should be easy! I’m a bard, a troubadour, a graduate of the famed Oxenfurt academy!”

“Jaskier, shut up.”

Jaskier gaped and shoved Geralt in the chest. “You wanted to talk, Geralt!”

“We need boundaries.”

Jaskier’s heart sank and his smile faltered. “Right, yes, of course. I was. I was joking, last night, when I said…”

“I know.”

“We probably will have to kiss though.” he mumbled, his cheeks were a blazing fire and he probably resembled a tomato. Hopefully Geralt would just think he was cold, which he really really was. Honestly, he was starting to think that he might never be warm again. What was heat anyway? He swallowed, digging his nails into his palm. “Maybe just on the cheek. Think your family will buy that?” Geralt shook his head. “Well… bollocks.”

Geralt chuckled and Jaskier looked up at him with a sheepish smile. Geralt actually had the decency to look apologetic for the mess he’d gotten them into. “It’ll be just enough to convince them, nothing more.”

Nothing more. Of course it was nothing more. These were the boundaries that Geralt was talking about. He didn’t want Jaskier to think it was anything more than an act. Well, message received loud and clear! He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He should be ecstatic, finally a chance to kiss Geralt… but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

It wasn’t real.

Geralt grunted, his own hands were buried in Roach’s mane as they walked side by side up the perilous mountain. He paused suddenly and began fussing with Roach’s saddlebags. Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself, shuffling from one foot to another to keep moving. He had to keep moving or he might freeze to death. He could already feel his toes going numb and the perpetual stinging in his fingers. Oh he was definitely getting frostbite. He watched Geralt for a few moments. The witcher’s shoulders were tense and his jaw was clenched. Jaskier sighed and placed a hand on Geralt’s arm, enjoying the soft warmth that radiated from the witcher, letting it seep into his frozen bones.

“Do. Do you want to practice?”

“What?”

“Kissing,” Jaskier said with a flick of his wrist. “You want boundaries, so let’s practice. That way we’ll know what we’re comfortable with”

“You want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, brow furrowed and arms crossed in front of his chest.

Jaskier scoffed at Geralt’s emotionally constipated antics. He was nearly at his limit with stupid witchers and he hadn’t even reached Kaer Morhen yet. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.

Jaskier poked Geralt in the chest. “You suggested it!” he pointed out “and I’m never going to refuse the opportunity to kiss such a gorgeous person. You, dear witcher, are no exception!” He hoped that Geralt would be fooled by his nonchalant flirting. He did this all the time in taverns and courts all around the Continent and Geralt had witnessed it on many occasions. This was just what Jaskier did, nothing out of the ordinary… nothing to worry about.

He swallowed, a bubble of fear rising up in his chest and he couldn’t calm his racing heart. Oh gods, this was really far too close to the truth.

Geralt just gave a hum but let go of Roach’s reins. He gripped Jaskier’s shoulder and cocked his head, giving Jaskier the fondest of smiles. “Last chance to back out, bard.”

Jaskier grinned, raising his chin. He had a stubborn streak that would serve him well here. He never could say no to a challenge. “Just kiss me, you coward.”

A lie. Geralt was no coward. If anyone were it would be Jaskier. He couldn’t even tell Geralt the true depth of his feelings. They were concealed in songs for the whole Continent to hear but he couldn’t tell the one person that really ought to know. It was pathetic, pining over his best friend for years and years instead of moving on or just… admitting the truth?

Luckily Jaskier’s joke seemed to break the tension between them. Geralt hummed and cupped his cheek with more tenderness than he’d expected. Chapped lips pressed against his, warm and gentle as Geralt’s thumb stroked his cheek, calloused fingers brushing against the stubble that was beginning to prickle up through his skin. Jaskier wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He yearned to cup the nape of Geralt’s neck, to pull his lover closer and never let go. In a more passionate affair, his hands would land on his partner’s arse, squeezing cheekily as the kiss deepened.

Jaskier wanted to cry. It was all so sweet, so perfect, and none of it was real. This was his fate. Like a character in one of his ballads, a flower doomed to wither away without the heart of his beloved.

But this was Geralt.

This was his friend.

He settled for holding onto Geralt’s waist, his fingers digging into the wool of Geralt’s cloak. The kiss was over all too soon, leaving his head spinning. He felt breathless, like all his soul had been poured into the kiss. He pulled back from Geralt’s embrace in a hopeless attempt to calm his beating heart, but it was too late. The damage was done. With a single kiss Geralt had ruined Jaskier for all other love. Before it had been pitiful yearning but now…

Gods…

He was utterly done for.

His fingers itched for his quill. Oh, the poems and ballads he could pull from just a single kiss. A buttercup crushed under the paws of a great wolf as he roamed through the forests. Okay, that one might be a tad obvious. He preferred to at least try and hide in plain sight.

A dandelion perhaps?

Geralt would never need to know that Jaskier had almost chosen a different flower as his namesake.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinked and looked up at Geralt. Normally Jaskier was able to pick up the most minute changes in Geralt’s expression and his eyes were usually an open book. The witcher’s face gave away nothing and it was bloody infuriating.

“That…. that went well?” he stammered, pulling at a loose thread in his cloak.

“Hmm. We’ll be fine,” Geralt turned from him, looking more and more like the Butcher of Blaviken of old, and less like Jaskier’s darling White Wolf. “It’s not long now. We should get going.”

And get going they did.

[quicksilversquared]

A Very Jagged Take-Down Ch 1: Dissonant Chord

Marinette knows Jagged Stone, everyone knows that. She's his favorite niece, never mind the fact that they aren't actually related. And Jagged Stone is really famous, the exact kind of person that Lila loves claiming connections to.

That was never going to end the way Lila wanted it to.

(a collection of one-shots)

links in the reblog

Jagged Stone could admit that sometimes, he was a little bit oblivious to how other people were feeling. He was a little too boisterous, too distractible, too caught up in his own thoughts and ideas and plans. It caused problems, sometimes- Jagged had butted heads with more record managers than he cared to think about because his artistic vision differed from theirs, and sometimes he didn't come off particularly well in interviews because he was too busy thinking about other things to notice an interviewer trying to ask a different question- but he was working on it, and if he was oblivious to something, well, he did have Penny to clue him in.

Still, Jagged Stone had been trying to improve. Penny had been pretty stressed out on several occasions recently, and he had wanted to ease some of her load by being at least a little more observant. He had thought that he was doing really well.

Considering that he had apparently missed his niece's upset mood during his last visit to commission a stage outfit from her, he apparently wasn't doing as well as he wanted to.

"What do you mean, she was off?" Jagged Stone implored Penny again. "Penny, if I'm going to learn..."

"She was hiding it pretty well, to be fair," Penny assured him. "Especially when you were looking. But when your back was turned, she looked kind of stressed."

Jagged Stone frowned. That wasn't a good thing! Maybe he could help, though. "Do you know what she was upset about?"

"Do I- no, Jagged, I cannot figure out what people are upset about by looking at their body language!" Penny exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "And I didn't want to pry, not when she was trying to be professional with coming up with ideas for your commission."

Jagged Stone considered that. Then he perked up. "Do you think that you, just maybe, could sneakily bring it up with Marinette when you go over with my measurements tomorrow? If I can help my niece with anything, I want to!"

"Yes, yes, I can try," Penny promised, and then she sighed, rolling her eyes. "And we've talked about this, Jagged Stone. Marinette is not your niece."

"Who says that she isn't?" Jagged Stone demanded, planting his fists on his hips. "My niece in rock-n-roll! Her CD cover and glasses and the songs they inspired put me back at the top of the charts. I am an artist, she's an artist- family in actually kickass artistry!"

He didn't understand why Penny was rolling her eyes. Really.

  Penny returned the next day with several design sketches and barely hidden anger bubbling away under her professional demeanor. Jagged Stone picked up on it right away, ushering Penny into their room at the Grand Paris and getting her settled with a platter of her favorite chocolates.

He was rather proud of himself for that, really. He was learning! He hadn't missed Penny's stress!

"I found out what happened," Penny told him, inhaling a chocolate in one bite. She chewed angrily, then swallowed. "A week before we went over for brainstorming, Marinette got expelled from her school after getting framed for cheating, thief, and hurting another student. The other student walked back on her claims the next day," Penny added hastily before Jagged Stone could grab his guitar and storm over to Dupont to bash their blundering principal over the head. He hadn't been impressed by the man the one time- or was it two times, he really couldn't remember- that they had met, and clearly there was a reason for that. "And her expulsion was retracted. But she's still facing some skepticism from her teachers and classmates over the whole thing."

"Who would want to frame Marinette?" Jagged Stone demanded, thoroughly baffled. "Marinette is fantastic! They'd have to be a cruel, heartless soul to do such a thing."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of what this girl sounds like, honestly." Penny took another angry bite. "Marinette was telling me all about her. It's the daughter of a diplomat- or that's what she claims, at least- who keeps making up all of these stories about things she's done and people she's met. Marinette is one of the only people who doesn't believe a word she says, and the only one willing to call Lila out."

Jagged Stone nodded in approval. "Calling out bullies and liars is very rock and roll!"

"Less so when it gets her framed and expelled, but yes." Penny flopped back in her chair, then perked back up. "Something Marinette said- well, it sounded almost as though the liar girl was claiming connections to you. She stopped herself before I could get much more out of her, though."

He nearly exploded with indignation at that. "The liar girl is trying to use me to boost her status? How dare she! And going after my niece while she does-"

Penny sighed in exasperation. "No matter how often you say it, Marinette isn't actually your niece-"

"I'm going to put a stop to this nonsense," Jagged Stone announced, surging to his feet as a surge of energy hit him. Maybe he wasn't going to be in Paris for the next couple of weeks because he was on tour, but, well, that just gave him time to plan. "No liar will use my name to hurt Marinette! Now, if I can grab my computer-"

"We're meant to be heading to the train station to go to London in twenty minutes," Penny reminded him. "For a meeting in London with the new record company you were considering switching to."

"Of course! Penny, I would be lost without you." Jagged beamed at her, then dashed across the room. "I can bring my computer on the train! Plenty of time to think there, no problem. We have a private compartment, so I won't even be interrupted!"

Behind him, Penny could only sigh.

  It wasn't hard to find more information on the liar in Marinette's class. All it had taken was going to Marinette's social media, going to her Ladyblogger friend's page, and from there finding Alya's personal blog.

He felt a bit strange flipping through a teen girl's personal blog and it certainly wasn't something he would ever do normally, but Jagged Stone was on a mission and Alya's blog was a veritable treasure mine. Not even three minutes after he first found the blog, Jagged Stone had learned who the liar girl in question was and had found several of the claims that she had made, all so absolutely outrageous that Jagged Stone had to wonder how anyone believed them in the first place.

But outrageous or not, they had also given him an idea.

Lila had claimed that she had saved his cat, and that he had written a song for her in thanks. Now, he definitely wasn't going to be thanking her for anything, but he could certainly write a song about her.

It wasn't going to be flattering, and it wasn't going to call Lila out by name- Penny had helpfully informed him that doing so would probably land him in legal trouble, even before he had been able to voice the idea (which was super rock-n-roll, actually, that they were so much on the same wavelength!)- but the details that he was going to refer to, courtesy of the blog, would mean that anyone familiar with Lila would know exactly who he was referring to.

Jagged Stone already had some lyrics scribbled out on a sheet of paper and a couple bars of music to go with it, and it was going to be a banging song. Like, top-of-the-charts, definitely-on-the-radio, impossible-to-miss banging.

"The main problem I'm foreseeing here is that it takes time to release a song," Penny reminded Jagged as she bundled him and Fang into a town car and then got in herself. "You need at least seven songs usually in an album, and then there's the studio time, you know that, and-"

"So it'll get released as a single for now," Jagged Stone told her, because obviously he wasn't going to leave Marinette hanging for longer than he had to. What kind of uncle would he be if he did that? "Singles take less time! I can probably have a demo by the end of the week, and then if we can get a recording studio in any of the cities that we actually spend some time in, then I can get the tracks recorded and all ready for mixing and- oh!" Jagged froze, struck by the most perfect idea. "If we can get Marinette to do the cover art for the single, that would be perfect! Then she gets her bully taken down and some money besides- yes, I'll tell her about it right away and work around her schedule, Penny, I already know that- and I get some more awesome art!"

Penny rubbed her forehead, right between her eyebrows, but didn't protest further. "All right. But you know that if you want a cover that'll go along with the single, Marinette needs some direction. I just don't know how you'll keep it all a surprise."

"She can get the background demo tracks and a prompt list of words," Jagged Stone told her at once, because he had already considered that. He had been working on getting better at not leaving all of the thinking and planning up to Penny, too, even if she hadn't quite gotten used to that yet. "That will help her come up with a cover. And look, I've already started!"

"I...see that."

By the time they had boarded the train and were halfway to London, Jagged had gotten the main part of the song written down. The lyrics just needed tweaking, the drums could probably be shaken up, and he wanted to add a few more backing tracks and play with some effects, but he had been inspired and it showed.

"I'll check it against your other songs after the meeting and make sure that you're not accidentally borrowing from an old song," Penny told him as he enthusiastically tapped his pen against the seat of his chair, trying out different drum beats with the tune. "And then I suppose we can start work on demo tracks, if you're so determined to get this out fast."

Jagged Stone grinned. "That sounds perfect."

  In what was surely Jagged Stone's fastest turnaround time ever, he was ready. The song was written, the demo tracks had been polished up into the final tracks and had been professionally recorded and mixed, Marinette had gotten the single's art done (and it was amazing, of course, somehow absolutely perfectly fitting the song even though Marinette hadn't heard the lyrics yet), and everything was ready, all within a month's time.

(His new record company was none too thrilled that he hadn't given them time to promote it, but, well, he was big enough to drop a new single out of nowhere and have it succeed, so did it really matter?)

And then it dropped Monday morning. By mid-morning Paris time, it had exploded all over the radio and thousands of people had bought it already. His new record label was applauding it as a huge success, all of their complaints about the lack of promotion forgotten, critics were already praising both the song and the cover art-

-and Jagged Stone didn't care. He was more focused on if the song had done its work and had gotten rid of Marinette's liar problem.

"You are not allowed to call her up and beg to know what's going on," Penny instructed him sternly. "Marinette is in class right now, and you know that she'll reach out and keep you updated when she can. Now either sit down and stop pacing, or go give Fang a bath. Heaven knows that that will keep you busy."

"Oh, I suppose." Fang deserved a bath after putting up with their most recent bout of traveling, after all. Travel grime was ugh, even on a crocodile. "But let me know as soon as Marinette texts! I won't be able to check my phone, since my hands will be all wet, but I wanna know!"

"I promise. Now go, shoo- you're distracting me!"

Jagged shooed.

  Marinette had been a bit distracted all morning, and for once, it wasn't because of Adrien or her Guardian duties.

Ever since Jagged Stone had told her that he was going to be dropping a new single soon and asked her to do the art, Marinette had been looking forward to the song coming out. She didn't know what the song was about, exactly- Jagged Stone was being strangely cagey about getting any more specific about the lyrics- but he had sent along a basic demo track along with a few prompt words for her illustration and it sounded amazing. She could only imagine how awesome the final version- properly mixed, with all of the instruments ironed out and vocals and everything- would sound.

(And now it had some pretty awesome art to go along with it, if Marinette said so herself- dark, seething greens in the background stood in stark contrast to the trails of shimmery gold dust in the forefront. It was more abstract than some of her other covers, but Jagged Stone had proclaimed it the coolest thing ever and tossed her a bonus on top of the already-generous commission price, which was amazing.)

And then, right before lunch, Nino gave a shout of surprise.

"Jagged Stone just dropped a single!" Nino announced, waving his phone at everyone. "I didn't even know that he was thinking about releasing anything! Lila, did he tell you?"

"Well, yes, but he asked that I keep it secret," Lila said at once, pressing a hand to her chest. It was a common look on her, faux-humble in a sickly sweet way that made Marinette want to gag. "I even got to listen to it before it got released, and it's fantastic."

"This art is sick!" Nino exclaimed. Marinette peered over his shoulder, and- yup, Nino was already in the process of buying it. "'Not All That Glitters is Gold- man, I gotta get a poster of this art, I bet that the non-digital version actually does glitter!"

Marinette hid her smile. It did, actually.

"Yes, they're a fantastic artist, aren't they?" Lila bragged. "They're a very private person, but I introduced them to Jagged Stone- I thought that he might want a professional artist for this song."

All eyes shot to Marinette, waiting with bated breath to see her reaction. After a second, Lila gasped dramatically, hands flying to her mouth. "Oh! Not- not that there was anything wrong with the album cover you did, Marinette, just that-"

"It's funny that you say all of that," Marinette said, her voice icy-cold. "Because I did the cover art for Jagged's new song, and I have the art- with all of the layers, in case you want to claim that I just downloaded it- plus the in-progress demos that I sent to Jagged Stone, plus the invoice for that commission to prove it."

The class went silent.

"And you didn't introduce me to Jagged Stone, he reached out to me," Marinette added on. "And I have the emails for that, too. So you can cut it out with the lies now."

"Oh, silly me, I must have gotten the single mixed up with Jagged's next full album," Lila tittered hastily. "The professional that I recommended to him must be doing the full album, and I just misunderstood."

Marinette was pleased to see that this time, not everyone looked entirely convinced.

"Ms. Bustier, can we please listen to Jagged Stone's new song?" Nino asked as their teacher entered the classroom, shoving his hair up into the air. "Please? Marinette did the art, and Lila's already heard it because she's friends with Jagged!"

"Well, I suppose you can put it on while I get the lesson set up and collect the homework," Ms. Bustier said with a laugh. "That's so exciting, you two! Nino, you know how to connect to the room's speakers so that we can all hear it? At a reasonable volume," she added hastily as Nino got up. "If we get any more noise complaints, then we won't be allowed to have any music on for events for the rest of the school year."

"Got it, Ms. Bustier!"

"I can't believe that you got to do another cover for Jagged Stone!" Alya said excitedly as Nino hooked up his phone. "And you didn't say anything!"

"Of course not. Some of my commissions are secret-"

Marinette was cut off by the oh-so-familiar opening chords of Jagged's newest song, and she trailed off. The accompanying horns were new, and definitely attention-catching and fantastic. Marinette's breath caught in her throat, already blown away.

And then the lyrics started.

At first, Marinette didn't really hear anything out of place. Then she caught a mention of kittens on a runway and sat up straight. All around her, murmurs gave away that other people had heard the same thing and everybody sat up and listened as the song swung around into the chorus.

'Not all that glitters is gold! Hiding behind lies that were told

A dollar-store gem trying to pass herself off as a diamond!

Claims of connections abound, but none of her stories are sound

A liar, through and through!

Adrien spun around in his seat to look back at Marinette, just as Marinette realized what Jagged Stone had done and clapped her hands over her mouth in silent glee. He quirked an eyebrow at her, mouthing a silent did you ask him to do this? and Marinette shook her head.

No, she hadn't asked. She had mentioned Lila to Penny, though, after Penny had asked about why Marinette had been so down. Her parents had probably said more, if she was really being honest, and Penny had no doubt told Jagged Stone, who then came to the very logical and oh-so-Jagged conclusion that the best way to deal with the problem was by writing a call-out song. A call-out song that, by the sounds of it, included references to more than a few of Lila's lies, not just her ones concerning Jagged Stone, so there was no way to mistake who the song was referring to.

She definitely hadn't mentioned all of those to Penny.

In the back, Lila had gone white. More than a few classmates had turned around, sending her disgusted looks. Alya had frozen in her seat before whipping around, murder in her gaze. Even Ms. Bustier was looking incredibly suspicious as she made the connection between the lyrics and all of the stories that Lila had told over the months.

Lila's reign of lies had come to a very abrupt end, heralded by the sound of horns.

"You didn't even know that he was going to do that, did you?" Adrien asked her as soon as the song came to an end. "You looked so surprised!"

"He didn't let me hear the lyrics at all!" Marinette exclaimed, and wow, now she knew why. She was honestly starting to feel teary, because Jagged Stone had written this song for her, because she had been upset after Lila's expulsion attempt, and she knew just how much work went into making a song, and it- this was incredible. "Or really anything beyond vague prompt words. I knew that he knew about Lila, because Penny asked why I was feeling down and I told her, but this..."

Marinette would have assumed that just bursting into class would be more Jagged's style, over-the-top and impulsive and immediate, but maybe he had just been too inspired by the topic and the idea of a song to think of that. And whether or not that was the intention, the song was so catchy, so bound to be popular, there was no way that Lila would be able to escape it. She would be hearing it on the car radio, playing in the train station and on the bus and in the mall. If Lila was on her own, she could leave, or turn it off. But if she was with classmates, or her mom- assuming that her mom didn't actually know what Lila had been up to all this time- then Lila would have to sit and stew.

...maaaybe that wasn't a great thing if she was going to be staying in Paris, but with any luck, it would drive Lila so mad that she would leave.

"That's one heck of a call-out by Jagged!" Kim cackled loudly, breaking through the muted muttering. "Wow, how ticked off did you have to make him for him to go out of his way to write and produce a song calling you out?"

"No, it's not what it looks like- I swear, he's just, uh..." Lila was floundering. There really was no easy way to get out of this, but clearly she was going to try anyway. "You know not all song lyrics are literal! I did save his cat, and he did write a song for me, it's just that-"

"What's the name of the so-called song Jagged Stone wrote for you called, then?" Nino asked sarcastically. "'Clinging to the coattails of fame without any dignity'?"

Marinette choked on a laugh before hastily trying to hide it. Across the aisle, Chloe was far less subtle as she cackled in delight, clearly thrilled by Lila's messy downfall.

Marinette wasn't surprised. Chloe was far less impressed by connections and tall tales than a lot of their peers, but she was absolutely the sort of person to be bitter about how much attention Lila had been getting. It meant less attention on Chloe, and that just couldn't stand.

"Okay, class, please settle down!" Ms. Bustier implored. She was glancing around the classroom, clearly trying to figure out a path forward. "Ah, Lila, let's step out to talk to the principal and call your mom."

"No, but a song from a rock star is hardly considered any sort of reliable source, surely!" Lila cried, still not willing to give up and come quietly. "He's met thousands of people, why would everybody assume that he's talking about a real person? That he's talking about me?"

"Lila. Now."

