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skullsnbruises · 1 year ago

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Trying to get back into writing and here is what I’ve made

[Ao3 Link]

Taglist: @poprockpanda @brick-a-doodle-do @local-squishmallow @dingbatnix @data-expunged-0 @da3dm

Hiding from Humans

[1407 words] [violence, digestion, fear]

Scar slithered through the empty broken rooms, making his way in a circle through the living room, which blended into the dining room, then to the kitchen, and back around again. He was low to the ground, calling out for the two small friends he had made.

The naga was smaller than most, being a breed that was closer to a human bean’s size than the great giants of old. Though, Scar was tough. He knew how to defend and fight, and had a very steady aim when it came to his venom.

The gray and red scaled naga was on the lookout for two little creatures who lived in the abandoned house with him, Mumbo and Grian. The odd little people were borrowers, as Scar had come to find out. They had humanoid features, similar to himself, but were too animal to fit the description of a bean. The borrowers had long fluffy tipped tails, big round ears, soft muzzles with pointed noses, and claws and paws.

Scar was a naga, meaning his lower half was beautifully dozens of feet worth of shining scales. His ears were long and pointed, his jaw could open wider than a human could ever dream, and inside that maw was a snake-like mouth, split tongue, sharp fangs, and venom spit to prove a dangerous enemy.

“Mumbo! Grian?” He called out, arching his back up to lay on his length of a snake tail. He looked around clueless. He must’ve missed the tiny things on one of their expeditions, which they frequently insisted they could do fine alone, to Scar’s protest. He just wanted to help!

Scar was about to give up and take a nap in the beating sun, when a tiny squeak sent him on high alert. His instincts screamed a mouse or rat, and he promptly slithered towards the sound, eyes sharp and slit, ready to kill.

The naga pounced, only to find his friends in his clawed hands!

“Oh, there you guys are!” He licked over the small squirming two as Grian complained and Mumbo chuckled lowly.

“Hello Scar,” Grian mumbled, though Scar could tell he was happy to see his friend.

“Where were you two? I was looking all over!”

Mumbo replied, “We went out for a bit, and, actually…” he suddenly looked full of concern and fear, Scar could smell it on him.

Grian finished the sentence, speaking the fear into existence, “There’s a bean coming.”

At that instant, all their hearts sank in terrified harmony. Scar’s ears lowered, ‘danger’.

“Don’t worry, guys,” Scar promised, sending stripes of kisses up the two’s bodies, “I’m going to protect you.”

Mumbo laughed heartily, “We know, we know.”

“Thank you Scar.”

“With hotguy watching out for you, everything will go a-okay!” He proudly announced, as the distressing sound of a car pulling up and parking outside rang like a gunshot.

He carried his friends anxiously on his head, letting them rest in tufts of brown hair while Scar slowly snuck up to the window to check the situation.

Outside, a human left their vehicle, slamming the door shut. They carried a bunch of odd looking capture devices, and a gun was situated in their hands.

‘Danger. Run. Protect.’ The voice of the naga’s instincts ran rampant with terror at the sight, begging for safety for himself and his friends.

The voice cried, ‘Store, store friends.’

“Guys,” he spoke sharply, already lowering them with his palms, “I have to…”

He’d never eaten them before, as much as Scar would’ve loved to. This would be a completely new experience for all three, and one that he hoped the borrowers would understand.

Grian and Mumbo’s eyes screamed with fear, twisting Scar’s heart into pieces.

“I have to store you two,” Scar whispered harshly, “I have to eat you to protect you, okay?”

The borrowers set even further on edge. While Grian inched back, Mumbo seemed slightly more trusting.

“Whatever you say, Scar,” he muttered, offering himself up first.

Scar picked the borrower up, tilted his head back swiftly, maw open wide and fangs nestled back. His forked tongue came around Mumbo’s tense body, and scooped the little thing up. The naga hoped Grian seeing how willing Mumbo was would make him feel more comfortable. He also ignored the hurt; Scar buried the feeling inside that Grian was so untrusting of him with something so intimate to Scar.

Mumbo was dropped into the snake’s mouth, quickly, and with little fight, swallowed up. The bulge in his throat assured that Mumbo was going safely down to Scar’s storage organ. When the weight finally settled inside him, warm and comforting, Scar’s slit eyes met Grian’s frightened ones.

“I promise it’s safe, please believe me.”

Grian opened his mouth, and just as he was about to speak, the door was kicked open and the human came in.

Both let out a screech, and Grian ducked down while Scar wobbly slithered out of the room.

In the few seconds he felt alone enough, Scar shoveled his friend into his maw. Hastily gulping Grian down, he held his throat anxiously, pressing against the small body inside. Scar could hear the angry human come running in, brandishing the shiny gun that would take Scar’s life. A sob broke through the naga as another swallow brought Grian safely to meet Mumbo deep inside his core. There, they’d be guaranteed to be cozy and safe, even if Scar ended up…

He broke into a fast paced slither, circling his way through the house’s bottom floor to avoid the human hunter. He heard the booming footsteps echo the empty building. Sheer horror filled him with tears as he escaped, breaking out through the open door. The hunter caught sight of him, sending off a bullet in the direction of the naga. It squealed through the air and hit the doorframe which was firmly right behind Scar. He choked on his tears as he darted to the left, into the overgrown garden.

His friends shifted and tumbled around inside of him, and Scar only prayed that they were at least comfortable there.

Inside, Grian and Mumbo were holding on tight to one another as if the world would personally pick and tear them apart. They cried, fearful for Scar’s life. Scars stomach held them internally, subconsciously contracting and squishing them like a desperate hug.

Another gunshot shattered the deadly silence, causing Scar’s long body to flip desperately around. He cursed his length, terrified that the end of his tail would catch a bullet inside it.

An idea crossed Scar’s mind. As he squirmed and twisted through the tall grass, he forced it to be a good idea, and turned around, squaring up as the hunter scrambled for a moment.

They raised their gun to him, and Scar seeped them out from under their feet, knocking the item away. Scar reached down and picked it up, panicking.

Aiming the weapon to the bean, he took a shaky breath then…

BANG.

He hit the hunter square in the shoulder, and a yowl of pain and misery sounded from them instantly, they whimpered and fumbled.

The naga felt something scary take him over, “you will never hurt me or my friends again.”

The human backed away with a start, but it was too late for them. Scar swooped down with his maw impossibly open, and promptly swept the human up into the air. Their feet dangled outside Scar’s mouth as they screamed and screamed, beating against his esophagus with their limited area of movement. Scar swallowed them down, pushing the feet further in with a scary glint in his eyes as he sent the human to their demise in his stomach.

Grian and Mumbo were suddenly squished together, their area inside the storage shrinking uncomfortably around them until they were pushed without a centimeter between them. The struggling and screaming of someone rang loudly from between the fleshy walls. They could feel the figure of the human hunter gasping for dear life. They were being digested alive.

Scar panted as his stomach bulged and was pushed violently against. He felt sick, worried only now about getting some rest. He was slow to make his way back to the house, practically dragging himself along to his favorite spot in the sun, which was still favoring him. He curled in bundles around himself and fell asleep with ease, ignoring the beating and screaming coming from his core.

#posts by sunny #mcyt g/t #mcyt vore #hermitcraft g/t #hermitcraft vore #vore tw #sfw vore #sunnys fics

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trans-ralsei · 3 months ago

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weird scene at my local mall: a trump cap. for sale.

it's odd because the home city (which, i should reiterate, isn't usamerican) didn't exactly like trump the first time, though I think that is starting to change in a worrying way.

the mall where i live (in the prime minister's ward) is notoriously tiny by home city standards. it is smaller than a rural 商店街.

even then you see a lot of weird shit. every now and then there's a stall selling fake metal band shirts. sometimes there's stacks of bras for sale. there's a guy selling gunpla and trading cards (my local konbini is also a trading card hub, though I've rarely gone since my transition).

so this cap isn't exactly too weird. it was displayed with other americana, like another FBI cap. the seller probably got a bunch of goods from taobao in order to resell at a stall. they're probably not fascists, i reasoned.

still, it filled me with rage when i walked past.

we've been working, for years, to hold back the divisive hate that is trump from our society. we're seeing concern trolling from the UK and US being adopted by anti-trans forces here. we're struggling for solutions on how we could defeat the far-right voices that have constantly been amplified on social media. we're crossing our fingers that the home city's news media — my colleagues — don't turn against us.

and so, in a tiny protest, i unhooked the cap from its display when the attendant wasn't looking and just let it fall onto the floor. i considered throwing it to the bin (it is trash) but i thought that the confrontation that would ensue wasn't worth it.

i didn't see it while getting dinner yesterday or lunch today, so maybe this worked. or maybe someone bought it. or maybe another person had the reason and sense to talk to the stall attendant. i doubt i'll see them again - they're closing up for the lunar new year - but i genuinely worry that i'll see more of this in the next four years.

#ral.txt

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box-dwelling · 2 years ago

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So I rebloged this with stuff in the tags but there are people genuinely confused in the notes so I want to clear stuff up. First this is England not America. Second Tesco is large chain supermarket, they also do much smaller convenience store branches that tend to be located in town and city centres. It appears this is more I'm that vein. Third as someone else has said this is protestant not catholic, specifically Methodist. England's protestant churches basically all look like this, there are outliers of the more American variety but on the whole this is the vibe.

For context, there are a lot of abandoned protestant churches in England. And I'll do a read more to talk aboutbthe reasons I personally know for why this is

Church membership is down and as a result a lot of places are closing doors and merging congregations because these places cost a shit ton to run. My late mother was my churches treasurer and my dad is now their warden (basically he's legally responsible for the churches property and a lot of the day to day maintenance. It's a volunteer position and he doesn't actually own anything or put any money up it's just legally his responsibility) and as a result Ive learnt way more than I thought I should about church finaces and maintance. That being said this is all from my own experience, my mother was Methodist (though attended the same Anglican church as me and my dad), my father is Anglican, and may not speak to every church. I am also not a Christian and am pretty staunchly against the church as an institution. The Anglican church is basically just Catholic lite and had many of the same issues and also some different ones that are just as bad. This isn't a defense or a plea to save them. I just think it's interesting and explains why stuff like Tesco church exists.

So in the UK we have a thing called listed buildings. These are basically buildings of historic or cultural significance that are expected to be preserved. I'm giving a definition because I think a different term is used in other countries but if I am wrong I apologize. A good number of churches are listed as listed because they are old as shit and honestly the aesthetic goes hard. The issue is that a building being listed often means that certain repairs have to be done using materials that are either expensive or outdated or both. I know my church had a big issue around having to use lead to repair the roof which I remember my mother complaining was very expensive and also very prone to getting stolen because of how much it cost. As attendance declines so does the ability for the church to get the money to do these costly repairs and as a result sometimes it is just better to merge the congregation with another parish and sell the building to someone who can afford the upkeep.

Presently my dad's church doesn't seem to be at too great a risk of that because it is run by a bunch of "jesus is a socialist" types who are very active in the community and as a result make a ton of money by renting church property as venue space and also building an internet cafe that was purposely built to give local people, especially local unhoused people, access to the internet so they can get back on their feet because you need internet access to do shit like apply for government assisted accomadation or benefits in this country. I've yet to visit because I've only been back once since it opened and didn't have time but I've heard it does good cheap food and drink too. Genuinely that church is the only one I've ever interacted with that I actually can support and they have to circumvent a lot of the higher ups to do it. They also have a gay bible study, that was the first place I ever met a lesbian couple as a kid, and just in general I'm actually really proud of my dad for the work he does there.

But they are an outlier. My home town is littered with empty old churches that are occasionally rented out for events. The funniest of these was a rave. And fuck me if that must have been the experience of a life time. I can only imagine the trips some of those attendants must have had.

i feel like people need to know about the absolute decadence of that one weird tesco express in bournemouth

what the fuck is actually going on

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olderthannetfic · 3 years ago

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I've been following the various conversations about fandom friendship for a while now and it's made me want to get up and actually put myself out there to make it happen for me. Do you have any tips for finding smaller local fan events? I mostly only know of the big nationally-known conventions like ComiCon and the PAX conventions.

Fanlore often lists the dinky slash con type ones. You may have to do some research to see what's still running and what's dead.

Escapade Con is one I attend, for example. (Los Angeles, partly online this year, end of April 2022, but usually around February.)

We're voting on panels right now. The proposed ones are things like:

Age Gap: The Ultimate Taboo

"With fandom reaching more mainstream audiences, a new Worst Trope has arisen: any pairing where one character is more than three years older than the other. (I can hear you laughing. Stop that.) Let's talk about how this came to be "the worst" of fanfic tropes, exchange horror stories about the attacks on people who write or read it, and brainstorm ways to deal with this kind of schism between "old" and "new" fandom communities."

Scales Are Sexy

First vampires, then werewolves, now... tentacled fish-men? What's appealing about the monstrously different, and what does this say about how the socially acceptable expression of sexual desire changes over time?

(Personally, I think last time's "Fantastic Bits and Where to Find Them" monsterfucking panel was a better title than this one, but hey.)

Old con panels can give you a sense of the con's vibe. Are they salty and funny? Are they a bit more gentle for the sensitive?

The very best success rate is a kind of con experience I haven't had in years. This is when the con is a small, fan-run one, the con is new (in its first 5 years, say), and you yourself are around college age with lots of other people that age also looking for new friends at the con.

The minute you go to a much older event or you're in a different phase of life, things feel harder. I know that feeling of being out of step with other people your age. Oh look, everyone got married 5 years ago, and now our lives have diverged. What do? etc.

This is not an insurmountable barrier, just an emotional pitfall to be aware of. You do have to put yourself out there a little more if it's a con of people who've known each other for 30 years.

The LJ era produced a bunch of cons, lots of them now gone. The Tumblr era also produced cons, but I'm not as familiar with them. No, I don't mean the hot mess that was Dashcon. I mean the little fan-run Sherlock cons and such. If you're in a big fandom, there might be a little con for your specific thing.

There's a very old Kirk/Spock con that's still running and an old Starsky/Hutch one. There are more recent Sherlock-focused ones. Looks like 221B Con is actually coming up on April 8th in Atlanta.

On the online end of things, there are cons like Fujocon that not only bring people together during the con but tend to funnel them to various discords after. If you like discord communities, attending events can be a way to find some.

For truly local and not $$$, I'd see what kind of geek meetups happen in the nearest big city. Some things, like the SCA, are more organized and easier to find. Fanfic-related meetups exist in some places, but not as consistently. Some people meet up to write their Yuletide fics together (in October/November). Sometimes, you can find meetups like that through some online fandom thing. Lolitas (people who wear that Japanese fashion) have meetups some places. So do anime nerds. If you don't find something fanfic-specific, you might find something for some flavor of geekdom you're into and/or that would have a good chance of members who also like fic.

Some of the oldschool geek subcultures and venues can be pretty white. (And that goes for the ones that make big protestations about social justice as much as for the ones that say nothing.) They're not necessarily bad, but it's just something to keep in mind if you haven't gone to geeky events in person before. Local anime meetups tend to be a little more ethnically diverse than the SCA in my experience.

One can always start some kind of meetup oneself. Meetup.com and Facebook seem to be the two big places people do it. It could be something like fanfic writers' club where you meet at a cafe to work on your stuff. (So if people don't show up much, you can at least work on your own stuff at said cafe.) Pick a place super convenient to you or a place that has some kind of geeky theme if there is one around.

Of course, all of this is my perspective based on the US. It's going to be different if you're somewhere else (but I'm presuming not given what you mentioned).

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st-mchn · 3 years ago

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Went to a reproductive rights protest today. I did not feel encouraged by the experience. Some thoughts:

There were a surprising number of men present. My cynical self wondered if they knew why they were there. By the end of it all, I would guess that maybe 10% of them did.

Some of the speakers seemed to know what they were talking about at least vaguely. A few of them sounded like chickenshits.

The demographics were weird. Some concerned normies, mostly skewing older. Families with little kids who maybe shouldn’t have been there. Some high schoolers (?) A large portion of the young adult crowd were visibly trans (carrying bigass trans flags and all)

The older the lady, the more thought provoking and hard-hitting her signage, generally. Some of those signs were more concise than any of the speakers lmao

One of the groups who organized the protest was a socialist group who seemed convinced that creating a socialist party from the ground up and then exclusively voting for their candidates was the best, or, as it was suggested, the only real way to enforce abortion rights. Hm

While women were certainly mentioned, the word was most often followed up with “and queer people” as if we are one political entity. “Abortion rights” and “gender affirming health care” were frequently used in the same sentence, as if the reproductive rights we are fighting for are both of these things equally.

Speakers mentioned “the feminists of the 60s and 70s” so many times I wanted to dropkick some of them. This is the first time in a long time I’ve heard anyone refer to 2nd wave feminists in a positive light instead of as a bunch of racist terf assholes whose books you should burn.

If you are gonna take a drum or a whistle to a protest and bang along to the beat of the protest chants, have some fucking rhythm. My god I wanted to throw a metronome at those people not one of them could keep tome to save their life

There was a refrain, when talking about abortion on demand: “and healthcare for all”…. Well yes that does sound nice but one thing at a gotdamn time please

There were more coat hangers on signs than there were any actual mentions of the negative health consequences of this ban, aside from the vague “people will die” and “abortions will still happen”. Not that I expected gory detail, but it seemed somewhat sanitized for a protest.

It seems that some local orgs took control of the protest which was originally going to be a lot smaller. They got the numbers but to what end?

They kept talking about “next steps” but were not clear about the plan… At the conclusion of the protest they encouraged people to walk out of school and work and “shut down the economy” but did not provide specifics. Then they invited the crowd to a meeting to “discuss things further” but said the location of that meeting was TBD…. Fuckin ineffective

In the end all I could do was remember the Korean feminists cutting off their hair and Latin American feminists with blood smeared on their faces and think to myself, what the fuck are our chances. Yeah we protested. Sure. Some of these women walked nearly five miles in their binders for the sake of… what? The vague concept of bodily autonomy for all gender-nonspecific people?

My longest no hope for women ever

#haha big sad #who wants to assassinate a supreme court justice #ladies?#not but really this fucking #fucking respectability bullshit #and unawareness #and how can we make this about anyone but women bullshit #felt like i was at the zoo like wtf is even happening here i am just on the outside of this shitshow looking in #gyns i am losing hope real real fast #if anyone has a good protest experience to share pls do #also dont tell me i am being harsh or an asshole or whatever like yeah i am aware. this is a blog

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evarcana · 4 years ago

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I See the Moon

Oh when you are looking at the sun

Ev wears some very impractical shoes and learns that she does not know the city quite as well as she thought.

characters: the usual cast of Ev and consul Valerius

words: 2,4k

warnings: none!

notes: I wanted to write something short and sweet to act as a placeholder between the previous part and what is coming next, but I think I got a bit too emotionally attached in the process. The title is from “Be the One” by Dua Lipa and I will leave it open for interpretations.

