#chronicles of i need this fucking duck
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but now the cosmos crawls with monsters
KACY. 30s. She/They.
This blog contains adult content, please do not follow if you are a minor.
hi friends! I'm Kacy, I write fanfiction! I like ducks and heavy metal! I mostly use this space to talk about The Vampire Chronicles, but I also like Sheith, and horror films, and kink theory! I am an asexual porn writer and I'm obsessed with Marius!
LINKS
AO3 - I am monstersinthecosmos on AO3, I write porn about VC, Sheith, and sometimes YOI!
Bsky - kacycarr on bsky - you will find mostly Sheithing here!
Ko-Fi - feel free to buy me a coffee if you like my fics! I have some fics available for purchase in digital download and paperback!
I will also invite you to check out projects I created & co-mod called @vamptember (vampire prompts during the month of September!) and @priapus-at-the-gate (the VC Kink Meme!)
VC STUFF!
I mostly use this space to talk about VC since the fandom is either dead or toxic as fuck on other platforms. I've been into VC since like THE YEAR 2000 LOL. I had fics that got taken down in the FFnet purge! Ancient!
Marius is my favorite character and I'm more partial to Marius subplots/timelines. I'm also really into the Devil's Minion and Trinity Gate! I'm super into whatever the fuck was going on with Marius & Daniel! I could talk about Armand all fucking day! Pandora is my hero! Please expect posts about these things!
I didn't love the AMC adaptation so I don't talk about it very often, because I try to focus on stuff I enjoy. ♡
TAGS
#stuff i wrote - IT'S FOR STUFF I WROTE. contains fics and discussion of fics. if they're very short they might only be on Tumblr and not on AO3.
#deep ass thoughts about vampires - my meta tag, sorry I came up with the name while I was stoned back in 2016 and I'm too lazy to change it :)
#trauma hole theory - if you want even DEEPER ass thoughts about vampires, this is where I park thoughts related to "do vampires have neuroplasticity?" and "would therapy even work on them?"
#asexual vc - I don't really shut the fuck up about vampires being asexual so if you wanna hear about it CLICK HERE
#simple italian perv - MISC SMUTTY THOUGHTS to keep the rent low lol if you're new here I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me
#the skateboard of shakespeare - I visited Tulane last year and documented a ton of info from the Anne Rice collection! I use this tag when I share!
#vampire chronicles- for book stuff!
#vampire pajama party on amc - this is my tag for the AMC show; I'm not a big fan of it so please feel free to mute if you don't want to see salt posts. (I have a second, even saltier tag called #the rolin jonestown massacre if you want to mute that one as well!)
#devils minion girlies - STILL WORKING HARD TO POPULATE THIS TAG but if you like thinking about Armand & Daniel as lesbians please see this tag.
#unethical marius - I've been really obsessed lately with thinking about an AU where Marius is an unethical therapist LOLLL please feel free to peruse or mute as needed.
#vampire music - I have like a ND relationship to music and I love sharing it even if no one else cares and taste is subjective but if you ever want vampirey music recs they will be here :D
#fandom lolitics - I try not to share too much discourse & drama but it's here if you want to mute it!
#vcficfriday - when I have time & remember to I like to share fics I've read on Fridays!!!! Please feel free to use this tag in your own blog as well, to build up fic writers!
I THINK THAT COVERS IT, FELLAS, please be kind to each other and don't be shy to send me asks if you have any questions!
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Chronicles of watching Hazbin Hotel with my chaotic bisexual bestie
Ep. 1
When alastor first came on screen, she said "[other best friend who's been simping over Alastor] was right, he is fine!"
"YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER IS THE PORN STAR?!"
"Wait. Are Vaggie and Charlie...you know...roomates???"
"Why is Doctor Faciller a cat"
"Why is the cat an alcoholic"
"Why is the cat kinda fine"
Ep. 2
"VOX IS HOT"
"OH VOX IS GAY"
"Why is purple guy bald. Vox can do better."
"VELVETTE IS SO FINE"
'NOOOOOO ANGEL BABY YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH"
Ep. 3
"EGGGGGGGSSSS"
*singing along to respectless*
"Velvette's right tho, why does gun mommy not want to fight if she sells guns?"
"Damnnnnnn, gun mommy can sing!"
"Wait, are Zestiel and Carmella married?"
"Is Vaggie Carmella's daughter? It would explain why they're both SO hot."
"SIR PENTIOUS MY LOVE!
Ep. 4
"Why is Angel tied up"
"Damnnnn"
"DAMNNNNN"
"No Charlie don't make it worse"
*started crying so hard during Poison that she needed a hug*
*through tears* "[Angel dust] is trying so hard, he just needs to be loved"
"YES HUSK GET YO MAN"
"THOSE FUCKERS BETTER NOT DRUG OUR ANGEL"
"GO HUSK"
"No baby don't ruin yourself!"
*got teary during Loser Baby*
"Husk is so sweet, he really does love Angel"
"GOD THEY TOTALLY WOULD HAVE KISSED IF THE SHARKS HADN"T INTERUPTED THEM"
Ep. 5
"Fire duck! Fire duck! Fire duck! Fire duck!
"MY GOLDEN BOY HAS DEPRESSION NO"
"OMG VAGGIE AND CHARLIE ARE CANNON??"
"Y'all can't like Lucifer. Lucifer is for the short people. Only I (she's 5"2) and [friend who's 5"3] can like him. You (I'm 5"6), [other best friend who's 5"9], and [friend who's 5"7] can have the tall people, I get Lucifer and Husk."
"HELP HOW DO I CHOOSE BETWEEN ALASTOR AND LUCIFER"
*started sobbing during More Than Anything*
*again through tears* "He loves his daughter so much they are so healthy"
Ep. 6
"Why did they make that Angel a twink"
"CHERRI BOMBBBB"
"IS THAT ANGEL DUST'S SISTER"
"Oh fuck Adam."
"VAGGIE'S AN ANGEL?!?"