Finally looking properly wilted, Lila gathered up all of her things in a rush, stuffing them roughly in her bag before heading out the door in front of Ms. Bustier. All around Marinette, whispers started up, some people comparing notes on stories Lila had told and finally (FINALLY) looking them up, others looking up the lyrics to the song. Marinette ignored them all, fumbling for her phone and pulling up Jagged Stone's contact number.

Seriously, how was she supposed to thank him? He had gone to so much work, gone so far out of his way, just for her. Because it was for her, Marinette knew that. Jagged Stone had plenty of over-eager fans that sometimes went overboard with things, and of course there were tabloids that loved to make up stories about him. Jagged Stone ignored all of them the best he could- well, until they got too intrusive, at least, like that one photographer- instead of slapping back. There was no reason for him to go out of his way just for Lila, when she looked at it that way. Lila and her lies wouldn't even appear on Jagged Stone's radar, if it weren't for Marinette. But that hadn't made a difference to Jagged.

Seriously. Best. Uncle. Ever.

(Well. Best not-technically-an-uncle ever. After all, Penny always insisted that Jagged Stone couldn't just adopt Marinette as his niece, no matter how much he wanted to.)

With shaky fingers and happy tears blurring her vision, Marinette texted a quick thank-you to Jagged, hoping that he could feel all of her gratitude through the few simple words that she managed to pull together. Without the constant threats from Lila hanging over her head- either because Lila would be gone or because she would be so thoroughly discredited by everyone that she would be powerless- and without having to constantly be at odds with most of her friends about Lila and her lies, Marinette's days at school would be much more enjoyable and relaxed.

  Penny glanced at Jagged Stone's phone for the fifty-seventh time in an hour and a half. His phone kept lighting up with all sorts of messages- from his new producers, from celebrity and non-celebrity friends alike, from his family members- and she had kept checking it, noting messages that needed to be responded to as she did.

It was exhausting, especially since Penny had her own correspondence to attend to- questions about integrating the new song into set lists, requests for interviews about the new song, and an ongoing back-and-forth with Jagged Stone's lawyer to make sure that he wasn't going to get in legal trouble for the song (since no names were mentioned, he was in the clear as long as he didn't call out Lila during any interviews, but she just wanted to be prepared). Frankly, Penny was tempted to put Jagged's phone on mute and just ignore it for a bit before checking to see if Marinette had reached out. After all, she would be in school right now, so the likelihood of Marinette and her classmates being able to listen to the song before lunch was, well, rather low-

Message from: Marinette Dupain-Cheng

-but Penny supposed that it wasn't entirely impossible.

"Message from Marinette!" Penny called out, and there was a yelp and a clatter as Jagged Stone dropped the broom he was using to scrub Fang to dash out to the main room and snatch up his phone. He grinned at the message, whooping in triumph.

"They listened to it in class and all of her classmates figured it out right away!" Jagged announced. "And the liar girl got carted off to the principal's office and her mother is being called, so she's dealt with. Score!"

"Yes, good job," Penny told him, resigned to hearing about it for the next month, at least. Jagged Stone was going to be too caught up in the euphoria of his success to be much use, so she would have to deal with all of the setting up appointments. "Your idea worked, Marinette's bully has been dealt with. Can you relax now?"

Jagged didn't seem to hear her. "You know what, I'm going to call up room service and we can all have a feast to celebrate! And- oh, I should text Marinette back, 'cause I wanna get any more updates! I just want to make sure that the little eel doesn't manage to slither out of punishment again. I doubt even she can get out of it now, but I gotta follow through!"

Penny could only sigh as Jagged Stone bounced away across the room. As he went, Penny could hear him singing under his breath.

Tea with a prince, talking about charity

She's too kind, too good to be

Working to save the world, she always tries

Except everything she says are self-serving lies!

Not all that glitters is gold! Hiding behind lies that were told

A dollar-store gem trying to pass herself off as a diamond-!

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas2020 Day 1: Anathema

It’s that time of year again - when I bombard you with fic I’ve written over the year and haven’t posted, whether it is an outtake, part of a WIP, or something that ended up going sideways but still had some cool bits I was proud of. 

Everything will be tracked under the ‘TwiFicMas2020′ and ‘FicMas2020′ tags. Most fics are incomplete scenes - “--” is a scene break, “//” means that there’s a cut - it’s probably not yet written. 

--

First up is Anathema, the fourth or fifth attempt at the ‘Alice works in a mortuary/funeral home’ idea that refuses to solidify itself - though I think I’m getting closer. I enjoy the idea that Charlie Swan is in on Forks’ secrets (before Jacob strips in front of him, lol) and I am always here for the supernatural world being more than just vampires and shifters. 

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

The day the Cullens arrive in Forks, two things happen.

The first, I draw both Death, and the Wheel of Fortune. A combination that, frankly, sounds time-consuming. I lie in bed and contemplate them for awhile. The cards are soft, from lifetimes of passing from hand to hand (my dearest and most beloved Great-Aunt Jeanne passed this set to me when she died. At the time, I was too young to understand the true gift in cards that had never before been touched by Brandon hands - before mine.) The cards are illustrated so carefully, so detailed. They smell like dried lavender and the scrap of linen that I wrap them in, and there is something so reassuring about each and every card.

I draw my cards every few days before I get up. I find it calming, the shuffle of them against my fingers, as I let my dreams fade. It’s a quiet time, and one I savour.

Eventually, I do have to get up, though. No rest for the wicked. The cards go back into the wooden jewellery box some young man carved for some young woman in Jeanie’s family long before I was even a glimpse of a thought, and back into my nightstand drawer.

I - we - live on the first floor of the Brandon Funeral Home, a perfectly respectable converted Georgian house at the end of Main Street, where it sweeps around to Cedar Road. It’s a shit place to have a corner, and more than once speed racers have spun out; whoever’s scraped off the road and our front walk usually end up in the freezers in the basement.

But I digress.

Breakfast is mundane. Dulcie is there, hair in curlers, and a frown on her face when she realises I am not dressed. I sit crosslegged across two thrift-store chairs in my camisole and booty shorts, spooning jam onto toast with the precision of a good scientist and ignore her reminding me of my dressing gown (a sturdy pink-flower print flannel that is buried in my closet. My preferred robe, a thin grey kimono, is currently in my laundry pile) and ‘common decency’, as if my elderly great-uncle is looking to leer at the decided lack of anything I have up north or down south.

Dulcie is… Dulcie. No replacement for Aunt Jeanie, but a good woman. I find it funny that Uncle Freddie is an old man now, and he still reels ‘em in. Or he would if Jeanie’s death hadn’t broken, shattered, and wrecked him. Dulcie worked for us for a few years before she set her eyes on the top bedroom and changing ‘Dulcie Dunn-Stanley’ to ‘Dulcie Brandon’.

Oh, that sounds very jaded. It’s mutual, Freddie and Dulcie. Their courtship was glacial and it’s really only recently that Dulcie’s been hinting about heading to the court house. And, honestly, whatever makes Uncle Freddie happy. Dulcie’s kind to me, we mostly get along, and her attempts to mother me are so far inconsistent - but she is usually pretty respectful.

My uncle lingers over his food; he’s got a new book open at his elbow, and no one can pry my uncle away from his books. They’re usually hardcover, non-fiction. Most of the boxes stored in the third floor are my uncles books.

After breakfast, I am banished to get dressed for work, which is in the basement today, where I am to be the hands as we prepare one Lewis Fletcher for his Saturday morning funeral. There’s a sack of bagged organs resting in the chest cavity, from the autopsy (elk or deer attack, the report says), and I get to stitch Lewis back together, get to fill him full of chemicals, seal things with putty, and get to face painting. The Fletchers are a pretty ordinary family locally, and the service will be simple - they were very agreeable when Freddie met with them last week.

I put my music on and hum as I prepare my kit. It’s no secret that an unqualified teenage girl doing this work probably breaks a lot of laws, but Freddie’s hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and he’s old enough to remember when a family business meant that the younger generation was trained by the older at home, no degrees or certifications necessary.

Sometimes I wonder what Jeanie would have thought, me working down here like this. Would she have understood? Would she have been mad or upset or disappointed?

We’ll never know.

Freddie fetches us both a cup of tea, and hovers at my shoulder as I piece together Mr Fletcher’s chest cavity.

“Smaller stitches, Alice,” Freddie says, inspecting my work carefully. “Redo that section, stitch closer together, and small stitches.”

I nod, turning around to grab a scalpel from the tray beside me to cut the wonky stitches free and start again, and I freeze as the ice-cold feeling envelopes me. No, no, no it’s been so long…

For a moment, I am unfixed in time and space. I am still in the basement, with the buzzing fluorescent lights, and smooth metal drawers and cupboards, the stink of formaldehyde. But instead of a clean, bare second table, I am lying there. But I’m not dead, and I’m not alone. It’s him. The boy - man? - I’ve been seeing for so long, in visions and dreams. He’s hovering above me, a veritable sculpture of pale flesh as he peels off his shirt, our mouths still fused together, my hands gripping his hips. I am a much less collected figure, with my tights around my knees, one shoe still on and my shirt hiked up over my bra. Vision-Me pulls away to say something, and He laughs, and it’s then the light catches his eyes. Dark gold.

Golden-eyes.

“Oh fuck,” Real-Me says, and somehow Vision-Him knows I’m Seeing and looks right at me, where I’m standing with a scalpel in my hand.

“Alice?” My uncle’s hand on my shoulders brings me right back to the right point in time and space.

It’s at the point I hit the floor, manage to stab myself quite viciously with the scalpel and my uncle starts cussing.

It’s been a while between visions.

//

The Council was basically the reason Freddie and I stayed in Forks. It was a fifty-fifty split between honouring Jeanie’s wishes, and keeping me safe and out of sight - as if my aspirations were towards a Vegas nightclub act or international pop star. I wasn’t entirely clueless.  

Forks was built in a special place. A place where the barriers between the ordinary and the extraordinary were a little thinner, where the supernatural were drawn to. Jeanie had theorised that was why the Quileute were able to tap into their spirit wolves so easily, and why the gene remained so strong, father to son without a constant presence of their enemies. I didn’t know enough of their history to have an opinion, but Forks was definitely a place with an interesting history that very few people knew - even I only knew a fraction of everything that happened, past and present. There were very few written accounts; most of the histories were oral and passed down on a strict need-to-know basis.

The Council were definitely in the know, and had been for generations. There was Billy Black, Sue and Harry Clearwater representing the Quileute tribe, there was Charlie Swan representing Forks and everyone not in the know, and there was Freddie and I. Freddie, was technically Jeanie’s representative, and was the Mediator between the Ordinary and the Others. Jeanie’s family had been Mediators for generations, but she’d never had children, so all of that had somehow fallen onto Freddie - and me.

It was extremely useful to have the Police Chief and a Mortician working the Council - we’d had to fudge more than a few deaths. There was always someone or something passing through the Olympic Peninsula, and we’d negotiated, challenged, threatened, and banished more than a few creatures over the last few years.

Technically, all parties were allowed to bring their apprentice representative, but I was the only one of the next generation who attended. Charlie Swan had made it clear he didn’t want his daughter involved in any of this, and both Billy and the Clearwaters had decided that their kids were too young to know exactly what went on around here. I figured in a decade or so, it would just be me, Seth, and Jacob Black (no way would Leah hang around just for this shit show), drinking beer in the woods and deciding whether to burn or bury.

But tonight’s meeting was Special. Despite the fact I’d been drawing nonsensical cards for days now - the Star, the Tower, and Justice - no visions had appeared beyond a dream about a locket with ‘W’ engraved on it. I’d expected a fairly normal meeting, until Freddie had let me in on the plan - we were, apparently, meeting with the Cullen family. No one had informed me exactly what or who the Cullens were, only that they had a ‘fourth seat’ in the Council that they’d been entitled to since the ‘30s. I’d have to go through Jeanie’s diaries again - there were boxes of them in storage, and Jeanie had useful tidbits dotted throughout.

So that was why I was in the forest with my grandfather, shivering underneath two coats and in my new fleecy boots, standing around a fire pit that didn’t really do much more than illuminate the burning wood; the lanterns we’d brought were more effective.

Some days I really wished Leah or Seth or Jacob Black would attend these meetings; they’d certainly liven up these meetings a bit.

“They’ll be here soon,” Billy Black said grimly. Billy Black had it worse than the rest of us - getting out to this part of the forest was awkward and time-consuming with his wheelchair. Since these meetings were clandestine, we couldn’t build a proper track.

“The terms are staying the same?” Charlie asked, sipping from a paper cup of coffee Sue had pressed on him.

Billy frowned. “We aren’t here to renegotiate, but we will listen to their petition if they have one,” he said finally.

“What are the existing terms?” I asked, nudging a mossy rock with my toe.

“We’ll go over that later on, Alice,” Freddie said, watching the woods carefully.

Fine, obstruct my completely transparent attempt at finding out what was actually going on. I was definitely intrigued by the idea this clan had a ‘seat’ at the Council, but it involve negotiations? The only creature I could think of that would fit that kind of profile would be some kind of shifter.

I was bored.

And then the mysterious Cullens arrived.

They came out of the woods like a mist; slowly but all at once. They kept a respectful distance away from the fire pit, clad in pristine new clothing that was a touch too light for the cold weather but was good quality. There were three of them - a blond man, a brunette woman, and a red-haired boy - all three of them taller than average, and pale as snow. And they were lovely, as if Grecian statues had climbed down from their plinth and wandered off.

“Hello,” the man said, nodding at us politely. “Thank you for welcoming us to this meeting.”

“You’ve a right to be here, as outlined in the treaty,” Billy Black said sternly. “This is the current Council - Charlie Swan for Forks. My self, Billy Black, and Harry and Sue Clearwater for the Quileute tribe. Fred Brandon as Mediator. Carlisle Cullen for the Cullen Coven.”

Coven meant vampires. That dampened my spirits a little; my history with vampires was messy. Plus the few vampires that had ventured into this area had been unpleasant experiences. But as I stared at the Cullen coven, I noticed their eyes.

Golden, like liquid light.

Was He one of them? Was the Cullen coven only these three, or where there more?

“And the young lady?” Carlisle Cullen said, looking in my direction.

“My niece,” Freddie said in a no-nonsense tone. “Shall we begin?”

“I assume Ursula Altis has since passed? My condolences to her family,” Carlisle Cullen said. “I had a great respect for Ursula.”

“Yes. Ursula’s apprentice passed on several years ago, and she named Fred and Alice as her successors,” Harry said.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Carlisle Cullen nodded at Freddie and I. I half-smiled back at him. Jeanie had been gone a long time but I still missed her.

“This is my wife, Esme, and my oldest son Edward,” Carlisle gestured to his two companions.

“Oldest son?” Charlie Swan said sharply.

“Yes - I have three others, but we did not want to overwhelm you,” Carlisle said. “They are here, if you would like to meet them?”

“Yes. We want to know the entirety of your coven,” Harry said bluntly.

Carlisle grimaced and nodded. “Of course. My other children - Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper.”

Three more Cullens materialised from behind Carlisle Cullen - a tall blonde girl who was utterly breathtaking to look at, had a displeased expression, and was wearing the genuine designer version of my knock-off winter coat. The second was a bear of a man, with the friendliest face, and curly black hair, who winked at me as he wrapped an arm around the blonde girl’s shoulders.

And then a lanky blond boy with a dark expression and wavy blond hair, who hovered in the shadows, his features mostly obscured. All of them had the same golden eyes, the same pallor and dark under-eye circles. But they didn’t look or behave like other nomads that had passed through. They looked… like a nice family.

Maybe in a decade, Jacob, Seth, and I would be joined by Emmett Cullen for the ‘burn or bury’ booze up. He looked like he’d be the most up for livening up these meetings.

“Your family has grown.” Billy’s voice was accusing, and I turned to look at his stern expression.

“My son, Jasper, joined us in 1965,” Carlisle Cullen said politely, “Looking for a different lifestyle. We have abided by your terms, and would not have returned to this area if we were not prepared to continue to do so.”

The Quiluetes weren’t thrilled with that news, and Charlie just looked kind of tired. Freddie was taking notes on his phone, and I was just cold and getting bored again… until I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.

Jasper was prowling away from the others, closer to me, where I stood at my uncle’s side. Both eyes were on me, like liquid amber, and I finally got a good look at him.

Jasper was Him - the boy hovering over me, half-dressed on the gurney; the boy kissing my scar, and sliding in behind me in the shower. The boy that had hovered at the edges of my visions and dreams since I was young, with adoration in his eyes and gentle touches.

The boy I’d love so fiercely and deeply…

Talk about a terrible time to finally meet.

“Oh fuck,” I said, as I looked at him, eyes wide. All those wretched cliches that terrible books write about happened at that moment. I was enchanted, besotted, and absolutely irrevocably attached to this Jasper Cullen. He was mine.

“Step back!” Harry barked out, but Jasper Cullen ignored him, watching me carefully. I couldn’t help myself; I smiled brightly at him, and he kept moving towards me. Flashes of knowledge were appearing in my head, and for some reasons I kept seeing the Lovers card, still in my deck at home. I could hear people talking, getting angry, but it was like the buzz of insects as Jasper Cullen got closer to me. His hand reached out slowly, to stroke the curve of my cheek, studying me with the strangest look on his face.

And then the pain hit, like someone had shoved an ice pick through my left eye and into my brain. The visions were folding over and over, like origami, before I could decipher them. Choices being made, minds changing, so fast I could keep up. I heard myself cry out as I fell, and then everything was dark.

Then I was seeing things in real time. The way I fell, blood running from my nose, to everyone’s utter horror. My eyes were rolled back in my head, and my body jerked in a seizure a few times before I was still.

But no one could get near me. As soon as I had fallen, Jasper had crouched over my prone form, with a horrified look on his face. Everyone was yelling and trying to get closer, and Jasper let out a snarl that was, frankly, terrifying before refocusing on me, taking my hand and plucking my glove off it, to rest against his own cheek. Whatever that was supposed to achieve did nothing, and whilst everyone else was yelling and bickering, he let out a low whine that was so pathetic, if I’d had any control over my body, I would have sat up and given him a hug.

Then Carlisle Cullen placed his hands up to the Council in a gesture of peace and nodded to Emmett before approaching Jasper.

The conversation would have been too low for anyone else to hear, but not me, in whatever kind of vision this was.

“Jasper, I understand,” Carlisle Cullen said in a low voice. “But she’s got a medical condition, you need to let her people take care of her.”

Jasper growled low, Emmett’s hand on his shoulder.

“Bro, c’mon,” he said. “You’re scaring them,” he nodded over his shoulder. Sue’s face was white with fear, and I was scared that Harry was going to stroke out on the spot.

And I was there, Sleeping Beauty, with a smear of fresh blood on my face.

“I can’t,” Jasper seemed to force out between gritted teeth. “She’s mine.” It was said with determination and desperation, and a deep tenderness.

I was pleased that whatever my embarrassing collapse had been, at least I knew we were on the same page -that we knew each other and we knew each other.

And just like that, like they were magic words, my eyes open and I was back in reality, staring up at the man-boy who was staring at me like I held the secrets to the universe.

“Alice, did he hurt you?” Freddie called out in a strained voice.

“No, that was me. Too much new information,” I said, as I began to sit up, Jasper sliding my glove back on my hand before I realised it was still missing. He held out his hand to help me up, his touch so careful and gentle.

“Okay, good. Come over here,” Freddie motioned for me to move to where the group seemed to have bunched across from the Cullens. Charlie Swan looked murderous. “She’s nothing to you, boy, just let her go.”

I winced when Freddie said that, realising immediately it was like a red flag to a bull, and all of a sudden there was a lot of motion. Jasper growled, attempting to shove me behind him - to protect me? - whilst Emmett and Carlisle Cullen decided it was time to get Jasper physically under control, and pulled him back towards where the rest of the family was standing.

I tripped over a rock and stumbled but righted myself as Jasper was bodily dragged back to where Esme, Rosalie, and Edward Cullen were waiting, looking worried.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Mrs Cullen asked as I moved back to Freddie’s side, where he quickly clasped me to him, giving me the once over.

“I’m fine,” I said before catching Emmett having bent Jasper’s arms behind  his back at a hideous angle, his knee digging into Jasper’s spine. “Oh, don’t hurt him! Please!” I made a move towards them but Sue grabbed my arm, and Jasper turned to stare at me with what I can only describe as hope.

“I think this meeting is done,” Charlie Swan said finally. “You agree to maintain the existing treaty - that’s all we need. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, we don’t want to cause any issues,” Mrs Cullen said, and Freddie snorted, shielding me with his body.

I felt like a prisoner being frog-marched back to the car.

“Back at the Brandon’s?” Charlie said, as we arrived at the cars.

“Of course,” Freddie said. “Coffee and debrief.”

//

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

House Edge

Title:  House Edge (COMPLETE)

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Summary: You're on a Girls Trip to Vegas and meet a certain hunter at the buffet.

Word Count:  9,100

Warnings: fluff, flirting, gambling, strip club, private dance, mild language

A/N:  My first reader insert try. I'm thinking this is sometime around Season 7. Maybe the annual pilgrimage to Vegas when Becky whammies Sam. The majority of events that unfold will probably be right before Dean gets the text from Sam to meet up with him. Thunder From Down Under probably wasn't at Vegas yet - who knows - artistic license and all that. Also, I don't have an extensive knowledge of gambling, so most of what you'll read is from what I've Googled. If something is terribly wrong, feel free to let me know. But, I tried to stay in the vague zone.

Your head pounded and sloshed from the one too many Malibu Bay Breezes you’d ingested during the “Thunder From Down Under” show that ended minutes ago. Three of the nine others in your group were still hooting and hollering at the oil slicked row of hyper muscled, surreal Australian blokes on stage. In addition to the baby oil, the men were bathing in the estrogen overload and accolades washing over them. Wads of cash, stuffed into the glittery floss substituting as underwear, stuck to aforementioned oil slicked skin.

It had been fun, there was no doubt. But the lights and the music and the rabid female reactions were hitting you all at once. Kasey pulled you by the elbow and screamed in your ear. “Wanna get a photo with Faux Fabio?” She pointed to the long-haired blond Adonis with a shoulder span the width of a football field.

You frowned. “How much is that going to run me?”

“Shannon!” Kasey called across the table, still too close to your delicate ear drums. “How much to rub up to one of ‘em?” You were glad you weren’t sharing a room with Kasey. She’d be hurling in the toilet for most of the night after the number of Tequila shots she’d downed. So far. And the night was relatively early. Especially for Vegas.