Darkness strikes Ev’s eyes as she steps out of the theatre doors and for a moment she is completely lost in time and space, staring at her surroundings as if seeing everything for the first time - the disorientation which comes with returning to reality after the magic of the theatre wears off.

A few myopic street lanterns glimmer faintly and the moon, pitched extraordinarily high, is covered by the ragged organza of thin clouds and barely available to light the streets below. Passing groups of people turn into clusters of dark silhouettes, and Ev watches the collars being lifted and scarfs wrapped tighter, as the theatregoers hide themselves from the wind moist with the cool evening dew and disappear into the shadows, leaving only trails of soft footsteps and animated chatter behind them. It is this time of the year when night falls suddenly and way quicker than anyone anticipates.

The impatient tug on Ev’s arm cuts through the hazy darkness. “Are you going to let me leave or what?!” Valerius sounds desperate in his exasperation.

“Just a moment and you are free.” Still watching the dark street, Ev reaches for her bag and throws a pair of flat pointy mules decorated with golden beads and tassels on the ground in front of her. Using Valerius’s arm for support, she lifts one leg to untie the ribbons on her ankle. Somebody behind them helpfully holds the theatre door open, letting the light out, and they both stare at Ev’s bright red toenails as she steps out of her shoes. Ev frowns to herself and curls her toes - it is hard to be an intimidating opponent when you wear a cute sparkly little ring on your fourth toe, when she feels another tug and catches her breath in surprise, losing her balance. The arm slips from under her hand causing her to immediately crash into Valerius. Well, no chance of looking like a menace now. At least Valerius can’t run away, she thinks, because her entire face is smashed into his chest. “So impatient,” Ev rolls her eyes and tucks her heels in the bag.

Valerius hurries to brush off something invisible from his coat and then looks down at Ev’s feet with cynical interest, “Going on a hike?”

She contemplates telling that it took her a very detoured walk from the palace and four nervous circles around the Town Square to finally burn all that destructive energy her body generated in their morning argument, and that right now she is dying to rub her sore ankles, but decides against it. After all, wounded animals are easy prey. “Looks like it,” Ev says, shifting her weight from one foot to another. She scans the road once again and clicks her tongue. There is a carriage pulling away, two people inside, and another one rolling on towards the theatre, the coachman already waving to somebody, but most of the theatre crowd chooses to walk. They all must be locals, or heading to the closest tavern, Ev realises.

“Don’t tell me, -” Valerius’s voice says and Ev looks up, surprised that he is still standing there, “you don’t have a carriage because you were hoping to find a date to continue the night. You shall forgive me for ruining this little plan of yours.” His words are dripping with distaste.

She realises that Valerius must have been following her eyeline. The nervous lough blasts out of her but she manages to catch it and it turns to sound like a cough. A lucky guess on his part? Or did he take inspiration from his own plans? Ev refuses to think about the whole theatre fiasco. The sinking feeling in her chest has started and she puts her hands on her hips in annoyance. “I thought there would be carriages waiting,” she manages to say.

Valerius arches his brow in response, “...how pathetic.” Ev gives him her best withering look and turns away.

The last carriage departs with the din of wheels hitting the worn edges of the stones. Valerius’s eyes are still set on Ev’s face and his brow begins to crease slowly. He is clearly deliberating something but Ev cannot see it. She is watching clouds moving slowly across the moon. “Where do you live?”, he finally asks.

“By the Town Square,” Ev responds automatically, squinting at the sky above her.

“Not in the Heart District?” It sounds like a genuine question at first but the edge of his mouth lifts in a wry grin. “Didn’t you say I wasn’t the only one with the money here?”

“Too close to you,” she smirks back, “the urge of leaving a dead fish by your gate at least weekly would be -,” she leans in closer, turning her voice into syrupy sweet hush, “- irresistible”. This is getting weird. “Anyway,” Ev hurriedly looks behind her shoulder at the theatre doors, “I think it is going to rain later. Have a good night,” the words come in a flat orderly row, she is already concerned with something else, “I will see whether the theatre director can fetch me a carriage.”

“My carriage is waiting down the road.”

“Mm good,” Ev mutters to herself but then the realisation hits and she turns to the consul, eyes wide. “Are you offering me a lift home?” A ‘thank you’ sign lights inside her head but she crashes it with a wave of suspicion. It’s Valerius out of all people. He has no reason to offer her a ride in his carriage besides plotting to murder her and then ditch the body somewhere in the forest. Ev gives him a hard stare.

Valerius breaks the staring game first - his eyes flash with the new unidentified emotion before he regains his usual dismissive look. “Not home,” he snorts, “to the Town Square,this should suffice for a favour.”

“No no, hold on,” Ev raises her hand in protest. “I haven’t asked you anything yet, and hospitality is not a favour.”

“What hospitality are you talking about?”

“You repeat that it is your city all the time! Technically, I am still a guest.” Inside her head Ev is thanking all the available gods for her ability to just keep talking, regardless of whether it makes sense or not, because she definitely has not processed what happened yet.

“Yes, well, just keep your mouth shut,” Valerius says and walks off without a backward glance, his back soon disappearing in the darkness of the narrow lane.

Ev’s eyes follow his path and then she throws another look at the theatre building. The light in one of its rounded windows goes down. She watches the emptying street and feels the goose bumps scatter her forearms. The air is beginning to chill. She looks down at her feet. Ev decides that the consul is the kind of man who would rather pay somebody if he wanted to get rid of her than being involved himself and for the second time this evening she rushes after Valerius. This is so weird.

She is about to call him out to slow down because the sound of duck feet that her ‘emergency’ shoes make is getting on her nerves when she hears a loud thud and a curse. In the darkness of the path Ev is not sure how close Valerius is to her but she knows that he stumbled and it makes her giggle in delight. She stretches her hand out glancing at the strips of warm candlelight coming from the gaps in the window shutters and the ivory glare of the moon. A small globe of light, the size of a plum, forms above her hand. Its light is delicate and warm, as if filtered through the frosted glass, but bright enough to fill the space between the two of them.

The consul straightens up quickly, “Why -”

“I don’t know about you but I like my toes all intact,” Ev walks over to him. “It’s only a small trick, here,” she raises her hand and the light gets brighter, “you can touch it, it’s not hot.”

Valerius takes a step back, looking at the ball of light suspiciously. “You are full of tricks, aren’t you?” he says.

“Don't even make me start on what you are full of.” She bunches her hand in a fist and the light sphere drops down but, before hitting the ground, it bounces back in the air like a small ball and splits into a dozen of smaller lights, startling Valerius. They hover in the air along the path similar to a garland of lanterns as they walk in silence until the lane ends, opening to the canal, and Ev asks, “Is it your carriage there?”

***

The servant opens the carriage door and much to Ev’s astonishment, Valerius waits for her to get in first. She gives him a confused look but complies. There is no evening chill inside and the cushioned seats are invitingly soft, so Ev’s immediately decides that regardless of what is going to happen it was a good idea not to walk home. Valerius takes a seat opposite her and reaches to unbutton his coat and pull his long loose braid from under the collar. His head rolls gently to the side and Ev sees a couple of inches of the neck, soft lines and the glowing skin. She feels her cheeks beginning to heat, suddenly remembering the warmth and the bitter almond fragrance she breathed in every time she got too close to the man, and gods did she get too close tonight.

This is about as far from the real world as Ev can imagine. The carriage is small and the little triangle of her beaded slipper somehow ended up between the consul’s leather boots. If she was to stretch her leg, the bareskin on the side her foot would brush along his shin. They have never sat this close together. Ev thinks about the old lady from the theatre. How would she feel if she knew that she was the only thin barrier stopping them from recognising each other and fully succumbing to the mutual hostility, claiming at least half of the theatre as casualties in the process. This could have been a disaster.

Ev looks at Valerius again and tries to understand how could she not recognise these features straight away. The signature crease between the dark brows and the sulky mouth. Valerius sits in silence, and his eyes are definitely not the ones she knows. They are so wistful and lonely, and so golden under the lamp light, Ev has to look away.

She puts a hand under her chin and leans to the window. A fine mist of rain has started to grit on the glass, and behind the sparks of its tiny drops - a bridge arches over the canal’s silver curve, both ends of which are clipped by infinity, which, in the dim light of the early night, is only ten feet away. The backdrop is all in flashes of the lit windows and the black outlines of pointed rooftops, round cupolas and slender towers, all together resembling a crown adorned by a single grand jewel of the moon, burning bright white. Then, the skyline and even the moon gets momentarily obscured by the huge wall, deprived of any lights, looking ghostly in the tempered gloom.

“That massive rounded building, what is it?” Ev is surprised with herself for striking a conversation.

“Have you not seen it before?”

“No, I have not really been to this part of the city,” she says, turning to Valerius, “What is it? A hippodrome?”

“It's the coliseum. The count’s favourite place,” he gives a chuckle which sounds bitter. “The man loved... performances.”

“What kind of performances?” Ev asks, watching his mouth twisting in distaste. Something about his look makes her frown.

“Gladiators. Bloodshed which lacked any order or purpose besides the count’s own entertainment,” Valerius rubs the bridge of his nose and glances to the window. Ev cannot tell whether he is looking at the moon or the looming coliseum, considering something. “But it’s not what this place was intended for,” he pauses. He turns back to Ev and the expression in his eyes is softer. “It was built before Lucio became a count, although it was slightly less grand back then. The rituals and ceremonies were conducted there during the festivities and the previous count used to reenact scenes of the famous battles there, using the actors. It brought the whole city together. Nobody wants to remember those days anymore.”

Ev feels a weird tremble inside and she is not sure what has caused it until she realises that it is a strange, unusual affection in his voice. She crosses her arms and seats back to contain the feeling. It’s so freaking strange to talk to him when his face is not a mask of boredom. “Did you use to come to watch?” she asks.

“Only when I had to. As if I would mix myself with the roaring crowd of plebeians. Besides, it was terribly distatestful and the smell inside was disgusting.” His mouth tightens, and a strange shadow clouds his expression this time. “Pointless waste of human life.”

“Oh,” is all Ev can manage. She cannot stop staring at Valerius. There is some kindness beneath this asshole facade, human decency, fairness even. It is not the perspective that she has been prepared for. “I meant before that,” she adds faintly.

“Yes I did, when I was much younger.”

“I cannot believe I have never heard of it.”

“Did you do any research before you came here?” The consul is back to his dismissive tone.

“Honestly? I had other things to worry about.” Ev turns back to the window, suddenly unable to look at him anymore.

She hears an irritated snort from Valerius but then, after a brief silence, he starts talking again, and it is not about Ev’s inadequacy. He talks about the canals named after constellations, traditions which Vesuvia used to have, and what you could find in the city before the plague. His voice is calm and steady, and has this velvet quality to it, which fits the night perfectly. Ev closes her eyes and thinks that maybe if she asked Valerius, as that favour she got from him, to continue his stories sitting by her bedside, she would finally be able to fall asleep before the sunrise.

#omg if there is such a thing as MY writing style it is writing things where nothing is happening #but I promise they will kiss..maybe…eventually #I wrote something chronological do I need like a master list now #the arcana #consul valerius #the arcana Valerius #evpanopolis #ev x valerius #the arcana fanfiction #writing #valerius x mc #the arcana fanfic #the arcana fic

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reinvent-and-believe · 5 years ago

Note

Dialogue prompt 42. "I'm only here to establish an alibi." Lambert/Aiden :) May the inspiration fairy visit you!!

It’s been a shit night. A shit night, a shit week, a shit month.

The rain that’s started up again every time he finally managed to get dry from the last round for the past three days has turned torrential, and between the thunder and the fucking hail Lambert’s not quite stubborn enough to try to ride through it. So he sits in a shitty inn still a day’s ride from Ellander, drinking shitty overpriced ale and ignoring the stares from shitty villagers who whisper to each other with their eyes glued on him. He’s too far from the fire for any hope of it drying out his soaking layers of clothes and armor, and he doesn’t have the coin to manage a bowl of stew if he wants a room.

All in all, another fucking day in the paradise that is the Path.

And because Lambert thinks that tonight can’t possibly get worse, the door slams open and another fucking witcher steps through it.

Fucking perfect.

Common folk are uneasy with one witcher, nervous and on edge and wary. Lambert doesn’t mind. Geralt would probably go out of his way to put the people’s minds at rest, make himself smaller and softer and friendlier than he is, the way Vesemir taught him, taught all of them. Fuck that. Lambert doesn’t mind that they’re afraid, that they pull their children behind them, that they give him a wide berth. Makes it easier to get them to fork over their coin after he’s dealt with their problems if they remember he’s not their friend.

But two witchers, two witchers become a threat. Two witchers together seem to remind people that they could wipe out a village like this without breaking much of a sweat if they were so inclined, and that tips that helpful apprehension into something a lot more reckless, a lot more lethal. One particularly memorable contract where he’d teamed up with Eskel ended with a dozen snarling, terrified villagers cornering them with pitchforks, and they’d’ve both been fucked had it not been for Eskel’s freakish strong Axii holding the crowd long enough for them to get the hell out of dodge.

(This was before Geralt’s fancy bard started his quest to single-handedly rehabilitate the witcher image, of course, but still. That shit stays with you.)

Every eye in the inn’s common room is fixed on this new witcher, and then, seemingly in unison, they remember Lambert.

The other witcher’s gaze follows the crowd’s, and when their eyes meet his face breaks into a dangerous smile. He slinks over, every movement full of a graceful precision unusual in a man his size. He’s smaller than Lambert, though not by much: his lean frame is lithe and sinewy, his shoulders broad, the arms bared by his short-sleeved jerkin defined, solid. His skin bears the same telltale scars of the profession as Lambert’s does in shades of pink and red and white.

A cat medallion hangs on his chest, swinging casually as he slips into the booth across from Lambert as though he belongs there.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Cat?” He pitches his voice as low as he can without a whisper dampening the impact of his growl. The less the onlookers hear of their exchange the better.

The Cat sprawls out as though he owns the place, an arm draping over the back of the booth. “Drop your hackles, Wolf, I’m not here to spirit away your contracts.” He gestures, beckoning the barkeep and Lambert nearly laughs at the audacity, as though that would possibly...until he notices that the man is heading towards their table with a mug of ale, which he sets before the Cat with a nod and nary a word about payment. The witcher takes a swig, tossing wet, shoulder-length brown hair out of his eyes in the process. A striking white scar intersects his sharp-angled eyebrow. His face is all sharp angles: strong, squared off jaw, covered in dark stubble; aquiline nose that looks to have been broken once; high, distinctive cheekbones.

Look, just because Lambert’s sure he’s up to no good doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the view.

“The name’s Aiden. And you are?”

“Not about to fall for any horseshit. What do you want, Cat?”

The Cat fixes him with that feral smile again. “To drink with a colleague.” At Lambert’s huff of disbelief, Aiden sighs. He drops his voice to a deep purr. “Relax, Wolf. I'm only here to establish an alibi. What could be more memorable than two witchers from enemy schools sharing a drink? It’ll be the talk of the town.”

“Rather not be the talk of the town. Rather put my head down, do the job, and avoid cocky assholes like you like the plague. Don’t really care to be part of some intrigue that’s gonna get me skewered.”

A flash of recognition lights Aiden’s handsome face. He nods, considering his words before he replies. “Spent a good while working jobs in this area last fall. Had some pretty grisly shit on their hands; a clan of wraiths haunting the woods just outside the village, cutting them off from the nearest fresh water source and slaughtering dozens every month. Then all those fresh corpses bring…”

“Fucking necrophages.” Lambert winces. It’s not an uncommon problem with wraiths. Unlike many of the monsters he hunts regularly, wraiths don’t consume the corpses, which has a tendency to attract secondary issues.

“Fucking necrophages,” Aiden confirms. “Ghouls and alghouls, mostly, but graveirs too, nests and nests of necrophages sprung up for miles in every direction. Job took over a month to wrap up. I stayed here at the inn, got to know most of the locals. Not saying we’re pen pals, but we’re safe here.”

A petite barmaid with wispy, dirty blonde hair approaches the table, setting a steaming bowl of stew before Aiden. “Me da says it’s on the house, master witcher,” she says as Aiden reaches for his purse, a comely pink flush spreading across her freckled face.

“Your father has my thanks, Brea, as do you.” The girl blushes deeper at that, ducking her head. “Might I get another bowl for my friend? I’ve the coin.”

“Me da says I’m to take no coin for you, master witcher, you’re our guest here. Be back with the stew in a flash.”

Lambert stares.

Aiden smiles, and somehow it seems a little softer, sadder. “Brea’s brother was one of those the wraiths slaughtered before I arrived. They didn’t have much coin, not enough for such an extensive job, but they were upfront from the start, and they kept me housed and well fed until the job was done. Didn’t get the warmest welcome from the whole village, but Keller—” he nods toward the barkeep “—and his family were always good to me.”

“Never seen anything like it.” The girl flits back beside the table, setting a thick, warm bowl of stew before Lambert with a quick nod before scurrying away again. He looked at Aiden appraisingly, slowly picking up his spoon. “Name’s Lambert,” he grunts. “Thanks for...you know.”

Aiden waves it off. “Eat.”

They do.

Conversation flows a little easier as they eat. They talk about the shit weather that brought Lambert to the inn, the ealdorman a few towns over that tried to stiff Lambert after he wiped out a cave full of endregas, their best hunts this year, the closest they came to dying this year. It’s been almost a year since he was last in Kaer Morhen, last around people who understood, who would have a real conversation with him, but it turns out Aiden’s surprisingly easy to talk to. He listens more than he speaks, watching Lambert with bright eyes through each story only to interject a thoughtful question here, a devastatingly witty quip there.

They’re on their third round of ale, courtesy of Aiden’s apparent heroism, their supper long finished, when Lambert leans forward on his elbows, fingertips lacing together. “Riddle me this, Cat,” he says slowly, watching the pretty face before him break into a grin, scarred eyebrow jutting upward. “If you’re just here so you have an alibi—and don’t think I forgot about that shady shit, by the way, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to but I haven’t forgotten that—then why’d you come sit here with me? Yeah, yeah, two witchers are more memorable than one, I heard you, but not here, where they know you by name and keep the ale coming and treat you like a damn king. There’s a room full of people who’d vouch you were here even if you weren’t, seems to me. So why?”

Aiden stretches, hard lines of his body on languorous display. He looks relaxed, at ease. “Needed to assess the threat.” His voice is casual, but his golden eyes miss nothing. “You Wolves have a reputation as a prickly, self-righteous bunch—no, hold your protests, I assure you I know all about our reputation. I like to think we’re both more than the worst traits of our guilds, don’t you agree?”

Lambert nods, reluctant.

“There’s also,” Aiden continues, and although his body remains lax, long limbs still splayed out gracefully, his voice lowers carefully, “the fact that you want me. Smelled it on you the minute I walked in, strong enough to cut through your misapprehension.”