"Oml I ship Cherri Bomb and Sir Pentious so much"
"Why is Sera kinda fine tho"
"WAIT. HEAVEN DOESN'T KNOW?
"Huskerdust forever omllll"
"FUCK VALENTINO"
"The animation in You Didn't Know is PEAK"
'NO CHARLIE VAGGIE LOVES YOU"
Ep. 7
"CHARLIE AND VAGGIE BETTER BE ENDGAME"
"Alastor is a girl's girl we love him"
"I'm so dissapointed in Alastor."
"CANNIBALS?"
"Why is Rosie such a slay????"
"ACE IN THE HOLE OMG"
"They (Rosie and Alastor) are married for tax benefits"
"GUN MOMMY?"
"GUN MOMMY WITH HER HAIR DOWN?"
"THE SONNNNNGGGG"
"Omg SUSAN?"
"THANK GOD VAGGIE AND CHARLIE ARE STILL IN LOVE"
Ep. 8
"IF ANY OF THEM DIE I AM MURDERING BOTH YOU AND [BEST FRIEND TWO]"
"Huskerdust is love huskerdust is life"
"YES ALASTOR"
"NO ALASTOR"
"GET IT SIR PENTIOUS!
"OH FUCK NOOOOOOO"
"YES LUCIFER!"
"YES VAGGIE!"
"Shit why is Adam kinda fine"
"NIFTYYYYYYYY"
"ANGEL PENTIOUS"
"MOMMY LILLITH"
I'm showing her good omens soon, I'm scared
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Finally getting around to sending this prompt: I'd love to see a mash-up / fusion of Fate and The Shadowhunter Chronicles. Particularly in the context of Sky and Riven being parabatai and how that works in the Fate universe. 👀 (or any of the characters as parabatai would be v cool too- like, Bloom and Aisha maybe?)
There is nothing I love more than the complexities of a parabatai bond — and I could never pass up on a sky/riven moment, especially when I found these as inspiration..
It’s been three years since Sky laid eyes on an Elapid demon. Not since the portal to the dark realm had been closed for good.
Or so they thought.
For a few seconds, it’s the only thing that takes up his vision — a swarm of scaled creatures crawling around Alfea, neither serpent nor insect, their jagged claws buried into the spines of his fellow specialists and tearing them to pieces — before the rune on his neck tingles and the image fades.
Just in time for Sky to duck and roll away from the snap of its teeth.
Amber-colored venom drips to the ground, sizzling into the cobblestone where Sky had been frozen in place just seconds ago.
The demon’s cobra-shaped head turns in his direction, red eyes bleeding violence and hunger, only to stumble back with a piercing shriek when an arrow gets embedded into its neck.
“That sword in your hand? It’s to defend yourself from things like that,” a low voice taunts from behind him. Sky turns in time to see Riven aim another marked arrow, sending a shockwave of an angry yowl through the village when the sharp tip grazes the top of the demon’s head. “Would be bloody helpful if you used it right about now.”
The sardonic words make him smile despite himself, sending the unsettling flashback to the back of his mind. Shaking his head in amusement, he pulls the seraph blade from its scabbard, letting it illuminate his hand with a soft, divine glow.
Running toward the demonic creature, he arcs through the air, dodging a taloned arm, and slices through one of the demon’s legs — just in time to sidestep another one. Taking advantage of his crouched position, Sky pierces his blade through the underside of its belly. It explodes in a shower of burning ichor.
He turns to face his partner. “Two!” he calls out, breathless from the headiness of adrenaline.
“One and a half,” Riven shoots back with a smirk. He plants an arrow into the head of the third and final Elapid and doesn’t even stop to make sure it’s fully banished to the demon realm when he stows his bow away, strutting in Sky’s direction. Cocky bastard. “I helped you with the first one.”
The lightness in Riven’s voice, however, doesn’t match the intensity of his eyes as they absorb every detail about Sky. Gaze determined and evergreen. So intense it never fails to feel like Riven’s hands are slowly checking over every inch of him.
Like it always does, Sky’s heart pounds against the prison of his rib cage at the sight, sending a pulse of warmth down his spine.
It took years for Sky to understand that look. That unwavering stare. Intended to painstakingly ensure the soul bound to Riven’s was uninjured, unharmed. But once he did, once Sky allowed himself to feel the full weight of Riven’s attention, well, it’s been a steady descent since.
Sky does his best to shrug it away as they head back to the institute, tucked away behind a First World trinket shop in the middle of Blackbridge. “But I was the one to kill it.”
“I knew your hero complex would go to your head one day, I just didn’t expect it to be so soon,” Riven teases, bumping his bicep — inked with the rune identical to the one on his neck — into Sky.
“Weren’t you the one who told Silva we didn’t need a team for this patrol?”
Riven scoffs. “Like I could’ve predicted an Elapid nest? I know a higher level of demon activity has been reported, but where the fuck did those even come from?”
It’s a good question, actually. They weren’t even supposed to be on a mission today, just an ordinary patrol. One they’ve done countless times without encountering Elapid-level demons. It’s relatively uneventful most of the time, but today they stumbled upon a swarm of them for the first time in years and Sky—
He thinks of lifeless eyes, of blood-soaked grass squelching beneath his boots as he surveys the loss of his fellow warriors. Of the cries of pain and sorrow pervading through Alfea.
“Sky!” Riven warns urgently, pulling him out of his daze.
His body responds before his mind can even process the words, flattening to the ground as a demon flies through the air just a few feet above him. Sky’s palms sting from the cut of the cobblestones when he clambers to his feet, scanning the area around them for the nearest source of danger.
An Elapid demon comes at him seconds later, swooping with a visceral screech. Sky grunts as he blocks its leg with his seraph blade and pushes it back, his teeth gritting together with effort. From his periphery, he sees another leg loom over him, ready to spear through his body, only for it to get pierced with a marked arrow, exploding in a splash of ichor.
The demon howls and Sky strikes, swinging his sword through its neck. Black-green blood splatters onto him, biting at his exposed skin, but the thrill of killing the demon, of sending it back to the hell it came from, is much more powerful.