“Thirty bucks, I think.” Shannon shrugged, paying more attention to her phone.

You shook your head. Your single status and mid-level office job already had you on a strict budget for this girls’ getaway weekend. “I’m good. Besides, the more up close I get, the more disappointed I think I’ll be.” Shannon nodded with a smirk in agreement, still staring at her screen.

Kasey huffed. “Well, Linda, Stacey and Mira are already in line. I’m going to see if I can cut!” She dashed off without another word.

Women skirted and pushed past your standing frame. You tried to become one with the table in front of you. Anything to avoid being pulled into the stampede or thrown to the ground, and mercilessly stomped on by stilettos and sneakers.

Even Shannon looked a bit miffed at the onslaught as you stared at her in a half-cry for help. “My God.” She rolled her eyes.

“Where did Cathy and that bunch disappear to?” You yelled over.

“Who knows?”

You sighed. “What was next on the itinerary?”

“I think any plans are out the window. Every woman for herself.” Shannon tapped on her phone. “My little one’s running a fever. I’m going to get back to the hotel room so I can check in at home.”

You nodded. The only thing waiting for you at home was your tabby, Tyrion. Your Grandma-type neighbor down the hall, Gladys, had offered to cat sit. So there was no one, human or feline, actually waiting for you back in your one-bedroom apartment in Albuquerque.

Holding your breath, you pushed yourself into the crowd, moving against the current towards the exit instead of the line for photos. The quadruple threat of your old college pals was screaming in line about which stripper had the tightest ass.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to have a good time or ogle good looking men. Far from it. But gambling was more your scene anyway. You had a pretty good teacher with your last boyfriend when it came to Blackjack. You breathed a sigh of relief when you shimmied out of the entertainment venue and stepped foot onto the busy carpet of the Excaliber’s casino floor. Your phone read 9:10 pm. There was still plenty of time to lose your shirt.

You’d popped a few aspirin and downed a whole bottle of water in the sitting area of the women’s bathroom, hoping to fend off a killer hangover in the morning. A quick reapplication of lipstick and you were ready to scope out a good table.

After about an hour, you’d split, hit, and stood with the best of them at one table. There’d been one experienced player, Ron, that looked like he’d planted roots in the seat next to you. He got to talking, as the old timers usually did, and you’d learned he was born and raised in Reno. You had a nice little chat with Ron and Stevie, the female dealer, and fended off a few men who sat on the other side and hit on you more than the cards they were dealt.

“That is not a bad takeaway, there.” Ron nodded when you decided to cash out.

“Thanks. Pleasure, Ron. You take care.”

“You too, pretty lady. Remember what I said about Roulette. You should try it once.”

The betting chips clinked in your plastic souvenir cup. “I might.”

He tipped you a two-finger salute. You wandered, your stomach empty. The buffet to end all buffets calling your name.

“Fuck it.” After turning most of your chips into cash at the counter, leaving one $50 chip in your jean pocket, you headed for the International food amalgamation that guaranteed intense heartburn and bloating in the morning.

Fluorescent lights and sneeze shields presented you with choices beyond comprehension. You grabbed a large plate and planned your method of attack. One of your pink manicured nails tapped on the bottom of the china. “Ease into it.” You decided to go with the Mediterranean spread first. Before you knew it, there were helpings of General Tso’s chicken, pizza, potstickers, mashed potatoes and French fries, along with some bratwurst and sauerkraut. The grumbling from your tummy may have been a warning when you sat down at the table for two, alone, on the cafeteria style floor. The waitress gave you a tired smile when she dropped off your iced tea.

You shoveled some sauce drenched chicken into your mouth and took in the scene. People floating around, getting up for seconds or thirds, talking about how much money they lost or won, what shows they should try to see while they were in Vegas. You chewed and stared at the formidable back of a man at the table directly ahead of you. He’d give Faux Fabio a run for his money. He had fluffy, long brown hair. His animated storytelling hands got your attention. You heard a deep chuckle and slurp from his table sharer, out of your view because of the mountain man. “Alright,” the man stated, “Going to give the Poker Room another go. Coming?”

“Nah.” The very deep voice replied. “I’ve still gotta hit the dessert line.” 

You watched the man rise from his seat, floored by how tall he was. And, when he turned, you saw how very cute he was. You’d have paid thirty bucks to snap a picture with this man. He gave you a sweet little smile when he walked past. You couldn’t help but look over your shoulder and take in the rest of him as he left. Smacking your lips and shaking your head, you turned back to your plate to resume the dent made in the food. Your eyes darted up to look at the man left alone at the table. You were pretty sure your mouth gaped open at the sight of him, staring at you. He wiped at his face with a napkin.

Oh my. If the man that left appeared sweet and cute with just a smile, this one was a boatload of sexy and trouble with that smirk. You could tell by the way he took his time inventorying you with care, chewing slow the whole time. One side of his lip curled up in another grin variation. He nodded at you in greeting from across both tables. You smiled back and then pretended to stare at your food. He tossed the napkin on his plate and stood up. You peeked up and noted he was layered in a couple shirts and broken in jeans, like his partner. Not quite as tall; but, still very tall in your estimation. You wondered what he’d look like in a g-string and bathed in baby oil.

And, oh boy. He was walking straight over to your table. Yep, he was very tall, by the way you had to tilt your head backwards when he strolled up. He smacked his lips, disrupting the beaming smile before he spoke. “That was my little brother you were checking out. Want me to give you his number?”

You had to lean back in your seat a bit more. “Um. No, that’s okay.” Geez, he was pretty. Holy Facial Symmetry Batman! 

He nodded, then smiled again. “Want to give me your number?”

You had to chuckle at the bravado. “Does that work for you a lot?”

He shrugged. “Works enough.”

“I don’t doubt it.” You decided to play along. “How long are you in Vegas?”

His brows rose up. “Just tonight.”

You tisked. “Not enough of a time commitment for what I’d want to do.”

He chuckled this time. “Is that so?”

You nodded.

He pointed to your plate. “Can I get you anything? I’m heading back up.”

“I think this should tide me over for a while. But, thanks.”

His jaw clenched. “Can I join you when I get back?”

What the hell. “Sure.” You smiled.

*

“Man, you almost kept up with me.” Dean sighed and rubbed his tummy after his third dessert plate.

“Hardly.” You were only working on your second serving of what might be considered actual food. A half hour had passed, you sitting with this veritable stranger. Talking about nothing of much importance, but having a grand time flirting, enjoying his rough and rugged demeanor and the boyish charm. One of your palms hit the tabletop. “I’m tapping out.”

“Not much for sweets?” He leaned in and studied you. Stunning green eyes twinkled with mischief. He batted the kind of lashes you could only get with a thick coating of mascara. “Or are you already sweet enough?”

“Is this like an Ocean’s Eleven thing?”

His smile dropped, waiting for you to elaborate. “Come again?”

“Am I like some unwitting part of a huge con job going down in the money room right now?”

He chuckled. “I’m not following, sweetheart.”

“Why are you sitting here with me?”

“Are you kidding?” He leaned way back in his chair, teetering on the back two legs. An arm swept out from his side in your direction. “Have you seen yourself?”

You pursed your lips. “Please.”

He raised a hand. “I’m not going to try and convince you. But I may take advantage. Commandeer more of your time, since you think you don’t deserve mine.”

“So you are a con man.”

He shook his head. That smile could only belong to the most skilled grifter. “If I was a good con man, I’d have more than a hundred dollars to my name after half a day in this ‘It’s a Small World’ casino.”

“It is a bit Disneyfied, isn’t it?”

A shrug. “Well, it’s cleaner than the ones near the motel Sam and I are staying at, so that’s a plus.”

The plate of food in front of you looked less and less appetizing as the seconds passed. Pushing it away, you really wanted to dig into the dessert that was Dean. But you’d only had two one-night stands in your life. Neither one was spectacular and left you full of regret that you’d had them to begin with. But this man. Oh, you had a feeling this man would love you and leave you with a million other regrets and create an addiction you’d never be able to fulfill again. What was that saying? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. This man was surging all kinds of wants in your head. If you got a taste, you knew you were done for.

His voice rumbled like a storm cloud and pulled you out of your thoughts. “What’s up for the rest of your night?”

You grinned, wanting to tease out this time with him for as long as possible. Skirt on the edge of a pond of possibilities and drown in those sometimes sea green colored eyes. “I told you there’s not enough time if you’re leaving tonight.”

“Pretty good at completing a task quickly and efficiently.” He licked his lips. “I mean, taking my time, yeah, that’s always ideal. But, if we’re pressed for time, sweetheart, I won’t disappoint.” His brow twitched up.

You sighed, sounding a little too loud and desperate for your liking. “Does a guarantee come with that claim?”

“How much of a gambler are you?” He deflected the question with another.

“I enjoy it.”

“I might be worth taking a chance on, then.”

“Hm. I met a nice old man while playing black jack tonight. He talked about odds and luck and the house edge and why he loves cards, black jack especially. It works his brain and he can play for hours and not lose his shirt.”

Dean smiled. “So, what kind of hand am I? Soft or hard?”

You grinned at the innuendo, trying to keep your train of thought on its track.  You leaned across the table. He mirrored your action, meeting you halfway. His hands clasped together on the surface, forearms firm and locked. The closest stare you’d shared. 

Both thumbs lifted up in his grip and he nodded a fraction with his chin. “Well, what’s the verdict?” You could smell apples, cinnamon, and vanilla on his breath; courtesy of his indulgence in pie ala mode and his slightly parted mouth. He came into full focus now. Freckles dotting the tops of his cheeks and sprinkled across his nose. Lips that were perfect, puffy and pronounced. Sharp edges and soft curves. He watched you inventory him as he did the same, eyes scanning, crinkles emerging around them when he smiled and you thought he found something he especially liked about your visage. The gamblers and diners dropped away from your periphery. The piped in music and frantic sounds locked away in a vacuum, muffled and mumbling like the adults in those Peanuts cartoons you loved to watch when you were little.  

“Neither. You are in no way a safe bet. You’ve got a major house edge.” Your answer came out lower than intended. The slight mix of surprise and disappointment on his face at the answer made you clear your throat. You continued. “So, why gamble in the first place? Cause there’s always the slightest chance you’ll get lucky and hit it big. Flip a coin and see where it’ll land.”

The smile returned and he shot stick-straight in his seat. “I’ve got plenty of coins.” He began to rifle through a jacket pocket. “Two out of three?” You held back a giggle at his eagerness.

“I’ve got one right here.” You dug the chip out of your jean pocket. The plastic disc twirled between your fingers. “Wanna see where it lands?”

His eyes widened. “Big spender. What’re we betting?”

It was your turn to lean back. “Depends. How lucky do you feel?”

He chuckled. “Stakes? And, then I’ll let you know.”

You swallowed. “Well, Ron, the old man, was explaining that Roulette has the best House Edge for the casino. Over five percent in their favor that a player loses. Think you can be my lucky charm and push those odds in my favor?”

He nodded. “What we talkin’? Street or split bet?”

The man knew his games. You smiled. “Straight up.”

His head tilted back. “Whoa. That’s a helluva lot of luck.” A finger pointed back and forth between the both of you. “I help you hit the jackpot and…”

You grinned. “You hit the jackpot. Call the shots for the rest of the night. We go wherever. Do whatever.”

His lips curled into an “O” as he tried to hold back his own grin. He nodded in thought. “If you lose?”

You shrugged. “Buy me a drink at the nearest bar, share some more stories, then we shake hands and say it was nice meeting the other.”

He raised his hands. “Well, I will take those odds. Let’s go find us a wheel.” His tall frame bolted out of his seat, beaming a smile at you.

Your heart sped up. There was no way he was winning this bet. But he seemed up for spending a little more time with you regardless. And that said something. You reached into your purse to drop a tip on the table but he’d already beat you to it.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

You nodded and wandered from the restaurant to the massive casino floor. He towered next to your side, the elbow of his jacket brushing against the sheer material covering your biceps. He smelled amazing. When you stopped in the middle of the floor to get your bearings and looked up to ask what direction you both should head, you found him gazing at your cleavage in the strappy surplice top. The look on his face shot straight to your core.

His eyebrows shot up at the realization he’d been caught ogling. “What’s wrong?”

A flush of warmth flooded your face. “We’re using your luck here. You pick the table.”

“Lot of pressure.” He mumbled.

“Lot at stake.” You countered.

“Alright.” He nodded to the right. You followed him, weaving through the crowd, now having the chance to notice his bowlegs and how very wide his shoulder span was. He was wearing entirely too many layers to your liking. But, you got to bathe in the wake of his scent and imagine how very pert that ass was under that denim. He halted without warning and you put the brakes on your stride, inches before careening into his back. His fingers pointed three tables over. “That one.” He looked over his right shoulder and grinned, finding your body and face quite close. “Step right up.”

You took the lead again and inhaled and exhaled deep, taking the one empty seat at the Roulette table. The wheel was currently in motion, the ball spinning, holding the breath of every gambler with a stake on the result. You heard the clicking of the ball along the slots as the rotation slowed, deciding on its destination.

Dean slid his standing frame along your right. He was warm, solid. He tipped down to whisper in your ear. “Sure you wanna go for a straight bet? Making me think you don’t even want a little fun time with me. We could lower the stakes. I’d be more than happy to let you call the shots for the rest of the night.” The offer dripped out of his voice with a deep intensity, low and tempting.

You would not meet his eyes again, already picturing the sexy smirk on his face. He would distract you, make you cave. “Nope.” You responded. “All in. Go big or go home.” You pulled out the chip from your pocket as the winning number was called. A mixture of whoops and grumbles emerged from the dealer’s announcement. Chips were swept over and around the table.

He sighed and rose up, waiting for the table to be cleared and for the dealer to tell everyone to place their bets. “Okay. What number?”

Your mind reeled with the possibilities. “When’s your birthday?” You asked.

“Seriously?” He chuckled.

“Yep.” Your eyes wandered over the red and black numbers on the green felt board. The all clear was called and chips scattered in place with both hurried and tentative fingers of various betters.

“January 24th.”

“So, we could go with 1 or 24. Red or black?”

Your body startled with the pressure of his hand at the small of your back. “Black.”

“24 it is then.” You gulped and placed the chip with care over the number. It rested there alone, a single play amid a multitude of others.

His fingers tapped against your skin in anticipation. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.” He joked. “Maybe as a parting gift you’ll give me your number.”

You smiled, focusing on the slight swirl of his fingers now, imagining what they could do to other parts of your body.

“No more bets.” The dealer called and waved a hand over the table. The wheel spun in one direction. The ball clicked and whirled in its lane in the other.

You thought about what Blackjack Ron had said earlier. Roulette, straight bet odds were 35 to 1. You could view that bet as a drowning man’s last ditch effort to keep their head above the water’s surface. Hold out for that raft to save them, give them a second chance to get things right. Or, you could view it as something as simple as hope. Hope that great things sometimes happen when you take a risk. You should try it once. That’s what Ron had said. 

You closed your eyes as the wheel slowed and the ball eased in its race for the finish line. You replayed that little mantra, the pep talk you’d give yourself every once in a while in your bathroom mirror. Failure is always a possibility when you try. But so is success.

The dealer announced the winning number. 

Dean’s fingers froze. “Holy fucking shit!” He bellowed.

Your eyes jolted open. The dealer placed a tiny marker on “24 Black.” Your mouth dropped open and watched the chips stack up in front of you.

“Holy fucking shit!” Dean repeated. “How much is that?”

You blinked, then repeated the calculation out loud you had figured out when you threw out the dare. “One thousand, seven hundred, and fifty dollars.”

“Wow!” You looked up and assessed his face. He was floored and amazed, like a kid that was just told he had free reign in a toy store. “That’s… that’s some luck.”

“All you.” You grinned.

The compliment took him aback. There was the slightest hint of blush on those cheeks.

You motioned to the winnings. “Okay, grab some and let’s cash out. Half of this is yours.”

Even more amazement. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I’m feeling generous.” You packed the chips into your purse. He stuffed some into his pockets. When you rose up, a jolt of adrenaline pushed you into a new territory of action. One filled with courage. You took your time and slithered close to his standing frame. Let parts of your body sweep along his. His brows rose higher than you’d seen so far that night. “Looks like you’re calling the shots now, Dean. We go wherever. Do whatever.”

A delicious lick of his lips followed your statement. His eyes dazzled with thoughts. “Let’s get out of here.”

*

You’d walked with him along the strip for what felt like forever. He’d gotten you a cup of frozen yogurt for part of the adventure. The warm air and pulse of Vegas fed your lingering alcohol buzz. Dean was just as intoxicating. He talked in cryptic paragraphs about him and his brother’s nomadic lifestyle. You laughed at his dirty jokes, both basking in the artificial glow surrounding you and the high of winning. But you, most importantly, let go of the decision making. 

A turn off the busy, fluorescent lit thoroughfare landed you in a much more adult amusement area of the city. And, you had an inkling, heading in the direction of Dean’s motel. You’d finished the last bit of your treat and tossed the empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash can when he stopped to read the flashing sign of a venue. 

His rapt stare forced you to look up and see what he was focusing on. The amber neon depicted the figure of a voluptuous female with flowing hair, one leg wrapped around a bright white pole. You read the name of the establishment out loud. “Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club?”

He turned to you and grinned. “Been in one of these before?”

You felt your brow scrunch together. “Well, no.”

He walked over to the glass door covered in dark film. “Well, let’s go, then.”

“Really? This is what you want to do?”

“At this moment? Yes.” He opened the door and ushered you in. “My lady.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Are you trying to test my comfort level or something?” The question breezed by his frame as you passed.

“Something like that.” He smiled.

You really didn’t know what to expect when you walked in. A bouncer looking dude waved you in after a quick survey. Dean’s hand was on your back again, as it had been off and on throughout the evening, leading you towards the dim section of tables and booths. It was packed with, from what you could see, a majority of male patrons with the occasional token female. The tables wrapped around a few circular stages with catwalks emerging from blue velvet curtains. A dozen or so topless females danced for the pleasure of their audiences. The bass of the music rumbled through your skin.

“Here.” Dean leaned in, pushing you to a free high top right by one of the stages. Enough light spilled onto the area that you spotted the kid in a toy store look on his face again when he took his seat.

You sat across, tearing your gaze from him to the ladies wrapped around poles, bronzed and oiled similar to the male counterparts you’d been hooting at earlier that evening.

“Thought you could see how the other half lives, after that Australian review.” Dean brought up the exact same thought, only he shivered in distaste. A wave of his hand requested the attention of one of the waitresses who thankfully, for you, wore a bit more than the dancers.

“Hello, lovelies. I’m Cherie. What can I get you?” She purred over to Dean and gave you a sweet smile, dropping napkins in front of your spots. Her bare glittery shoulders and cocoa skin made you crave chocolate for a second.

Dean’s lips quirked up in a smile. You realized he’d been giving your reaction more attention than the female with big onyx eyes and raven, wavy hair.  “I’ll have a bourbon. Top Shelf. Neat. What are you having, sweetheart?”

You shrugged, continuing the little game you’d started since he won the bet.

He nodded. “Same for this pretty little lady.” The waitress nodded, about to walk off, when Dean asked, “Oh, what’s it cost for a private show in the back?”

The waitress raised a pencil lined eyebrow. “Depends on who you want the show with.”

“Are you available?” Dean grinned.

She giggled. “I might be.”

“Well, if you are, let me know what it’d be for the both of us?”

“Will do, sweetie.” Cherie bounced off with a pronounced sway of her ample hips.

 Your mouth popped open. “What?”

“Whatever I want.” He reminded you with a lick of his lips. He leaned his forearms on the table. “You ever, ah…”

An awkward giggle erupted from your throat. “No.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Thought about it?”

“Maybe.”

That made Dean’s grin grow wider. “Well, it’s only a dance. You technically aren’t supposed to touch the ladies. Sometimes, though, you get lucky. And, the way my luck is going tonight… got to give it a shot.” His fingers brushed over the top of your hand. “Get something etched in my memory for repeat viewings later.”

The touch of his fingers, light and gentle, ticklish and thrilling, hit an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. You emitted something between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re going to blow all your winnings tonight on booze and boobs.”

“Worth it. I’m getting to spend it with a beautiful partner in crime.”

You sat with him and watched the show. A country tune blasted through the sound system. The ladies all sashayed back to the curtains, flinging them back with a dramatic flair. They disappeared only to be replaced by cowboy hat and boot wearing dancers. Daisy dukes rode so high up that half of their ass cheeks bulged out. Holsters, hung loose from their waists, held fake pistols that, when pulled out for use, were done so with the most phallic inducing reminders. And all had the perkiest, perfect breasts you’d ever seen.

His fingers tangled into yours about midway through the performance. “Thank God I’m a country boy.” He tipped his head about to the twang. “So, Albuquerque, huh?”

You attempted to track the conversation and not the feel of his warm skin tingling yours. The pads of his fingers were rough and worn, gritty but not harsh. You imagined what kind of work he did to get them that way. “Yeah. Moved there after college. Got a job at a big research company. Glorified office assistant, so just the mundane business stuff that helps keep everyone employed on the books, bills paid.”

“Research?” His smile softened, listening to you.

“Sustainable energy, nuclear weapons.”

His bottom lip jutted out as he nodded. “Like it?”

“More days than not.” Your eyes widened as one of the dancers provocatively licked the barrel of her toy gun. You couldn’t help but laugh in embarrassment. “Geez, I’ve never done that with a firearm.”

Dean chuckled. “What have you done with a firearm?”

“I’ve got a license to carry. My dad taught me how to shoot when I was around thirteen. He was a big time game hunter. Back in Colorado.” You didn’t bother to go into what happened to your parents. You wanted to keep the tone of the night light and fun.

“What do you carry?” Genuine interest spread over his face now.

“Walther PPQ. But I left it back home.” You smiled, realizing he was not put off and probably carried as well. “Are you packing?”

“Oh, I’m packing,” He grinned, “but my gun’s back at the motel. Not a good idea to mix Vegas nightlife and bullets, I’ve learned.” That sounded like a perfect lead-in for a story. But he only added. “M1911.”

You nodded then asked, “Country boy, huh?”

“Yep, Kansas.”

“We could have hit Stoney’s then.”

“You would have tried to get me to dance.” He nodded to the stage. “More fun to watch.”