Lambert doesn’t deny it, just watches him, silent.

“It was flattering,” Aiden murmurs, leaning in, long fingers tracing patterns on the table between them. “Strong, handsome witcher who can’t keep his eyes off me? It’s a hard thing to resist. And denying myself has never been one of my strong suits.”

“I can believe that,” Lambert snorts. Aiden’s looking up at him prettily through hooded eyes, long, dark lashes, a quick tongue wetting his lip. And Lambert could deny himself, could walk away from this fascinating man who he doesn’t quite trust, doesn’t quite know but desperately wants to. “So what now?”

“Now I’m going to take advantage of my complimentary room upstairs. What you do is up to you, but I’d welcome your company.” He slips to his feet and fixes Lambert with a challenging smile. “You coming, Wolf? Or are you all bark?”

Lambert follows.

Maybe it’s not such a shit night after all.

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #tw3 #lambert x aiden #lambert #aiden #witcher fanfic #octinary #thank you so much for the prompt! this was fun!#this is the first time i’ve written for either of them #i hope you enjoy!#prompt fill #my fic #(also if anybody's interested in the smutty follow-up...i might be persuaded to write it ��👀👀)

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adhdeancas · 4 years ago

Text

For @theangelwiththewormstache, I kind of went all out and searched through your blog to see what you like and headcanon, sent a few sneaky asks to find out more, and wrote in all the things I wanted for everyone’s happy ending. it got... unbelievably long.

Merry Christmas and enjoy :)

Love, Cas over at @let-me-live-in-peace and @samwinchestersleftshoe

PS: thanks to @destielsecretsanta2020 for organizing this!

Click.

Dean sighed and nodded, pulling the phone away from his ear so he could stare at it expectantly. Right about…

It rang.

“Cas,” Dean said languidly, like an asshole who didn’t know why his boyfriend was calling him back.

“Sorry. I forgot again.”

“I know.” Dean couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice if he tried. And he tried.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Dean.” A hint of well-earned annoyance.

“I love you too, Cas.”

“Bye.” And another click. Dean grinned and pocketed his phone. The dumbass was still too impatient to wait for an answering goodbye. Guess they’d never be the couple to argue about who should hang up first. Then again, Dean kinda liked it this way. It was just a few more seconds of teasing and a special call to say I love you, that was kind of nice, right? Jesus he was a sap.

“Earth to Dean? Wanna stop daydreaming about your boyfriend for a sec and get back on task?” Claire was standing there waving a hand in his face, bitchface firmly planted. Dean gave her one back.

“Don’t be homophobic.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m gay.”

“Yeah.” Dean kept walking, looking around at the rows on rows of Christmas trees. He stole a glance back at her. “Where is Kaia anyway?”

Claire blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. She would never tell him, but Kaia had hung back to give her some alone time with Dean. “She wanted to hang out with Jack. Guess she didn’t want to stare at your ugly mug all day.” A grin then, as Dean laughed at her joke.

“Fine, fine, guess you’re stuck with me.”

They roamed around a bit, both insisting on cutting down their tree themselves, Claire winning the fight to get to carry the ax. (Yes, Sam had suggested they bring a chainsaw. They had both refused because they needed to “earn the Christmas tree.”)

“Cas wanted a fraser fir.” Dean remembered, pointing to the section marked for them.

He felt, rather than saw, Claire roll her eyes, which, that’s exactly what Dean had done when Cas first told him. “Dork. Do you always do what your boyfriend tells you?”

Dean shrugged. “Pretty much. You?”

“Yeah.” They shared a soft smile before going back to their regular shit-talking. It was just The Dynamic. They searched a little bit more before they found one, the perfect tree that was big enough to make them both giggle over what Sam’s reaction would be when they brought it home.

It… takes longer to cut down a tree than you would think. Than either of them thought. Especially when you bring an ax and especially when you choose an obnoxiously large tree. They took a break about halfway through, sitting down in the snow and passing the thermos of hot chocolate Jack made them take back and forth (Claire spiked it with Bailey’s, which Dean chose not to comment on but was grateful for).

“Hey Claire… is it weird? Seeing me and Cas,”

Claire looked at him warily, seeming to consider what possible ulterior motives he had. Then, figuring she was the one with the ax, she answered. “A little. But I never saw my dad this old. Or this gay.” She gave him a grin and Dean flipped her off, taking the ax out of her hands to get back to the tree. “It’s good.”

Dean paused. “What is?”

“You and him. You’re good for each other, you can tell. Don’t overthink it.”

Dean’s lips curled up. “Sounds like something Cas would say.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the dork is right. Don’t be an idiot.” She shook her head at him. “Jody had to remind me all the time at first.”

“What?”

“That I… y’know. Deserve it. Her. To be happy.” She put the last bit in quotes, saying it sarcastically, but Dean could see the truth of it in her eyes.

“Yeah, well, Jody’s smart like that.” He took another swing at the ax and tried to believe it for himself. It got easier every day.

------

Cas was left at home with Kaia and Jack while Dean and Claire got the tree and Sam and Eileen got food supplies. (Dean had protested, but Sam had -correctly- said that if given free rein, he wouldn’t get any vegetarian options and would get 10x more junk than they needed.) Jody, Donna, Alex, Bobby, Charlie, and the rest wouldn’t be here until the next afternoon. Christmas afternoon.

“So what should we do first?” He was a little bit nervous, being once again put in charge of the kids.

“Paper snowflakes?” Jack suggested, his excitement all too obvious from the smile on his face. Kaia glanced at him, amused by his obvious enthusiasm. Claire had braided his hair before she left while Kaia painted his nails (black, because they don’t own any other color of nail polish). It was clear they were pretty bonded.

“Sounds good to me.”

Kaia had to teach both of them how to make paper snowflakes. Cas tried to make perfectly symmetrical snowflakes; Jack kept cutting his in half on accident which made a bunch of smaller snowflakes. Hey, it worked.

“So… what’s the deal with you and Dean?”

“Deal?” Cas flushed a little. Everytime someone asked it thrilled him all over again. He was dating Dean. Dean. Was his. Had told him so, straight to his face. And he got to kiss Dean whenever, and sleep with him, and make him make noises only he got to hear, and listen to all his worries and weird fears and recaps on the latest episodes of Dr. Sexy.

“Cas?” Jack was knocking on the table lightly. Kaia had two raised eyebrows and a little smile.

“That good, huh?” She could relate. Everytime she thought about Claire she felt all warm inside, and going home to her at the end of the day was like a dream, especially after being apart for so long.

Cas looked down, called out. “That good.” he agreed.

“How disgusting are they, Jack, on a scale of cute to rip your own face off cute?” Kaia leaned over the table now, shit-eating grin plastered firmly on her face. Jack looked delighted to be in on the joke, which made Cas happy in spite of himself. Jack really needed this time with kids his own age. (Well, kind of. He was technically three.)

“Well, they do cook together…”

“Do they do that thing where one of them comes up from behind and puts their head on the other’s shoulder?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Dean or Cas?”

“Cas watches. He can’t cook.”

“Hey!” It was true. Cas was just arguing for the principle of it.

“But the movie nights are the cutest. One of them always falls asleep on top of the other one.”

“Probably at like 10 o’clock. You guys are so old.” Kaia teased, shifting her attention back to Cas.

Cas shook his head and pointed his finger at the two of them. “I never should have had children.” Kaia stuck her tongue out and Jack followed suit. Proving his point. Kids.

---------

“Hey, you dorks just gonna let us do all the work, huh?” Dean shouted from the garage.

“Yeah motherfuckers, get in here!”

Cas let out a half-hearted “Language!” before following Kaia and Jack through the halls. Claire pulled Jack into a side hug first before tugging Kaia in for a kiss. Dean would’ve followed suit, except Claire had actually left him to carry the whole fucking tree himself, which Dean, like an idiot, had actually attempted. Cas hurried over to help him, which earned him a glare lined with gratefulness.

“Oh yeah, have a happy little reunion over there, don’t mind me or this giant tree!” Dean griped at the kids. “Let the old men handle it!”

“Hey, you said it first.” Claire raised an eyebrow at Dean and pulled Kaia and Jack off into the bunker, probably to go find Miracle. Dean sighed heavily, muttering under his breath.

“You brought that on yourself.” Cas informed him, grunting under the effort of holding up half the tree.

“Thank you, babe. Very helpful.” Dean rolled his eyes. Cas pretended he didn’t feel a jolt of happiness at the most sarcastic ‘babe’ he’d ever heard.

-----

They managed to haul the giant-ass tree into the library and set it up, barely. It did almost crush Cas, but Dean tugged it upright at the last moment, prompting a joke about Cas dying again. (“Hey, you’re not allowed to make those anymore, you’re human now, dick.”) And a kiss that all the kids whooped and hollered at.

Then Cas showed Dean and Claire around the decorations they’d made while they were out. The greatest hits included paper snowflakes, ornaments, and a Christmas tree on the wall made out of old license plates. Dean clapped Jack on the shoulder to congratulate him on his crafts while Kaia held Claire’s hand and pretended not to be affected by the praise sent her way.

By the time Sam and Eileen got back, they’d decorated the tree, all the chairs in the bunker, and the stair-rail with lights and tinsel. Sam let out a whistle when he came back in, which brought Miracle, Jack, and Cas to greet them. (Claire and Kaia were busy telling Dean all about their local gay bar. Which, considering they lived in South Dakota, was quite the story.)

Dean’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw his brother and Eileen come in the kitchen with their bags. “Okay Dean, before you ask, we went with apple, pecan, pumpkin, and cherry.” Sam looked at Dean warily, who stared back at him over the girls’ heads with narrowed eyes, deciding whether or not to fight. The amount of pie ingredients he’d put on the list had been truly outrageous.

“Would like to remind you that the kids are making cookies and cheesecake too.” Eileen reminded him. Dean continued to look around suspiciously until Cas sat down on his lap.

That’s great, Eileen. Cas signed to her. He will be fine.

Eileen rolled her eyes. Whiner. Sam let out a snort and Cas grinned at her. Dean glared.

“What’re you saying?”

“Learn to sign better and you’d know.” Sam smirked.

“I’m working on it!” Dean protested and wrapped his arms around Cas’s waist, tugging him in possessively. He was going to try to sign something else but settled for a middle finger pointed straight at his brother. Hey, it was sign language.

Cas leaned back and kissed him on the cheek for his efforts. His memory landed on one particularly frustrating night for Dean when they’d been practicing his ASL (Cas knew every language of course) and Dean just couldn’t remember the most basic of things. Lamp, field, tree. The more frustrated he got, the more words started to leave him. He’d started swearing under his breath and stomped out to the porch to cool off, followed by Cas a few minutes later. Cas still remembered the drained look in his eyes as he looked at Cas.

“I feel like such a fucking dumbass, Cas. I know it’s not that hard, it shouldn’t be that hard, Sam makes it seem so easy…”

“Dean, you are learning. It’s okay if it takes you a little time. Sam has experience with ASL, doesn’t he?”

Dean had sighed and conceded this. “Yeah, he took some in college I think. I just… I never took any language, you know? Didn’t seem as important as woodshop or sex ed.” He grinned half-heartedly at his own joke.

Cas smiled back and pointed at him, signing o and k. You’re okay.

He repeated the signs, nodding. I’m okay.

I love you.

I love you too.

-----

After the pies were made and chicken noodle soup in the crock pot, Cas and Dean relinquished the kitchen to the kids and retired to the Dean cave. Sam and Eileen were cooped up in their room until they were allowed back into the living quarters by the kids. They didn’t want their creations critiqued or tasted before they were ready.

Cas waited patiently while Dean typed away on his phone, eyes narrowed to see the text. He refused to get reading glasses or enlarge the print on his phone, even though he sorely needed it. Cas kept his complaining about it to a minimum though because he liked the wrinkles around Dean’s eyes when he squinted. It reminded him that he got to grow old with Dean.

Dean looked up finally to see the fond look on his lover’s face and blushed, guilty. “Sorry, just checking with Kara.”

Cas nodded understandingly. As always. “The bar will survive without us for a few days.”

“I know.” Dean looked down, a little pleased he could admit it. “I just miss it.” Wow, to have a life he could miss, and to miss it from a peaceful holiday vacation surrounded by his family. It was… surreal.

“What do you want to watch?”

Dean sank back into the cushions, thinking. “Die Hard?”

Cas smiled at him. “Is that what you want to watch?”

Dean rolled his eyes and flipped around so he could lay his head in Cas’s lap. “No.” He admitted it grudgingly. Cas could read him like a book. It was inconvenient sometimes and other times, like now, it was nice. “Just seems like the thing to watch. Y’know, Christmas Eve.”

Cas shrugged. He put a hand in Dean’s hair, just like he liked it. Dean closed his eyes almost at his touch; he’d gotten much more comfortable letting his guard down like that lately. It had taken a while though, months of Dean staying rigid in his arms before he could relax quicker. “There are other things to watch.”

Dean reached a hand up and cupped Cas’s jaw with his hand. “Whaddyou wanna watch, sweetheart?”

Cas couldn’t help but turn his head to kiss Dean’s hand. Dean only called him sweetheart when he was feeling particularly tender, usually a few whiskeys in. This time he happened to be both. Cas loved it. “What about a double feature?”

“Hm,” Dean scrubbed his hand along Cas’s stubble and thought. Cas’s stubble was one his favorite physical things about him; sometimes Cas accused him of petting him like a cat. “What ones?”

“First… It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Dean cracked a grin and opened his eyes. “Clarence?”

Cas blushed. “I miss her sometimes.”

“Should I be worried?”

Cas tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “Considering she’s a demon? Probably.” Meg was banished to hell with the rest of the demons that had gotten out of the Empty, but given their old friendship with the Queen of Hell, that didn’t mean much for them.

“Psh, demon-shmemon. Been there, done that.” Dean pulled Cas down into a kiss, making him bend over into an awkward position that made Cas giggle. “Being a human is much sexier.”

“I agree.”

Dean waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively. “Wanna make it a triple feature? Little hanky panky for intermission?” Cas rolled his eyes, which Dean interpreted as a solid yes. “What is our second movie, anyway?”

“Huh.” Cas booped Dean on the nose. “Love Actually.”

A slow, dopey smile spread over Dean’s face. “Okay.” He paused, thinking about it. He’d pushed Cas into watching it years ago, when they were still just friends, by ‘accidentally’ adding it to his Netflix Queue and then letting Cas loose for movie night. He’d watched Cas for his reactions the whole time (and only gotten distracted by looking At Cas a few times). It had been a couple months ago when he told Cas about that. “Second favorite thing about being queer is being able to watch sappy shit like that.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “You were able to before, Dean.”

Dean ignored him. “Ask me what my favorite thing is,”

“What’s your favorite thing?”

“This.” He burrowed into Cas’s lap. A sap and a flirt.

“I thought you were gonna say Taylor Swift.” A dry witted old queen.

Dean snorted into his stomach. “That’s my third favorite.”

----

“Alright, gang, what do we say? Same place tomorrow morning, let’s say… 5?” He spun around to look at everyone, a wide smile on his face. Everyone seemed less enthused than him, although Sam seemed to think his situation was amusing.

“Dude, I’m not twelve, I’m not waking up at 5 am to open a few presents.”

“Like hell you aren’t!” Dean was smiling but it was less of a happy smile and more of a disbelieving one. Cas squeezed his arm then, stopped him from continuing his argument. Dean glanced at him and he just stared and gave him another squeeze.

Dean knew what that look meant. It meant ‘Dean, you’re overreacting again, calm down and think about it’ and also ‘stop being such an asshole’ and probably also ‘wow you’re eyes are really pretty’ knowing Cas.

He took a deep breath and pecked Cas on the lips. “Alright, princess, what time are you willing to drag your lazy ass out of bed?”

Claire smirked and sent a look at Kaia before leveling back at Dean. “Eleven.”

“Eight.”

“Ten. Final offer.”

Dean considered a moment then extended a hand. And shook. “You have yourself a deal.”

----

After they went to bed, they talked about it. These days, they always talked about it. It was one of the things Cas had brought home from his shrink appointments, and, as much as Dean hated to admit it, it worked. Helped.

Cas changed into pajamas and stretched, sending a look back at Dean. Dean rolled his eyes and started before Cas could prod him to. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him. “You hate the morning.”

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head, then pulled down his pants, because you should never have a conversation with your boyfriend with pants when you could have one without pants. These things he was learning. “Yeah, I do, it’s just… it’s Christmas.”

“Yes, it is. Isn’t it supposed to be a day of relaxation and fun?”

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to be exciting! Kids jumping on their parents bed at the asscrack of dawn to go to the tree, that kinda shit!” He shrugged, getting stupid worked up over it, he knew. He knew. Cas pulled him in by the hand and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Come on, tell me how I’m being an asshole.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “What part of ‘you do everything for love’ do you not understand?”

“How is me freaking out over Christmas morning ‘for love’?”

Cas didn’t flinch away from the self-deprecation. “You want them to have the Christmas you never got.”

Dean sank his head onto Cas’s shoulder, thinking about it. He was right, of course he was, he’s always right. Cas can read him like a book, even when Dean himself didn’t know what he was doing. “I guess so, yeah.”

“That’s admirable. But the Christmas they deserve, same as you did, is the one they want. Which might not be the one you wanted.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” he sighed heavily. More than he wanted his kids to have a motherfucking Christmas-card Christmas, he just didn’t want to be the ruin of it. Didn’t want to be John. “Sorry you have to shrink my head all the time.” Dean muttered softly. Cas pulled him away and kissed him, slow and soft.

“You pay me back tenfold.”

“You’ve got a shrink.”

“I meant with sex.” Cas met his eyes, face stoic as always. He would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for the glint in his eyes. It gave him away.

Dean threw back his head and laughed.

“Motherfucker.”

“I don’t have a mother.”

Dean shook his head, grin splitting open his face. Cas himself was trying to hold it together; he kept having to push down the corners of his mouth so he wouldn't break. Dean crowded closer, determined to ruin that composure. He walked his face right into Cas’s, only reaching for his lips once they were already bumping together. Then he fell into it, pulled Cas toward him to get more, settled into the easy mesh of their bodies until Cas ended up knocking his knee against the bedframe with a loud thump.

They dissolved into a pile of breathy giggles, too giddy and soft to work up the energy to get frisky. Dean just shrugged off his shirt and pulled Cas closer to him. “You know you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.” Dean told him seriously. He didn’t know where it came from; it was way too mushy to even possibly be from his mind. Maybe it was something about the holiday, and the family, and the safety that all of it brought.

“And so are you.” Cas replied simply, eyes glinting.

“Even though I’m an asshole sometimes?” He had to ruin it. Had to put in that little bit of doubt, of insecurity. But it wouldn’t be truthful if he just swallowed it, so he let it be said.