He turns to face Riven with a grimace. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Always,” Riven replies easily, and the smile he sends Sky is devastating, entirely out of place on a battlefield. “Except for when it’s Silva. Demons I can handle. Silva’s lectures? You’re on your own, mate.”
Sky’s about to tell him that Silva’s lectures are pretty much exclusively reserved for Riven when he hears an all-too-familiar scuttling sound. He barely has time to lift his sword when there’s a blur of movement, a sickening squelch, and—
Riven screams.
Sky’s body is hollow as he stares at the claw that’s run straight through Riven’s thigh, blood glistening on its black shell. It starts to shudder as though it’s about to jerk upwards – three, two, one, – and tear Riven in half.
Sky moves without thinking, spinning past his parabatai to sever the leg off at the back, thrusting his sword through the demon’s belly with an anguished, vengeful roar. He doesn’t even care to watch it be banished to the demon realm, and just turns to catch Riven as he collapses backwards, sinking to his knees. Two bound souls on the ground.
“Always the bloody white knight…” he gasps, sounding half out of it already. Sky fumbles for Riven’s hand, his fingers sliding in between his. “A lot of blood, Sky. It’s- my thigh. There’s too much blood.”
“I know,” he says, catching his voice before it cracks. “It’s okay, just- just let me get my stele, okay? We need a healing rune and-“
“N-no. Won’t work. Too much blood.” Riven exhales a short, mirthless laugh. “I don’t- it’s not going to work.”
“It will, okay? You’re going to be fine. Where I go you go, remember?”
“Sky don’t... I’m fine.”
But it’s not. It’s not fucking fine because Sky can feel their parabatai bond weakening by the second. Can feel the life-force that constantly exists within him, the axis of his whole world, fading away.
Riven just rests there on his chest. His breaths shallow, his fingers trembling against Sky’s neck, and his eyes trained on Sky’s face. He flinches when something wet drips onto his cheek, but he still doesn’t look away.
And Sky knows, he knows that a healing rune on Riven’s body isn’t going to be enough to fix him.
He knows that there are some wounds that are fatal wounds — heads crushed by stone, stomachs pierced by swords, hearts stopped with lightning — that are just too big, too permanent to heal. A femoral artery ripped apart by a demon is one of them.
But there’s nothing in this realm, nothing in this world or any world, that can stop him from reaching out with a bloodstained hand to draw one on anyway.
It’s not his best. He’s too shaky, too frenzied to make it his best. The lines aren’t sharp or precise and he can’t even breathe much magic into it like he usually would—
But then the rune glows. Steadily brighter and stronger than he’s ever seen. An iridescent blaze of light that beams through the village and nearly blinds everyone in it.
When it fades, any remaining demons are gone — expelled in a series of cataclysms that reverberate through Sky’s knees — and Riven has stopped bleeding. There’s a spiked claw on the ground next to his thigh and the skin where his wound should be is whole, unmarred. As if he wasn’t just on the brink of death. His puddle of blood is nothing more than a rusted stain that’s faded into his black gear.
Sky feels their parabatai bond flare against Riven’s palm on his neck, red-hot and electric. The rune on his bicep grows as hot on Sky’s chest as the liquid fire in his gaze. He breathes Sky’s name, hushed and reverent.
They haven’t looked away from each other.
Sky doesn’t say anything in reply. He just stares back at Riven, droplets of sweat and pain still caught in his lashes. His chest feels warm, his body heavy. Like he could stay here forever. Riven held close to chest, their feelings burning like heavenly fire through their bond, the rest of the world a universe away.
Sky and Riven. Just Sky and Riven.
There’s a sharp crunch of boots and Silva falls to a crouch beside Sky, startling them both out of their reverie.
“What,” he says in complete bewilderment, “the fuck was that?”
#whump whump whumpppp#it didn’t start angsty but it sure did end that way woops#poor riven aka my emotional punching bag#adore both of these fandoms so I hope I did this little crossover some justice!#skyriv#ftws riven#ftws sky#sky of eraklyon#fate ficlet#fate: the winx saga#parabatai#shadowhunters#shadowhunter chronicles#my writing#nova writes#ask me things
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Hello dear, let's start ╰(＾ᴗ＾)╯
🦇 + the moon boys please? Thank you ✨🌺!
Hello 😌 okokokokok—
Steven:
This boi 110% plays Pokémon. Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do. His Pokédex is almost full and he’s like at level 546 if that’s a thing idk. If he’s not at work/reading up on mythology, he’s playing Pokémon.
Speaking of mythology. Based on books on his desk, he’s most definitely teaching himself Wakandan and Asgardian, just like he taught himself Ancient Egyptian. But have you also considered: Ancient Hebrew? Indian? Welsh? This guy can speak like twelve hundred languages. Steven, my friends, is a polyglot.
He doesn’t just read non-fiction; sometimes he enjoys fiction, too. His go-to comfort series is Percy Jackson (he got started on Kane Chronicles when he was just renting books on Egypt from the local library, and then realized it was a fiction novel and he had to go back and read the whole series).
Marc:
You know how I said Steven plays Pokémon? Marc is fucking OP in Animal Crossing. Hey— hey— easy— don’t be hasty. I mean he hates violence, so Call of Duty/Mortal Kombat isn’t really an option. He’d prefer relaxing games like Animal Crossing and Sims. He loves being just a Little Guy doing Little Guy things like gardening and decorating a house and stuff.
Feeding ducks. Marc is söft, okay? He likes to pretend he’s not but he’s so soft. And huggable. And cuddly. So when he goes to the park he always brings food for the ducks because he’s worried they might not have enough.
He has a collection of Star Wars comic books from when he was a kid, and baseball cards. They brought him comfort and were probably one of the only things he kept. He still looks at them.