Cherie returned, interrupting the flow of conversation with two tumblers of bourbon. After placing the glasses on the table and eyeing the way Dean gripped your hand, she leaned in close to his ear and whispered. You struggled to make it out, giving up when it proved pointless. His lids lifted a fraction. “Well, that sounds positively delightful, Cherie.” He added with a sexy swagger. “Think you can get yourself one of those cowgirl outfits?”

She nodded. “See what I can do. Jimmy’ll come by for you two in about a half hour then.” Another nearby table called her away.

Dean grabbed his glass and raised it for a toast. “To Vegas.”

You shook your head and clinked your glass with his, mumbling. “To Vegas.”

*

The sparkling beaded fringe curtaining the doorway was a nice touch. You pushed through the strands and took in where you’d be with Dean for the next twenty minutes, along with Cherie, who was on her way. It was enough privacy for an intimate dance. Safe enough, you imagined, that if one of the women had to call for an assist from a handsy client, someone could be there in a flash without impediment. Burly Jimmy, about a foot taller than Dean, seemed to be the bouncer/bodyguard for the ladies and waited outside in the hallway.

“Really playing up the Sapphire theme, huh?” You asked Dean for his thoughts on the decor. There were two blue velvet, plush armchairs in opposite corners of the tiny eight by eight space. Two of the walls were floor to ceiling glass and a tinted overhead light washed everything in shades of midnight blue.

“Fancy.” He teased. “One of the deluxe rooms.”

The two bourbons you had milked at the table for the last half hour had sizzled your senses with a warm euphoria. Almost like you were watching yourself in some sort of out of body experience. Had it really only been a few hours since you’d seen your girlfriends? You glanced at your watch and confirmed in the spin of your head it was a little after midnight. Your brain and body were wired and alert due to the proximity of this man pushing all your buttons tonight. It was raw, racy, a revelation in facets of sexiness you’d never had the honor of being in the presence of. Until tonight.

He’d teased with playful touches; flirted with that outlaw mouth; melted you with heated stares; worn you down with roguish charm; and hinted at some heavy shit  that made you wonder how broken he might be under all that attractive armor. The alcohol had let his guard down a few times.

“Hey.” Dean snapped his fingers and brought you back. “You still with me, beautiful? I think we need to cut you off.”

You clicked your tongue and shot him with your finger gun. “Might be right, partner.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Think so.” He rubbed his hands together and spotted a touchscreen in the wall. “Huh, even get to pick the music. Real fancy.” He pointed to one of the chairs. “Get comfy.” He tapped some buttons. You slid into the cushion, trying not to imagine the amount of bodily fluids embedded in the fabric. It did smell nice and clean, almost antiseptic, so that settled one of your racing thoughts. Your stare lingered over at Dean, a pensive look on his face as he decided on the tracks. It had to be illegal for someone to be that handsome without even trying. “Damn, it’s hot in here.” He pulled off his jacket and one layer of flannel, draping them over the back of the empty chair. His simple black t-shirt strained over his shoulders, biceps, chest. The alcohol had to be part of the reason he looked so perfect. No way, you kept thinking, no one’s that perfect.

The beads parted and Cherie strolled into the room. She had certainly done what she could to honor Dean’s request. She wore the same white vinyl hot pants and matching color stripper pumps that comprised her waitress attire. But she’d gone full on country bumpkin with a plaid flannel tied in a knot under her push up bra, and a cowboy hat.

“Did you pick your tunes, Cowboy?” She flirted at Dean.

“Yep.” The wide, cheesy grin spread over his face.

“Have a seat, time’s a wastin’.” She was working the southern accent, too. Dean hopped onto the other seat cushion and wiggled his ass into position. He also wiggled his eyebrows like a cartoon villain at you. You giggled. 

Cherie tapped the screen. You were unsurprised by the country music that filled the room at a respectable volume. “Jimmy explain all the rules?” She asked and began to gyrate her hips to the song.

You nodded and replied, your eyes bouncing from Cherie to Dean, “You get to touch us, we don’t touch you. Stay in our seats. If we aren’t sure if we can, ask first.”

Cherie twirled and stopped to smile down at you. “I bet you were top of your class, hun.”

Your cheeks heated up at the flirting. This woman was obviously younger than you by at least a decade and was calling you hun. Dean’s jaw clenched at your reaction.

“So, what brings the two of you to Vegas?” Cherie turned around, giving you a full face of her curvy hips and tiny waist. The white pants almost glowed in the light and you could hear the slight squeak of material. Her moves were smooth, fluid, second nature.

Dean was getting a full face of the cleavage peeking out of her shirt as she bent down to give him a nice view. “Romantic getaway for my girl, here.” His eyes drifted over to you, past Cherie’s elbow, with a smirk.

Oh, this is how we’re playing it now, you thought. You had to admit the idea of you being his girl was absolute heaven.

“Aw, how sweet. How long you two been together?” She rose up, her hands gripping the back of her neck, elbows jutting out like wings. She twirled to look at you. She backed into Dean’s lap and began to circle and skirt her ass along his thighs. Cherie blocked his beautiful face with pink flannel. The only Dean reaction visible were his fingers latching onto the armrests like a vice.

You stifled a giggle. “Five years.” You threw out the first number you could think of.

“A lot of man to be working with for five years.” She smiled.

You couldn’t argue with that.

“Alright if I put my hands on him, darlin’?”

You heard Dean moan. How could you deny him? And, how fun that she was asking you for permission and not bothering with his approval. “Of course.” You swallowed at the intimate turn things were taking.

She lifted up, turned again. Her hands landed on Dean’s knees. “Let’s let your pretty lady see how much you’re enjoying this.” She cooed and spun him in the - surprise - rotating chair. You got an eyeful at this angle of that chiseled face and the wide eyes from his own surprise at the movement. He glanced over at you, turning serious in a second. It was like someone had turned the temperature on to sauna level in the room. 

Cherie’s actions focused Dean’s attention back to her. Her fingers and long nails drifted and scraped along the surface of his hands, forearms, biceps. Her palms came to rest on his shoulders. She climbed on top with grace, wedging her knees into the cushion by his hips, clamping his bowlegs shut with the force of her muscular calves. Her heels poked out from the chair like weapons. That ass settled on his knees. Her cleavage inched closer to his face as he settled and reclined into the headrest. 

“How does he feel?” You realized you had asked the question out loud.

Dean turned to you, languid and lush, blissed out and smiling in a lustful stupor.

“Warm. Strong. All sorts of good.” She smiled at you. “Lucky lady.”

If only, you thought.

Dean licked his lips at you, delved his gaze into Cherie’s cleavage, then met the dancer’s stare. “If you think I feel good, you should give my girl a test drive.” He unclenched his grip on the armrest for a few seconds, maybe trying to get some circulation back in his fingers. “In fact, I’d love it if you’d tell me how good my baby feels.”

Holy shit. Your panties dampened at his confession.

Cherie grinned. “Well, that’s up to your baby. Woman always gets the final say.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dean chuckled. “I’ve gotta run everything by her, or else I’d get spanked. Can I tell you a secret, Cherie?” Dean husked out the question. Cherie nodded in interest, grinding on him now. Dean cocked a brow at the action. “Sometimes I get in trouble on purpose, just so she can spank me.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that; the thrill and imagery of Dean naked, leaned over your lap with a bright red ass after some serious punishment from your hand.

“Sounds like you’re a handful.” Cherie snuggled down deeper, and dry humped him. “Feel like a nice handful, too.” She was humming along to the country tune. Just another day at the office for Cherie.

It felt all sorts of wrong and right at the same time, watching this lap dance. This teasing, edging. Who the hell has the House Edge in this scenario?

Dean’s hands clenched tighter around the velvet. “Don’t wanna come in my pants, Sweet Cherie. Isn’t that one of the rules?” He panted.

She laughed. “Oh, I’d break a couple for you two.” She slowed the torture and peeled off him with a groan that almost matched Dean’s. “We going for that test drive, baby?” Her hungry eyes scanned your seated frame.

“Um…” You began. Dean’s breathing regulated and he circled the seat back to face you. He grinned at you, peeking over the curve of Cherie’s hips, ready for the show.

“It’s okay. Anyplace you don’t want me touching, just streetlight. Only if you want to indulge your man.” She raised a brow. “But you might like it, too.”

“Oh, God, I hope so.” Dean mumbled.

Cherie did the same with your chair as she had with Dean’s. You tilted, looking at yourself beyond Dean in the mirror. How very deer in the headlights you appeared. Cherie was a veritable tigress, running the entire show.

She leaned down, inches from your face. Her fingers wiggled and she cupped your jaw. “I won’t bite.” Her sweet breath laced with peppermint washed over you. “So warm. Don’t be nervous.” Her soft voice lulled you into a safe space. “Your big strong man over there wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Would you, Cowboy?”

“Absolutely, fucking not.” Dean’s voice shot straight to your core again. You caught him licking his lips. He nodded, entranced at the vision of Cherie guiding her hand down the slope of your neck, then cupping the curve of one breast. Your breath hitched as she squeezed and her long nails dipped into the cleavage. “How’s she feel?” Another lick.

“Hm, so soft.” An eyebrow arched when she skirted over your covered nipple. “And excited. Still green, sweetie?” You nodded. Cherie tipped off the cowboy hat, sliding it over the crown of your head.

Dean rumbled out a low moan. You thought you heard him curse under his breath and whisper something close to “Ride ‘em, cowgirl.”

The arousal created by this beautiful woman was dizzying and the heat from Dean’s stare was making it hard to breathe. Sweat broke out on your forehead. Your stomach churned. “Oh.” Something else was threatening to escape as a sour bile hit the base of your throat. “Oh, no.” You mumbled. “Red, red. I need to get to a bathroom.”

Cherie hopped off and grabbed you by the wrist. “Jimmy! Need a trash can, stat.”

Dean jumped up from his seat. You spotted alarm on his face and got a quick glimpse of a decent bulge in his jeans before you groaned again at the somersaults your insides were doing. A hand clamped over your mouth as you forced down the gag and swallowed. It wasn’t going to be long before the entire floor would be covered with a Vegas buffet.

The saving grace that was Jimmy parted the curtains and slid a small desk trash can over in your general direction. Dean fell to his knees and held it in front of you. Cherie tossed off the cowboy hat you were wearing and held your hair back.

A deep inhale of the artificial lemon smell covering the trash can liner was what finally had you retching.

*

You emerged from the women’s bathroom fifteen minutes later after the whole fiasco had commenced. Cherie had been nice enough to bring you a disposable toothbrush and some toothpaste from backstage. You’d cleaned yourself up as best you could. But you were exhausted, humiliated, and planned to call yourself a cab. You were certain Dean had called it a night, leaving your sorry ass to figure things out.

How surprised, then, your face must have looked to see him leaning against the wall, Cherie’s cowboy hat twirling in his hands. He was back in his flannel and jacket, staring out onto the stage. The hint of movement by your slow trudges catching his attention, he turned and gave you a soft smile. “Hey there. How’re you doing?”

You shrugged. “I’m so sorry.” Your scratchy voice skipped over the apology.

He walked over to you. “I pushed my luck… and yours… a bit too far. I’m sorry.” He grinned and placed the hat on your head. “Cherie said you could have it. A parting gift for the both of us.”

A smile broke out on your face.

“You look really cute, Cowgirl.”

“You stayed?” You questioned.

Dean’s face contorted in confusion. “Not like I was going to just skip out on you over some upchuck. Trust me, beautiful, I’ve seen way worse.” He flicked the hat so it rose up an inch higher on your head. “So, calling us a cab or walking you back to your hotel so you can sleep this off? You are going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

You tummy seesawed at the thought of a lot of walking right then. “Cab.”

He nodded and headed for the exit. “Let’s go flag one down.”

“But…”

Dean stopped, wavering in his stride and waited.

“I don’t want to say goodnight yet.”

He smiled, then sighed. “Well, I got a text about an hour ago that little brother is going off on a granola munching hike in the desert by himself.” He scratched the back of his head. “So, if you want to hang out in my seedy motel room for a couple hours, it’s free.”

You grinned, queasy but happy.

*

He’d found a country station on the motel’s radio alarm clock when you’d arrived earlier and forced you to down a bottle of water and pop a couple aspirin. The both of you were now on your third round of War. The conversation had gotten deeper as the battle continued. But there were still the light, fun and flirty moments that made spending this time with him feel even more special. 

You sat cross legged on the blanket Dean had pulled out of his duffel to spare your ass from sitting on the dingy motel room carpet. He sat across from you, back against the foot of his bed, leaning an elbow on one propped up knee, the other leg splayed out on the blanket. You didn’t think his bowlegs could manage a cross legged position and grinned to yourself at the thought.

It was 2:00 am. He showed no signs of fading, but you were struggling. Dean kept glancing at his phone but never faltered to toss down his cards in time with yours.

“Hopefully he’s okay.” You offered. The tinge of pain crept in. You knew you had to say goodbye and call it a night. It was obvious he was worried. His brother had not returned his texts and was still roaming around, somewhere. “I should go. It’s getting really late and you look ready to form a search party.” You tossed your hand of playing cards onto the blanket and attempted a slow rise to your feet. You placed a hand on the cowboy hat to keep it from falling off your head. At least, for now, your stomach had settled. The pounding in your head had lessened.

“I’m surprised your gal pals haven’t been ringing you non-stop.” Dean’s head tilted up and stared.

“I’m the last thing they’re thinking of tonight.” You hadn’t given them much thought either since the first time you’d looked at Dean hours ago. God, it felt like a lifetime ago at this point.

 “You should stay a little longer and at least see who wins. We’re all tied up.”

“We’ll just have to call it a draw.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He hopped up much quicker than you.

“Where’d I put my bag?” Your eyes found it on the little table by the kitchenette as soon as you’d asked the question. You hobbled over, letting the blood flow into your legs proper again.

As you rummaged through the contents, you heard the volume of the radio go up.

You turned and saw Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, tapping his thighs.

You giggled. “You like this song?”

“Ah, it’s pop-country. But ladies like it, right?”

You shrugged and dropped into the chair beside the table. “Where I’m from, ladies get weak in the knees for Luke.”

Dean grinned that grin you’d seen countless times that night and wished you could see for every night after. He stood up and swaggered over with purpose, in only that black t-shirt, jeans and sock clad feet. He mouthed the words to the song on his approach. Your eyes were locked on those luscious lips and how well he knew the lyrics.

Gonna stomp my boots in the Georgia mud ***

Gonna watch you make me fall in love

Dean pulled the hat off your head and slid it in the perfect sweet spot on his head. The slight tilt was sexy as hell.

Shake it for the birds, shake it for the bees

Shake it for the catfish swimmin' down deep in the creek

For the crickets and the critters and the squirrels

Shake it to the moon, shake it for me girl

Aw, country girl, shake it for me

He teased and smiled, sticking his fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and swirling his hips. You giggled at his awkward and heartfelt attempt at this show and the blush creeping over the apples of his cheeks.

You rose up and joined him, wanting to relieve him from the embarrassment. And, hell, you finally wanted to dance with him. You sidled up into his space, slotted one leg between his bow legs and circled your hips in time to his. That rhythm being something he easily adjusted to and was happy to continue. You looked up into those green eyes, wrapped your hands around his neck and felt his warm, safe hands glide up and down your back. The lyrics came to you easily and you lip synced along with him. It was corny, cheesy, unexpected, and sexy as hell. 

Pony-tail and a pretty smile

Rope me in from a country mile

So come on over here and get in my arms

Spin me around this big ole barn

Tangle me up like grandma's yarn

Yeah, yeah, yeah

The brim of his cowboy hat bopped your nose during a particularly forceful pretend belting of words by Dean. “Sorry.” He spoke aloud and chuckled.

“It’s okay.” You whispered, out of breath from everything he was doing to you. “I’m so glad I took a chance on you, Dean.” 

That one statement pulled you both out of the playful and flirty exploration of each other and the boundaries you’d tested. His focus on your face turned serious. And, even though the uptempo song stomped on in the background, his motions halted. His eyes drank you in, every inch of your face. His fingers danced along your jaw, curled around your neck, angling you up to him. To finally kiss you through the rest of Luke Bryan’s crooning.

Now dance, like a dandelion

In the wind on the hill underneath the pines

Yeah, move like the river flows

Feel the kick drum down deep in your toes

All I wanna do is get to holdin' you

And get to knowin' you

And get to showin' you

And get to lovin' you

'Fore the night is through

Baby, you know what to do

You’d died and gone to heaven; were positive of that fact. No man had ever had lips so soft, a mouth so determined, and knew exactly what to do with the precise amount of pressure and tongue.

As Bryan faded out, you heard the chirping of a phone. Dean broke the kiss and leaned his forehead into yours. You felt the brim of his hat on the top of your head. “Sweetheart…” The moan was a mixture of want and something else.

You sighed and knew. “Your brother.” You motioned over to the bed where his phone was. “You should go.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, placed the cowboy hat back on your head and sprinted to the phone. You did the same, found the contact of a Vegas cab company you’d put in at the start of your trip and dialed. You spoke to the weary dispatcher and repeated the name of the motel, watching Dean reply back to the text as he sat on the bed and slipped into his shoes.

“Not too far. Should only be about five minutes.” You nodded. “You can go. I’ll wait outside.”

He rubbed his thighs. “No way. You’ll wait in here with me.”

“Dean, I…”

He cut you off. “You surprised the hell out of me tonight, beautiful. You were up for everything I threw at ya.” He smiled. A genuine, heart tugging smile.

“The night could have taken a much different turn if I could have held my liquor better.”

He shrugged. “But it was still one helluva night. And, I’m glad you took the chance on me, too.” He offered his phone. “Put your number in.” You smiled and did as asked, then handed it back. He shot you a text. “There. Now, you have mine.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “And, here. Don’t ask questions, but if for some reason that phone stops working... call this number and say you need to get in touch with Dean Winchester.”

You read the card. “FBI Director, Mike Kayser?”

Dean raised both eyebrows.

“Okay.” You slipped the card and phone in your purse. Headlights flooded through the motel curtains. “Well, that’s my ride, I think.”

Dean stood up and opened the door, walking out into the early morning with you. The yellow cab idled in the parking lot. He waved at the driver, then turned you in his arms and stared at you hard. “You send me a text when you get into your room.”

You chuckled. “You’ll be roaming the desert like Jim Morrison by then.”

“Please.” That soft smile again.

“Okay.”

He grabbed your face with two warm palms, angled you in just the right way so he  could dip down and kiss you under your cowboy hat, soft and slow. He whispered in your ear. “I wish I could be your safe bet.”

You gave him one more peck, then walked to the cab. When you opened the back door, you turned and called out. “What would be the fun in that? Flip a coin and see where it lands every once in a while, right?”

He gave you a two finger salute and smiled that Dean Winchester grin. As the driver nodded at your destination and turned out of the lot, you watched him, standing, waiting for you to disappear from view. You held onto that grin. Closed your eyes. Committed it to memory. And hoped you’d see it again.

THE END

***Luke Bryan - Country Girl (Shake It For Me)

MASTERLIST

[melodious-madrigals]

of communication and cats

Written as part of @wondertrevnet‘s Lock Out Bingo.

Fandom: Wonder Woman Pairing: Diana/Steve Prompt: texting Word Count: 2552 Rating: T Summary: Steve and Diana adopt a cat. Steve is exceptionally bad at texting. The two converge more often than you'd think. (Aka miscommunication, but like. Low stakes.) Mostly fluff. In-universe for lost love (sweeter when it’s finally found) which you can read here.

Find it below the cut or on AO3.

***

Notes: not really a texting fic, just a very loose definition of "fulfilling" the prompt because it includes some texts, lol. 

***

Don't be mad, but says the preview on her push notification from Steve's latest message. Not exactly an auspicious start, given his propensity for doing reckless things.

Diana massages the spot between her eyebrows where tension headaches start, and decides she needs to just bite the bullet and look at the text. (It can't be too bad if he's still able to text about it, right?)

Swiping down, she taps on the message.

Don't be mad, it says, but I found this little one abandoned, and I was *going* to ask if we could keep it but then I fell in love. Sorry, no takebacksies, but I will let you help me name it.

Attached is a picture of a fluffy black kitten curled up against Steve's chest. The angle is funny—clearly an attempt at a one-handed selfie while also holding the kitten—but it's one of the most precious things Diana has ever seen. The kitten's tail is wrapped tight enough to be gently touching its own nose. It's so adorable that Diana thinks she might cry.

The message is a little over an hour old, and Diana goes to text back when more messages come through.

Vet says: It's a girl! 🎈

Then, She has a great big personality, with a photo attachment of the kitten—vet office clear in the background—looking extremely indignant at her current circumstances.

I look forward to meeting her, Diana types back.

When Diana gets home, she finds a veritable explosion of cat toys and products across their living room and kitchen. At the epicenter, on the couch, is Steve, asleep, with a tiny little ball of black fur tucked up under his chin. If Diana had previously had any reservations about their new kitten (she hadn't, really), they would have been erased upon seeing them like this.

She snaps a quick picture, and then goes into the kitchen, pulling out vegetables to start dicing for the evening meal.

Twenty minutes later, Steve wanders in, the kitten now cradled against his chest.

"She's about six weeks," says Steve. "Which is a little early, but the vet says that other than needing to be fed, she looks healthy. She didn't appreciate her first round of shots, but she did appreciate the salmon pâté slurry I gave her afterwards."

"Poor thing. She was abandoned?"

"I think so," says Steve. "I actually saw her yesterday, hiding in the same spot, but they say not to move kittens, you know? because sometimes the mother is just off hunting. But she was alone yesterday and crying, and she was doing the same when I passed by today, and I couldn't just leave her there."

"You did the right thing, Steve. So, about her name."

Steve looks away guiltily, and Diana just knows that he's already named the cat.

"The vet needed a name to start her file," Steve mumbles. "I thought Bast would be cute."

Diana purses her lips, trying not to smile. "She already has you worshipping her like a goddess; it fits." Then she breaks, and starts laughing. "I'm not mad, Steve! About the cat or the name."

Steve looks relieved, like he didn't really think this would be a fight, but wasn't sure. They've talked about getting a pet before, but have always decided against it because of how much they travel.

"I already talked to Aisha and Marguerite," he says, referring to the couple who lives across the hall. "They said that they would watch her when we go out of town, as long as they also get to play with her while she's still a kitten."

"That reminds me, we should have them over for dinner this weekend. Or next, if they aren't free."

Steve shakes his head. "Next weekend's bad. I've got a work thing Friday night, and we're going to the concert at the Madeleine on Saturday with the Giraudets."