Cas kissed his nose, which made Dean feel like a child but also like something so special and precious he didn’t complain. “Even though you’re an asshole sometimes.”

Dean snorted out a laugh and chased Cas’s lips, nipping at him in offense. He sank onto the pillow and stared at Cas where he sat up. Cas just looked down at him, adopting that alien-like quality he could still summon. “Marry me.”

“What?”

Dean smiled fondly at him, for once not at all concerned. “I dunno, dunnit ‘boyfriends’ sound way too young to you? I mean you’re practically 5 million years old, you can’t have a boyfriend.”

Cas pursed his lips, seemingly deciding between protesting his age or agreeing to his proposal. He laid next to Dean during his decision, letting Dean watch him consider. “Suppose you’re right.” He shrugged, offering up a tiny grin.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“No, you’re supposed to say ‘Yes, yes, a thousand times yes’ and then burst into tears.”

“Dean.”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, that’s just how humans do it!”

“Okay, I take it back.”

Dean laughed and pulled him into a giddy kiss. “I love you.”

“I hope so, you’re marrying me.” Cas couldn’t contain his smile anymore; he stopped trying and just stared at Dean with the kind of wonder that used to make Dean feel uncomfortable. Now, it just made him feel lucky. “I love you too.”

---

A phone rang, a bizarre ringtone Dean didn’t recognize. Sam jumped up and ran off to the map room, apologizing quickly. “What the hell, man!” Dean yelled after him and sent a look at Eileen.

Hunter call, probably. She signed. Sure enough, Sam was in the other room picking up a landline with an annoyed tone.

He listened for a few minutes, asking follow-up questions before Dean heard him say, “Rugaru, yeah, that’s what it sounds like. Yeah, you gotta burn ‘em. Nasty, sorry. Yeah, no problem. Good luck.” He hung up and headed back into the room, signing and talking. “Sorry, hunting doesn’t care about holidays.”

“So glad we’re not doing that anymore.” Dean sighed happily, wrapping an arm around Cas. Sam smiled at him and nodded.

“Me too. I had to burn those clothes after the Rugaru thing.” He shuddered, the memory of the stench enough to make him happy for an empty stomach.

Eileen shrugged. Never had to deal with one of those.

“Lucky.” Dean promised her. Cas nudged him, nodding toward Jack. He was shaking a wrapped box with his name on it, a look of deep concentration on his face.

“Whaddya think it is, kid?”

Jack shook his head. “No idea. Can I open it?”

“Go for it.”Jack tore into it, no regard for the painted newspaper (yes, it was recycled, Cas and Sam both agreed) as he got to the box underneath. “Open the card first, heathen!” Dean joked, pointing out the card tucked onto the bottom of the thing. Jack scowled but complied, opening the card to find a nice note from him and Cas and a key taped in.

“What’s it for?”

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, excited about this part. He had been the one who came up with it, after all. “Our place. We wanted to make it official, since you been, you know, visiting around a lot lately.” Dean turned a little pink in the cheeks. Jack had indeed been drifting between Sam and Eileen’s, Jody’s, his and Cas’s, Donna’s, and Claire and Kaia’s. But he always spent the most time at his and Cas’s house, trying to copy Dean and always ending up enjoying Cas’s hobbies more. Sam had told him a while back that Jack confided he wasn’t sure he was welcome there, not for the long term. So Dean wanted to let him know he was welcome. Except now, looking at the uncertainty on Jack’s face, he wasn’t so sure that’s what the kid wanted. “Uh, you know, you can just spend however much you want with us, but… you know.” He poked Cas desperately in the side, trying to get him to save the sentence.

“We’d like you to have a ‘home base’ with us, Jack. However often you are willing to stay.” Cas said simply. He squeezed Dean’s knee to reassure him.

Jack looked up at them with a stunned expression. “Does this mean I can take out the trash? And do the dishes?” He looked thrilled at the idea.

Dean chuckled. “We never would’ve stopped you before, kid. But yeah, sure.”

Sam cleared his throat, offering a smile to Jack. “That better not mean you stop coming around here though, Jack.” When Dean had called and told him his idea for the present, he’d almost teared up. His brother had come a long way with Jack. Still, he wanted to reassure his kid that he always had a home with him and Eileen too, no matter how busy he was. (And nowadays, between online classes, cataloguing lore onto an online database, and being the New Bobby, he was really busy.)

Jack jumped up, clearly about to go for a round of hugs, but Dean waved him off. “Keep going, you haven’t even gotten through one present yet.”

Jack grinned and complied, taking a bit more time with the box. He pulled out a Scooby Doo phone case, marked for Extra Protection, with Scooby and Shaggy on the back.

“That one was my idea.” Cas told him proudly.

“I helped.” Dean piped up.

“You did not.”

“I helped you pick which case!”

“You wanted to get one with Fred and Daphne.”

“Well, yeah-”

“Not everyone has a crush on them like you do, Dean.”

Dean flushed scarlet and went silent, pouting. Jack ignored their bickering and beamed up at Castiel. “I love it, dad. Thank you.”

Cas looked like he could’ve gone for round 4 with the Empty with how happy he was, but he just nodded. “Of course.”

The rest of the gifts went by with lots of shouting, laughing, smiling, and hugging. And a few tears all around. Dean got Claire a flamethrower without consulting anyone, and Cas got Kaia a rose and lavender scented pillow fragrance (“It helps ensure good dreams.”), which prompted a comment from Claire (“How’d he know you’re a pillow princess?”) that everyone pretended not to hear. Dean got Eileen a Woojer, a wearable speaker that lets you feel music’s vibrations in your body (“Because no one should have to live without Zepp available to them 24/7. Also, now you can cry with me when the sad music cues come on Dr. Sexy,” - one of their favorite activities together).

Dean jerked a head at Sam to get him out of the room, so Sam snatched his gift while Dean detached himself from Cas. They went to the kitchen, sending a couple soft looks back at their family gathered around the tree with all their new possessions. It was nice, and they both felt it.

“So, uh, Sammy, I been thinking a lot about what to get you for Christmas and everything. I didn’t want to go with the classic-”

“Skin mag and candy bar?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, damn, now I feel bad.” Sam mimed hiding his present (obviously bigger than a skin mag) behind his back, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“I finally got money, you know? Not a lot of it, but… I got a house and fucking, Cas, and… anyway. We’re finally doing Christmas and I wanted to do it right. And I want you to be as off-the-wall happy as I am, dude.”

Sam smiled widely, not even able to come up with a little-brother bitchy comment to that. “Thanks, Dean, that means a lot.”

Dean cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, so, I, um, I wanna pay for your school.” Sam opened his mouth to protest but Dean held up a hand. “No, listen, I know you’ve been stressed about it, and I know you’ve been working really hard on the hunting catalogue stuff. That shit’s important. And I can pay for some crappy internet school classes. No offense.”

Sam laughed and pulled his brother into a hug. “Thank you, man.” He said, muffled into Dean’s shoulder. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Dean patted Sam on the back, expecting Sam to pull away, but he didn’t. “Uh, Sammy.” Sam ignored him. “Sam. Dude, get off me. I want my present.”

Sam snorted and finally pulled away. Dean tactfully ignored the wetness of his eyes in favor of snatching the gift from Sam’s hands. He tore it open with all the grace of a rabid dog, unveiling a thick, leather bound scrapbook. “A scrapbook? Really?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “That’s gay, even for you.”

Sam pulled a bitchface. “Who sucks their boyfriend’s dick every chance he gets?”

Dean flipped him off. No need to argue, Sam would see right through him. It was true though. Not that he would know. Dean flipped open the cover and grinned immediately. It was Sam and Dean as kids, in a mall photo booth, being dumbasses with their tongues stuck out and their faces all crazy. Dean mooned the camera in one, and you could see the psychological scarring on Sam’s face in the next picture. A little note slapped on the page next to it said “I have more nightmares about this than about hell”. Dean laughed, glancing up at Sam before he continued. Sam’s eyes were hopeful with a glint of mischief. That was never good.

Dean flipped through the next pages. It showed them through the years, all with little notes of Sam’s internal monologue. “Grumpy because he hasn’t gotten his coffee this morning” “That’s for the itching powder incident, asshole” and more and more. There were even some pictures in there of just him that Sam had obviously taken without Dean’s knowledge, pictures of him sleeping with comments about his snoring, pictures of him singing obnoxiously in the car with jokes about ear damage. Pictures of him and Bobby shooting the shit with notes about the pair of “old men.”

Then the pictures started to change. There started to be pictures of him and Cas. Mostly just him and Cas. Standing, talking, watching TV together (this one says “angel’s first porno!” with a bunch of hearts next to it). Comments talking about personal space (“he never stands that close to ME”) and the like. One of Dean in Bobby’s panic room where Dean has a speech bubble drawn on his serious face that says “Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that, I got laid” and then just a selfie of Sam pulling his bitchiest bitch face.

Dean turned a little red at that, recognizing his complete obliviousness at the time, and kept going. The pictures continue, lots of fun-loving pictures of them on the road and the occasional movie or bar night, Charlie and Kevin and even Crowley and Rowena. But without fail, there is picture after picture of him and Cas sharing a publicly private moment, all with little snippy comments from his little brother. More than three of those comments are “Just kiss already!!!” Dean finally looks up to see Sam crossing his arms and staring at him with a smug, self-satisfied smile.

“When the hell did you make this?” Dean sputtered. These are a lot of pictures, Sam must’ve kept them on his crappy cell phones for years.

Sam blinked. “I started it in 2006.”

“No, I mean, when did you go back and add all these bitchy little comments?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “2006.”

Dean blinked right back. “But you… you’ve got all these dumbass comments about me and Cas.”

His smartass little brother started to smile then, a big shit-eating grin he wanted to smack off his dumb face. “Yeah, man, you weren’t exactly smooth about it.”

“Hey, fuck you, what does that mean?” It was said in jest, but Dean’s volume control went out the window.

“Dean? Sam? Everything okay?” Cas’s voice reached them from the other room. Dean sent an offended glance back at Sam before answering.

“Yeah babe, I’m just finding out how much I wanna punch my brother in here,”

“Okay, well, leave it till tomorrow, it’s Christmas.”

“Nah, isn’t fighting with your family a holiday tradition?”

“I think you’re right. Okay, continue.”

Now Sam was just watching him with such a knowing expression it made him annoyed. He was watching him flirt with his boyfriend- no, technically, husband. Oh yeah. He lowered his voice back down to a reasonable volume to talk to just his brother again.

“Yeah, so, I should also tell you-” He closed the book and set it on the counter. “We uh… Cas and I, we’re gonna get married.” He looked down at his feet and blushed a bit, could feel the rising heat in his cheeks. Honestly, he couldn’t believe he was saying that. He was getting married. To Cas. “Obviously, you know, we can’t really, with one of us being a legally dead terrorist and the other a former angel in the body of a missing family man,” Dean and Sam both laughed at that. “But I asked him and he said yes.”

“You asked him?” Sam seemed more surprised by that than the actual news. Dean shrugged and nodded. “Wow. Congrats, Dean, really.” Sam pulled him in for another hug, which Dean happily returned. “Can I walk you down the aisle?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “If anyone’s getting walked down the aisle, it’s Cas. He might get distracted by a butterfly halfway down, he’ll need the guide.”

Sam grinned. “Come on, it’s not like you weren’t always gonna give me away.”

Dean frowned at him. “Me? Why?”

“Dean, you’re the closest thing to a parent I ever had.” Sam says it like it’s obvious, like he isn’t forgetting about-

“You had Dad.”

Sam raised his eyebrows and laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, making his big brother look him in the eyes as he repeated it. “You’re the closest thing to a parent I ever had.”

Dean wasn’t gonna get choked up. No, he wasn’t, damn it. He’d made it this far in the visit without getting choked up, he could-

“Sam?”

Eileen appeared around the corner, making them both realize how long they’d been away from the rest. Sam looked at her apologetically, signing Sorry. Dean was just telling me he and Cas are getting married!

Eileen turned to Dean, barely giving Dean time to process a quick congratulations sign before she enveloped him in a hug. Dean laughed and hugged her back, pulling away to sign thank you. At least he knew how to do that.

Big church wedding? Eileen teased.

“Only if Cas wears a poofy dress,” Dean joked back. He only knew the signs for Cas and dress, but between that and lip-reading, Eileen got it. She shook her head with a grin and grabbed Sam’s hand. They all went back into the living room and to the rest for another round of hot chocolate and a marathon of all the Home Alone movies, per request.

------

Dean snuggled into Cas’s side and ruffled a hand through Jack’s hair and he tried to think of something more perfect than having his family all together for Christmas. He couldn’t.

#destiel secret santa #secret santa 2020 #fanfic #destiel #deancas #christmas fluff #theangelwiththewormstache #my writing #destiel secret santa 2020 #fluff #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #eileen leahy #jack kline #kaia rieves #claire novak

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smiley5494 · 4 years ago

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of panicked paranoia and pointy swords

Merthur Week Day 3: “You’re hurt. Please, just let me heal it.” + Hurt/Comfort

Read it also on ao3

It took three days of Merlin’s obsessive checking and double-checking before Arthur took pity on their guests and dragged his Court Sorcerer away.

It was at that time of year when Arthur decided it would be a good idea to let a bunch of highly trained people from all over Albion enter Camelot with weapons and fight for prestige and fame. It was at that time of year when Merlin always got paranoid and worried over the littlest things. Everyone entering the tournament was inspected and personally vetted by Merlin. As Court Sorcerer, he had the power to inspect the weapons people brought, and he had the ability to do it himself.

It took three days of Merlin’s obsessive checking and double-checking before Arthur took pity on their guests and dragged his Court Sorcerer away.

For the next week—while people were arriving and checking in with Leon—Arthur distracted Merlin with picnics and whenever he couldn’t, he got the rest of the round table and Morgana’s help in keeping Merlin too busy to obsess over the what-ifs.

Somehow, possibly thanks to a long-overdue streak of good luck, Arthur managed to keep Merlin distracted until the tournament began. Then there was nothing he could do, his job was to compete as well as he could and hopefully secure Camelot a win.

Arthur fought as well as he always did—anyone who claimed he was distracted by Merlin’s official Court Sorcerer outfit was defeated with surprising prejudice—and quickly qualified his way into the finale. As he was competing, it fell to a council of judges from each competing kingdom to make sure no one was cheating; the judges from Camelot were Morgana, Merlin and Gwaine (who’d broken his arm in a Tavern brawl over whether or not Merlin was worthy of Court Sorcerer, Arthur was so proud of Gwaine he rescinded the lifelong ban from the local tavern).

It was the finale and Arthur’s opponent—Sir Cadell of Gawant—was close to twice his size, and carried a blade nearly as thick as Arthur’s skull. All the blades were blunted—it was the one thing that Arthur didn’t distract Merlin from doing—so he was in no danger of getting cut open. That thought didn’t make the fact that this man looked like he could rip Arthur apart limb-from-limb any easier to deal with.

The round started as rounds always did, with a mutual battle cry and the clash of swords against swords.

Cadell was stronger than Arthur in brute force, but Arthur was smaller and faster, and they were evenly matched for the most part. Arthur spent most of his time dodging and striking strategically at exposed areas—namely the knees and neck. Cadell seemed to have a similar idea, and his blade was far longer than Arthur was used to fighting against.

It was for that reason that the hit connected, and Arthur forced himself to stay conscious as he blinked stars from his vision. He dodged another hefty swing and found himself swaying. Cadell raised his sword up and Arthur could tell he was going in for another swing.

Arthur flung himself to one side, stuck out his legs and tripped the larger knight. Sir Cadell of Gawant went down in a heap of limbs and Arthur put his sword at the man’s throat—a killing blow if they were sharpened.

The round ended and the adrenaline left Arthur’s body. He stumbled, swaying more dangerously than before. Somehow, possibly magic, Merlin was by his side.

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin sighed, “c’mon, let me take a look.”

“No,” Arthur protested, “I need to—”

“You’re hurt,” Merlin said pragmatically, “Please, just let me heal it.”

Arthur tilted his head to let Merlin see, and winced when Merlin’s expert fingers found the painful lump on his head. Merlin’s healing magic always felt cold, but not freezing—pleasant in a way Arthur couldn’t articulate.

“Marry me.” He said instead, and Merlin froze.

“Arthur,” he replied carefully, “are you being serious?”

“Yeah,” Arthur decided, he’d had plans goddamnit, now this was how he was proposing. “Will you marry me, Merlin?”

Merlin choked on his breath, and Arthur looked up, suddenly afraid that he’d say no.

“Arthur—” Merlin’s voice broke, “Yes, yes you clotpole, of course—I wanted to propose, damn you—it’s a yes!”

Arthur met his fiancé’s eyes, and the two of them met in a searing kiss. The world could’ve ended and Arthur wouldn’t notice—too wrapped up in Merlin to hear the cheers of the crowd.

#merthurweek2020 #day 3 #Day 3: “You’re hurt. Please just let me heal it.” + Hurt/Comfort #proposal #merthur #bbc merlin #my writing #smiley speaks #my fanfic #fanfiction #writing #tournament #tw injury #hurt/comfort #of kings and magic merlin and arthur

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tessiete · 4 years ago

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So, my mum sent me a prompt, and I...I wrote it. Still working on those in my inbox, but mum’s come first, ya know?

She picked Spotify #12 (Love You Back, by Metric), and she wanted Luke and Qui-Gon bonding. I tried, mum, but Korkie just shows up all the time.

Love, your daughter.

LIFT UP, AND FALL AWAY

Luke travels to Dantooine by himself.

It’s been weeks since Bespin, weeks since he’d been released from medical supervision aboard the Dreamless Sleep and weeks since he’d left all its well-meaning but overbearing clinicians behind. He knows he should go back to Yoda, or hunt for the bounty hunter who took Han, or help Leia rally the scattered rebel forces back into order, but instead, he makes his escape.

There is little enough to recommend the planet. It is an outer rim world with no industry or economy to speak of. There are no cities, or monuments, the largest settlements boasting hardly more than a few thousand people and recent rumours suggest a small but growing number of them may be Imperial sympathisers which doesn’t bode well for him: The Miracle of Yavin; The First Hope of the Alliance. He can’t imagine anything like that will be met with particular enthusiasm here.

But even beyond political allegiances, it is a distinctly unappealing place being both unremarkable and largely unremarked. It is off of any useful trade route. It has few interplanetary allies, and only one weak judicial body to govern the entirety of its surface. In fact, the best thing Luke can think to say of it is that it is nearly as far away from Tatooine as it is possible for anything to be.

And far from Dagobah, too.

He brings his X-Wing down in the middle of a grassy plain, and leaves Artoo to run diagnostics on the ship. It’s his second (since he’d abandoned the first in Cloud City), and so lacking in all the alterations he’d so carefully programmed and calibrated into his previous fighter. He’s trying not to think of it as a nuisance, but an opportunity. A second chance. A second ship. A second hand - he smirks at this, and adjusts the blaster at his hip. He needs a second blade.