Jake:
Jake isn’t like the other boys. He doesn’t care much for video games. No, Jake enjoys board games. Stuff like DND, to be specific. This guy has like 20 different characters and campaigns going at any given time, and he runs them out of the local pub with his buddies. He might disappear for a week or two without notice, but good fucking luck getting through Menkalavert the Red’s dungeon without his Lvl. 98 half-elf ranger with maxed-out stats. Nobody dares to play without Jake. He’s OP (he’ll also kick your ass at Monopoly btw, and he’s always hanging out in pubs so ofc he knows every card game ever invented).
Documentaries. Look. It might seem like he doesn’t care for/nor have the patience to sit through one. But think of it this way: he never got to go to school. Everything he knows he knows from Marc and Steven. How to read, write, spell, and such. So in his free time he’ll sit and watch something on the history channel or National Geographic just to learn something new. It makes him feel good, especially when Marc or Steven quiz him on it later and he gets all the questions correct.
Jake makes it a point to always visit the local homeless shelter with all the food and clothes he can fit in his car. His cab business brings in good money, so once Steven and Marc get their share (before they get jobs again), and once he spends only what he needs to, he spends the rest on food and clothes. He helps get them interview clothes for jobs, helps them get bank accounts and assists them until they’re able to find a home. There’s always someone new in the shelter for every group he helps, but he’s always ready to do it all over again.
Spookable September
#moon knight#steven grant#marc spector#jake lockley#steven grant x reader#marc spector x reader#jake lockley x reader#stormkobra 5 answers#spookable september#oscar isaac#oscar isaac hernandez estrada
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a wish to be loved
CONTAINS BOOK 3 SPOILERS
set right after the ava kiss scene, at least cece has great friends
fandom: the wayhaven chronicles
words: 1,525
rating: general
read it on ao3
When the door shut behind Ava that sick yet familiar feeling of loneliness began to fill the space. It wound through her like tendrils, wrapping around her throat until she felt like she couldn’t breathe and plugging her ears until the rang. All she could feel was the rawness of her lips from being kissed, the heat on her thighs where Ava’s hands had lifted her, and the ache settling deep in her chest.
Cecilia knew what loneliness was more than most.
It was like a second home.
Every single person in her life who she had truly loved left her at some point.
It happened when she was seven and her dad died. Her favorite person in the entire world cruelly ripped away.
Then every time her mother chose work over her, leaving her with a random babysitter until Cecilia was deemed old enough to care for herself. After that, it was just Cecilia coming home from school to an empty house to cook herself dinner and put herself to bed hoping she might get a chance to see her mom in the morning, even if in passing.
There was no more childhood after Rook died.
Her poor heart was broken in so many ways, but this time might just be the one to leave it completely shattered when the woman she loved left her.
The dried tears from before were quickly replaced with fresh ones. Since the start of the kidnappings, it was like every time she wasn’t good enough was a new crack in her sanity. She was on the brink of disaster and was only held together by some shitty scotch tape at best.
Cecilia did her best to hide it, putting on a smile and making sure those around her were alright. If she focused on them it would allow her to not think about herself. She knew others could tell from the way Farah stared at her sometimes and even Nat when she thought Cecilia wasn’t looking. No one said anything outright.
She turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and suddenly it was like she was a child again. Dad dead. Mom busy working. Left to take care of herself even when she was raw and vulnerable.
Her eyes slid away from her reflection, unable to handle the memories any longer, and landed on the soft shape of the duck stuffy sitting on top of her dresser. It felt like a lifetime ago since the carnival and her and Ava’s “fake” date. Cecilia remembered her excitement when Ava handed the prize to her, claiming she had no use for it.
Cecilia loved that fucking duck. She had been so relieved that it hadn’t been ruined in her apartment accident.
She stood before it now, staring into its little glass eyes and it all suddenly became too much.
The first sob shook her and the ones following brought her to her knees as she cried.
She cried for her lost childhood. She cried because she was so damn lonely. And mostly, she cried because she wished someone would love her in the way she loved them.
*
At some point, Cecilia had made it to bed.
She lay on her side in the quiet darkness, stuffed duck nestled in her arms.
A hesitant knock sounded on the door. It opened before she could respond.
“Cece?” Farah called quietly into the room. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Luckily the vampire didn’t need light to navigate the dark bedroom and crawled onto the bed quickly. “I’ll even let you be the little spoon,” Farah teased, slotting herself behind Cecilia beneath the covers.
Cecilia was grateful for her best friend’s comfort. A hand curled around Farah’s soft forearm as a few coils of hair tickled her cheek. The feeling of familiarity was a blessing as the smell of her friend’s soap and the slightest hint of cinnamon sliced through the dreaded loneliness.
“I would’ve come sooner but thought you might need some time,” she murmured.
She nodded. “Thank you,” Cecilia rasped, her voice hoarse from crying.
Farah was silent for a few seconds before saying, “We could always break into Nat’s special room and find her stash of old alcohol. Not like she’s going to use it. Besides, I think she’d let you do just about anything right now.”
That made Cecilia snort. “As tempting as that sounds, my head already hurts enough.”
She felt Farah shrug the shoulder not pressed against the mattress. “Fair. Offer still stands.”
It made Cecilia finally produce a small smile.
They lay there without saying much for a while. Cecilia wasn’t up for talking and Farah clearly understood. With someone else with her, she was finally feeling the exhaustion of her emotions surging forward until her eyelids were becoming heavier by the second. Farah had come dressed in her pajamas, having already intended to stay with her best friend as long as she was needed.
“Hey, Farah,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I love you. You really are my best friend.”
Farah’s arm squeezed her tightly. “You’re my best friend too. I love you so much that I considered kicking Ava’s arms out from under her earlier so she would faceplant into the ground.”
Cecilia smiled, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about. Still, she appreciated the sentiment.
*
She and Farah parted ways the next morning. Morgan had come and banged on Cecilia’s door trying to find Farah so they could go on their patrol. To say Farah was uncharacteristically irritated with Morgan after was an understatement.
Cecilia hugged her goodbye, smiling at the promise they would watch stupid movies later together when she returned.