Diana makes a little humming noise as she pulls several spice jars from the cabinet. "Am I coming to your work function?"

"Only if you want, but I'd love to have you. You can't hit Floyd, though."

Diana wrinkles her nose at the mention of his co-worker. "We can go out for late night kebab afterward," she decides. "As a reward for putting up with him."  

"Génial," says Steve, at the same time that Bast wakes up and meows loudly. "Apparently we haven't been paying her enough attention."

"Hello, Bast," Diana says, and the kitten meows again.

"Here, take her; I'll finish supper," offers Steve.

The kitten squeaks as Steve transfers her, then settles into Diana's arms, looks up at her, and slowly closes her eyes and falls asleep again.

They're cat people now, apparently.

*

Bast, as it turns out, is a very affectionate cat. She wants to be held, constantly, and when she isn't being held, will toddle up to one of her people and scream until they finally do pick her up. She also likes sleeping tucked up under Steve's chin, which Diana finds absolutely hilarious because Steve is not—and has never been—a back sleeper, but now, more often than not, she finds him falling asleep on his back so as not to disturb Bast.

Bast is most definitely Steve's cat, but she likes Diana well enough. Often, she perches on Diana's left shoulder when she's working on her laptop, and peers at the screen like she's reading the artifact dossiers too.

Sometimes, if Diana is very lucky, Bast will curl up in her lap instead, nose still tucked into the curl of her tail, and purr. Most of the time, Bast perks up as soon as Steve gets home, and prances over to greet him with an affectionate headbutt.

"I see how it is," Diana says, one day, when Bast lifts her head at a sound outside the door that turns out not to be Steve, and Diana swears she looks disappointed. "You like him best."

Bast simply looks at Diana with her big round eyes and blinks once, which Diana suspects is cat for 'duh'.

"Oh, all right, I cannot blame you," Diana sighs, "I like him best too."

Bast presents her chin, and Diana obliges her with a scritch.

("That was a cat-kiss," Steve says later, of the blink, laughing. "Bast was basically telling you she loves and trusts you, and you thought it was sass.")

*

It's a perfectly ordinary day, and perfectly ordinary days are very easily ruined.

For the day in question, it's the We need to talk that shows up from Steve, causing Diana's nerves to go haywire. She really doesn't think they're fighting about anything, but 'we need to talk' is universally a bad thing, right? They're usually pretty good about handling their problems in constructive ways, and they're excellent at talking through things, but there's a certain permanent ominous quality to 'we need to talk' that fills her with dread.

But when Diana unlocks her phone, she finds: We need to talk about how adorable Bast is right now, along with a picture of the cat in question with her paws crossed over her eyes, and the tiniest tip of her tongue visible between her teeth, like she didn't quite pull it all the way in when she closed her mouth.

Diana laughs, shows the picture to her interns, and sends back She looks so angelic. Like she didn't start caterwauling at four a.m. this morning and wake me out of a dead sleep.  

She's a cat, replies Steve. They're always perfect little angels, even when they're not.

"That cat has you wrapped around its paw," Diana says that afternoon, when she comes home to find Steve making a special meal for Bast. "That had better not be the hake I bought at the market this morning."

"Of course it isn't. I filleted that and have the rest cooking down in the stock." He tilts his head toward the lidded pot on the stove. "This is just a little treat for being three months old." He says the last bit to Bast in a slightly sing-song voice.

She loves this man, she really does.

*

Diana is having a very long day and thinking about Bruce Wayne in a rather uncharitable way. (He is, after all, the reason she had to extend her business trip to the States and is not currently home with her husband and their cat.) She's dirty and tired, and trying desperately not to be bitter about it, because she doesn't approve of feeling bitter about things, when her phone buzzes.

The setting it's on means that the text can only be from Steve, while everyone else is filtered out by 'do not disturb'. Checking her surroundings surreptitiously, she pulls out her phone.

Diana help I'm dying reads the preview and Diana's heart drops into her stomach, body immediately prepping for a supersonic flight and going into panic mode because she's too far away, an hour or two at least from whatever Steve has gotten himself into now—

Diana help I'm dying at how fricking cute Bast is and I need you to be too, Steve has written. I can't even. Underneath is a minute long video of Bast, and Diana nearly hurls her phone across the room before the relief takes over. She almost throws up as she comes down from the adrenaline spike, too.

After a couple of deep breaths, Diana hits the dial button, and Steve picks up on the first ring, right as rain.

"Did you watch it? Isn't she just the best?" he exclaims.

"You need to work on how you start your texts, Steve," she says instead of answering. "Do you know how it popped up on my phone? 'Diana help I'm dying.'"

Steve sucks in a breath sharply enough that it's audible even across the tinny connection. "Oh, Gods. I'm so sorry, Diana."

Between his contrition and the fact that he's clearly okay, Diana feels her anger evaporate. She can't count the number of times that Barry—just for example—has used 'I'm dying' or 'DEAD' or 'deceased' to indicate various emotions that are not death-based. It's only normal that Steve would pick it up.

"No, I also overreacted," she admits. "I have not slept properly in two days and was not really thinking."

"I'll still work on it," Steve promises. "Seriously, watch the video; she's such a weirdo. It'll make your day better."

"Okay, I will."

"Hey, are you okay? Do you want to talk?"

"I am just ready to be home," Diana says. "I really shouldn't talk now, but hopefully I will be home before morning."

"Okay, Angel. Love you."

"Love you too."

The call disconnects, and then Diana hits play on the video. It's shot in their kitchen, and it's dark enough out that Steve has the overhead light on. Bast is in the middle of the floor, spinning in circles chasing her tail, or maybe the shadow of her tail, Diana can't quite tell. She suppresses a laugh as Bast starts spinning the other way. Dammit, Steve's right. She really is cute.

Day brightened, Diana taps out. Give her a kiss for me, we both know how much she loves those.

Two minutes later, a photo pops through of a very disgruntled looking Bast with the caption 'post-kiss', and Diana squashes down another laugh.

She's home by one in the morning, their time, and only has to move Bast a little bit to climb into bed next to Steve.

*

One of the reasons Diana was originally hesitant to get a cat was how much they both travel for work, and this month has been absolutely non-stop for her. In the past three weeks, it feels like she's only been home about three days. Fortunately, this is her last trip for another month (or at least, her last scheduled trip; JL business has a nasty way of popping up at inconvenient times), and Steve's job has been largely quiet on the travel front, lately.

She's got one more day to get through, and then it's just her normal job. She might even take a personal day or two.

She's just about to go into another meeting when her phone buzzes. Urgent! Read me NOW says the preview of Steve's message, and Diana immediately thumbs open her lockscreen, pausing before she enters the room, just in case she needs to dart back out.

We love you! ♥️💕 reads the rest of the message, and underneath is an attached photo of Steve and Bast. He's holding her up so that their faces are pressed together, and Bast has decided to be a perfect angel for Steve, looking directly into the camera. Diana swears she's even smizing next to Steve's own grin.

I know we talked about this, says another message that pops up while she's looking at the picture, but we wanted to make sure you saw that right away.

And then, We miss you.

A smile inches its way across her lips, and she sends back a quick selfie with a cat ears filter and a miss you too scrawled along the bottom before ducking back into the meeting.

*

It's Bast who hears her first, because when she opens the apartment door, Bast is sitting squarely in front of it. She lets out an indignant yowl, and then puts her front paws up on Diana's legs, asking to be picked up.

Diana shoves her suitcase inside the door, closes it, and obliges, and Bast settles in against her chest.

"She's clearly forsaken me," says Steve, who's just come out of the bedroom. "Hey you," he adds, leaning in over Bast to give her a kiss.

"Give it five minutes," Diana replies, because even though the cat looks comfortable now, her moods are mercurial.

"Mmm," Steve hums, clearly in agreement. "Hey, before I forget: can I see your phone?"

She shifts Bast (who looks up at her reproachfully) so that she can free a hand and pull her phone out of her pocket to give to Steve.  

"I've been fiddling with mine, and I figured out how to turn the preview off of the push notification," he says.

Diana lets out a startled laugh. "That's probably a more secure setting anyways," she says. "Go ahead. I look forward to the moment when every third text from you will no longer induce panic."

"The future is now," Steve deadpans, and Diana has to set an affronted Bast down so that she can give Steve a proper hug, because she's glad to be home.

*

The next morning, Diana sneaks out early to their favorite boulangerie for a couple of pain aux raisins. She's in line when her phone pings.

Swiping it open, she taps on the notification and sees (in full, this time, thankfully): Mayday, mayday, mayday, the cat has taken your spot. There's Bast—stretched out so long across the bed that it almost looks like someone put her on a medieval torture rack—looking very pleased with herself because she's taken up the entire half of the bed that is Diana's.

A small smile creeps over her face as she steps forward to order. She's got a spot to reclaim, a cat to snuggle, and a husband to kiss good morning; she hasn't got any time to waste.

***

[beccarooni]

Ice Planet - Chapter 2

(The full version of chapter 2 of ice planet! Sorry for the wait, trying to sort out uni life is tough but I hope you enjoy this full version. I’ll try to update a little more regularly now x) Somehow, they’d gotten onto the topic of stories.

It had come up somewhere between the end of Heimdall’s call and them settling in for the night, while the two had been raiding the ships cupboards for blankets and supplies to make their first night just a tad less dire. Thor had to hand it to them, they made a pretty good pair of vultures. Within a few hours of searching Thor had found some kind of Sakaarian tea, and with some experimenting that would make Bruce proud (or, more likely horrified, given that the experiment was “drink it and see what happens, blondie”) it had proven to be quite enjoyable. With their hands warmed by mugs, and their bodies pillowed by the copious amounts of blankets Hulk had dumped on the floor, they’d settled in for a night of rest. 

“Blondie know any stories?” 

Hulk’s voice dragged him forcefully out of the nap he’d been rapidly approaching, and he sat up with a small frown. 

“Why do you want to know?” He rubbed at a particularly tender spot on the back of his head, looking over to where Hulk’s eyes watched him from beneath a veritable mountain of blankets. 

The mound moved as Hulk shrugged his shoulders, burrowing slightly deeper out of sight. 

“Like stories before sleep. Angry girl told good ones before fights. Helps, sometimes.” 

“You…” Thor paused, quickly lifting his mug up to his face to hide the grin that was rapidly approaching. “You - the Hulk, Champion of Sakaar - would like me, Thor Odinson, King of Asgard, to read you a bedtime story?” 

“Yes.”

Thor pressed the cup firmer against his face, trying ever so valiantly to hide the onslaught of giggles that were rapidly trying to claw their way up his throat. 

“Why Thor laughing?” Hulk’s fist exploded from the blankets, swiping in Thor’s general direction. “Stop it!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not making fun of you, I promise.” Thor set his cup back down on the floor, wiping at the corner of his good eye as the last few chuckles escaped him in breathy gasps. 

“I just think it’s sweet, that’s all. You’re actually a big softie.”

“Hulk not soft! Thor soft!” 

“You are! You’re really just a big huggable green gentleman, aren’t you?” 

“Not talking to you anymore. Hulk go to sleep now.” Hulk huffed, twisting himself onto his side in a dramatic flourish of blankets and green, letting out a few exaggerated snores to let Thor know that he really wasn’t listening, and had definitely gone to sleep. 

“Oh, come on. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” 

Nothing. Radio silence stared back at him, and okay, maybe Thor was feeling slightly guilty now. 

“I could tell you about Asgard?” Thor offered to the sullen pile of blankets that had moved themselves a considerable distance away - yet not so far that Hulk couldn’t hit him if he needed to. 

Hulk didn’t reply, but there was a slight twitch to his shoulders, a raising of the thick brows that clued Thor in to know his friend was listening. And wanted to know more. 

“You would’ve loved Asgard.” Thor sighed wistfully, staring up at the ceiling, as if a hard enough gaze could transform it into another world entirely. 

“I had these friends there, called the Warriors 3. They would’ve loved to meet you. You would’ve liked Volstagg the best - I can tell.” 

“Volstagg?” 

Hulk made an inquisitive noise, prodding Thor in the back with a large finger, as if he could dislodge more of the story that way. 

“Yes, Volstagg. Lets see, uh, well he was tall. And large. And he had this fantastic red beard, long - very long, all adorned with metal trinkets and the like.” 

Thor resigned himself to the role of the story teller, propping himself up onto his fist as he thought. Thought about that loud laughter, raucous and obnoxious but somehow so infectious that had hung over every feast on Asgard he’d ever had. About the red faces of him and his friends, staggering home late at night, the sound of drunkenly sung ballads filling the night air - at least until someone from the houses above had opened their windows to tell them kindly but firmly to shut it. 

He realised he’d been thinking a bit too long when Hulk’s finger poked into his back again, and he smiled his apologies, turning over to continue. 

“Volstagg liked to laugh. And to eat and cook hearty meals. And to fight, like the rest of us. Anything, really. As long as he was alongside his friends.” Thor reached out his hand, returning Hulk’s gesture with a light nudge to his shoulder. 

“You would’ve been thick as thieves.” 

Hulk seemed happy with that, at least. Leaf- coloured features twisted themselves into a face of pure concentration, as he evidently tried to imagine the scene for himself. To conjure up memories that he didn’t have. 

Thor wondered how many times Hulk had had to do that. Fill in the blanks of a life he shared, but didn’t lead. Trust people and places and things, not because he’d experienced them for himself, but for the simple fact that Bruce had chosen to do so before him. Bruce had made the call on their friendship, after all. The only one that had been Hulk’s first was Valkyrie. 

It was a privilege, Thor decided. A luxury, to be shared and treasured by both Bruce and Hulk. To be trusted by two people who had been given so many reasons not to trust. 

“Hulk not see Volstagg on ship.” 

Hulk’s low tones disrupted him this time, the grumble tinted with slight confusion - and caution. A question to be asked that Hulk perhaps thought he knew the answer to already, but didn’t want to say. Didn’t want to assume. 

“Thor’s friends in space?” 

“No, no. Volstagg’s…”

Dead, said the voice inside his head. 

The unfamiliar one, that wasn’t Heimdall or Loki or Odin or Frigga, but him. More akin to his own twisted words that were forced out of his mouth in the Waters of Sight, when the Norns had used him as their puppet. The voice of the universe, echoing through his conscience, that spoke of his failures. A constant, like gravity, pounding against his skull in the hours of night telling him again and again that he was wrong.

Dead, he’s dead, they’re all dead and they’re not coming back. 

“Volstagg passed on, I’m afraid. As did Fandral and Hogun.” He finally decided on vague condolences, tailoring the words carefully. If he threw up a barricade of eloquence, he was okay. Politeness and civility could mask the gaping hole inside his heart, for now. Just to answer Hulk’s questions. 

“Sif is probably still out there though, somewhere. I’m sure we’ll see her again.”

A quiet settled between the two, broken by the creaking of metal and the howling blizzard outside. His fingers clenched around the metal bars below him, tight enough to hurt. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He cursed himself quietly, forcing his gaze to the dark corners of the ship. Hulk had asked for a story, something quiet and calm, something to take his mind off of the isolation and panic. He hadn’t asked for an obituary, a counting call for all of Thor’s dead. He hadn’t wanted that. But of course, Thor had given it to him. Because he was selfish and cruel and stupid-

Hulk’s breath was hot against his ear as the giant turned over, nose just grazing the skin of Thor’s neck in a way that made his heart jump. 

“Hulk sorry.” A green hand was placed against his back - warmth, spreading over him like a heavy blanket. 

His heart definitely jumped then. 

“It’s…it’s fine.” Thor reached behind him, patting at Hulk’s chest. “It’s not as if I’ve lost everyone. I’ve still got you, for starters. And Heimdall, Loki, and we both met Valkyrie. Plus all of the avengers back at home, waiting for us. I’ve still got people.” 

“Still hurts, though.”

Thor swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling rather tight. But Hulk’s hand was warm, and his words were soft, and it was all filling Thor with a sudden urge to speak honestly. Truthfully. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, releasing his hold against the floor, flexing his cramped fingers against the cool evening air. 

“Still hurts.”

The silence that settled then was heavy and unpleasant, tainted by the sorrow that seems to be spreading from Thor’s memories, steeped in blood and fire. But it wasn’t awkward. It never really was, not with Hulk. After all, they were both like fire - loud, expressive, and confident enough in themselves to be able to face tragedy with chins held high. 

At least, that was what Thor was supposed to be. That’s what the people, Asgardian and midgardian alike, had told him he was. He wasn’t allowed to be awkward, or quiet, or shy. That was never his role to play. 

It was his job to fill the silence, no matter how much he wanted to fade into it. 

“Well, now it’s your turn. What stories does the champion of Sakaar have in that big brain of yours?” Thor leant on his elbows, dragging himself up and away from any possibility of falling asleep. 

Hulk grumbled, pulling one of the blankets up closer to his chin. 

“No stories.“ 

"Oh, come on. Not even one?" 

"Blondie was there! Saw Sakaar, saw fight. Lost fight.” Large hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, hot puffs of breath coming to life in the air, white against the dark blue shadows. 

“What about before me? You were there for two years, you must have something else.” Thor tapped the edge of his chin, wracking his own brain for a possible answer. 

“What about Brunnhilde?”

Hulk’s face brightened considerably at the mention of the Valkyrie. A toothy grin peeked out from the sea of blankets, muscles twitching slightly with the memories of sparring matches and play-fighting that echoed back across the two years. 

A deep rumble resounded in his chest as he got more comfortable, face scrunching up as Hulk meticulously chose the words he wanted to use for this. Because this was important to him. This was angry girl, his first friend that he’d found on his own. He didn’t have Banners extensive vocabulary to back him up on this, so he tried to make up for it in tone. And gesture. 

“Angry girl take Hulk to Sakaar party, after first year. Had to wear weird clothes, and paint.” He screwed up his eyebrows, expression wrinkling with disgust. 

“Looked like grandmaster." 

"Are there pictures of this?”

“Shut up." 

"I’m sure you looked very handsome. Made all the Sakaarian maidens go ‘ooooh’.”

“Blondie.” Hulk let out a warning growl, shooting him a glare from across the room. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Thor settled further into the blankets, setting aside his tea that had somehow gone cold. 

The material wasn’t all that warm, now that he thought about it. It was some strange fabric that felt eerily similar to the grandmasters robes, shiny and silken with not much heat to it. The most heat in the room had come from Hulk’s hand against his back - something he was really starting to miss now. 

Regardless, he didn’t want to upset Hulk too much tonight. Not when he sensed he might need to get a little bit closer if he was going to avoid freezing to death. 

“Go on with the story. I’m listening.” Thor rested his chin against his hand, trying to force some heat into his veins with a faint crackle of lightning, the room lighting up an eerie blue. 

“Hmph.” Hulk snorted contemptuously but his frown gradually began to smoothen out, eyes following the patterns of falling sparks as he tried to pick up where his tale left off. 

“Had drinks with angry girl. Got kiss from weird golden lady." 

"Hold on, hold on.” Thor barricaded a smile behind the back of his hand, scooting a little further to Hulk with eyes that were definitely far from tired, now. 

“You got a kiss?”

Hulk seemed to weigh his words before answering, green eyes following Thor’s every gesture. But when he decided that Thor evidently wasn’t trying to make fun of him, and maybe even sounded a little proud, his own face began to crease in a grin. 

“First kiss. Here.” He reached out, one green finger poking into the soft flesh of Thor’s right cheek, hovering with an almost gentle apprehension over the scarred line that crawled its way up his face, disappearing beneath his patch. 

“There.” Thor echoed, lowering his voice to match an atmosphere that suddenly seemed so much more quiet than it had been. 

Hulk’s hand seemed to linger, just for a moment, heat radiating off of the emerald skin and warming his face that was so, so cold without it. 

He cleared his throat roughly, when the warmth retreated, and the biting cold was left to etch its way back into his skin. 

“Hulk, that’s amazing! Look at you, champion of Sakaar, a melody of fans in your wake, hanging off of your every word. I bet that was fun.”

Hulk shrugged, eyes flickering back out to the stars and snow. 

“Sometimes. But…missed some things. Friends.”

“Ah. Like Tony? Or perhaps Natasha?”

“Mm." 

Hulk paused, and if his chest wasn’t so large Thor would probably have missed the sharp intake of air, the gap of uncertainty between words, the few milliseconds of silence that meant should I say this? 

"And Thor.”

“Oh." 

Thor felt his face begin to warm with something that was decidedly not Asgardian tea. Luckily, he had about 10 blankets to stifle his rapidly approaching blush with. 

Still, what was he supposed to say to that? It was flattering, wasn’t it? And he and Hulk were friends, or at least Thor considered them to be friends. It wasn’t strange to miss a friend when you were stranded on an alien planet. It was just…normal. Normal behaviour. 

"Well, thank you. I missed you too." 

Thor cleared his throat, edging a little closer to the Hulk, until his shoulder brushed against a large and surprisingly (or, not really surprisingly if you actually knew Hulk) soft elbow. 

"We were all really worried about you, y'know. When you left in the Quinjet. Thought we’d scared you off for good and that was that - you were done with us. Done with the team." 

Hulk shook his head, turning until he was laying eye to eye with Thor, looking at him with an expression that was mostly confusion - and a little something that looked a lot like hope. 

"Quinjet accident.” His voice, usually so loud and domineering, was a quiet whisper, barely audible against the howling of wind outside. 

“Wouldn’t leave. Not forever." 

"I’m thankful.” Thor considered leaving it at that. But his hand, treacherous little thing it was, reached out from under the battlement of blankets, brushing gently against Hulk’s cheek. 

“I’m thankful for you coming back with me. Leaving Sakaar, it can’t have been easy. But you did, and you saved me and my people.”

“Wasn’t so hard." 

"What, saving my people? Don’t downplay your talents, my friend. It was a grand feat of-”

“Leaving Sakaar.” A large green hand covered his own, squeezing gently. 

“Wasn’t so hard. Just followed you." 

"Oh." 

Thor blinked, his fingers tightening around what little grip he was able to get on Hulk’s hand. Part of him said this was ridiculous. He was stranded on a planet, and he should’ve been planning a daring escape, or a dramatic exit, or something. But here he was, holding Hulk’s hand, laying shoulder to shoulder with the other strongest avenger. 

Friends didn’t do this. 