But there is something else that he must do first.

The sun is high as he sets off, only a small ration pack slung across his chest, and the blaster with him. Artoo’s whistling complaints grow fainter as he goes, until they are drowned completely beneath the whispers of swaying grasses. They are all turned brown. It is late in the year, and so they are filled with the gossip of an entire season. They brush against his legs, eager to touch this visitor and pass on rumours of his presence to their brethren, the trees, whose voices are heard in the rustle of leaves, then carried off on the wind in birdsong.

In the distance, he sees a herd of grazing iriaz, but they move off long before he is close enough to comprehend them as anything more than silent shadows, silhouetted against the sky. They leave prints - wide tracks scratched into dusty earth, and little pools where they have kicked up some water to sustain them. Common havoc kites circle lazily overhead, riding the updrafts on stiff, unyielding wings. They too, take no interest in Luke, and soon disappear in search of prey. The drone of some insect rises and falls and vanishes, its source remaining unseen. It seems to Luke that all of Dantooine is of a beautiful, but uncurious nature, content to live and let live without extending either welcome or censure to those who cross its lands.

It is in this manner, unencumbered by anything but the weight of his thoughts, that Luke finds himself only a few hours later passing beneath the boughs of ancient blba trees to arrive on the doorstep of a tidy stone cottage in the middle of the Khoonda plains. The base is a round structure, supporting another smaller yet equally round structure on top, like buckets of sand packed tight and upturned upon each other. Where they meet, there is a ring of wood slats, angled steeply downward as shingles to protect from run off, the door an old fashioned vertical slide that folds over itself as it springs from the floor to hide away in the crossbeam above. He knocks, and when a man with blue eyes, and gold hair threaded silver answers, Luke knows why Ben’s ghost has asked him to come.

“I’m looking for Kryze,” he says.

“That’s me,” the man replies, his brow furrowed. He keeps one hand on the door, and the other braced against the wall within to lend him strength should he need it, but there is no fear in his voice, despite the blaster he’s clearly noted.

“I’ve been sent to find you,” Luke says, and Kryze sighs.

“Well,” he says, shoulders sagging, and his body shifting to grant Luke admittance. “You’d better come inside.”

The space is warm, the amber light of the afternoon filtering through rippled glass windows to dance over cluttered walls, and overfull shelves. There are plants, bursting from their pots like Tusken black powder on fire. Paintings cover every inch of the wall not taken up with windows or furniture, and canvases lie stacked atop one another in various crevices and corners where space has run out. Books - proper old volumes printed on flimsi, and in some cases actual paper, stand front to back to front in orderly lines high in their cramped cases, regimented troops of education and exploration. Lower down are curiously bent sticks, twisted knots of dry grass, beetle wings, the shed scales of a rosy drayk, leaves of various size and colour, and a small river stone, smooth and black and streaked with red.

“Various treasures,” Kryze explains, as Luke is lost in his perusal. “You can touch them, if you like. Shall I put a kettle on?”

He wipes his hands upon an old rag, leaving streaks of blue and green, tossing it down beside a murky pitcher of water, and several brushes, and it is then that Luke realises he has caught him in the middle of something personal and profound.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” he says. “If you’re busy, I can wait. Or come back. Or -”

“Nonsense,” says Kryze, smiling. The expression is familiar, and Luke smiles back, feeling some common thread strum between them. “I ought to start on lastmeal anyway. We’re having muja dai-ungo for pudding. A favourite, you see, and yet I am the sole chef in this endeavour, since the other beasts which live here are prone to eating the jelly and leaving none for the glaze.”

It is some joke which Luke is not entirely certain of, so he smiles politely but doesn’t laugh as Kryze draws him into the cramped cookroom at the side. Water is set to boil on an ancient hot top, and Kryze sweeps aside a variety of holopads and half-finished string weaves to make space on the countertop. He pulls down two ceramplast cups, chipped and cracked, and smirks ruefully at his guest.

“A hazard of my unfortunate circumstances, you see. They say no plan survives contact with the enemy, and I take it to mean nothing at all survives contact with children. Everything here is somewhat the worse for wear, I’m afraid.” But there is nothing except long-suffering amusement in his voice, as though his pretensions of civility are an easy and happy price to pay for the benefit of such injury.

A shriek, followed by a chorus of laughter tumbles in from outside, and Kryze opens the window for a better view. Luke, overly alert to danger and almost surprised by joy, cannot help but duck his head to look, too.

A woman in long skirts races across the yard, followed by a girl brandishing a stick who looks only a few years younger than Luke, though she feels lightyears away.

“Wait!” calls another voice, high and pleading. As the first two cavort out of sight, a third girl appears, only to stop at the call, and turn back as the fourth, and final member of the party staggers into view. A boy, no older than seven or so, sets himself down upon the ground, crossing his arms in displeasure as the girl walks back to soothe him. “They run too fast,” Luke hears him lament. “And I have lost the poesy you made me.”

Kryze lets out a breath of laughter, assured there is no danger except perhaps to his son’s vanity, and returns to his pot, measuring out leaves and water with equal care. Luke watches the girl give her brother a hug, and coax him off in pursuit of the others.

“My eldest, Jinn,” Kryze explains. “She’s a wild thing, like her mother. And Mav, too, but with a softer heart. Corim is the youngest, and most civilised of the bunch. Thank the stars, or I’m afraid I’d be terribly overrun out here. Do you take anything in your tea?”

“Um, no,” Luke says, thinking of the heavy spices of Tatooine brews.

But the drink placed before him is a thin and watery kind of thing, of a pale pink colour. He can see the ceramplast through the liquid, and raises it to his lips skeptically.

Kryze watches him with that same kind amusement he seems to regard everything.

“It is a local variety of my own invention,” he explains. “Made from dried diabolix berries. Just the dried ones, mind you. The ones off the bush are deadly.”

Luke freezes, the rim of the cup pressed to his lips, the mild sweetness of sun still on his tongue, and Kryze laughs. He’s come here for a purpose, but has instead found himself trapped with a kind of domesticated eccentric.

He sets his tea down as politely as he can, while Kryze doesn’t hesitate to drink deeply from his own cup.

“I don’t want to be rude,” he says. “But I actually came here to deliver a message. From Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

At this, Kryze finally stills, his eyes meeting Luke’s with an apprehensive solemnity. “Of course,” he says. “What news?”

“He’s dead.”

The cup settles upon its saucer with only a faint chime of protest.

“Ah,” says Kryze.

In the following silence, guilt sweeps in, and soon Luke finds himself scrambling for the frayed edges of comfort and sympathy.

“It was fast,” he says. “And he knew what he was doing. He saved my life, and my friends. Vader - do you know anything that’s going on in the galaxy right now?”

That quiet, aching smirk curls upwards once more.

“Of course,” says Kryze. “Why else would I be way out here?”

“I’m sorry,” Luke says.

Kryze stands to clear the table of their tea.

“You say you’ve left your ship a few hours west? It is much too late for you to return to it now. Stay. Eat with us. Have a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, I should like to show you something.”

It is impossible for Luke to refuse this hospitality, not after he’s made such a mess of his own reason for coming here. He owes Kryze this much, at least.

“Of course,” he says. “If it isn’t any problem.”

“No problem at all,” Kryze insists. “There is an orchard down the path. If you follow the screams and laughter you should find it all right. The girls will collect you in time for latemeal.”

Thus dismissed, Luke removes his pack, but keeps his blaster close, heading for the door. At the threshold, he is overcome by a need to know for certain, and he turns back for one last look at the mysterious Kryze.

“Can I just ask,” he begins. “How did you know him? Obi-Wan, I mean. Why did he send me here to talk to you?”

His back to the door, Luke almost misses the reply carried back on the ghost of laughter.

“Oh, that,” says Kryze. “Well, after all, I am his son.”

The sun of Dantooine is much too reserved to intrude, and so it is to the clatter of dishware, and eager voices that Luke wakes the next morning. He stretches, and moves from his room to the sonics across the hall he thinks without attracting notice, but he is met, upon his exit, with the startled aspect of the youngest Kryze listening at the door.

Corim’s jaw snaps shut, and he frowns before declaring quite firmly that, “I wasn’t spying. I was only checking to see if you hadn’t died in the night you slept in so late.”

Luke grins. “Not dead yet, I don’t think.”

“Well, if you don’t hurry, there shan’t be any flatcakes left, no matter what Bebu says.”

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Luke assures him, and he stalks away entirely unconvinced.

Despite this threat, the table in the main room is still heaped with food when Luke emerges, fresher and more relaxed than he’s been in ages. The Kryzes are already packed tight around the table, but Mav and Jinn happily bunch over to make room for Luke between them. Mav, especially, goes out of her way to fill his glass, and pile his plate with the last of the muja preserves left over from the night before.

“Hey, that was my share,” complains Jinn, her mouth full. “You’ve already had seconds today.”

Mav blushes, and ducks her head, but her retort is vehement for all that her embarrassment is public. “We have a guest,” she says. “And your face is so full of cake you wouldn’t even taste the jelly anyway!”

“I didn’t get seconds!” Corim chimes in.

“Mother!” Jinn demands, taking her appeal to a higher court.

“Jinn, relax,” says Wyla, supremely unbothered, sipping her kaf and reading off her holopad. “Mav, be nice. Corim, I have a treat for you later.”

“S’not fair,” Jinn grumbles into her plate, but Wyla reaches over to pat her hand sympathetically.

“If you’re looking for the worst villain to blame, then examine your father’s plate. He’s more than enough jelly on that cake to last us to next harvest.”

At this, Kryze looks up to shoot his daughter a smug grin, before shoveling a heavily laden portion of flatcake into his mouth. Jelly, piled too high to survive the journey, tumbles from his fork to splatter against the flat of his plate as emphasis of his unjust indulgence.

“Delicious,” he declares. Jinn rolls her eyes, while Luke smuggles in a bite of his own portion.

It is tasty, both sweet and tart and satisfyingly thick. The meal continues through several more hotly negotiated contracts, and concludes with Wyla and Mav packing up the old speeder with the spoils of their orchard, and Jinn agreeing to mind Corim, much to her delight and his wary dismay. Kryze, it is announced, has business to attend to with Luke, and he does not expect their return before nightfall.

“Bring your rucksack,” he says, as they prepare to leave. “It is a long walk, and I shall want for snacks on the way.”

They set off with the sun on their faces, passing once more beneath the blba trees, the little cottage growing more and more distant as they make their way forth on the plains. Luke trusts that Kryze has some set destination in mind, but after the first hour he privately wonders if his guide has been distracted, and has brought them to wander in admiration of the land.

“That there is an extremely rare simbyloona butterfly,” he says, gesturing with a long wooden staff at the erratic path of the insect. “You ever been to Konkiv? Or Sriluur?”

“No,” says Luke.

“They have butterflies there,” explains Kryze. “What about Endor’s forest moon?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, if you ever go, keep an eye out,” he says, pushing on.

The world seems much more alive with Kryze today. Longhoppers leap from the grass as he wades through, warbling tiktiks swoop over head to catch them. One of unique boldness lands upon the top of Kryze’s staff when he stops to show Luke the little dirt mounds of puppi mice beneath their feet. He smiles, and extends a finger to the bird which cocks its head from side to side before giving in to temptation and hopping upon Kryze’s outstretched hand.

“Hello, there,” he sings, soft and low. “Aren’t you a brave thing?”

He holds the bird forth so that Luke may have a closer look at the colourful plumage before lifting it higher to the sky to release it.

“Off you go, then,” he says. “Beautiful animal, isn’t it? Usually quite shy though. You must bring good luck.”

Luke watches the course of the bird, and hardly knows he’s replied until he’s already said, “Your father said there was no such thing.”

“Did he?” Kryze beams. “Well, he always had such odd notions.”

“Unlike you?” Luke asks. It’s not that he’s insulted by the man’s amusement at a dead man, but it does seem somewhat hypocritical in light of the bird, and the paintings, and the tea.

But Kryze takes no offense, only quirking an eyebrow to say, “Where do you think I got it from?”

For all his evident curiosity this challenge seems to be exactly the sort of query Kryze was waiting for, and he begins to tell Luke all manner of things about himself as they move ever on towards the horizon.

“My mother was the Duchess of Mandalore,” he says. “A pacifist, though you’d never know it by the way the galaxy remembers us. And for a year she was under the protection of my father. They fell in love, as tragically and impossibly as any young person could wish, and when they parted my father left confident in his ignorance, and my mother was left with me. It’s difficult to say who came out ahead in that.”

“I thought the Jedi couldn’t love,” says Luke.

“And whoever told you that nonsense?” asks Kryze. “You told me my father died saving you, and he cannot have done that for anything less than the purest love.”

Luke says nothing to this, only twists a knot of grass off in his hand and releases it to the wind. They walk in strained silence until it becomes comfortable again, and Luke exhales in resignation.

“I only just met my father,” he says. “He tried to kill me.”

Kryze looks at him, then stops to look at him harder.

“Oh, I see it now,” he says. “You’re a Skywalker. I might have guessed it, but I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice these days.”

“Are you a Jedi, too?”

“No, no,” he scoffs. “Nothing so serious as all that. But I know enough to be able to tell the blaze of a Skywalker from the general inferno of starfire. I know enough to be recognised in turn.”

“Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from the Empire?”

Kryze grimaces at this, and turns back to the path ahead. A shadow looms, rising out of the ground, and he turns their course to that.

“What makes you think I’m hiding?” he asks. Then, before Luke can parse the riddle in this, he continues. “I used to be in the Alliance,” he says. “Wyla, too. We ran intelligence rings, and sabotage missions. We fought. Even had more than a few close calls with the Empire. But at some point, around the time that Wyla found out about Jinn, we decided that was it. We’d done our part. And when the Rebellion left their base here, we stayed behind.”

“The Empire still exists,” says Luke.

“And it will not be my hand which stops it,” counters Kryze. Then, as the shadow takes the form of a ruined temple sprung from the earth itself, he speaks again. “My parents both died for peace. I think that I owe it to them to live for it. Here we go.”

Vines cling to ancient stone, while tangles of brush climb up and over crumbled walls and gaping cracks in the side of the old building. The trees grow thickly here, still green and lush despite the lateness of the year.

“A wellspring,” explains Kryze, without Luke’s having to ask.

He guides him past hollowed out chambers pierced only by shafts of dazzling sunlight breaking through fractured ceilings, and bouncing off shallow, invisible puddles within. Animals chirrup in the brush, and birds nest in all the little nooks and crannies of decaying architecture. Though it is long abandoned, there is still something light and sacred about the space. The air is fresher here.

“This is a Jedi place,” breathes Luke.

“It was,” agrees Kryze. “Long before the Empire. Come along. There’s something else.”

Beneath a fall of greenery and fallen rocks lies an opening.

“What is it?” asks Luke.

“Caves,” says Kryze. Luke looks at him, still uncertain. “I have noticed that you carry no lightsaber,” he explains.

Luke flexes the fingers of his false hand, feeling the pistons and levers firing in time with his desire, but different from the muscles and sinew of his flesh. It cannot be observed by casual inspection, but somehow Kryze seems to know.

“I lost it,” says Luke.

“Then you shall have to build another.” He gestures again to the cave mouth, and Luke braces himself to go in. He shifts the blaster on his hip, checking the settings. “You won’t need that in there,” says Kyze. “There’s nothing inside but old ghosts.”

He is halfway to moving when he hesitates, and leans back. With his eyes fixed on Kryze’s, Luke unstraps the holster from his side, and hands it and his blaster into the hands of Ben Kenobi’s son. He goes into the caves alone.

It is dark inside, and there is a chill and the sound of water dripping into water somewhere far away. Luke steps carefully. Though the ground is rocky and uneven, his steps are certain and he does not falter. After several minutes of silent exploration, with no strange whispers or startling movement, the fear he entered with begins to fall away, leaving Luke’s mind open to the growing threat of boredom. There is nothing here. He sighs, and turns to leave only to discover the way out has grown just as dark as the path going farther in. He has no torch, no light, and no sabre to guide his path, but his irritation blazes bright enough to guide him and he sets off the way he came.

When he has walked more than twice the distance he came, and then gone back to walk the distance again, he decides there is little he can do but sit and hope that Kryze will come for him. Surely, he hasn’t brought him here to starve after feeding him so thoroughly only hours ago. And for all that Luke feels helpless in the inky pits of the caves, Kryze had not lied when he said his blaster would be of no use. There is no one here but Luke.

He sets himself down against a stone, the seat of his pants made uncomfortably damp by the floor, and quite to his own surprise, drifts off.

When he wakes, there is light.

All around him are outcroppings of crystals in various shapes and colours. Some shine more brightly than the others, and some glow so fervently it is as though they sing. He reaches out to touch one, and the rest all clamour in harmony to meet him.

Every thought of escape is eclipsed by the beauty in the caves, and Luke trails his fingers over each crystal that calls out, following their voices deeper and deeper into the caves. Until, in the deepest chamber, on the shores of a vast underground lake, he is met by something which glows brighter than all the crystals combined.

For a moment, he is compelled to shield his eyes, as the flare bursts forth in effulgent magnificence before dying down to live within the confines of an unrecognisable form.

It is a man with long hair, a kind smile, and wearing the robes of a Jedi.

“Hello, little one,” it calls out, and Luke raises his hand in reply. “I was wondering when I might have the chance to meet you.”

“Do I know you?” asks Luke, stepping closer.

The ghost chuckles. “Not as such,” he replies. “But I know you. You are the student of my student, after all. I am Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“You were Master Obi-Wan’s master!”

“And Master Yoda’s, too,” brags the ghost, enjoying the awe of Luke’s epiphany, but this is a boast too far, and Luke’s face falls into lines of skepticism.

“That can’t be true,” he says. “Master Yoda is much too old to have been taught by you.”

“Ah, and must education end with the cessation of breath? Cannot knowledge outlast us? Cannot learning outlive us?”

“Can it?” asks Luke.

“We are more than what we do in life, my boy,” says Qui-Gon. He sits upon one of the larger stones which border the edge of the lake, leaving space beside him for Luke. “And there is much to be learned by death, for those brave enough to seek it.”

Luke frowns, and moves to join him, trying to puzzle out the ghost’s philosophy.

“Are you suggesting -” he looks to the Jedi for confirmation, not convinced of his conclusion. “You’re not saying that we should just give in, are you? That we should just accept death when we could stop it?”

“Not at all,” says Qui-Gon, and Luke relaxes upon the stone. “It’s good that you fight. It’s important you fight. Don’t rush to death in the vain hope that it will bring you easy satisfaction. Life and death - they are balanced. They are equal. And there is much value to be found in both.”

“Is that why Ben let go?” Luke asks.

“Obi-Wan was wise to concede his life,” says Qui-Gon. “But that does not make his loss any more bearable for you. Or for me. And though I am glad to be with him once again, I will always wish he’d had more time with you.”