Knowing it would be stupid of her to hole up in her room, Cecilia made the brave decision of venturing out into the kitchen. She pushed the thought of seeing Ava to the back of her mind while trying to ignore the way her stomach turned at the idea.
Thankfully, there was only Nat seated at the table, squinting at a crossword puzzle with her lips pursed. A pencil twirled absent-mindedly in her fingers.
“What’s the question?”
Nat looked up seeming a bit surprised by Cecilia’s presence. She recovered quickly though, looking back down to her paper. “Who don’t you put in a corner?”
Cecilia crossed the room to stand behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Baby.”
The woman twisted in her seat, a look of confusion pulled at her features. “Why on earth would you put a baby in a corner?”
She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. “No, the character’s name is Baby. It’s from the movie Dirty Dancing.” Cecilia took a seat in the chair next to Nat. “Why did you choose a pop culture crossword anyway?”
“Farah printed it out for me. She said it would keep me busy.” Nat paused, long fingers drumming on the table in thought. “I suppose she was right on the keeping me busy part because I have no idea what half of these words mean strung together like this.”
Cecilia smiled—until Nat truly looked at her in her Nat way that openly read I know you aren’t okay. Then her lips curled into a frown.
“Are you doing alright?” she asked, reaching over to place a hand on top of Cecilia’s.
She let out a long sigh. Her head still hurt from crying last night and she was sure her eyes were puffy so she looked a wreck. “I guess.”
Nat squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to be. It’s completely understandable.”
“I’m sure you already know what happened then,” Cecilia mumbled, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Something about their friendly warmth made her feel unworthy.
“Secrets don’t seem to last long around here,” she said, then followed by, “Farah told me after she saw Ava in the hall.”
Cecilia stared at the pattern in the wooden grains of the tabletop. The muscles in her jaw were already beginning to ache from the way she clenched it. “It just…” she trailed off at first, finger tracing the space where her gaze went. “It just hurts.”
“What does?”
Swallowing hard, Cecilia finally met Nat’s concerned look. “Loving someone who doesn’t love you back. No, let me rephrase. Loving someone who feels the same but won’t let herself and breaks my heart over and over again in the process.”
Nat frowned but nodded in understanding.
She felt tears flooding her eyes once more. “I’m not strong anymore, Nat,” Cecilia whispered. “I feel like I’m falling apart. I don’t know how much more I can take.”
By the end, her voice was wobbling and Nat moved from her chair to kneel in front of Cecilia, pulling her into a hug. Cecilia clung to her tightly, willing herself not to break into tears all over again.
“I wish there was something I could do,” Nat whispered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia caught movement. She turned her head just in time to see the figure of Ava slinking back into the hallway and the mournful look clouding her face. “Me too, Nat. Me too.”
#ANGST#cece and farah snuggle all the time bc i snuggle with my best friends too#the power of friendship#cece is on the brink guys#truly mentally ill#my writing#the wayhaven chronicles#twc#wayhaven#wayhaven book 3#wayhaven book 3 spoilers#oc: cecilia#ava x cecilia#ava du mortain#farah hauville#nat sewell#twc morgan#twc fics#ava du mortain x f!detective#ava du mortain x detective
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Castlevania Chronicles (Original Mode) Part 3: The meaning of pain
This first stage starts with a crumbling bridge complete with Medusa Heads coming at you. You need precise reflex to dodge them all because if you get hit even once even if you don’t fall down the knockback will send you too far back to make it back up in time. I’ve died here what feels like 20 times before figuring out that the Stop Watch you can get at the beginning can be a lifesaver
Then we get to the Tower of Dolls segment complete with the eponymous song. It’s a short vertical section with about a billion miniscule enemies and obstacles trying to get you. From toy clowns marching left and right and sometimes dropping down, little bats flying around, possessed dolls waking up and harassing you and dodging your whip attacks if you don’t perform them at just the right distance. I prefer it over the clock tower overall though since it’s much shorter and nowhere near as cheap
Ah and there’s a hidden meat in a wall, but as soon as you destroy it the meat will fall to a lower level and if you don’t jump down in a precise manner you will fall to an even lower level and won’t make it back up in time before the meat disappears. Even if you do this correctly a bunch of enemies will respawn offscreen right around where the meat landed. Fuck you as well!
Then we have a mirror hall which is actually not that hard.
The boss sure is
2 things about this doppelganger:
1) He’s aggressive as fuck
2) He’ll use whatever subweapon you currently have equipped so it’s better to have none at all
This can be an insane fight. The only thing I can recommend is to look out for his pattern since he’ll always go back and forth through the room in the same manner, jumping on those two platforms. Did I mention he’s got invincibility frames after you hit him? Or that he poses to you after he kills you?
Stage 7 is a pretty faithful recreation of Stage 5 from the original. You remember that one right? The hardest stage of Castlevania 1? It’s harder now!
There are more enemies, more awkwardly placed and more aggressive (that fucking army of red skeletons over a stair in the mid portion...)
Near the end you’ll face against The Creature, who has been demoted from boss to...not even a mini boss just the tankiest normal enemy ever. Don’t bother fighting him, he’ll drive you to a corner and kill you, climb those stairs to the right and jump over him.
Then we have the Hallway of Doom from the original. I was dreading this part....
Turns out it’s actually way easier!
It was left virtually untouched (save for some impressive graphical illusions with that background painting: fun fact it’s different depending on which season is set in your system!), but since you have better controls it’s easier to maneuver yourself here
Axe Armors are also generally easier to deal with here because:
1) You can now duck to dodge their axes while in the original their hitboxes were too big
2) If you manage to hit them where they’re not pointing their shield you can actually instakill them!
Death himself is both harder and easier than in the original
He’s harder because the Holy Water trick no longer works on him and he has more attacks, especially that one where he forcefully sucks you to the center of the room and spams tiny skulls that home in on you
But he’s also easier because he’s way less aggressive with his scythes and he has an allergy to the cross, which hits him multiple times per frame. Granted he enters a state of invulnerability after a couple of hits so he’ll have the chance of fighting back but at least this makes the fight overall more manageable than in the original!