But maybe his friend did. Hulk was warm, so warm, warmer than he perhaps should have been. And Thor was cold. Hulk was offering a place of refuge, a shelter from the storm, and Thor was too tired to decline or pretend like he didn’t need this, once in a while. Didn’t need helping, or saving, or anything. 

So when Hulk suggested that they share the blankets, for the purpose of keeping each other warm, Thor had wholeheartedly agreed. And somehow, sheltered beneath one large arm, the stars above peeked out through the storm, and shone a little bit brighter. 

Here, Thor could sleep. 

Here, he could rest.

[garbagewhump]

Double Dealing - 1

TW: man-handling, non-consensual touching, casual power imbalance, forced obedience, exploitation of someone referred to as a child.

Everyone had their dirty little secrets, their guilty pleasures. The things that excited them, or kept them up at night fantasizing, or simply made the day to day more bearable, but which were demonized by society. 

The thing about existing for only a short period of time, especially as compared to the world one existed upon, was that while the exact nature of said sinful indulgences varied, at their most basic, they were all primal, even if they didn’t appear to be. The needs for socialization, for amusement, and for comfort and pleasure, drove all mortal creatures. 

It was a lovely and oh-so fascinating observation Granville had made about ten years ago, after five years running various Underworld dens of inequity. Whenever the moral powers that be declared something an affront to the deity no one had ever met or had proof of existing, a new den opened. A new niche for the hungry and desperate to stumble into and trade their valuables for a chance to satiate their desires. 

For now, and for the past seven years, he and his partner ran the casino, the brothel and the speakeasy, though they’d have previous ventures. Granville had been disgusted by the moral laws set in place on sex for only his first year. In the Underworld, one had to become well acquainted with the inherent disconnect between one’s own morality and that which imposed by the Upstairs. 

The desperately hungry and needy trickled down to the Underworld, no matter how often they were warned, how many mundane or magical defenses were put in place, because it was simply in the nature of the world to twist and reshape reality to open the doors to wherever that thirst could be slaked. It wasn’t as though anyone Upstairs had the ear of an actual holy being to enforce the rules created. 

And tonight, as testament to that, the casino pulsed and throbbed with life, full to bursting, but that wasn’t what had captured Granville’s attention. 

“Kastrom,” he said idly to his partner by his side as they overlooked the main floor. “Do you see it?”

“There’s a lot to see,” she replied. “Be more specific.”

He snorted, then gestured to the oddity. 

A child, though obviously old enough they would take great offense to the description, sat at a blackjack table with a glass of amber liquid and a veritable pile of chips. They winked at the croupier and added their latest winnings to their stash. 

He nodded at the hellhound croupier at the table. “Rot Bite typically has turned the tables by now. Our guest is skilled.” 

She hummed her agreement. “They appear… young.” Her gaze flickered briefly to his, lurid orange cat’s eyes meeting pale brown. 

To be fair, recognizing the ages of mortals was hardly a priority for an effectively immortal being such as herself. Demons didn’t typically interact directly with mortals. He was a select exception. 

“I would wager they are,” he agreed. 

This was hardly the first time a young soul had found their way to the Underworld and it wouldn’t be the last. It was merely the nature of the prices paid in such a place like this that made it tricky. While Upstairs, no child could legally drink, for example, but a soul belonged to a mortal just as soon as they decided that for themselves. A guardian could teach, could bring them to religious institutions or elect not to, but it was the individual who owned their own soul, no matter the age they recognized this natural right. In the eyes of the Underworld, in the eyes of countless demons, that meant the souls were afforded the same responsibilities and contractual autonomy as a legal adult. 

Admittedly, Granville had just enough of Upstairs morality clinging to him to keep the youngest souls from leaping headfirst into a contract, to warn them prior to signing that dotted line just what they were selling. He collected enough souls to make quota without being reduced to such easy pickings. It was pride, perhaps, and not Upstairs morality, that stayed his hand. 

Kastrom snaked the tip of her tail under his shirt, untucking it to drag a cold line along his lower back. “Their luck has to run out soon,” she said. 

Steadfast in place despite the chill, Granville merely angled his head, trying to determine whether she meant that as a passing comment, or for him to make sure of it. “I believe I’ll visit our young friend then.” 

With her silence as answer enough, he started to make his way to the main floor of the casino. 

“Once you’re finished mingling,” she called, her tone stopping him in his tracks, “I believe you still haven’t finished your collections.”

No, no he hadn’t. Between running the casino, brothel and speakeasy, he’d gotten sloppy. Four souls had escaped in the last month alone, and two the month previous, each taking with them their talismans. Then there were the derelicts raiding the Outskirts, and the squatters camped in the Sweltering Plains. The infestation of Crawlers needed exterminating, and the old opium den was still to be cleared for demolition. Yes, there was work aplenty and yet… Very carefully not clenching his jaw and forcing the muscles in his neck not to tighten, he smirked and offered a flippant wave. “Have a little faith, partner,” he said before continuing down the stairs. 

He felt fire on his back and knew she’d taken her leave for the night. What a cluster. His neck ached and his temples throbbed, reminded him of his own outstanding balance several months building. Even he had to acknowledge that he had his limits, much as they were far beyond the typical mortal’s, and he could feel their rapid approach.

Concentrate on the present issue, he thought as he reached the table. Plan for exhaustive collapse tomorrow. 

As Granville approached and placed his bet, Rot Bite barely looked up before seamlessly dealing him in. 

How to play this, beyond carefully? The kid, perhaps, didn’t recognize him, or they were pretending not to. Either way, so far they hadn’t so much as looked at him, keeping their gaze on the dealing shoe. The other two at the table, a nervous looking kelpie and a snake picking at her shedding scales, didn’t seem to care either about his presence.

It wouldn’t do to tip hands too early, to declare his intentions so immediately. He had to hold off a minute, get a feel for the table and the kid’s tells. And while they would hardly lower their guard quickly, sometimes observing their inaction was twice as informative as catching someone in the act. 

As expected, their effortless flow and easy wins became more ragged and sporadic. Certainly they still won, but their luck took an abrupt turn away from the preternaturally profitable. Still, Granville wasn’t about to let the kid off the hook quite so quickly. He could be patient. Dealing with immortal beings necessitated some degree of patience. 

Mortal humans, especially young ones, did not have much patience. 

A scant couple hands later, the kid’s luck began a miraculous comeback Granville studied them in his peripheral vision, watching their hands fluttering over their own cards and tapping a nervous pace. 

Nervous, or were they signaling someone? 

No, they had to be working alone. The angle of their seat offered poor lines of sight, the din of the casino was too loud to allow the sound to carry clearly, and the only other two at the table were still wholly absorbed their own business. Desperate, he’d say, and ripe for a deal. Perhaps after dealing with the card shark he’d make a deal or two.

Then the kid doubled down on a eleven and hit blackjack. 

That was something he didn’t miss about his youth— the foolhardiness to assume his plans infallible and those around him blind. 

Rot Bite gave them congratulations and their winnings. Granville offered only the bare minimum to match the kelpie and the snake’s interest. Another hand later and the kid stood on a twelve while Rot Bite busted. 

Interesting. Some sort of card counting, or— yes, there. On the back of the queen Rot Bite had drawn, a mark in the upper right corner.

He’d wasted enough time in observation, now he could act.

Smoothly, he slid out of his seat to move behind the cheater. 

“Say, friend,” he drawled as he roped an arm around them. “You and I ought to go cash out.”

To their credit, they merely brought their drink to their lips and took a sip from the trembling liquid. 

“I’m going to keep playing,” they said as they tried to pry him off them. 

He merely readjusted his hold, left hand digging into their scrawny upper arm and right arm wrapped around their shoulders. “With what money? Not a single scrap of that’s honest pay.”

The kid went very, deathly still, which was smart. Before they could get any wise ideas, Granville allowed a crackle of magic to dance along his fingers as he waved them in their face. 

He chuckled, low and smoky, the charcoal taste of his little display on his tongue. “Now… Let’s you and I talk terms. Step into my office.”

They audibly swallowed. 

Ah, how sweet youth was. So easily exploited and wrong-footed. 

They resisted him for all of a second, long enough for his magic to singe their shirt, before obedience reasserted itself and they leaned into his direction. 

“You are going to give me your name,” he said, smirking as he led them across the floor. The other patrons, if they acknowledged them except to move out of the way, tried not to glance too obviously at the scene. 

The kid puckered their lips. 

Tasting each honey-sweet enchantment on his tongue now, he insisted, “You will give me your name, my friend, or I will take it by force.”

With his every word, their expression strained and crumbled further as they valiantly fought the compulsion, but, like a sapling branch steadily twisted, and bent, and sawed, and folded until it sprang free of its trunk, their resolve split open. 

“Jules!” Their name burst from their cracked will, music to his ears and a heady rush through his whole body. 

“This will go much smoother with some measure of cooperation,” he reminded them as he led them into his office. 

As he all but shoved the kid into the chair opposite him, he smiled, far away from prying eyes. Jules watched him with wide eyes

“‘Jules’ is a very decidedly human name, as is your appearance, and yet you know to be wary of anyone asking for your name. You, my young friend, are multi-talented, worldly. Why, I do wonder what ever could draw you here.”

He leaned back in his own chair and studied them for some sort of reaction. They were very obviously trying to keep from speaking again, going so far as to grip the arm rests with white knuckles, pressing themselves against the chair back. 

How cute. If slightly predictable. 

Beyond that, they seemed far too out of their depths to manage any sort of intriguing reaction to their situation. 

“How fortunate for you I am not truly Fae, or else you’d be fully committed to my offer already.” 

“What is your offer? You speak a lot in vague terms, saying barely anything worthwhile.”

Irritation sharpened his smile. “How would you like to walk out of here with both your soul and your winnings?”

Their dark green eyes gleamed, a slight furrow on their brow. Interested, but not yet sold. Foolhardy enough to attempt to cheat the most powerful demon currently known, yet nowhere near desperate enough to leap at the chance to save their soul. 

“Say, you may even keep your hands, you filthy thief.”

“I didn’t take anything,” they protested. “Just some liberties with your rules.”

Granville masked his wry amusement. Finally he recognized why the kid’s behavior felt so unduly familiar— his own greed and ambition, his own hungry childhood, reflected in their features. “You have cost me a small fortune,” he said after his study. As entertaining as this has turned out to be, it was time to cut to the quick. He required a final determination now. “My time is a precious commodity, luckily, and you will repay your debt by performing menial tasks to free my schedule.”

“You want me to run errands for you. That’s what all this is about? ‘Run along to the store and pick me up some tea and biscuits, dearie’!” 

They laughed, the sound harsh with hysteria, and laughed again when his expression didn’t so much as twitch. Their bravado melted. 

“Wh-What do want me to do?”

He reassured Jules, “Nothing overly sordid.” They were too young for his tastes to bind a contract, but there were other methods to ensure some degree of compliance. In a practiced motion, he took hold of their left hand, removed his pen from his inner pocket, and drew a simple glyph on their palm. 

“Hey! What gives?”

Granville twisted their arm, their bones birdlike in his grasp. A quick flick of his wrist would be more than enough to get his point across. Instead he left bruises under his fingers. 

“Hush. Now.” 

They stilled.

His focus frayed to the end of the mark, sparks flying off, but while it was ugly, it was perfectly serviceable collateral. With an exaggerated, insouciant flourish, he released them.

Jules yanked their arm back, nearly tipping over their chair, and cradled their no-doubt stinging hand. Even at this angle he could see his list beginning to form on their skin.

“What the fuck is this?” they demanded. “This isn’t a grocery list!”

“Hop to it, kid,” he ordered. 

“You want me to deliver a hand!”

“Yes. Risk disobedience at a cost.” 

Pushing past the building tension in his magic, Granville discorporated from his office and left them to their tasks.

[wayfiind-a-blog]

It’s a rainy night, the rain knocks on my window, It hits my heart With my sore shoulders, I look at my phone and see a text,                                                                      ‘ How are you these days ? ’

AGE: twenty OCCUPATION: barista by day, waitress at 7th Heaven by night LIVING CONDITIONS: a modest apartment with terra & ven VERSE TAG: X

STORY:

As a little girl, all Aqua ever wanted was to dance. From the moment she was placed in ballet lessons she wanted to experience every kind - tap, jazz, contemporary. And her parents were more than happy to put her through lessons for all of them, especially when it turned out she was a natural at it. The unsuspecting girl is put through competitions and as her training takes hold she begins to excel, a veritable prodigy.

While dancing is where her heart truly lies, she recognizes the importance of school and is just as diligent there. Quiet but kind, she is not without friends, but attaches herself to one in particular. An older boy named Terra who seems to scowl a lot but she is quick to learn is more than meets the eye. When she isn’t in practice or studying she’s at his house, winning his friendship and the heart of his father Eraqus. It’s a second home and she loves them just as much as her own.

High school come and goes and Aqua is on her way to an arts school to major in dance. Terra has already beat her to college, studying his way through an archaeology major ( what a nerd, she always said. shaming him in that way kids do for his interest in history ). Her parents had encouraged her to continue participating in dance competitions to build her career experience, and helped her manage her time and transported her between events. It is on the eve of a qualifying competition that the worst happens.

Aqua’s family had always gotten along, been kind and caring and warm. She was no stranger to the love between her parents, something that had inspired her to search for the same in someone else one day. But it is on this day that she also learns how dangerous love can be. For it is when her father is speaking to her mother, eyes diverted from the road to her, that he runs a red light. It is far too late to do any more than try to speed out of harm’s way, but another car is already turning left and --

She doesn’t remember much from those moments between the impact and waking to sirens and searing pain. It is only when she reaches the hospital that she finds out what really happened: the driver that hit them was in critical condition, but her parents... The words make her stomach drop through the earth and her mouth go ashen. When the doctors tell her about her own condition, however, things get worse.

‘ ...you won’t be able to dance again. ’

The months following the accident are agony. Terra and Eraqus do their best to keep her company and raise her spirits with regular visits, but Aqua’s spirit remains broken. Losing her parents was horrid of course, but to never dance again ? Now she couldn’t even pay homage to the years of support and love they had shown her with her most beloved art. And what of the school they had invested into for her ? 

Physical therapy is slow going, but Terra helps her through it and eventually she leaves crutches and other supports behind to begin walking on her own again. Sometimes the injuries still bother her, but she’s always been strong so she soldiers on. After months of depending on others to live her life, Aqua insists on moving out on her own and it’s no surprise that her friends follow. Life isn’t always easy being young and supporting themselves, but they get by. 

And that’s all she can ask.

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.56

“Baser Instincts”

A/N: So, the jigsaw puzzle featured previously was not a reference to Jason Isaacs' "jigsaw" comment to IndieWire last week as I only just read this comment for the first time today, but talk about a coincidence. Challenge bloody accepted, Mr. Isaacs.

Also, this whole fanfic gives Katrina Cornwell more benefit of doubt than the writers did because the whole "measured and reasoned" bit makes her sound like an idiot for not realizing anything sooner given her profession.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 55 - Null Way Out 57 - Choose Your Poison >>

The initial jump into frozen time had occurred at 1625. By Discovery's onboard clock, it was resolved at 0740. Suddenly, 0740 became 1625 again. The resulting scheduling chaos was a real nightmare to sort out. Saru carefully set up the duty shifts in such a way that the day and night shift personnel would be back to their regular hours within two weeks' time, but until then, things were slightly awry.

Lorca, who had managed to accidentally stay up all night at precisely the right time to do so, was back to regular hours within a day. He found himself surrounded by second-shifters instead of his usual bridge crew. This was moderately frustrating. They were good crew, of course, but the shorthand developed over months of working together wasn't there and the rhythm was slightly off.

It mattered little. Under strict and explicit orders, they were proceeding to Starbase 43 at regular warp. Discovery's spore drive was not to be deployed until Starfleet could vet the system. Traveling to a starbase using normal warp was a task so simple even the fourth-stringers could have managed it without any guidance from the captain.

"This is so frustrating!" scowled Stamets when Lorca broke the news. "It wasn't my drive! How many times do I have to explain that? And we fixed the problem! It is a non-problem!"

"I agree," said Lorca. This was one of those rare moments when he and Stamets were on the same side of an opinion.

"We have so much more data now. I just want to apply it..." Instead, the Glenn was applying the data and was ahead of them again. It really seemed Discovery could not catch a break in the race between the two ships.

Lorca was genuinely sympathetic. "If I had my way, we'd be jumping right now. I've half a mind to tell them to shove their orders and jump us anyway. But Command has a point." Not, in his opinion, a good one, but a point all the same. They had been compromised and still no clue why or how.

Stamets scowled bitterly. "I guess we'll just run simulations or something. Damn it!" He kicked at a console in frustration.

"Watch it," said Lorca. "Don't take this out on my ship."

Stamets stared at Lorca petulantly. No matter how many times they slipped onto the same page, they always ended up back at odds again, too often within the space of a single conversation. It was an exhausting dance. "Right, well if there's nothing else, sir." The word remained an insult out of Stamets' mouth.

Lorca fixed Stamets with a stern glare and waited. As usual, after a minute, Stamets flinched and looked away. Only then did Lorca say, "That will be all, lieutenant." Stamets returned to his work.

A frown tugged at the corner of Lorca's mouth as he surveyed the engineering lab. They had the ability to travel instantly between two points of space, but sometimes it felt like it wasn't worth all the trouble it took, especially when they were still being held back from the front.

The slow progress of real science did not entirely suit Lorca.

There was one thing that made putting up with Stamets vaguely worthwhile. "Cadet Tilly!" barked Lorca, and Tilly jumped to attention. "I'd like to inspect the cultivation bay."

"Yes, sir!" She remained as eager to help as ever and hurried to supply the genetic sample required for access.

The doors opened to reveal a veritable forest of fungus. The mushrooms really had exploded in null time. Some of the specimens were so tall they looked like small trees. Clouds of spores hung in the air, a biological fog of limitless potential, enough spores to keep them jumping for months if only Starfleet would allow it.

Lorca clasped his arms behind his back. "Cadet. You were very quick to let me in here."

"As quickly as I could, sir!" Tilly beamed at him, proud to have been of such efficient service. This tiny bit of interaction had absolutely made her day.

Her day was about to be unmade. Lorca looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Did you stop to consider I could have been an impostor?"

Her face fell and her voice seemed suddenly very small. "Sir?"

Lorca fixed her with a dry, disapproving frown. "Did you stop to think?"

Tilly stared, uncertain what to do with this idea. The captain was clearly the captain, but what if he weren't the captain? This would have been a serious breach of security. Except he was the captain. Wasn't he? Clearly she should have gone through this thought process before she let him in. "No, sir."

"Security protocols exist for a reason, cadet."

Tilly bit her lip and swallowed, staring off to the side nervously. "Yes, sir," she managed, voice beginning to tremble.

Lorca started to smile. "Cadet. When the captain says jump, do you know what you say?"

She stared with wide eyes. "How high?"

"Exactly," he responded. "Or you just start jumping and hope you hit the mark." He chuckled softly.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, somewhat encouraged by the shift in tone.

Tilly waited until Lorca left the engineering lab and then exhaled with a high-pitched warble, her hands pressed to her chest. Stamets looked at her. "Cadet?" he asked. He had sort of gotten used to her weirdness over the weeks.

She turned and looked at Stamets with wide eyes. "Don't you think Captain Lorca is terrifying?"

"No," said Stamets, a little too fast and a little too forcefully.

"He scares the dickens out of me," said Tilly.

Stamets rolled his eyes at Tilly and resumed his work. Truth be told, Lorca terrified him, too, but he wasn't about to give the captain the satisfaction of admitting it. Not when there were security monitors everywhere.

They were still two hours out from the starbase. Lorca checked the security feed in Lab 26 and was surprised to find Mischkelovitz unattended by either of her brothers. Sensing a rare opportunity, he headed down with his usual enticement in hand.

Larsson and Allan were on the door. "Captain," greeted Larsson with a nod, allowing him inside. Lorca considered trying the imposter spiel on Larsson, decided the Swede was much less likely to react in a way that was amusing, and left it for the time being.

Mischkelovitz was working off to the side with her back to the door. She was hunched over a circuit board, her eyes fixed on a monitor that magnified the miniscule connections to a point they were visible to the engineer working on them.

"Mischka, status report," said Lorca. There was no reaction. He tried again. "Mischka." Still nothing.

Lorca walked towards her, skirting a half-assembled casing on the floor. "Earth to Dr. Mischkelovitz," he went, lighthearted.

Mischkelovitz did not realize he was there until his shadow fell across her table. She startled with such force she fell sideways from her work stool. Lorca reached out as she fell, but not quickly enough or far enough to grab her, and she hit the floor with a panicked gasp, eyes wide and one arm up defensively.

The panic subsided slightly when she saw it was him. "Captain!"

He squinted. "Did you not hear me?"

She seemed not to hear him still. She reached one shaky hand up behind her left ear and tapped a few times. "You startled me," she said. That much was obvious. He offered her his hand again and she took it. She was still shaking slightly as he pulled her to her feet.

Lorca squinted. There was something there under the mess of hair. He reached over and brushed the hair aside, ignoring the way Mischkelovitz flinched at his touch, revealing an implant embedded behind her ear. She drew back, touching the spot, nervous.

"Are you deaf?" he asked, genuinely surprised. Wide-eyed, she did not answer. "From birth, or an accident?" She looked away. Touchy subject.

He still had the fortune cookie in his other hand. He held it out to her. As usual, it worked. She took the cookie with a rapid, darting motion and quickly cracked it in half. She stared at the piece of paper as she chewed one of the cookie halves.

Mischkelovitz seemed unwilling or unable to read it out herself. Lorca offered his hand again and she turned the fortune over to him. "You will take a pleasant journey to a faraway place." The fortune felt wrong. Either it should have gone to John Groves minus the "pleasant" part for what Lorca intended to do with him, or it was an inaccurate description of the recent jump; again, minus the word "pleasant."

"Status update?" prompted Lorca again.

Mischkelovitz looked at the circuitry on the table. "It's, uh, fine?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" prompted Lorca. He jabbed his thumb towards the door. "If you want, I can go out and come back in."

She laughed briefly, exactly as he intended her to, and he grinned and laughed slightly himself. She was an easy person to placate. "No, sir! Okay. So, this is a sort of disruption phase cannon designed to cause a reaction in a cloaking field, which doesn't exactly detect per se, but with a broad enough deployment, it should cause a spatial distortion where a cloaked ship is. If not disrupting the cloak, then at least making it detectible by other sensors. Now, how is this different from a broad-band phaser sweep? The range, to start, and it can be deployed absent a ship on a repeating mine..."