There is a smear of clay grown dry upon his knee, and he brushes it off with one hand.

“Me, too,” he says to the ghost.

“But that is Obi-Wan’s lesson for you,” says Qui-Gon, his voice ringing clear across the lake. “He knows what it means to let go, but I -” he says. “I am here to show you how to hold on.”

And in the crystalline light of the caves, and the glittering warmth of the ghost, Luke learns of his lineage, and his family, and all the ways in which he is never alone. Qui-Gon speaks of the past. He tells him of a little boy who struggled and overcame, and a little boy who struggled and fell, and how neither of them loved the other any less. He tells the story of an ancient Order, and a girl queen; of a duchess, and a knight; of children lost to their parents, and parents lost to themselves. He tells of blood, and consequences, and desire, and regret, and joy, and sorrow, and how it all lives on in memory, and in stories, and in relics, and in paintings, and in river stones, and in muja dai-ungo, and in him.

“There is nothing lost,” says Qui-Gon. “So long as you choose to remember it. Neither life, nor love, nor people. Hold on. And don’t let go.”

And as he fades away into darkness, the song of a single crystal cries out, drawing Luke up, and up, and out of the black of the caves into the evening sun.

At the mouth of the hollow, standing with the light in his hair, and Ben Kenobi in his eyes, stands Kiorkicek Kryze. In his hands, a sabre, the kyber inside calling out.

And when Luke touches the hilt, he knows that this one is his.

“I thought it might be you,” says Kryze, smiling. He shifts Luke’s bag high against his shoulder and turns to the setting sun. “Come on,” he says. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

And when he finally returns to his ship, and Artoo, and programmes a course for home, Luke leaves Dantooine by himself, but he is not alone.

#my fic #prompt fill #spotify prompt fill #korkie kryze #korkie kenobi #qui-gon jinn #luke skywalker

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detectivedreameater · 4 years ago

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This Is Our Get Along Shirt || Kaden and Marley

TIMING: Sometime before Christmas PARTIES: @chasseurdeloup and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: In which two fully grown officers have separate meltdowns while locked in a room together. CONTENT: Head Trauma mentions, Family Death mentions (parental)

Marley had decided she just wanted things to go back to normal. But the doctor wouldn’t approve her for work, and work wouldn’t approve her without the doctor. And so she was stuck. Between doing nothing and doing something that she didn’t want to. And didn’t need to. She was fine, she was doing fine. She didn’t need therapy or check-ups or supervision, or any of that shit. She just needed more time to heal and then she could go back to herself. She just needed time to find herself. And that started with getting back to work, whether anyone actually let her do it legally. She’d heard about some suspicious activity at the local escape room, and by the sounds of it, it seemed right up her alley. Some strange sort of supernatural being had to be behind this. And so she had taken her meds, made sure she had a weapon (they wouldn’t give her back her gun, yet, obviously, until she was cleared for work), and made her way down to the building. She enjoyed the idea of escape rooms, but during the day, when her abilities didn’t work, the claustrophobia of the places often got to her. But she was prepared, this time, for what was waiting inside. Hopefully. What she wasn’t prepared for was Kaden Langley to be inside. Frowning, she paused in the doorway. “Someone lose a puppy inside or something?” she grumbled, pretending to be interested in the pamphlets by the doorway.

The reports coming from the escape room place sounded nothing short of fae bullshit to him. What kind, Kaden couldn’t say. Neither could the owners but they had called about a weird animal showing up in some of the rooms when people were trying to complete the puzzles. Apparently they’d lied to patrons and told them it was all part of the experience. Guess he couldn’t blame them too much, he’d likely do the same. He debated grabbing the iron knives before heading out but he didn’t feel much like digging them out of the back of the closet. It wasn’t like Regan was going to be over anytime soon, a thought that made his heart sink, but he still couldn’t stop lying to himself that she might. He wasn’t ready to unravel any of the small stupid hopes that held him together at the moment. Didn’t mean he didn’t come at all prepared. He had plenty of knives and his gun, of course. He was prepared for whatever was there, brownie or leprechaun or whatever it may be. He was not, however, prepared for the voice he heard behind him. “Stryder?” he said, turning to see her just standing there, flipping through the brochures like she planned on actually participating or something. “Not exactly. What, are you planning your next event here? Celebrating the death of your bear or something?” The jab sent guilt shooting through him like a rod through his side. Pretty sure he hadn’t talked to her since just after all that. But he’d heard about her injuries. “Surprised to see you here and not chained to your desk.”

Marley wasn’t about to go into the details of her leave with Kaden Langley of all people, but the jab at being chained to her desk made her broil. She only wished that were an option, but without medical clearance, they weren’t even going to let her back into the office. No badge, no gun, no nothing. She bristled, breezing by him and up towards the desk. “I already celebrated that. Lots of champagne, some tequila, and a roaring fire,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Really, the only celebration they’d gotten was cutting the damn bear’s head off and dropping it on Roy’s doorstep, and while that used to be enough for her, the damage that he’d caused after made the victory seem pointless. In fact, everything seemed pointless now. Even arguing with Langley. She rang the little bell again but no one answered. “Isn’t there usually someone here? I even called ahead,” she grumbled, more so talking to herself than Kaden. She pushed away from the desk and wandered towards the back. “Hello?” she called out, “Anyone here?” But there was still no answer. She cast one glance back to Kaden before prodding the slightly ajar door in front of her. It said it led to one of the game rooms, but when she opened it, it looked just like an ordinary office. “It’s a weekday, right?” she asked, going over the days in her head as best she could. “Where the hell is everyone…”

Kaden rolled his eyes at Stryder’s comments. Honestly, though, it felt almost nice. This was standard. This made sense. Them bickering? That was normal. And it was very nice to have some small sense of fucking normal right now. Even if she was irritating. But she was also correct. There was no one here. “No fucking clue.” He stood and tried to listen for any sounds, any heartbeats other than theirs. Nothing in the immediate area, but there was a crash. Didn’t need hunter hearing for that one. “Follow or don’t, Stryder. Doesn’t matter to me.” Kaden didn’t look behind him to check on her choice, just walked past the reception desk towards the escape rooms. He wound down the hallway, following the direction of the sounds. Seemed like it was coming from one of the rooms. All the doors were open, there was no one operating the place, should be safe enough to walk in. He took a step inside and tried to pinpoint the source of the crash. It was hard to tell, there were plenty of odd items strewn about, likely puzzles to be solved. None of it made much sense to him. He could tell Stryder was behind him without even glancing back. The footsteps and heartbeat alone would have given it away. “So why are you here anyway? I know why I was called in but I didn’t think--” Kaden didn’t get to finish any sort of explanation. Because the door shut tight behind them. “Putain.”

Marley rolled her eyes at the annoyed sound in Kaden’s voice. She really wasn’t in the mood for dealing with his stupid grumbles and his tendency to mumble. She’d had enough trouble hearing normal speech lately, what with the tinnitus. She chose to follow him, because why not? What else had she come here for? And he led her down a winding hallway into a backroom. Nothing immediately jumped out at her as strange. Not until he was turning to ask her a question and then the door was slamming shut on both of them. “What the--” she started, but was immediately interrupted again when the big timer on the wall churned on and started counting down from one hour. “Did you do that?” she asked incredulously, whirling back to the door and yanking at it. “Oh, fuck this. Fuck this. I am not dealing with this bullshit today,” she growled, lifting her hand to turn herself intangible and-- finding that nothing happened. “What the…?” she blinked, unsure of what this feeling was. Her head pounded and she winced. A note was slid under the door and hit her boot. She stared down at it. Slowly, she picked it up and opened it, holding it out to Kaden after a moment. All it said was: Escape the room.

“I didn’t do shit!” Kaden shouted back as he watched her rattle the door. The room was never very big, but the longer the door didn’t open, the smaller it felt. He ran over to the other side, to the exit door and tried the handle. Nothing. He slammed into it. It didn’t fucking budge. Fuck. Fucking fuck. It felt like the walls were creeping closer in on them the longer they were stuck in a room together with doors that didn’t fucking open. “There was no one there, right? No one was here to run this. How did we get stuck here? How did this--” He inhaled deep and held his breath, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. He looked over and noticed a note in her hand. “What does it say? What is it? What do we fucking do?” He leaned over her shoulder to get a look. “Escape the fucking room? Are you serious?” Kaden groaned and tried the doors again. “I’m trying to escape the fucking room! Let us out!” The last thing he wanted to do was solve a bunch of shitty puzzles when there was a perfectly functioning door. Two, even. This was bullshit. But nothing changed despite his protests. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus on anything other than the fact he was stuck in a room, glancing around to try and take it in. All he saw was how small it was. “Where do we start?”

“Are you done throwing your tantrum?” Marley asked, as she waited for him to finish asking a million and seven questions that she didn’t have the answers to. Finally, he stopped banging on the doors and pacing the room, and she silently thanked the universe for that, because it was making her head spin and her eyes hurt. She pressed the butts of her palms into her eyes for a moment before blinking and looking back up at him. “We start by looking for the first clue. It’ll probably be something that looks strangely out of place.” She glanced around the room they were in-- it was a simulation of a bomb bunker, complete with the fifties get up of retro furniture, canned goods, and a bunny antenna tv. “Maybe like a small decoration that doesn’t fit the style of the furniture, or a picture on the wall that doesn't match.” She started sifting through the magazines on the table, checking under and around it and in the couch cushions, looking at him from the side of her eye. “If you start feeling like it’s getting hard to breathe, just close your eyes and count to ten.”

Kaden felt his hand ball into a fist by his side. A fucking tantrum? Really? “Sorry for trying to figure out how to get the fuck out of here.” He kicked the door one last time in anger before sighing and looking around the room. Somehow the room looked even smaller than it had a second ago. He was about to shut his eyes when Stryder made a comment that somehow wasn’t even snide. Almost helpful, even. “Right. Uh, thanks.” Kaden wondered if he should try that right off the bat. His heartbeat picked up pace, but not yet. He just had to focus. The problem was he didn’t know what he was supposed to be focusing on. Okay something out of place. Fuck. The room itself was already weird, he didn’t know what was considered in place. His eyes narrowed as he settled his sight on the bookshelf. There were some books pushed in, and some pulled out. “Uh, is this a clue?” he said, pointing it out to her. “That’s weird, right?” He didn’t know what it meant, but it had to be something, right?

Marley shuffled around the room, picking up trinkets and set decorations to try and decipher if any of them held any significance, but the pounding in her head was only increasing the more she tried to concentrate. She rubbed her palms into her eyes, trying to drown it out or apply enough pressure to make it stop, but it proved mostly pointless. Langley’s voice cut through the ringing in her head and she set down the clock she’d picked up and came over to the bookshelf. “That’s definitely weird,” she said, taking note of which books were pulled out. “They’re labeled oddly, right? That’s not, like...normal for books, to be blank,” she said, plucking one out, squinting at the spine. It had a roman numeral V on it, and nothing else. No title, no author, no nothing. She flipped it open and found that even the pages were empty. “It’s gotta be a numbers puzzle.” But what sort? That was the real question. God, Marley really wished Erin was here with her, and not Langley. Did he even know math? Did hunter school include basic maths? She rubbed her head again, removing her sunglasses to do so, red eyes illuminating against her hand. “What other numbers are on the spines?”

She pulled out the first book that was set forward on the shelf and Kaden looked over her shoulder as she examined it. Empty. Alright. “Guess there’s no hint inside.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to piece together any of the puzzle. The spine had a V. Was it a letter? Kaden looked back at the shelf to see what the other books were. The book next to the empty space was pushed back. The three next to it were forward. The spines to each were more letters. X, I, and V. His head tilted to look at the next set of pulled out books next to it. M, C, M, L, V. Shit. They were definitely roman numerals. Which, alright, she said that. But he didn’t want to trust her right off the bat. But fine, she was right. “Uh not sure what exact numbers but it looks like…” Kaden pulled up his sleeve, looked at the tattoo on his inner forearm. Yeah. Sure looked familiar. “This is a date. I’m pretty fucking sure.” He looked closer at the letters again, started to convert them. “Five, fourteen. Nineteen, uhh, hold on.” He closed his eyes to try and sus it out. “Fifty-five. So that’s May 14th, 1955. Okay. Uh, what now?” He looked around the room for something that could need a date. “There’s a calendar over there. Might be something, right?”

Marley stayed quiet as he began to decipher the code of the books, grateful in that moment that he wasn’t a complete waste of space. Her head was pounding and concentrating on anything longer than a few seconds only made things worse. “A date?” she asked, looking over at him. But he was right. The numbers could easily be a date. When he peered at his arm, she tried to get a look, wondering just what it was. From the sound of his deduction, it, too, was a date for something. She opted to let it sit for now, heading over to the calendar he pointed out after setting the book back on the shelf. She flipped through the calendar and found the date. “Look,: she said, motioning him over, “there’s a note on the day. ‘Channel 3. 14:00’. That’s…” she glanced back at the television in the middle of the room. “Turn on the TV,” she instructed, moving away from the calendar.

“Channel 3?” Kaden repeated. “Uh, alright.” He saw the television, that much was easy to find. But there was no remote sitting by it. “Putain de merde,” he grumbled once more. “We’ll have to figure out how to turn it on, I guess.” Sighing, he started to fumble along the monitor, looking for any knobs or buttons to turn on the monitor. There were buttons. He pressed them. And nothing happened. The knobs on the front seemed like set dressing. They didn’t move or do anything at all. Which made sense. What was the likelihood of them finding a working authentic television from the 50s that didn’t require a shitton of maintenance? “Yeah, nothing,” he said, turning to Stryder. “Looks like we have to find the remote.” Glancing around, it felt like the walls were closing in again, like the space had gotten smaller since the last time he checked. His fingers curled around the edge of the table as he tried to stabilize himself and take slower, deeper breaths. What had Stryder said before? Right. He closed his eyes and started counting. The room didn’t look any bigger when he opened his eyes, but at least it didn’t look any smaller. He started checking under the table for anything taped there or something. Nothing. Under the pillow? Well, he found a weird coin and a slip of paper, but no remote. Under the mattress? Nope. This seemed wrong, but he figured why not and checked in the fridge. Some bottles and fake food sat there. At least he hoped it was fake. But no remote. The freezer, however, proved different. “Well. Found it. I guess. Let’s see what happens.” He turned and faced the television and powered it on and then hit the 3 button. “What now?” he asked.

Marley was growing more weary by the second. First they needed to find a code, now they needed a remote, but the remote was missing. And now the channel had nothing on it except static. She sunk down onto the prop couch that was in the middle of the room and put her head in her hands. “Just give me a minute,” she muttered, scrubbing her face with her palms as she listened to the static. It almost seemed rhythmic, like a beat. Or-- “Morse code,” she said, sitting up after a second. She looked over at Kaden. “Hand me a pen and some paper,” she waved, glancing around her spot to see if there was anything to write on in front of her. Just some old magazines. Well, they’d do well enough. When she was handed a pen, she began writing down the code she thought she recognized. And after a moment, it circled back. She filled in the letters and looked back up at him. “Guess we gotta make a word outta this now. We’ve got...Y, L, S, L, O, E, C, D, O, W, N.” Paused, contorting her face as she looked at the words. “Down lose yell? No… Slow dec-- no. Loss soc-- fuck!” She slammed her fist on the table before grabbing her head again. It was pounding and she couldn’t concentrate. She took her glasses off and rubbed her palms into her eyes again, trying to make the throbbing stop. “This is so fucking stupid. Can’t you just break the door down? Put that superstrength of yours to use or something! I’m sick of being here!”

Kaden was ready to give up. The whole thing just felt never fucking ending. And there was no clue to be-- Shit. Stryder was better than he gave her credit for. He nodded and found a pen and threw it into her hand. His arms folded across his chest, he planned to wait for her to figure out the rest of the message. She got the letters no problem, but she appeared to be struggling and the creases in his forehead grew deeper as he watched her flounder. “I’m not destroying private property after we technically fucking snuck in here!” he snapped back at her. “The fuck is wrong with you, Stryder? I thought you were supposed to be smarter than me.” He sighed and pulled the paper closer, looking down at the scribbled letters. Putain. Without any context, the letters came together in strange ways. Three languages overlapped in his mind, trying to fight for attention. Alright, English, it was definitely going to be in English given where they were. Pretty quickly, he saw the word “yell” and wrote that below. He tried “yell down” and that wasn’t right. He scrunched up his face and tried again. After another pause, he tried “yellow.” Hmm, maybe that wasn’t-- “Yellow second?” he said out loud. “Or ‘second yellow,’ maybe.”

Kaden tried to look around the room for anything that it might apply to. Interesting. Near the door was a panel of buttons laid out in a grid. There were colors down the column and numbers across the row. Four numbers and four colors, a button on each grid. One of those colors was yellow. “Second yellow?” he repeated. “Alright, worth a shot.” He hit the button in the yellow row and the second column from the right. Only… nothing happened. “Putain.” What the fuck else did the note mean then? “This has to be it. No.” He wanted to punch the button panel but thought better of it and dropped his balled fist to his side. Second yellow. Fucking hell. What did that mean if it wasn’t the second column? Then he saw the colon in between the second and third number. Wait a sec-- “Putain!” he shouted, excited this time, and hit the buttons in the yellow row and the third and fourth columns. The door creaked open. “Got it! I got i--” His excitement dissipated as he stepped through the door only to see… more fucking puzzles. Kaden groaned and leaned his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, head in his hands. Fuck. This.

Marley stayed where she was while Langley parsed through the clue. She felt a rather large wave of annoyance, too, when he actually figured out the clue. She opted to not respond to his questions, they weren't relevant. There was a lot wrong with her, and she didn’t feel like spilling her guts out to Paw Patrol the Hunter. He’d probably just say that everyone’s lives would’ve just been better off if she were dead, anyway, and she didn’t need anyone else telling her that. Her own admission was enough. The change of tone in his voice got her to look up, however, and she jumped to her feet fast enough to cause the world to tilt sideways, stumbling as she headed over. The door swung open, they were almost free--

But beyond it stretched another room. With more puzzles. Marley was frozen in her spot for a moment, staring wide-eyed into the room. This couldn’t be possible. Escape rooms were just one room, usually. This wasn’t possible. This shouldn’t be here. Hadn’t this been the door they’d walked in? Wasn’t there a hallway beyond this? Marley turned back around, shutting the door, then reopening it. It was still the other room. She tried again, holding it closed for longer this time. Still the same. One more time and a click! Sounded and surely that meant that whatever was behind the door had changed, but this time the knob would not turn. She rattled it harder and harder until she felt her hand pulsing with pain and she kicked the door with the heel of her boot before storming off. “God dammit!” she howled, kicking something else. “What the fuck is wrong with this place?” She looked up at the ceiling. “Let us OUT YOU ASSHOLE!” But when no answer came and nothing changed again, she collapsed to the floor next to what looked like an incubator and put her head in her hands as well. “Fuck this,” she muttered. “Now what?”