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Someone Get Freddy Out of the Microwave
Chronicles of a Hot Girl week 3
Mercury remained in the microwave for another couple of weeks.
With a full moon, a lunar eclipse and cinco de mayo, this Hot Girly opted for a weekend of rest.
“As she should.”
By week three of microwaving Mercury (band name idea) I was depleted, defeated, and regularly depressed.
The show was a heated mess and I was starting to spin out.
Being a Hot Girl is truly a state of mind. It is not about how many dates you go on. It's not even conventional attractiveness. It is one hundred percent about being That Bitch.
Taking life by stride, the ability to self sooth, identify and communicate your needs. A Hot Girly utilizes healthy coping mechanisms and works through their emotions. These are the hall marks of a Hot Girl.
Sometimes though, in life we are the ex that comes back during a retrograde.
I should be embrassed how quickly I answered after B messaged me. I had spent the last 3 days debating whether or not to message him.
How you ask?
Typing up messages in snapchat and then copy and pasting them into the notes app on my phone.
After the third day he had enough of being notified that I was typing only to not see the message.
“I know you didn’t care that’s why I don’t ever actually send these messages.”
Maybe it is the anxiety. Maybe it is the delusion? Perhaps it is the unintentional gaslighting. If we are being honest, on both of our parts.
Either way. He asked what was up. I called him, he called me, I messaged him, he messaged me. Then it was 3 am and I was wrapped up in his arms on the couch singing with him like our own depressing little karaoke night. It was something we were good at.
We are on borrowed time for sure. I want there to be a way to fix that.
It didn't hit until I was in his bathroom at 5 am and noticed all the extra and new products lined up neatly on the rack in the shower and the pile of scrunchies on the bathroom sink.
“When do you think you’ll make it official?” I asked him while he laid out naked and drained of life.
“Probably soon.”
I calmly got up, grabbed my shorts, and made my way down the hall.
It's a fucking miracle I can make my way around in the dark without breaking anything.
As I get in the car I cry. The moment I had been holding my breath for since we picked up again in January is close. I thought I would be used to it 9th time around.
B messaged me the next morning. I guess waking up without me there was jarring.
Let us just chalk this up to what not one but 2 psychologists deem as a form of self harm. If I say that out loud enough times it could possibly, maybe, hopefully sink in.
So, how do we learn to take life by stride?
I always think back to when I first started learning how to compete in pageants. You really think you know how to walk until you’re about to walk across a stage in 4-6in heels for the purposes of being judged. Like actually judged for your grace in walking across a stage.
My mother had used to get on to me for dragging my feet, so I was under the impression I had nailed that already. Or at least enough to keep her claws out of my arm.
Alas, though simialry to an ugly ducking blossoms into a swan as did I.
I forget the power a great walk can have. The affect grace and poster can have on how an entire room sees you.
After a long week, I was having one of my trademark anxiety attacks. Everything fit wrong. I felt like the air wasn't working like it should. I categorize anxeity attacks a little differently from my panic attacks as the effects are all internal and somewhat scaled down.
One of my friends was sitting on my bed as I told the 3rd person today what had transpired the night before and carefully (like a feral raccoon digging for a lil snaky snack) chose the perfect bright lacey corset top to juxtapose my light wash shredded shorts.
The reaction varies from person to person. One says the relationship sounds like self harm. My boss thinks I should just be honest about my feelings. The last is honestly just living for the plot.
We get to the *gasp* country bar, and from the moment I open the swinging door I can feel every head snap in my direction. Maybe that is because I did open the door a little aggressively and pop the trash can on the other side of it by accdient. The little swinging door looked heavier than it was.
I cut through that place like butter. As I glide up to the bar, I can still feel eyes on me.
The only two people I am there with are the only two I know. A perfect environment to dance and have a carefree time. Homeostasis achieved.
For whatever reason though, it never seems the stars alligin in such a way that for me to spend too much time there.
Not long after arriving to the country bar, I am back in my enclosure. The lavender and clary sage candle helped my little sunset light illuminate my room.
There is a lot I would love to be able to say to B.
I spent a long weekend just trying to survive the annual hallmark reminder of my childhood trauma. I did my best to sEt MySeLf Up FoR sUcCeSs. I went to work, didn’t drink, even tried to water and feed myself.
“I woke up for the first time in 6 months in a good mood for once.” Played on an ADHD loop for the better part of my Sunday morning. I went for a mile and a half walk which was short for me. I wanted to leave enough time to get ready for work, get my coffee and so on. I also had an 8 hour shift ahead of me.
Getting to work with enough time to smoke it out with my coworker. She tries to be nice, but I know she doesn’t like me much. The shift is peaceful. Slow in my line of work isn’t the best financially speaking, but it is a lot easier to not have a mental breakdown if your job isn't activly giving you a reason to drink.
The bartending industry by no means is making anyone do anything they don’t want to do. Now if you haven’t had the privilege of working behind the pine, it is likely you also don’t know the pleasure of taking a warm shot of lemon vodka after someone brings up your suicide attempt from 2020. (I know. Who didn’t have one that year?)
So for me to not partake in the roaring twenties that is working on 7th ave because my mental state isn’t great is really monumental for me. I might have slipped when Andor came in for a hug, but I didn’t sleep with him, so that doesn’t count.
Sunday night was also the night I let everyone involved in the show know that my child (my burlesque show) would be temporarily suspended. I felt like I had fired people which is so odd because literally nothing got done outside of me.
Still it felt shitty. I wasn’t even mad. Just disappointed.
The show must go on. On it will go. The show will live in August complete with a new band, new location, and new ideas to make the approprate show to kick off a production company.
Someone took Freddy Mercury out of the microwave on the 15th which was a Monday.
I woke up with $50 in my bank account, no show, no fun traumatizing situation-ship, and generally no idea how I was going to make the next few months work. If there is anything you should know about me, is I am a figure it out along the way kinda girly.