A minefield wasn't practical for most of the front lines, but certain installations would benefit from the technology. Provided Mischkelovitz could get it to work correctly. There was also the issue of the precise phase variances required, and if cloaks were anything like shields, they might feature adjustable frequencies that would require compensation. Thus, the rather complex circuitry designed to cycle through frequencies.

"I will need a Klingon ship to test this against in the field," she concluded. "If it even works."

All in all, it was a solid proposal, even if there was no guarantee of its efficacy, but it was rather trite. There were other people working on similar devices. Mischkelovitz's was maybe a bit more novel with the type of phase wave it emitted and the phase cycling, but Lorca felt obliged to point out this was much like half a dozen other projects going on in Starfleet right now.

"I'm just working on this when I'm stuck on the others," she admitted. "It's sort of busywork. It isn't difficult, it's just tedious."

"I didn't bring you on Discovery to do the same sort of research everyone else is doing," pointed out Lorca. It was clearly a challenge. "Maybe you should stay focused on the harder problems and try to work through them."

She shook her head. "This is better. My brain can work on the real problems while I work on this."

Lorca looked at her with a degree of healthy skepticism. That made it sound like she and her brain were separate entities. It was true that working on a different problem and returning to a hard one later with a fresh perspective was often an effective technique, so Lorca let the eccentricity slide.

There was something more important here than Mischkelovitz's self-imposed busywork. "You know, you didn't trip your words up once in all that," Lorca noted.

She blinked. "Didn't I?"

"You did not. Care to speculate why?" She was not generally a very self-aware person, but he was curious to see what she would come up with.

Mischkelovitz thought a moment, then smiled with a trace of mischief and said, "Cortune fookie."

Lorca laughed at that, not just because of the intentionality of it, but also because of how vulgar it sounded. Mischkelovitz giggled and wrinkled her nose with delight but was absent any hysterics, indicating this was probably only marginally funny to her. "Nice," said Lorca, smiling softly at her. "But probably not." His gaze and smile lingered. Mischkelovitz looked away, suddenly nervous again.

There was perfectly good reason for her to be. "Can I have a closer look at your implant?" Lorca asked. She shrank away. After a moment without reply, he went, "Never mind. Forget I asked."

"No!" she blurted. "It's okay." She remained looking away from him, but turned her head so her ear was facing him. Lorca brushed her hair aside.

It was a small, metallic surface flush with her skin with small horizontal slits. There was a utilitarian elegance to the design, but it was odd to see. Most hearing restoration devices were inside the ear, inobtrusive, not set behind the ear and covered with hair.

He brushed the hair aside further, using more fingers this time, and leaned in close. "Is it on both sides?" he whispered, as if concerned his proximity to the device made it inadvisable to speak any louder.

Her voice was almost a whisper in return. "Yes. They're different, though."

Lorca took that as an invitation, gently but firmly turning her by her chin. He ran his fingers through the hair on the other side and discovered a new configuration entirely. A small round membrane sat above a seam thinner than a human hair.

He withdrew his hand, his palm stroking her cheek faintly as he did. "Why didn't you hear me when I came in?"

Mischkelovitz hastily ran her own fingers through her hair, covering her ears and the implants entirely. "They were damaged." She did not say how, but it was a fair guess it had happened on the Edison.

"And you haven't fixed them?"

She trembled. "Mischka put them in. I made them and he put them in for me. He put them in." Her eyes watered and her jaw trembled. She was on the verge of tears.

Lorca tilted his head so he was in her eye line. "You shouldn't cover them up. You should show everyone what you were together."

She shook her head. "That's our secret," she said, and when she finally looked at Lorca again, her eyes were watery but there were no tears spilling out. "Captain? Are you going to send John away?"

"That depends. He's not really someone who belongs on a starship, is he, Mischka?"

"Please will you let him stay?"

Lorca frowned and studied Mischkelovitz carefully. She was still maintaining a status quo of almost-but-not-quite crying. His mouth twitched in thought. "I'll consider it, but a lot depends on him."

"I think he learned his lesson. John never needs to be taught anything twice."

Something about the way she said it sent a chill down Lorca's spine. The sentiment was intense and ominous and there was a brief flash of something wild in her eyes. It was so brief that when he looked for further sign of it, he found only the usual sense of unease from her uneven pupils. "I'll consider it," was all Lorca said.

Discovery arrived at Starbase 43 ahead of Cornwell and Lorca oversaw the resupply with the full intention and expectation that they would be underway shortly.

If Lorca was being fully honest in his tactical assessment, the starbase also offered the mystery saboteur further chance to escape the ship if he/she/it was still aboard Discovery. As good as Cornwell was at all things administrative and diplomatic, she had some deficits when it came to tactics. God help them if the fate of the Federation ever fell onto her shoulders. Hopefully someone else would be around to save them if it came down to it.

He was talking with the stationmaster when Cornwell finally arrived. A bit of the old Southern charm had convinced the stationmaster to throw in a bit of contraband confiscated from another vessel. Upon Cornwell's approach, the stationmaster clammed up.

Lorca remained at ease. "Admiral, a pleasure as always," he smiled, as if nothing even remotely untoward was under discussion.

"Walk with me, captain," was Cornwell's terse response. Lorca obligingly fell into step beside her, leaving the stationmaster in a state of guilty relief.

They strode around the station's main common area, which had the feel of a modest patio. "I'm very concerned about this incident," Cornwell began after a minute. "We all are."

"We?" echoed Lorca.

"I'm here on behalf the admiralty."

"And what does the admiralty want of me?" he said with lyrical dismissiveness.

This was a difficult question to answer because there were several conflicting views among high command. Some wanted to prioritize perfecting the spore drive. Some wanted to utilize Discovery's combat capability. Some wanted Lorca out of the captain's chair, and some did not. This was more politics than she knew Lorca enjoyed. "A stable spore drive," she said carefully.

"We'll head out immediately and resume testing."

Cornwell resisted the urge to groan, sigh, or otherwise break decorum. "We can't be certain Discovery's spore drive is operating correctly."

His ire was immediate. "Because you won't let me test it!" This drew looks from other personnel in the area and Cornwell glared at him in admonishment. He dropped his voice back down to a normal level. "Stamets has assured me the drive is functioning correctly. We've now added a protocol to scan for exotic particles of that type before inserting them into dispersal chamber. Kat, it won't happen again unless we want it to."

"And do you?"

"If it would please Starfleet Command to get another five months of work done in the blink of an eye, then yes. But we can't force what happened to happen again. We can only prevent it or escape it. Tell me what it is you want and we'll go with that, but damn it, Kat, get us back out there. We're losing this war."

She folded. She always did.

She did not, however, fold without seeking a second opinion.

O'Malley answered the door in an undershirt and shorts, yawning. "I'm sorry, colonel," Cornwell said, "I know you're usually asleep right now."

"Ah, I expected you'd want a chat. It's fine. Come in, admiral, please. Sorry there's nowhere really to sit properly. Quarters on this ship are abysmally cramped. I'm bunking with Major Allan."

There were better quarters, but Lorca had not assigned them to O'Malley, despite the rank equivalency. If O'Malley really cared, he could have gotten nicer accommodations, but Cornwell got the sense a bed was just a place where O'Malley slept a few hours between working.

O'Malley fixed himself a cup of tea and offered her the same. She declined. They sat on the beds facing each other. "Right, so, I've maintained scrupulous radio silence, as you suggested. I don't think he suspects, though you coming over here is something he's probably going to notice."

"Really?"

"The man is top-notch on security," said O'Malley. "Really makes use of the monitors. I mean, it's not all him, it's also that chief of his, Landry. Those two are thick as thieves. So if you think someone didn't notice when you came aboard and traced your route straight to me..."

Cornwell looked perturbed by this. O'Malley picked up on it.

"That's what you want from a man running X number of top-secret experiments on his ship, isn't it?"

"Maybe," said Cornwell, unconvinced.

"Well if you tell me what your concerns are, I can address them directly." He waved a hand slightly, inviting her to say whatever she pleased.

O'Malley sipped his tea and listened as Cornwell outlined everything that presently worried her about Gabriel Lorca. It was a significant list, containing both the professional concerns of herself and Starfleet Command, and her personal concerns as someone who had known him for many years. O'Malley was a good listener. Calm, disarmingly attentive, and reflective, asking small questions for clarity and displaying sympathy. Cornwell recognized that he would have made an excellent therapist had he not chosen an entirely different line of work.

When she was done, he sat back with his tea and thought a moment. "All right. So I think what it boils down to is you're asking me if I think he's stable."

There had been several points, but that was indeed the crux of the matter. "He's different than before."

"I mean, he's been through a lot. We all have. The thing is, I never met the man before Discovery, so I can only attest to the person he is now. I wouldn't say he's unstable. He's somewhat draconian, but aside from the recent frustration which we've all been privy to these past weeks—which of course for you was a single morning—I find he maintains things quite well." He dismissed any slights against Groves because Groves was someone who had once gotten punched by opposing counsel in open court, and the judge had censured Groves rather than his attacker.

"You think he’s draconian?" This was not a word Cornwell previously would have associated with Lorca.

"Yes. I rather think his greatest weakness is his need to be in control. Not just of situations, but of people." This was a fact Cornwell knew, but the details O'Malley supplied to clarify were entirely new: "To that end, he takes a great deal of interest in the crew personally, to the point where it's a bit overwhelming. I don't think there's a single person aboard who doesn't feel the hand of the captain upon them. It's omnipresent."

Cornwell considered that as O'Malley sipped his tea. If Lorca felt he had failed the crew of the Buran by being too easy on them, it might be his way of preventing a similar tragedy on Discovery.

"Mind you," continued O'Malley, "I don't think it's a bad thing necessarily. He really drives people to get results. No two approaches quite alike, but everyone seems to excel around him. Even if he can be a little gratuitous in his use of both carrots and sticks."

It sounded extreme to Cornwell. "Do you find him overbearing?"

"Me? I'm inured to carrots and sticks."

Cornwell touched her fingers to her lips. This was a lot to take in. "What's your overall assessment?"

She did not have to specify as to what, because there was only one thing she could be referring to. O'Malley drummed his fingers along the side of his mug thoughtfully. "If you're asking if he has all the hallmarks of the captains I usually deal with, then the answer is yes, especially in that he tends to keep his own counsel. If you're asking me if that's a problem, my answer is I can't say. I'm certain plenty of captains have possessed these traits and never wound up in the room with me. I've only met the ones who have. My data set is skewed, as Emellia would say."

"That sounds a lot like a non-answer," noted Cornwell, fixing O'Malley with a disapproving look. "I didn't agree to this arrangement to get non-answers."

O'Malley sighed. "This situation is entirely outside my job description, admiral. I don't know what to tell you."

Cornwell appreciated that, but she needed more. "Do you think, if he's allowed to continue on Discovery, that we're going to regret it down the line?" she asked in a carefully measured tone.

"See, that's unfair," said O'Malley. "You're asking me to pre-judge him on whether or not he might commit a crime. I only talk to people after they have. What they do before that point, that's free will, isn't it?"

It seemed to Cornwell that O'Malley wasn't quite understanding the role she needed him to play. "Colonel, if you have a chance to prevent something, I should hope you see that as part of your job."

"I'm sorry to be blunt, admiral, but I'm not a psychic. So far as I can tell, he's unorthodox and wildly overconfident, but you told me once that his results speak for themselves. I find that to be an entirely accurate description of Captain Lorca."

She had said that some years back. Cornwell chewed her lip.

"He hasn't gone outside regulations that I've seen. I'd tell you if he had," said O'Malley. He frowned. "Permission to speak freely, admiral?"

Cornwell waved a hand in assent.

"I think you're chasing a ghost. It's clear the Buran incident changed him. Probably not for the better, but it's hard to say for certain. You keep looking for the person he was and judging him for not still being that. Would you still be that, if it had happened to you? I wouldn't."

Cornwell was adamantly sincere in her response. "I've known Gabriel Lorca for twenty years. I can't ignore that history."

"Nor should you. You're his friend. But I think that's what you asked me to do. Maybe he's not the captain he was, but he certainly seems to be the captain we need."

There was one key player in this Cornwell had yet to speak with. She made her way to Lab 26. Lalana was as pleasant as always, inviting Cornwell into the room she called her home.

"I need you to level with me," Cornwell said. The room was rather warm and Cornwell felt herself begin to sweat almost immediately. "How is he?"

Lalana hopped onto a central hammock structure and turned to face Cornwell, tail gently swaying behind her. "Are you asking as his friend or as his superior officer?"

"Whichever one gets me answers," said Cornwell.

"Then I will assume you are his friend first," said Lalana. This was not an assumption on Lalana's part; it was her way of steering Cornwell's perceptions in the direction she desired the conversation to take. "It was hard on him, being stuck in null time." Not for the first time, Cornwell wondered who had coined that phrase. "You know Gabriel Lorca is a restless sort of person. It does not suit him being in one place. But I maintain my promise to you, admiral. If there is anything you need to know, I will tell you. Gabriel has been doing an excellent job as captain. But his talents are not in standing still. Every day, we read reports of battles that have been fought, of people who have died, and if he were just allowed a little closer, he could have saved them."

"Might have been able to save them," Cornwell corrected her. The result of any battle was always an unknown. There were too many variables. "You can't know that for sure."

"Gabriel Lorca is a highly efficient and accomplished captain. You know as well as I do that if he assesses himself as being able to effect a difference, then it is likely so."

This was ignoring one key blemish on Lorca's record: the Buran. Cornwell had not been intending to use the event in any capacity during her visit if she could avoid it, but then O'Malley had brought it up. Suddenly it felt unavoidable. "I know you have a lot of confidence in him, but he doesn't always win. The Buran proved that. If he risks Discovery and we lose the spore drive—"

Lalana's voice, which in Cornwell's experience rarely seemed to deviate much in its emotional tone, suddenly became loud and sharp. "Do I need to call in a favor?"

Cornwell was doubly confused by this because she had never known Lalana to act or sound in such a way and the implication seemed wrong on the surface. "I don't owe you any favors."

"You do not, but others do. Vice Admiral Cornwell, I have made myself very useful to Starfleet, and asked very little in return. All I am asking now is that you take my assessment back with you, and my assessment is that Discovery should be under the command of its captain, and its captain is Gabriel Lorca. Let him be captain."

Cornwell was shocked. The way Lalana used the words "vice admiral" sounded entirely belittling. Reading lului expressions remained an impossible task, but Cornwell got the sense there was something very dark in Lalana's words. "I'm sorry, are you threatening me?"

"Of course not," said Lalana. "Sometimes lului does not translate very well to English. I still trust in Gabriel. I think you should, too."

Cornwell brought this assessment back and felt more confident about the situation than she had before. O'Malley was right, she was slightly chasing a ghost, because she missed the Gabriel Lorca she had known before the Buran's destruction, and the man he had become since was much harder to love.

The debate raged for close to an hour before they came to a decision. Discovery would be allowed to continue as it had been. This was not the full permission Lorca wanted to do as he pleased, but it was more than some of the admirals wanted to give him.

There was more. "We think you should stay here as part of forward command," said Admiral Terral. "With Lorca out here, we need you."

That was cute. They thought she had some power over what Gabriel Lorca did. Even in her finest moments of managing him, that was a stretch.

Part 57

[barbecuedphoenix]

In the last oneshot/drabble you posted (which was very interesting and fun to read) you mentioned "Nevra fighting his dark instinct", do you have any headcanons on how he fights it during a long mission where he doesn't really have a variety of choices and his everyday life

As a matter of fact, I’ve got plenty of headcanons on Nevra livinglife as a vampire. ;) He’s not just a gorgeous man with pointy teeth and Spock-worthyears. So thanks for bringing this to my inbox, Anon.

Though technically, that lastrequest is a scenario: a really unrefined draft of a one-shot without properdialogue, action sequence, or description. But your thoughts are well and truly appreciated.^_^

(For anyone interested in reading that particular request, check it outhere. Warning: it’s shamelessly NSFW. Don’t take a cue from the characters andtry reading it in public.)  

Anyway. To answer your question, Anon, I like to imagine that Eldaryavampires still retain a few traits of traditional vampires from folklore… andthat there’s a valid reason for why they were feared by humans (and possibly more) back in the day.While Nevra has naturalized himself (very successfully) to El’s non-vampirecommunity, I won’t be surprised if it’s still an ongoing battle for him tooverride millions of years of evolution. And if so, he probably hopes in one corner of his psyche that his fans at HQ remain oblivious to some of hismost basic urges. Otherwise, where will he get his love?

…Because some of his most basic urges outside the bedroom aren’t very sexy by non-vampire standards.Thank you.  

Warning: What you’re about toread is at least 99% pure headcanon. Sadly, we still know zilch about the pure vampirelifestyle in El. :(

The Lure of Blood

To the average vampire, fresh blood sparks a powerful visceral reactionacross several levels: it stokes their appetite as a food source, fires theirlibido as a medium for sexual communion, and magnifies their senses as abiological meter for their own health and those around them– either friend,foe, or prey. If willingly provided by a clan-member or a longtime donor, thetaste of blood also fosters deep comfort and a sense of ‘home’. But if spilledfrom an enemy, a quarry, or themselves when they’re wounded, then the smell ofblood alone can trigger a berserker-worthy adrenaline rush. All this is theresult of millions of years of highly-specialized evolution, where blood advancedbeyond simple ‘food source’ to also become a medium for social affirmation, anda complex physical, sensory, and chemical language shared between predator, prey, and kin.

Not surprisingly, vampires encounter friction from other species who a.)don’t share the same evolutionary toolkit with blood, b.) keep culturallynarrow views on blood, and c.) have even less tolerance for blood-feeding (whichsome of them, understandably, still associate with being preyed on). Thiscultural clash is why vampires outside their clans typically avoid the medical,culinary, and military/mercenary professions, where blood contact happensfrequently and nervous non-vampires panic at seeing their eyes dilate at thefirst flash of red.  

None of this has discouraged Nevra though from joining the Shadow Guardof El, where spilled blood is an unfortunate but necessary feature of fieldwork. The main reason: he has a steely confidence in his own self-control, anarguably-stronger loyalty to El… and no small amount of pragmatism in adjustingor smoothing over his ancestral instincts whenever they flare to life. Afterall, he cares about winning his colleagues’ trust, even if– a few eons back–he would have called them his ‘dinner’ in a very literal sense. So he follows aset of strict personal protocols, starting with…

Rule #1: Stay Neat onthe Field

It’s not just because Nevra is vain about his appearance; reducing bloodcontact on the field helps minimize the risk of losing his focus.

Because if he smells a fatal or near-fatal volume of fresh blood concentrated in onearea, at close quarters, and in a hostile situation away from home, he’s hit by amassive adrenaline spike: his already-keen reaction times sharpen, his physicalstrength and speed double, and his immunity to pain stiffens into a veritablelayer of armor over his skin. The world– to him– suddenly becomes six timesmore vivid across all senses, with the passage of seconds seeming to stretchinto minutes. This might seem like a boon for a field agent– and Nevra infact has tapped into this adrenaline spike to close in on a frustrating target or escapelife-threatening situations– but it comes at the cost of abandoning allcaution to the wind: his ability to restrain himself and move tactically arereduced (if not temporarily suspended). And once his adrenaline spike ebbs, hemight physically collapse after spending all his bodily reserves. Worse still,receiving cuts and smelling his own blood actually increases his aggression and fighting resolve, instead of promotingthe instinct to escape. Thus, too much blood exposure in combat will actuallymake this vampire more bestial than cunning, more a berserker than anassassin… and more dead than a hero.

This is why Nevra avoids open battlefields: instead listening to thesounds of battle, and sniffing out blood at range to detect and circumvent thereal slaughter zones. (Then let someone much less reactive, like Valkyon, enterto clean up instead.) He also applies a healthy amount of stealth and guerillatactics to tip the scales in his favor, and thus end a confrontation quickly(or at least, leave himself openings to escape the fray if it becomes too messy).Especially for someone like him, there’s a time limit to how long he can remainin a skirmish. But if direct combat is inevitable, he resorts to daggers only if heneeds to attack at range and/or subdue a very dangerous foe, otherwise takingthem down with bloodless judo(style) kicks, joint locks (or snaps), and whisper-silentnerve strikes.

It’s no light matter for him to whip out the daggers. When he does, he knows he has tofollow…

Rule #2: Be a Gentlemanwith Your Knife

The easiest solution to avoid the vampire blood-frenzy is to not spill blood in a fray. Right?

Well in Nevra’s book, the answer isn’t quite so simple: a sharp knife ismore precise, more concealable, and more merciful than a heavy bludgeoninginstrument. Also, heavier fights can be averted by a little psychologicalmeddling… like smiling at them when holding a dagger at their throat. Few thingsunnerve non-vampires more than spilling blood in front of a piqued vampire onfull sensory alert. They don’t knowhis steely restraint over himself; they can only assume that there’s realpredatory intent in the gleam of his eye, the flaring of his nostrils, and theway he sometimes licks his lips at them, flashing the points of his fangs thatmight just be sharper than that blade.  

But. On the occasions whenhe does have to use the knife, Nevra stillabides by a code of conduct bred into his bones by his own people, and temperedfurther by (many) years of training: respect your prey and don’t allow them tosuffer for long. Kill with as few strikes as possible, as cleanly as possible.And when it’s done, leave the body in peace as soon as you can. Beneath themoral rhetoric though, this practice helps to minimize the gore on thebattlefield that will trigger the infamous blood-frenzies, and automaticallydistances the executioner from what blood continues to flow from the fatalwound. As well as from vindictive enemy clan-members, who’ll come flying in atsmelling the death of their kin on the wind.

There is a very realevolutionary benefit with being able to scent blood from over a quarter mileaway: it’s to be able to track your quarry, or find your clan members who’re indire need of your help. And if Nevra does find a ‘clan’ member (i.e. any of hiscolleagues in El) who’s missing a few scraps of skin at least, he knows he hasto adhere to…

Rule #3: Be Discreet inTouching the Wounded  

Contrary to popular belief, the sight of a fresh wound does not arouse vampires all the time; themethod of skin penetration makes all the difference to the vampire brain. So ifNevra spies telltale toothmarks– or needle-like marks, at least– on the skin,he instinctively grows both hungry and aroused. (After all, this is the vampireequivalent of watching someone walk out of the bedroom, sans underwear.) But if something else has broken the skin– leaving aninjury–, a sense of distress pulls him hard to port instead, all sexual and feedinginstincts automatically capped by an urge to help: in other words, he reactslike any other sentient species does when encountering the wounded.