Kaden sat there, kept his head held in his hands, pressed his fingers into his temples as he tried to push away the harsh clanging ringing in his ears as Marley kicked and trashed around the room. Loud, it was all too loud. And they were stuck and he could feel the walls closing in and he just wanted to curl up into a ball and wait this out, wait until he had space to move and breathe again. “Now who’s throwing a fucking tantrum?” he grumbled. He waited there a moment longer, not wanting to face another round of puzzles. This wasn’t his strong suit, not at all what he was suited to. There was a damn good reason he had no ambitions to be a detective. And of fucking course Stryder wasn’t on her A-game right now. Just their fucking luck. “We should look around or something. Or you should. Be a fucking detective or some shit.” He rubbed his face with his palms. They hadn’t been there that long, had they? It felt like it had been hours. He was tempted to curl up and just sleep, wait until someone let them out. Someone had to come here, right? “Unless there’s some fucking reason you forgot how to do that and want to announce Paw Patrol is the smartest person in the room right now. Which I fucking hope isn’t true for our sakes.”

“I’m allowed to be angry!” Marley shouted back at him, resisting the very present urge to grab whatever was in front of her and throw it at him. But she knew that wouldn’t do anything except piss him off and she was sure if he got angry enough, felt threatened enough, he would probably just stab her with one of his seven-hundred knives he kept on himself at all times. “I’m not on desk duty at work because I like it, Langley! Some stupid fucking asshole took something important away from me and now I can’t even think straight! So I’m allowed to be angry! What’s your excuse?” But somewhere deep down, she knew he was right. Through the splitting headache and speckled vision, she knew he was right. So she got up and she started digging around the room. She wasn’t even sure what half of this stuff was until she came upon a navigation console. “We’re in a submarine bridge,” she said stiffly, hand brushing over the compass. “The compass isn’t pointing North.” That had to mean something. It was pointing at-- “The porthole.” She went over and glanced through but...nothing. She stepped back, looked from the telescope to the compass. Maybe...She unlocked the hinge and moved it to point the direction the compass was and-- “A number. Memorize these numbers. 32. 24. 137.”

Her anger did nothing but fuel his, like gasoline to the fire. “I’m stuck here with you! That’s why I’m angry! I should just kill you and be done and be a fucking hunter but instead we’re solving fucking puzzles in a cursed escape room!” The words left Kaden’s lips before he could give them a second fucking thought. They hung in the air a moment, the silence ringing through the room. He wasn’t sure where the shame stinging at him was coming from, his failed sense of duty or whatever bullshit morals he was wrestling with. He sat with his head in his hands a while longer after she stood up. Let her figure out something for once. Thankfully, she did. He sighed and tried to commit the numbers to memory. “32. 24. 137. Great.” What the fuck did that mean? He stood and half heartedly looked around the room. There were a lot of buttons and levers. Some colorful flags on the wall. He looked at the station that seemed like the navigation area and there was a book. He flipped through it a bit and didn’t see anything in particular. It looked like some kind of emergency manual. But there were page numbers. “There’s a book or something over here. I don’t know. Emergency manual or something.”

Then do it, she wanted to shout at him. Then fucking do it. But she held her tongue and went back about her business. Marley didn’t know what was bothering him, but he didn’t owe her an answer and she didn’t owe him one. They owed each other nothing. Finally, he got up and started doing something, and she shifted, watching him from the corner of her eye, trying to not let the fear tangle her up too much. But it was always there around him, and it always would be. He was a hunter, and he’d said it himself-- he would kill her, should kill her, if given the opportunity. When he declared he’d found a book, Marley cautiously walked towards him, keeping a short distance. “Lemme see it,” she held out her hand, and waited for him to hand it over, before flipping through the pages slowly. After a long moment, she muttered, “Why haven’t you yet?” Looked up over the book at him, red eyes aflame in the dark bunker. “Tried to kill me.”

Kaden could practically feel the space between them like it was a third party in the room as Stryder sood off to his side, a step farther back than most might. There was no reason for it to be anything other than expected. So why did the tension he created make him want to throw something? He was a hunter. He was supposed to be the thing monsters feared at night. He used to be damn proud of that fact, too. In the spot once filled with pride was a dull thud of nothing. “Fine,” he said, handing her the book. He crossed his arms, watching as she found her way through the book. He expected her to bark off some order to him and his brows knit together when she posed a question instead. “I don’t know,” he spat back, far too fast. He bit the inside of his mouth and avoided contact with her red eyes. Even if they had been human, he was sure there would have been full of fire in their own right. “Can’t. Too messy. Killing a detective.” Right. That sounded like bullshit even to his ears as it left his lips. He reached up to rub the back of his neck and acted like he was looking around for clues and not trying to escape the question even more than the room they were in. His stomach churned at the question in a way he didn’t anticipate. It wasn’t that he liked Stryder, far from it. But there was certainly benefit to having a detective on staff in know of the supernatural. Was she good, though? Had she killed? He didn’t know and he didn’t ask. She’d been disgusted by Lydia but that was a low bar, right? Well, not for the supernatural. According to the codes he grew up with, at least. “Look, I just haven’t alright. Don’t give me a fucking reason to want to. Find the stupid answer to this stupid puzzle so we can get out of here.”

Marley watched him closely-- the way he snapped back too quickly, the way he rubbed his head, the way he turned away from her, pretending to look for clues. Even in her state, she could recognize those signs. Suddenly, getting out of this room didn’t seem like the most important thing. She’d already put together the book page pattern but set the notes aside for now and squinted at him. “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” she asked, taking a step closer now, suddenly not so afraid of him. Still kept a tentative distance, one she was sure she could stop him from with her gaze if he did decide to try something. “Oh, c’mon,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, “I’ve given you plenty of fucking reasons to kill me. And believe me when I say I remember all those times you fucking sign off on me once the hard questions start. You ever figure any of those out? Or are you still pretending you have some moral high ground on us because you got lucky and were born human with superpowers?” She threw the book back at him. “The code is page numbers, dumbass. Figure it out yourself.” And she stormed to the other side of the room, where the only seat was, and plopped down, arms folded across her chest.

“Second thoughts?” Kaden started, rolling the words off his tongue to find time to figure out a comeback. “You’re right. I am having second thoughts. About stepping into this fucking building. I should have turned around and left the second I saw your fucking face!” He hated her. He hated her weird need to dig right under his skin. What was she even hoping to drag out? What the fuck did she want from him? He planned to stay stoic and avoid her questioning. But he couldn’t. “Lucky?” Kaden said, fingers digging into the book as he caught it. “You think I’m fucking lucky?” He had half a mind to throw it back at her with all his fucking strength. “Right. I’m lucky. I was born with a guaranteed short fucking life that’s nothing but pain. I’m lucky I didn’t get a childhood. I’m fucking lucky that monsters killed my parents. Really a goddamn fountain of luck.” His knuckles were white and he was so close to chucking that fucking book. Instead, he slammed it onto the counter with a thud that wasn’t satisfying enough. Not even close. “I don’t get to be fucking normal, either,” he hissed as he turned his back to her and started flipping through the pages. His fingers fumbled with anger and he kept going past the pages he needed. He wanted to fucking scream. Eventually he found pages 32, 24, and 137. Each one had a few letters. “T O R,” he read out from one page. “P E.” The next. “D O.” Kaden slammed the book shut. He had no idea what to do next, but he knew the word in question was “Torpedo.”

“Oh, woe is the hunter,” Marley spat, grimacing, “who lost his childhood and life because his family was a bunch of murderers. Were they killed by monsters or people just trying to defend themselves? Because you hunters think we’re all just fucking monsters, no matter what we do. We could be goddam nobel peace prize winners who haven’t harmed a single fucking person in our lives and you’d still call us monsters and justify slitting our throats. What? Are you seeing the other side of it, finally? Is that it? Is your girlfriend showing you that maybe-- just maybe-- we’re people, too? Weird how that works, huh?” She stayed sitting, wondering if the book was coming back her direction. She knew she could easily avoid it if she wanted to, even if her powers weren’t working quite right she knew she could turn invisible long enough to avoid a book to the face. But it never did. She flinched when the book slammed down. “We all have fucking sob stories, Kaden,” she said, her voice low now, “that’s just this fucked up world we live in. How many people do you think tell stories about how some hunter killed their parents? Or their family? Or their friends? Monsters may have killed you parents, but what about the parents of monsters you’ve killed? What do you think they call you when they talk about it?”

“Shut up!” Kaden shouted, spinning on his heel to face her. “Just shut up! Don’t fucking talk about my parents like that. They were fucking slaughtered so fuck you I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of it and you are the last person on the goddamn planet I want to talk about this with.” His voice raised in volume and he found himself stepping closer and closer to her. “Don’t fucking talk about me or Regan or my fucking parents. You don’t know me or anything about me so shut. Up.” His breathing was heavy through his nose as he clenched his jaw, hands balled into fists as he loomed over her, seething and full of rage and stuck in this goddamn place. He didn’t know what he thought anymore or where he stood but he knew he didn’t want to agree with Stryder and he didn’t want her goddamn superiority. Not for a single fucking second. And yet, he didn’t reach out to hit her nor did he reach for his knife to cut her. He was trapped in a room with a monster and all he could fucking do was shout at her to shut up. He thought about at least kicking the stool out from under her. Instead he he turned and kicked the fucking door one more time. No change. “‘Torpedo.’ Figure out what to do with that.”

“And you think I asked to be like this? You think any of us did?” Marley countered, throwing her arms out now. “We don’t get a choice, just like you didn’t! I get that some of us are shitty, and they prey on humans and other weaker species-- but we’re not all like that! And why the hell do you even think I’m a fucking detective!? I can do something about the cases that would normally go cold. The precinct at large might not be able to arrest supernaturals, but I can do something about them. Christ, do you really think you’re the only person that’s ever suffered? At least you got fucking parents.” Her voice was nearly a snarl as she looked up at him. Would he hit her? She would let him, maybe it would prove something to him, or to her, or to someone. But he didn’t. He kicked the door instead. Torpedo. Marley lifted herself from her chair and went over to the console. She pushed the button for the Torpedo and behind them, a keypad dropped down, labeled only with maritime flags. Groaning, Marley went over to the panel. “You ever consider the idea that this shit isn’t black and white, Langely?” she grumbled, too tired to yell anymore. Her head was pounding and she couldn’t quite see straight anymore. “That maybe not all supernaturals deserve to die?”

Kaden kept his back turned as he took in what she’d said. He really wanted to ignore it. Let it go in one ear and out the other but it settled in his mind in a way that made his skin crawl. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a werewolf in the room with him and not a mara. A mara. Still a monster. Even she said as much. Was it fucked up to wish he could go back to who he used to be? The person who would have just turned around and killed her long ago? Probably. He hated that it even occurred to him that it was fucked up at all. It made things hard. And complicated. This shouldn’t be complicated. “Why do you care what I think or don’t think?” he grumbled back. A stupid question. He knew it the second it left his lips. She cared because it was her life. The same reason he cared who was a monster. It was his life. Maybe others’ lives, too. But he didn’t give a shit about their morals before. It didn’t matter. A monster was a monster. He figured that was how they saw hunters, too. As wrong as that was. As much as he didn’t want to be wrong. It meant too much to be wrong. Hell, it cost too much. And this stupid fucking escape room that he was stuck in with Stryder of all people was not the place where he was about to admit he was wrong. “Well, detective,” he said, the word laced with bitterness, “if you come up with a better solution to deal with the supernatural have the fuck at it. Can’t wait. Because all of you like to preach just kill the ‘bad ones’ or some shit but what the fuck does that even mean? You want to draw that line in the fucking sand, be my goddamn guest.” He ground his teeth together a moment before looking at the flags closer. He squinted and tried to figure out what they were, what they were supposed to do with them. “These are letters or some shit, right? That’s what they represent? I think.”

“The line, Paw patrol,” Marley snarled back, “is maybe ask questions first, stab later. It’s really not that hard. Humans get a chance to defend their innocence, why the fuck don’t we? Do you know how many times hunters looked me in the eyes and decided I should be dead without so much as a word edgewise? Did you know I was twelve the first time I met a hunter and he looked at me and saw I was a child and still tried to kill me? Do you know how fucked up that is? Do you know what that does to a fucking child? The difference here is that I didn’t seek out that danger. You people purposefully hunt us down and kill us and then point and say we’re the monsters. Well, pot meet kettle-- maybe we’re all just fucking monsters. Maybe we all just deserve to die.” This really was a two-sided battle that had no answer. She understood that somewhere, but her disdain for what hunters had done to her left her sour. She looked at the flags-- maritime code was not something she knew off the top of her head, but her phone had no service in this dingey building. She went back over to find the manual and picked it back up, flipping to the code sheet in the back. Dropped it in front of him at the code console. “Plug in the fucking letters so we can get the fuck out of here finally.” And she really did hope with all hope that when the door opened, there wouldn’t be another room behind it. She was sure that if there was, the two would simply kill each other.

“Oh right, I’ll keep that in mind next time a werewolf is trying to tear my head off. Plenty of time for an investigation then, of course. I’ll just sit idly by, make sure he does in fact plan to kill the closest humans and then act.” Kaden knew damn well it wasn’t what she was arguing. He also knew damn well that had he been in Celeste’s position with Ariana all those years ago, he could never bring himself to kill a child. That was one line, at least. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still not meeting her eyes. “Not that I-- I just mean-- when you were a kid…” This was stupid. He didn’t give a shit about Stryder the same way she didn’t give a shit about him. And the sooner this conversation was over, the better. The sooner they fucking got out of here, the better. He nodded and looked at the page and typed in the code scribbled in the bottom of the page, matching the letters to the corresponding flags. “A B O R T.” Of fucking course it was that simple when it was laid out like that. He sighed and hit the “T” flag and heard a click behind them. He spun to face the door and saw it subtly swing open. “Thank god,” he said as he practically threw himself out of the room.

“You ever think about how maybe you wouldn’t be in that situation if you just fucking didn’t go looking for it!?” Marley snapped back. “Weird how that works!” Threw her arms up. “Oh, you’re sorry. Well I’m glad one fucking hunter is.” But honestly, she was. No one had ever apologized for that to her. She could still remember the look in the hunter’s eyes and she didn’t even know why. She hadn't known what she was back then. She turned away from him and waited for the door to open with bated breath. And when it did, it led out into a hallway. Freedom. She stepped out behind him and slammed the door shut, stomping to the front. But there was no one to yell at and she didn’t exactly feel like waiting around this place, lest they get trapped again. But as she went to head for the door, something gave her pause. She stopped just shy of it and turned to look back at Kaden. “You could be a good person, you know,” she said, “It’s obvious you care about some supernaturals. And maybe I don’t know hunter law or whatever, but I think having a fucking heart ought to be an okay thing to do.” Before she pushed her way out into the fresh air and left all of that-- well, most of it-- behind.

#chatzy #chatzy: kaden #wickedswriting #this is our get along shirt #kaden #tw head trauma mention

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softbiker · 6 years ago

Text

Born to Run - Chapter 7

Warnings: some language, people being sneaky, bad editing

Word count: 3k

A/N: This chapter feels like filler, but it’s filler that moves the plot. Some people are hiding things. Some people are dealing with things. The slow burn continues. As always, let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

She sat on Bucky’s couch, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

He was on the phone in his kitchen, voice harsh and angry, as he had been for the last half hour. When she had finally calmed down from her panic attack, he had scooped her up with a nearby blanket and carried her across the street, settling her on the couch with another blanket. While he brewed coffee and yelled at someone on the phone, she took the opportunity to look around his home - noting the sparse arrangement of furniture, lack of photos on the walls, lack of anything that could really be called decor. She watched her own thoughts float by, unattached. How was this a real person’s home? How was she here? What the hell is going on?

Bucky reappeared minutes later, having hung up his phone, and strode to the front door, checking his three locks. Three locks, in a town like this, would have seemed like overkill until an hour ago. Until someone upended her house and her life.

He was still pacing near the door, hands running through his hair and tugging slightly at the roots, breathing deep and measured. However funny and kind he had been at the clubhouse tonight, he was all business now. The scowl on his face deepened as he muttered softly to himself, worry lines etched into his forehead.

“Bucky?”

Her voice pulled him out of his head, eyes snapping over to her face.

“Can I -” she cleared her throat. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “It’s just down the hall, on the right.”

She thanked him, leaving the coffee and blankets behind as she stood from the couch and padded down the hall to where he pointed. He watched her go, chewing his lip, eyes strained and sad.

His phone buzzed in his pocket just as she closed the door.

Steve R.: She’s ok though?

Bucky: Yeah. Shaken up but fine.

Bucky: This was why I didn’t want to do this. You should have listened to me.

Steve R.: I know. I’m really sorry. We’re on our way over now.

Bucky: Ok.

Another buzz.

Sam Wilson: Reaching out to Stark. I’ll let you know what I hear from him.

Bucky Barnes: Good. Tell him to move his ass or I’ll take care of it myself.

Sam Wilson: Don’t do anything stupid. We’ll be there in 10.

Y/N shuffled out of the bathroom, eyes red and glazed, and Bucky shoved his phone back in his pocket. Giving her a shaky smile, he led her back to the couch, sitting on the coffee table - a reversal of their positions just 2 weeks ago.

“So, listen.” He rubbed her arms a little, reached for the discarded blanket and tucked it around her shoulders again. “I know you’re tired, but I’ve called the police, and we’re going to need to talk to them first, okay? And then you can sleep here on the couch if you want. I called Steve and they’re coming over here - Nat and Wanda can go get some of your things?”

She was only staring at him, not responding, her eyes flitting over his face.

“Or - well, actually, we could take you to the clubhouse,” he fumbled. “Shouldn’t have assumed, you don’t have to stay here with me. You’d probably be more comfortable with the girls-”

“I wanna stay here,” she blurted, surprising both of them. She blinked a few times, throat working to swallow. “I’d...rather stay here...with you. If that’s okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, of course that’s okay.”

When the police arrived, they questioned her much less than she imagined - who had access to her house and how long was she gone and were there any valuables missing. A kind-looking detective with a thick mustache patted her hand and kept her interview short, while a couple more officers went through the house, taking in the scene.

“Now, Doctor,” the detective, O’Conner, sighed heavily. “Can you think of anybody who wants you gone? The graffiti says ‘leave now’. Who wants you to leave?”

Y/N licked her lips, eyes sliding to Bucky who was standing near the hall with his arms crossed. He had refused to leave during the interview, and the officer hardly protested, preferring to get on with the investigation. But what could she say - how much was she allowed to say? She’d joined a biker gang and now had a target on her back? She might be in danger because of the Avengers, but what would happen to them - to her - if she ratted to the cops?

“Doctor?” Detective O’Conner was still watching her, his graying eyebrows drawn together.