No confidence? Fake it and if all fails just be kind. No money? Money jars and grab a shift or a gig. No love? Ha. Boys (girls) and Buses, baby.
Until next time.
#thechroniclesofahotgirl#trauma#childhood trauma tw#dating#dating in 2023#dating in your 20s#mercury retrograde#spiritual#spiritual growth#story time#tumblr stories#hot girl shit#sa recovery
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okay, so the duck is called 빵빵덕, or Bambang Duck, which is an onomatopoeia for duck calls (honk honk) or banging (bam bam), and it also sometimes gets translated as bread? I think it’s also a pun on a dish of some sort.
I will continue my search and get back to you all.
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my everything is you
the wayhaven chronicles. mason x sparrow kingston (nb detective). 800+ words of soft mason, enjoy.
ao3 link
Flopping back onto the couch in the library at the warehouse, Sparrow sighs and closes their eyes for a moment.
They’d been gone for a week with Tina and Verda, a conference in the city that they couldn’t weasel their way out of. It had been hectic. A whirlwind of trying to keep their focus evenly split between seemingly a hundred different things. The only form of respite had been Mason’s texts and the late night phone calls.
Sparrow wiggles their body. Moves around until their legs are stretched out in front of them, back propped up against the arm of the sofa. The book in their hand is something they’ve read before but they’re not looking for a distraction. All they need is to pass the time, however much of it is left, until Mason is back from his own patrol with Ava.
Simple enough, to crack open the nearly ancient edition of The Prince in their hand and fall into it.
So simple, in fact, that they miss the heavy footsteps coming down the hall. They miss the way they slow to a halt right outside the library door. How Mason waits for a minute before he steps inside. They don’t notice he’s in the room until he’s close enough that they smell him, sandalwood and leather and cigarette smoke.
The book falls to their chest, and they watch as he carefully peels his jacket off. Tosses it on the back of a nearby chair. And then he nudges one of their legs out of the way. Settles a broad palm on their thigh and dramatically falls down right between their legs.
“Hello to you too, amore mio,” Sparrow says softly. “How was your patrol?”
Mason doesn’t speak. He presses his nose to their belly, the fabric of their shirt bunching up under his face. His left arm winds around, slips under their lower back until his fingers are curling around their opposite hip. Sparrow moves their leg. Pushes it underneath his right arm so their heel rests along his spine. Mason slides his right hand under their shirt. Splays it against their ribs. Drags his thumb over the bones and muscle, over the freckles he can’t see.
“That bad, huh?” They try again as they carefully set the book on the nearby table. Their hand drops to his scalp and they push their fingers into his hair. He grumbles. Squeezes the hand on their hip. “Was Felix terrible company while I was gone?”
He tenses between their thighs. Grunts and moves so his chin is resting along the waistband of their jeans. “He’s so loud, songbird.”
Sparrow snorts. Scratches at his scalp as they run their fingers through his hair. Mason pushes up into the touch with a soft sigh, grey eyes fluttering shut. “Tina is the same,” they murmur. He drops his cheek to their stomach. They press their thumb into the back of his neck. Mason shivers. Scoots closer, as close as he can, while he tightens his hold on them. “I missed this.” He hums, something low and rough that they can feel against their thighs as it rumbles through his chest. “Did you sleep at all while I was gone?”
A shrug. It jostles them a little bit, so wound together with him, and they chuckle. Tension bleeds from him, his shoulders drooping as he melts against them. Sparrow draws circles behind his ear before dragging their blunt nails along his scalp again.
“Going to guess that’s a no.”
“Bird,” he says, voice rough and thick. Mason pulls back to look at them, eyes half-lidded. “Missed you.” He blinks. Watches their face go soft and then he ducks his head. Noses their shirt out of the way enough to press a kiss to their hip. Chaste, affectionate. And then he’s moving up their body, draping himself over them and sliding his arms around so his hands are between their shoulder blades. Mason rests his head on their chest with a soft sigh. “You’re comfortable.”
Sparrow laughs, their hand dragging along his shoulders. “And you’re heavy.”
“Don’t be fucking rude.”
“Don’t call me a fucking pillow, you bastard.”
His body shakes as he laughs, face rolling so he can look up at them, and the smile that breaks across his face is brighter than any sunrise. “Fuck you too, sweetheart.”
They pinch his ear, grinning, before sweeping their touch up and down his spine. “Get some sleep,” Sparrow whispers, fingers moving back to play with his hair.
They start to move, to reach for their book, but he grumbles and frees a hand to pluck it off the table for them. A kiss to the top of his head, and then another. One that lingers, one that’s full of promises. Mason presses his lips to the middle of their chest, right over their heart, before closing his eyes and settling down with a long, soft exhale.
He’s asleep before they finish opening the book.
#the wayhaven chronicles#txt#writing tag#mason x sparrow#c: sparrow kingston#caiti.txt#surprise#nobody asked for this but sparrow whacked me over the head last night so here we are#sprint writes this in 25 minutes and hands it to you#i am forcibly trying to break myself out of this weird. only write wips and never finish them.#the fact that this is under 1k words is a miracle lmao
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AUpocalypse Week One: Drama or Thriller
The Frankenstein Chronicles, DarkHawk, T
[drabble under cut]
Once, Ross had yearned for death. Soon after he’d forsaken Demelza and their innocent Julia, Ross had reached his arms to Heaven and had begged God to forgive him, to welcome Ross into His kingdom where Ross could reunite with his family.
Instead, God had given him dreams. Vivid images that had confused reality upon waking; images of Demelza, her clever eyes and shy smile, hushing Ross over her shoulder as he’d approached her. She’d stood over Julia, tucked into her bassinette at the base of a large oak, its leaves ruffled by a breeze. Julia had cooed, plucked the air with her teeny, fat fingers and had given Ross a gummy smile so pure it had moved Ross to tears.