To most vampires, the difference between a fresh wound from a bite and afresh wound from a knife is as stark as the difference between a naked andaroused person, and a naked and terrified person. And it’s just as lurid asight. Even under his dismay and his overriding drive to help, Nevra won’t beable to help feeling acutely conscious of the victim’s body, what with thesmell of fresh blood lying thick on his palate and already waking his salivaryglands, his senses automatically piqued and tingling on high alert.

Still, it’s a matter of honor not to even stare. So when treating a fresh wound, he wills himself to enter a detached,clinical state of mind, focusing on only the depth of the wound, its chances ofinfection or contamination by poison, the chances of recovery, and especiallywhat pain it’s currently causing the victim. And he’ll minimize direct skincontact with their blood out of respect, then wash his hands afterwards: bloodin this case can’t be treated as a sexual communion, no more than a surgeon canlust after a patient on their operating table. Doing otherwise would be a gross impropriety. If amongother vampires though, Nevra might do a clinical smell of the bloodsample to check for signs of poison, disease, and so forth; that’ll be the limitof his direct contact.

Notall blood that’s spilled by the body is harmful, per se. So when Nevra catchesthat telltale tang of iron in the air athome, he knows he has to follow…

Rule #4: Watch Your StepWhen Blood is Spilled at Home

Back in the clan, blood is spilled in small increments on a regularbasis: it’s equal parts social exchange, sexual exchange, health check, andsnack. The usual shenanigans of a sociable house. So it took Nevra a short, butsobering period of adjustment in his early days in El to realize that blood spilledin a non-vampire home might mean somethingmore serious. And then he realized a new level to his parental instincts:now every snatch of blood he smells at HQ carries at least a 50% chance of trouble,far higher than it ever was where he grew up.

Still, he can’t afford to knock down doors to investigate, not withoutseriously alarming– and potentially embarrassing– his colleagues (who have noidea how he knows they’re bleeding, from across HQ). Instead,he has to play the off-duty detective whenever his infamous nose is triggered,stepping carefully between inquiry and eavesdropping.

Nevra has already learnt to give the infirmary a wide berth whenever he scents blood coming from thatvicinity; blood is to be expected there, and it’s under Ewelein’s jurisdiction. The line isn’t quite so clear though whenever thatsmell emanates from the barracks or showers. Fortunately, this is where being aspymaster comes in handy: it’s never too hard to get the ‘unofficial’ healthrecords he needs. (Gossip, when enough is collected from many sources, saysplenty.) And in case he needs to confirm a few murky facts for himself, he’llmake a series of ‘casual�� strolls through the area to pinpoint the precisesource of the smell (which he won’t mention to anyone just yet). If he traces it to a female recruit’sdoor or shower stall, and listens in to find the occupant isn’t under any particulardistress– or might even be enjoying the company of a first-time partner–,then he keeps walking. Maybe with a ghost of a smile.

One of the consequences ofhaving a vampire’s sense of smell is that feminine biology has given up itssecrets to Nevra long ago. He’s fine with it.

None of the vampire folklore I’ve found mentions anything about why they need blood/qi/life-force/etc., beyond the catch-all explanation that it’s because the undead don’t quite like being dead. (And that biting the neck is a disturbing way to combine sex with death.) 

So I jumped off in a different direction entirely: what evolutionary benefits might a taste for blood offer, for a live species that enjoys necking each other?

…All right, I might have gone overboard again with spinning vampire headcanons. That’s bio-anthropology for you. :/

(Though if you’re interested in reading aboutthe more romantic side to blood-drinking, check out the equally-overboard analysis/headcanon forNevra here.)

Regardless, please read, enjoy (hopefully), and review. Any and allfeedback is appreciated. :)

[ravenvsfox]

If it hasn't already been done (I know I haven't read them all yet) could you do 71 with matt and niel? I can't ever get enough of their friendship

71: “There’s a thunderstorm outside and you want to do what?” 

The court is soup, stirring and humid, and Matt stares straight up at the ceiling, trying to catch a proper breath. He’s aware of Dan folded almost in half by the benches, holding a stitch in her side like something’s about to pop out. 

Nicky’s starfished a metre away from Matt, gasping dramatically with both arms criss-cross flung over his eyes. The rest of the team is hunched or stretched like roman statues, twisted in grotesque shapes to take the pressure off of their overworked ankles and lungs.

Inevitably, Neil is utterly solid on his feet, chest still heaving with exertion but eyes focused. Andrew passes him an unscrewed water bottle and they make eye contact for five whole seconds too long. Matt snorts, rolling away onto his front and grimacing at the sweaty peeling sound his uniform makes.

“Neil,” he calls, holding his own flushed cheeks. “Any ETA on when we can scrape ourselves off the court?”

“What?” he asks sharply.

“We just want to whither and die in our own homes,” Nicky moans.

“We have a half hour left in our regular practice plus we’re a month away from semifinals,” Neil says, incredulous. “We should be working harder than ever.”

“A month,” Allison repeats. “As in one month. As in what— over forty practices to go?”

Matt sneaks a glance and Neil has his arms crossed, his mouth sour. “The ravens will be—“

“Nope,” Allison interrupts,  “I’m sick of hearing about what Edgar Allan’s demonic fucking automatons would do. They don’t play by the same rules as us. That’s sort of the point.”

“We’ll be better fresh, Neil,” Dan says, still panting a little from her last lap. “You know what pushing too hard looks like.”

“And I know what not pushing hard enough looks like,” Neil snaps, harsh and echoey in their plexiglass cage. He swallows a couple of times, maybe trying to get the taste of his outburst out of his mouth, and then he looks away. “Some of you meet resistance and stop pushing.”

“I mean If I know anything about Q-tips, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” Nicky says.

“Your body resists for a reason.” Aaron grimaces, apparently upset to be agreeing with his cousin.

“Neil’s right,” Kevin says, and everyone groans. His eyes narrow, and he taps his racquet on the floor like he’s calling order to a courtroom. “We’re not improving. We’re stagnant, and we’re taking the extra bulk of the newbies for granted. More bodies doesn’t guarantee a win, we know this. We have to switch things up.”

“Switch things up,” Allison repeats, leaning back on her hands. “What would you propose, Queenie? You want us to switch jersey’s? Play on a basketball court?”

“The jersey thing sounds fun,” Matt says, sly. “Dibs on Dan’s.”

“Switch things up,” Neil echoes, and Matt watches helplessly as a bad idea dawns on him. 

Neil looks back at Andrew but he shakes his head just slightly, not in on whatever’s jerking Neil across the court. He wrenches the inner door open, and then crosses to the door outside. He pops that open too, and a rush of wet, grey air tumbles inside.

“Outside,” Neil says, like a revelation. No one moves. “Come on.”

“There’s a thunderstorm outside,” Matt says dumbly, lurching to stand on wobbly legs. “And you want us to do… what?”

“Someone lug the back-up nets outside,” Neil says, face pink and lit up. “We’re going to play against the storm.”

“Neil,” Matt says gently. “That’s batshit crazy.”

“It’s innovative,” Neil corrects, letting the door clank shut in his haste to get to the equipment room. “We need a different environment and we need to cool off. Win-win.”

“We don’t want to soak our uniforms or get struck by fucking lightning, lose-lose,” Aaron argues, as Neil struggles to drag a net that’s way too big for him out one hard yank at a time. Andrew silently crosses and starts helping him, maybe just to piss off his brother, maybe out of that inscrutable compulsion of his to do things for Neil.

“Fuck it,” Dan says, walking towards the growing fray of bickering and moving around the net. Matt grins at her.

“You’re being out-captained so hard right now.”

She flushes. “I am not.”

“You are,” Nicky interjects. “You’re the lazy one now. Neil’s the cool proactive substitute with a rough exterior and a heart of gold.”

Dan shoves him so hard that he stumbles and falls to one knee. “Who captained the winning team last year?”

Nicky laughs brightly and surrenders with, “you, you, obviously you”, struggling to get up again, probably stinging with floor burn.

The team siphons slowly out of the court, some foxes grumbling more than others. When Matt steps out into the veritable hurricane outside, he bursts into laughter.

“Neil,” he calls out, and again when the wind tries to stuff his voice back inside. “We can’t do this. We’re all gonna get sick out here!”

Neil jogs back through the storm, one hand shielding his eyes, pale legs flashing in the blur. “We’ll stay warm if we’re moving. The nets are already mostly out, come on.” He gestures at their milling teammates and flashes him a rare smile.

Matt curses, weak. “Just this once man, and only because the tension in there was going to kill us quicker.”

They end up on the strip of grass where students sit to eat lunch or play frisbee, nestled in between the court and the closest of the campus buildings. They’ve set up a makeshift court with just nets and players, so there’s none of the usual fancy checking or bouncing shots off walls — just teamwork and counting steps and scoring. Matt can see Kevin shouting and measuring the distance between nets, Dan shouting back, Andrew flipping them both off.

The storm crests like it’s trying to throw a punch at them, rain so thick it’s hard to see through. Matt can just make out the flame of Neil’s hair, the wick of his smile. He looks uncharacteristically at ease, thriving on the chaos when everyone else is wilting or seething.

He can see the newbies with their heads together, probably considering revolt. Renee’s holding her massive racquet above Allison’s head like the netting will stop the rain, and both of them are laughing. 

Matt gets it then -- that there’s something about the energy of the storm that’s revitalizing them, the rumble of thunder sending them into titters and spins and shouts.

Dan jogs up to him and swings around his neck immediately, feet off the ground.“This is gonna be a disaster,” she crows. “I think it might be perfect for us.”

He squeezes her waist and grins, watching everyone fall into position on the slick grass. Matt catches the tail end of Andrew touching Neil’s sides and then retreating to goal. Thunder rocks the cradle of their court.

“Let’s go!” Neil calls. “Use the outdoors to your advantage. If you can get your opponent to slide in mud, do it. Grip will be less certain in the rain, so steal the ball. Got it?”

“Yeah I’ve got a question,” Allison says, mock polite with her hand up. “You know we’re all holding lighting rods, right? And your boyfriend is in a metal cage?”

Neil pauses, considering, and then shrugs. “We won’t be out for long.”

“It doesn’t take that long to die, Neil,” Nicky says, and Neil cocks a look at him.

“I know.”

“Oh yeah. My bad.”

“Are we gonna play some Exy or not?” Matt asks, twirling his racquet. Neil looks at him gratefully and reaches out until their sticks clack together.

“Yeah. Losers drag the nets back.”

“Oh,” Matt says, grinning. “We’re all losers here.”

_____

It is a disaster, a big mess where Aaron stalks off and refuses to play, and Jack starts tripping people on his own team for the sound it makes when they hit the squelching grass. Kevin steals the ball from Matt and Matt throws mud at his back to see what he’ll do, and there’s a scuffle that slides them right into Renee’s net, racquets, ball, and all. Matt claims the point.

The girls keep laughing like they’re delirious, and Neil is taking the game so seriously, doing these controlled grass slides that make him even faster.

They’re so soaked that they’ve stopped caring how they look, making the most of the fun parts of the outdoor slop instead. Dan rushes by Matt and strokes a loving, muddy pair of fingers over his jaw; he smacks her ass with his mucked up racquet. They steal a point while she’s distracted, and the fallout is explosive.

He knows that Wymack’s going to come back from his meeting to a bin full of filth and a disordered team, but he can’t regret it. It feels sort of familiar and achey, like something none of them ever got to do in elementary school: mess around and get outside and feel like there’s something bigger than the ball in your hand or the number on your back.

It’s something the ravens would never do.

Neil calls for a stop to the game after an hour, and he flops down onto centre field. Matt watches him, bemused, and then jogs over and stoops down next to him.

“All tuckered out, kiddo?”

“We were running overtime,” Neil explains.

“No shit,” Matt laughs, rolling onto his back. “It took us the rest of practice just to drag ourselves out here.”

“Was this—“ Neil cuts off abruptly, and when Matt glances over, Neil’s looking back, face ashen and serious. “I should leave the captaining to Dan, right?”

Matt considers this, letting rain cloud his vision and slither under the drooping neckline of his jersey. “This was a good idea Neil,” he says, as diplomatically as he can. “You’re going to be the best, most difficult captain when we’re gone.”

Neil rolls his neck like he doesn’t want to think about it, and the raindrops in his eyelashes almost look like tears. “I just thought... sometimes things get easier when you’re not stuck in one place.”

“True. But things also get easier when you’re not constantly in the thick of them. Breaks are good.”

“I’m scared to slow down,” Neil admits, and then screws up his mouth like it betrayed him.

“Then don’t, man. Let us carry you for a while. Let Dan, and Wymack. And Andrew. We can run too.”

Neil turns his head into the spongey grass to look at him again, and Matt watches mud graze his healing cheekbone.

“I want to win again,” Neil says simply. Matt smiles.

“Then we’ll win.”

“I’m serious.”

“Bastardized Exy in the pouring rain serious?”

Neil opens his mouth to reply but then Andrew’s looming over them both, his helmet off and his drenched hair swept back from his face. Matt didn’t know Neil could look more relaxed than he did bonelessly flopped on the grass, but he evens out when he sees Andrew.

“Everyone is inside but you,” Andrew says pointedly, toeing at Neil’s hand until he catches his shoe.

“I was being vice captain.”

“You were being a rain catcher,” Andrew says flatly. Matt watches Neil wrestle with a smile and then reach up for Andrew, who catches his wrist and hoists him up.

“Vice cap,” Matt says, and feels a pulse of fondness at the way Neil snaps back to look at him. His hair is soaked dark, uniform more brown than orange, wrist still clutched in Andrew’s hand.  “Let’s wait for some sun next time, yeah?”

Neil shakes his head, on the verge of a smile again. “I don’t want to make things too easy for you.”

Matt looks skyward, sighing so hard that he laughs. “I’ve noticed that.”

[nxctcaelum]

One Step Closer

@rubatosiis​ / @mumsthewcrd​

    The air was tense, that much Noctis could sense. But it was less for the reason that he would expect and more entirely for the frustrated grunts and grumbles coming from across the room. He looked up languidly from the plans he’d been sifting, watching Prompto tap at his screen with the most vexed expression. He sighed. That project was a massive deal, and he could tell, if not from the fourteen times Prompto had mentioned it today, by the litter accumulated around the blond. Discarded, furiously crumpled cans, a small stack of cups that had once been filled with coffee, the veritable library of reference images and help guided that the boy had accumulated for his ease of use...

    Noctis had tried to explain that creative block was normal. Not that he was much of a creator, but he’d been known to pen a few short stories or poems in his time ( none of which were available to the public and all of which were hidden in his notebook, securely stowed beneath his mattress, a very safe and secret place to be sure ). So whatever this collage or whatever it was that Prompto was not making, staring at it and aggressively tapping his screen wasn’t going to make it better. 

    His eyes flicked down to the plans once more. Yup, those were seating charts. His father had asked his opinion, as Noctis’s attendance was mandatory at such events despite his schooling. And while the prince appreciated the gesture, he wasn’t going to be able to get much comprehension done as long as he was more focused on--

    A book fell from the couch, snapping shut loudly, and Noctis shut his portfolio in front of him in tandem. Okay, he advised, and Prompto shot up from his hunched position on the couch at Noctis’s voice. Break time. Now. Stand up.

    The blond looked quizzically at him, then deflated a bit, shaking his head. Can’t, I’ve gotta--

    You’ve gotta stop beating your laptop to death. What’d it ever do to you?

     Prompto shifted in his seat. ... sorry.

     Rolling his eyes, Noctis stood from his seat at the kitchen table. Okay, so leaving Prompto to get up on his own was no longer an option. He walked across the room, reaching into the blanket that the other had curled into and snagging his arm. No sorry, no option. Up.

     It was with little grace or dexterity that Prompto finally did stand, shaking his leg out of the tangled entrapment of the blankets. Noctis lead him back a few steps in the open ground of the living room, holding both his hands as he did. Fine, fine, I’m up! Impatiently, he looked to the prince and scowled. Where are we even going?

    Noctis smirked. Who said anything about going anywhere? he insisted. I said break time. 

    His stress must have been more prevalent than he thought. Surely Noctis had expected Prompto to relax a bit at his tone, to accept his fate and entertain him, but his scowl remained. I’ve got fourteen hours and-

    And you’re gonna get an A brutalizing your equipment?

    Well I’m not going to get it not--... doing... that...

    Noctis sighed. Look, twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, and I’ll help you get that thing done. Deal?

    Prompto cocked a brow, clearly nonplussed. You don’t know the program.

    So I’ll make it fun.

    Meaning you’ll screw it up.

    Fun.

    Failing.

    Relax.

    My whole semester--

    Look, twenty minutes? C’monnnnnnnnnn--

    It was not often that the prince got to use his eyes- you know, those eyes-, but in moments like this, he was glad that he could. Noctis was never something he would label as cute, but apparently his pout was actually pretty effective. And he could see Prompto’s resolve wavering like a house of cards in a light breeze. Three... two.... one...

    Fifteen. Fine. Can’t hurt me that much.

    Noctis grinned. Thought you’d come around.

    Prompto scowled, taking a hand away from Noctis and smacking it. Like you gave me an option.

    You’d never survive in sales.

    You’re not even a salesman!

    You ready for next weekend?

    Ahhh, now that stopped him. Prompto stared at Noctis for a moment, mouthing ‘next weekend’ as if the motion would jog his memory. Noctis wouldn’t prolong his suffering. The benefit. At the Citadel? You told me you’d go with me. Noctis had even asked his father if it was alright. He’d been advised to exercise discretion, bringing Prompto to a public venue. And he would. That did not mean he’d let Prompto off easily.

    The other sighed, dropping his head. Ahhh-- not yet. Ignis said something about a fitting?

    Noctis rolled his eyes. Yeah, still gotta do that too. Don’t worry, the tailor’s cool, but also, not what I was getting at. Taking a step back, he looked the other up and down. You ever danced?

     And for a moment, Noctis had to wonder if he’d actually said something wrong. It was an innocent enough question, wasn’t it? And he hadn’t said it in a weird way; least he thought he hadn’t. But Prompto almost looked baffled, like Noctis had so much reared back and hit him with his portfolio of colors and decor. .... what’d I say?

     Prompto snapped out of his reverie, shaking his head.  N-nothing, I just.... Noct... I- I can’t? He lifted a hand, tapping his ear with an almost meekness. Kinda hard, y’know?

    Oh. Oh right-- that... Noctis felt a rising of heat on his cheeks, momentarily discouraged. But... his moral flipped, discomposure replaced with a crooked grin and confidence. That’s why I’m here. C’mon, I’ll show you.

    H-hang on- Noct-!

    Relax, he insisted. Honestly, such a stick in the mud sometimes... He resisted as Prompto tried to pull his hands back, shifting them into the hold that he’d been taught. Honestly, Ignis had been so strict with instruction, but at least Noctis could be confident now- muscle memory guided him to the first position, one hand at Prompto’s waist while the other sat delicately in his hand. Poise. He remembered how adamant the Adviser had been on poise and the natural fluidity of motion in his teaching. And looking at Prompto, that was not going to happen. The blond stood in rigid contrast to the royal. Noctis maintained a languid smile. Just follow my lead.

    But I-

    Noctis tugged him closer, pressing his forehead against Prompto’s and closing his eyes. He could hear the other gulp. Just follow my lead. He wasn’t going to let him fail. And so he lifted his foot, delicately tapping Prompto’s opposite. Halting and uncertain, the blond took a step back, and Noctis  took initiative.

     He wasn’t going to lie- Prompto was awkward and uncomfortable. The motions were unnatural, as one would expect, but that was fine. Because it didn’t take long to at least attain some semblance of flow, a motion that swept them in small, controlled circles in the middle of the dorm room. No music, no words, just a combined sequence of steps that Noctis dragged Prompto in. After a few minutes of calm silence, Noctis pulled himself back, continuing to guide the other in tow. 

    See? What’s so hard about this?

    Prompto blinked- oh, he’d closed his eyes too? That could have sucked. One of them ought to have been watching if they were going to run into something- oh well, no harm done. Noctis smiled, though, at the way Prompto seemed to grow. There was something in Prompto when he was like this- an innate light that Noctis could have sworn would blind anyone who walked into the room. He had a certain brilliance in him that showed in his smile, in the excitement he drew from every thing that he did. And that ridiculous laugh that spilled out of him, the way that it bubbled out of him- it was contagious. The only music he needed... Noctis snickered too, but stopped when Prompto interrupted, I just never thought I’d do this kind of thing.

     They slowed, eventually crawling to a stop, but Noctis didn’t release his hold. Guilt wound through him like a crawling vine. He took it for granted; really he did. His upbringing, his sense of normalcy. And he’d not even considered- it hadn’t even occurred to him... He pulled Prompto closer, now, flush as he wrapped his arms around his waist. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was certainly not a dance hold. And he buried his face in Prompto’s shoulder. It took a moment for Prompto to catch up, returning the gesture and nervously adding, Now what’d I say? with a little trill of a laugh.

     Noctis wasn’t the sort to coddle. To make excuses. He was lucky, so lucky, that he and Prompto shared the connection that they did, and to that end... Noctis owed him so much. So he did the only thing he could-  he leaned back, smirking as he rapt his knuckles over the top of Prompto’s head. You’re not getting out of this. I’ll sing to you if I have to. He was a bridge, a connection; Noctis could seal the gaps, bring aspects of Prompto’s life to him that perhaps he wouldn’t have access to otherwise. If that meant a little embarrassment... 

     Prompto paused, seeming to debate something before settling on a wolfish smirk. Serenaded by a prince? Aren’t I lucky~

     With a groan and an eye roll, Noctis smirked and tugged away from Prompto. It’s been fifteen minutes. You’ve got things to do.

     No, no, no, but now I’m invested! You said you’d sing~!

    With a scowl, Noctis leered sidelong at Prompto. He looked so excited, so expectant. And for a moment, it was a stare-down. Whoever blinked.......... ehh, Noctis would blink. This wasn’t a competition. And besides, he had an ace... A moment more of silence, and Noctis grinned.

        ♪ It’s a small world after--  ♪

    The pillow flew before Noctis could finish the first line. So, perhaps he’d be taking just a bit longer than fifteen minutes...