“No one,” she shook her head. “No one that I know of, at least. I...I barely even know anybody here.”

O’Conner nodded. “Yes, you mentioned that you had recently moved to the area, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve had no...run-ins with the locals? Made no enemies?”

“No.”

O’Conner scratched his head and sighed, putting his notebook back in his pocket.

“Alright then. Well that’s all I needed from you right now. You should get some rest - have you got someplace to stay?”

“She’s staying here.” Bucky piped up, still glowering from his place across the room. Detective O’Conner pursed his lips and nodded.

“Okay. You folks rest up. We’ll call with any news on the investigation.”

Y/N thanked him and Bucky showed him to the door, leaving his locks undone this time. He glanced over his shoulder at her, tucked into the corner of his couch - smaller than he had ever seen her.

“So, um,” Bucky scratched his head. “Let me get you some sheets and you can sleep there on the couch, okay?”

Y/N just nodded, eyes vacant, as he made his way to the linen closet in the hall and pulled out a set of sheets and a quilt. Standing to the side, she watched him spread the sheets over the couch cushions, tucking excess fabric down underneath so it wouldn’t bunch underneath her. The top sheet and quilt followed, with a corner folded down and a pillow beaten to proper fluffiness. A part of her, the part not still in shock, was touched by his efforts. Most of her wanted to pass out.

She crawled under the covers, let him put the extra throw blanket over her feet when he mumbled something about the living room being cold. He flipped the overhead light switch, leaving only a lamp on in the corner of the room, and let her shift and sigh and settle until she finally grew quiet, breaths slow. He watched her breathe for a few minutes, a crease between her brows even in her sleep. He really hates himself for this.

Outside the house, he hears Steve and Sam pull up.

**********

Low voices are floating from somewhere behind her, maybe the next room. She leaves her eyes closed though, content to stay in her hazy dreamlike doze, only half-awake. Scraps of her dreams float behind her eyes - a beach, a faceless man - none perfect but none bad. The quilt is bunched up under her chin, where she had tugged at it in the night when she got cold. Snuggling further into the fabric, she got a deep whiff of the scent, one she didn’t recognize. Did she change detergents? And when did she get a pillow like this? And-

She bolted upright when it all came back.

The clubhouse.

Bucky’s hips between her legs.

His eyes when she said goodnight.

Her house. Her house.

When she rounded the corner into the kitchen, four pairs of eyes were on her. Sam, Steve, and Natasha all sat at Bucky’s kitchen table, with the man himself standing by the sink with a pot of coffee. Their faces ranged from concerned to sympathetic to curious; as they took her in, head to toe, Y/N realized what a picture she must make with her slept-in makeup and messy hair and yesterday’s clothes. She curled in on herself a little, self-conscious, and stayed in the doorway.

Bucky was the first to actually speak.

“Good morning.” He gave her a soft smile. Unlike her, he had changed his clothes - an Army t-shirt and baggy plaid pajama pants, making him look unbelievably soft. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” she croaked, embarrassed at the hoarseness of her morning voice. She cleared her throat. “Yes, thanks. I slept pretty well. What time is it now?”

“Just past 11.” Steve checked his watch. Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.

“Eleven o’clock? Oh god, oh my god - I’m so late-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky soothed, holding up his hands. “I called the clinic for you this morning and told them about what happened to your house. They’re letting the nurse practitioner cover your patients for today. Everything’s fine.”

“Oh.” Her heart continued its panicked beat as her mind caught up with the situation. “Oh. Okay then.”

“I brought over some of your clothes,” Natasha spoke up, leaning her elbows on the table. “And a toiletry bag. Toothbrush, makeup, that kind of thing. The lock was still broken on your door so I just let myself in - sorry about that.”

“That’s - that’s really nice, thank you.”

“Are you hungry? I can make you breakfast?” Bucky glanced at the clock on the oven. “Or brunch I guess.”

Y/N rubbed her eyes and winced at the crunchy feeling of her mascara.

“Um, I think a shower first. And then maybe food.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Bucky nodded. “You can use my bathroom actually - the shower is bigger.” He pointed her to the end of the hallway where his bedroom was. After grabbing her toiletries by the door where Natasha had left them, she scurried off to the shower, eager to wash off the last 24 hours.

**********

Bucky waited until he heard the water running before he pulled out his chair and dropped down at the kitchen table.

“So. What the hell are we gonna do about this?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck, looking exhausted. The bags under his eyes pooched further when he stared at the wood of the table.

“Buck, we’re so close. We’ve worked on this for a really long time - we can’t blow it.”

“This will be a huge score for me, too,” Natasha added. She had thrown her hair up into a bun at some point during their all-nighter. “You guys know how Ross has been breathing down my neck on this one.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I say we wait it out and finish the job.”

Bucky’s look was scathing.

“You’re telling me you wanna fuckin’ let this go? Are you serious right now?”

“There’s a big difference between letting it go and biding our time.”

“Not to her!”

“Look man,” Sam cut in, holding a placating hand between them. “I know that this felt...personal to you, but there are always risks in this business. You know that.”

“Of course I know that but - fuck - this isn’t about me!” Bucky was incredulous. “How the hell was she supposed to know, really know, the risks of helping us? Huh? Did anybody sit down and spell it out?”

“I mean, you did go over there and nearly bleed out on her couch,” Sam offered.

“That’s different. That’s not - she wasn’t threatened by that. But this, I mean, they broke into her house! What if she had been home? What if -”

“Buck.” Steve interrupted his tirade, stern eyebrows leveling at his friend. “I think we all appreciate the danger she was in. But I also think...you know how dangerous it is to get attached in this line of work.”

Bucky scowled.

“I’m not attached. Caring about what happens to an innocent woman is not attached.”

“And it’s really nothing more than that?” Sam challenged, brows tilted in a skeptical look.

Bucky opened his mouth to protest but nothing came out - his words lodged in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. He gaped at his friends for a moment, floundering. Of course that was all it was. There couldn’t be anything more than that. Not for his sake, or for hers.

Steve sighed heavily, with that world-weary gravitas that never seemed ridiculous on him, and leveled a tired look at his best friend.

“Whatever the case, we can’t let this get in the way of finishing the job.” He spoke slowly, tone almost condescending. “If we - if you - take this personally, go looking for revenge, you could blow the entire operation.”

Bucky’s eyes rounded the table, looking at each of his friends in turn. He was outnumbered. Outvoted.

“Fine,” he shrugged, his scowl settling deeper. “Fine. I guess we do nothing.”

**********

She grabbed a towel from the counter and wiped fog from the mirror, revealing her smudgy, damp reflection above the sink. Her face was clean now, but traces of mascara blurred around her eyes, making her look ragged and tired. Which was fitting, considering how she felt. Her palms pressed into her cheeks, breathing deep the steam-filled air.

In the sparse bathroom of a man she barely knew, she walked through the steps of her beauty routine, happy for the stability, the familiar tasks. She rubbed in a moisturizer and brushed her teeth, tapped concealer under her eyes. Tiny rituals to put the world back under her feet, instead of Bucky’s cold bathroom tiles.

Bucky was just about to knock on the door when it swung open, revealing a startled Y/N towel-drying her hair.

“Oh!” She jumped back half a step. “Sorry, you scared me a little.”

“I was just going to ask if maybe you were ready for breakfast?” Bucky had the good grace to look sheepish, tucking some of his hair behind his ear. She had changed into a pair of leggings and a college football sweatshirt. Just her, without her lab coat or scrubs or protective professionalism. A soft girl shuffling her feet on his bedroom carpet. A victim of his lies.

“Breakfast would be nice - what’s cooking?” she sighed, attempted a smile. He nearly fell over himself in relief.

They sat across from each other - his other houseguests showed themselves out - eyes meeting over stacks of pancakes. Bucky had made his specialty, homemade blueberry pancakes, and he even warmed the syrup before setting it on the table.

“It just doesn’t make sense - why would you put cold syrup on a hot pancake?” he insisted.

“Wow, I had no idea your feelings on pancakes were this strong.” Her sarcasm dripped like the syrup from her fork.

“Hey. It’s the only way to eat pancakes. I’ll stand by that.”

She just smiled, shaking her head at his intensity. Sitting down at the table with him felt so normal - like it had at the clubhouse last night. His soft smiles and light teasing worked like a charm; in spite of what happened, her home violated and her own life threatened, she was laughing in his kitchen, soaking extra syrup into her pancakes and smiling at him over a fresh cup of coffee.

“So I was thinking -” he started around a mouthful of pancakes, but was interrupted by her phone vibrating on the table. When she saw the caller ID, she sighed anxiously and grabbed the phone.

“Hi, Mr. Van Horn.”

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He sounded tired, and she couldn’t blame him. “I’ve heard about what happened at the house and I wanted to call and check on you - was anybody hurt? You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine, they broke in when no one was home.” She fingered the rim of her coffee cup as she spoke.

“Well...that’s good at least.”

“Yeah. Listen, Mr. Van Horn, I am so, so sorry about this. Really. I-I know your mother’s house was very important to you and I promised to take care of it, and now this has happened-”

“Now, don’t you worry about that,” he cut her off. “I know it wasn’t your fault. And it’s just a house. But...well, I’ll know more when I get a look at the damages, but I’m afraid you might have to find another place to stay.”

Her heart dropped out of her chest.

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’m very sorry,” he hesitated. “It’s just that, with what the police have told me, the house is gonna need some serious work, plus new furniture and dishes and things, before it’s livable again. I don’t mean to leave you stranded out here, but I’ve got no idea how long all of that is gonna take…”

“It’s alright, really. I understand.”

He apologized profusely, despite her reassurances, and even offered to let her stay with him and his wife, which she also declined. When the old man finally hung up, after refusing to let her pay for the damage, she dropped her head into her hands.

“God, what am I going to do?” she whispered, mostly to herself. She had practically forgotten Bucky was still sitting there, watching her with sad, soft eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine,” he insisted. He shuffled a little in his chair. “Actually, I already asked Steve this morning if...it would be alright for you to move into the clubhouse.” Her head shot up and he scrambled. “Just temporarily! Until you find another place. There’s a few spare bedrooms we keep made up for anybody who needs a bed, so you could just take some of your things up there. Nobody would mind.”

Y/N blinked at him.

“You want me to move in...to your clubhouse.” He nodded, and she blew out a harsh breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t know...I don’t think I can do that.”

“Hey. Look at me.” She met his eyes over their now-empty plates. “This is our fault. What happened to you, your home. It’s the least we can do.”

“I-I can’t ask you to-”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” Without thinking, he slid one of his hands across the table to cover hers. “I - we will take care of you. I promise.”

His eyes were so sincere, his hand rough but warm on top of her own. She took a deep breath, then two, and swallowed.

“Okay,” she nodded. “Okay.”

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #avengers #avengers fic #marvel #marvel fic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky au

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snifflesclifford · 6 years ago

Text

Waiting for the Right Girl - Chris Evans

A/N: (this is for the anon who wanted friends to lovers) Hi this is the first fic i have wrote in over 3 years so be nice. Please let me know if you want a part 2!

It was raining cats and dogs outside and there were no signs of stopping. The weather channel played softly in the background as you made your way to the kitchen to get another bottle of wine. You decided what was the harm since there was no way you would be driving home anytime soon in this weather. Chris had invited a bunch of friends over to his new house for a house warming party. You think it was more of an excuse to get help putting together the massive shelf he bought the day before but any excuse for free booze and you were there. The others luckily left before the storm hit, but you didn't mind. Chris’ house was more than accommodating for the two of you and it was a great opportunity for you two to catch up since he had been out of town on a shoot.

You opened the door to the wine closet and stepped inside. White or red? Chris would want white but the red paired better with the box of cheese-its you had been devouring. Red. You reached for the least expensive looking bottle and read the label, just as you thought, still expensive. Did he not have Boone’s Farm?

“Hey, did you find one?” Chris practically yelled right behind you. You let out a yelp and dropped the probably more money than your car payment bottle and it shattered, splattering red everywhere .

“What the fuck, how are you so big but so stealthy?” You ask clutching your chest. Chris bursts out laughing and you follow suit.

“I’m sorry, its not my fault that you are literally the jumpiest person ever” He bends down to pick up the large pieces of glass and you try to help but he stops you. “Nah ah, I think you’ve done enough clutz,” he teases “why don't you go take a shower? You look like you’ve murdered at least four people. Help yourself to anything in the dresser.”

You wanted to protest but a hot shower sounded pretty nice with the rainy weather so you agreed and tip-toed around the wine and headed upstairs to find the bathroom. It took longer than you would like to admit to get the shower to work but were you glad you did. It was literally the best shower you had ever stepped foot into. The second the hot water hit you all the tension you didn't even know you had went away. It was like taking a shower in the rainforest. You sighed as you smelled the body wash he had. Of course it would be perfect, everything about Chris is perfect. You took your time, not wanting the warmth to end.

Eventually the water went cold, so you made your way out of the shower and looked around for what you could only assume was a fluffy warm cloud of a towel, only to find nothing. No towels. Shit. You popped your head out of the bathroom and looked around Chris’ monster sized bedroom. Once you saw the coast was clear, you darted out of the room and went to the dresser in search of something to cover your soaking body. But it was too late because just as you picked out an oversized shirt, Chris came barreling into the room holding a towel. You were frozen. You had nothing to shield you from this horror and Chris looked as though he had seen a ghost.

“Um, can i have that?” You asked pointing to the gray towel in his hand.

“Oh fuck, yeah, um. i realized I didn’t have any in the- here” His face turned a deep shade of scarlet as he held it out to you.

His eyes dart down to your naked frame and you blush internally. You wrap the towel around yourself and stand there waiting for anything to happen. Literally anything. Chris was still beet red but you can see a noticeable bulge formed in his pants. He follows your eyes and immediately starts sputtering out what he thinks are words.

“I- I mean, we. Um, you. I made some cookies. if you, they're chocolate chip. i’ll be, um downstairs. You can get dressed, shit. Sorry.” and with that he closes the door and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. What the fuck was that? You thought to yourself as you sat at the foot of his king sized bed.

You had known Chris for two years, you were an intern at Fox while they filmed Gifted and you always had to fetch coffee and get him from his trailer. He asked you to help him run lines and you confessed that you always wanted to be an actor. The next day he brought you a coffee and said he dropped your name at a local theatre and that you had an audition on Tuesday. The rest was history. You had hung out almost every week for awhile helping each other rehearse or playing matchmaker to each others sad love lives. Then it turned into a few times a month when your schedules started to get more busy. It had been two months since the last time you had seen each other and here you were naked on his bed.

You would be lying if you hadn’t thought about being naked on his bed, but that was just a fantasy. You were never single at the same time and you never really thought he saw you in that way. Did he see you that way? His body seemed to think of you in that way. You tossed those thoughts to the back of your mind as you got dressed and slowly made your way downstairs.

You heard dishes clattering and a small curse come from the kitchen. Chris was still whispering to himself when you rounded the corner and saw him hovering over a plate full of cookies one in his hand and other hanging out of his mouth.

“This would have never happened if you just put a new fucking towel in the bathroom, Evans. It’s a simple thing to do.” you could make out from his cookie filled mouth.

“Hey” you make your presence known and his head shoots up.

“Hey! Did you find everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah! I mean apart from the whole towel thing.” you smile and take a seat at the island.

“Yeah sorry again about that. Did i say sorry already? I’m sorry. Like really sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck and you can't help but notice the way the fabric of his crew neck stretches over his bicep.

“Its really fine. It’s funny actually. I think it was funny.” You assure him and snag the cookie from his grip and he looks at you hurt.

“That one was mine!”

“Yeah but it looks like the best one.” you take a big bite and he cracks smile.

“You're something else.” he murmurs under his breath. “I’ll be right back.”

He walks into the living room and returns with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. You cock your eyebrow at him and he shrugs.

“ I don't know about you but i need a drink.” he says as he pours two generous glasses and slides one your way. You down it in one swing and hiss at the burn. Scotch wasn't something you usually drank but it was a welcome change to all the wine you drank before. Chris adds a little more to your glass and takes a seat on the counter next to you.

“So, what's new?” he casually asks and takes a sip, his eyes peering at you over his glass. You sighed at the question. Small talk wasnt really your thing.

“Well, work has been slow. Not a lot of theatre companies looking for someone like this” you gesture to yourself and he scoffs.

“What are you talking about? Have you seen yourself? Its their loss.” he doesn't meet your eyes and you're glad because he would see your blushing red cheeks.

“Well either way auditions don’t pay bills. How was France?” You change the subject.

“Good. Good. Long but good. You need to come with me next time. It’s gorgeous over there and the amount of bread they eat would make you feel right at home.” He nudges your ribs and you bust out laughing.

“Hey, a girl eats an entire loaf of sourdough bread at 3am ONE TIME and she's the ‘bread girl.’”

“it was really good bread.” He adds.

“Right?!”

Your giggles die down and an awkward silence falls between you two and you take a drink. There was this looming cloud of weird between you and you hated it. Things were never weird between you. Things were always easy with Chris.

“So whats the deal with Matt?” he snaps you out of your thoughts. “His brother said you guys broke up. I thought you really liked him.” you down the rest of your drink and shrug.

“Matt’s great! Just a little dull. It got boring that the rest of them. His thought of a fun friday night was playing Catan at his cousins apartment and that isn't bad per se, but not for me. You know? Besides, I'm not the only one failing in the love department. Don't think i don't know you broke things off with Jess. She called me sobbing because you “couldn't do the distance” which I know is bullshit because you told me you were “weighing your options” two weeks before you went to Paris.”

“You know me too well, it isn't fair.” he shakes his head “ I don't know. She was really nice and smoking hot.” You roll your eyes. “But she just was kind of... crazy? Is that mean?”

“I mean...she was a little... off?” you try to find a better word but that's all you could come up with. She was insane.

“i guess i’m just waiting for the right girl.” He said and places his glass on the counter. “I’m beat. I think i’m going to go to bed.” He hops off the counter and runs a hand over his face.

“Oh, yeah me too. Where should i sleep?” you ask, not knowing where to go in the five bedroom house.

“I’ll show you.”

He took your hand and lead you up the stairs and showed you to a room not much smaller than his. It had beautiful four poster bed and forrest green sheets. It smells like him in there.

“Wow.” is all you can say.

“Is this good? You can take my bed. I dont know how this mattress is no one has slept on it.”

“No this is perfect.”

You say your goodnights not before Chris asks you a thousand times if you need anything. Once he was satisfied that you were good he left for his room. You plop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Today was weird and you really didn't know why. It has you thinking about the way Chris would feel pressing against your back as you slept. and how he would wake you up with as soft kiss in the morning. You had never dared to entertain those thoughts before but now they're all you could think about.

A/n: Hi this was getting kind of long so i thought I would split it up into two parts. Is that something you guys would want? Let me know!

#chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans fic #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris #steve rogers

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