And then the waters had risen, and their images had faded, abandoned Ross to the tug and pull of the undertow. Weighted down by his guilt and anger, Ross hadn’t had the strength to break the surface, only his fingertips grazing the air he’d so desperately needed as he’d splashed and sank for eternity.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t turned his back on God, he would’ve been allowed to die.
“He lives,” Ross heard, the voice tinny and faraway. Then, “Oh,” it breathed in the same pleasure and relief as a new parent, “He lives.”
Ross recognized the voice as belonging to Lord James Hawkins, or “Jim, please, I’d like to think of us as friends.”
Sweet, conniving Jim, who had torn apart and put together the pieces of seven children. Whose beautiful, dimpled smile had seduced Ross into his bed – into his body, for fuck’s sake – and had charmed Ross’ inquiries up other, less rational avenues.
Jim, who had wasted his stepfather’s fortune in a pursuit to defy God Himself.
“Look,” Jim said, voice lilting. Ross felt Jim take his hand in both of his and lift it. “See? You’re cured.”
Finally, Ross peeled his eyes open, the command travelling at a slow pace from his brain to his lids. His vision was blurred, watery, but he could identify the shape of Jim’s short, delicate fingers curled around his. Jim turned Ross’ hand, pressed Ross’ palm to his scruffy cheek and sighed as if the world suddenly made sense.
Ross’ eyes narrowed on the stripe of flesh visible beneath Jim’s embrace, not quite comprehending that it was bare of infection though accepting the impression of the complex thought. Shifting his gaze to Jim’s face, he noted Jim’s expression to be one of complete and utter wonderment. Ross had never been looked at like that before.
Jim released his hand. Ross brought it closer to his face to inspect, mind sloughing through the process of interpreting what he saw. The syphilis, at last it supplied, it’s vanished. In a belated effort, Ross took stock of himself. His body felt distant, foreign, like a new suit that needed altering. With trembling fingers, Ross touched where the only pain he detected pulsed mutely, the pads grazing over ridges that weren’t there before the—
Gallows.
Ross choked, slapped his other hand to his chest and dragged it up toward his neck, blunt nails scratching at the newly threaded stitching they found.
“Hush, darling,” Jim soothed, took Ross’ hands in a firm grip, “You’re entirely yourself, I promise.” He tilted his head, blond curls catching the gauzy light and illuminating them like a halo, “Come now, and let me show you how perfect you are.”
Gently, Jim supported Ross through the motions of sitting and then standing, guided him into stiff, wobbly steps with an arm around Ross’ back and the hand of the other clutching Ross’ wrist.
“You are the next step,” Jim praised, his body so, so warm against Ross’ side, “An existence where the is no suffering.”
Ross tried to clear his mind as it trundled ahead, unable to concentrate on more than putting one foot in front of the other. Jim’s words were clear as bell, but their meaning slid off Ross’ brain like water off a duck’s back. When next he managed to pick his gaze up from his toes, Jim had him stationed in front of a long, rectangular mirror. Ross was nude and grey, skin the color of ash, and there was a terrifying Y shaped scar that ripped his front into sections from each shoulder down to his navel.
That was his punishment for getting Caroline killed, for refusing to listen to Enys. For ignoring his instinct because he was greedy for Jim’s supple form bending and arching beneath Ross’ caress. God’s final verdict.
Jim observed him with all the love of a new mother. He continued his speech, eyes reverent, voice barely above a whisper, “Because there is no death.”
Ross was frightened, confused, yet, seeing Jim’s face, his naked devotion, Ross couldn’t find it within himself to suffer. That man, that brilliant, doting, blasphemous man, had made Ross anew, brought him back from the abyss and returned to him his life. All at once, Jim became Ross’ father, his lover, his teacher.
“You remarkable thing,” Jim said, turning Ross’ face away from their reflection. Jim brushed his lips across Ross’ parted mouth, hovered in Ross’ space while Ross panted harshly, awareness catching up to the turmoil of being resurrected.
When Ross’ breath evened into steady inhales, Jim cradled his jaw and leaned in, kissed Ross with more heat, more purpose. Ross began to respond in increments, shifting clumsily to join himself against Jim’s front, fingers twitching, hands finding purchase on Jim’s narrow hips. With strength he hadn’t possessed before, Ross slid his palms over the swell of Jim’s arse, under Jim’s thighs and lifted Jim into into his arms. He staggered sideways, spun and slammed Jim’s back into the wall beside the mirror, kept Jim there as he tried to find his voice. He had so many questions.
It took several beats, swallowing and grunting in frustrated bursts when the words refused to form on his tongue. He could picture them, could feel the memory of them on his lips, yet couldn’t push them out. Jim held and encouraged him, swept his thumbs over the peaks of Ross’ cheeks and nudged the tips of their noses together.
Ross’ first word as an unholy monster was, “Jim.” falling between them like some burped, bulbous thing. Jim nevertheless responded with delight, his laughter ringing like church bells.
“You will learn quickly, my love, I know it.” Jim promised, tapping Ross between the eyes as affection bloomed across his features.
And so it was that Ross Poldark betrayed God and cheated death, merrily damned to walk the earth again in the company of his creator.
ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 ⛓️💔
#GF AUpocalypse 2021#GatheringFiKi#AUpocalypse#Week 1#DarkHawk#Ross Poldark/Jim Hawkins#Ross/Jim#Ross Poldark#Ross#Jim Hawkins#Jim#AO3#writing#my writing#photoset#photoset by MarigoldVance#drabble#short story#snack fic#AU - The Frankenstein Chronicles
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@winter-fir: Sofia, my darling, this was written as a birthday present and with you in mind. Thank you for being such a delightful, funny, mad scientist genius friend, I love you. I wanted to give you some Arnaghad/Erland fluff and it didn’t turn out fluffy at all, it’s a rambly mess and I’m sorry. It did turn into a continuation and a prompt fill, I hope you don’t mind. 😂 I also hope you ate a lot of cake today ❤
Steal My Heart Again
Prompt: Isolation
Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik
Rating: E
Content Warnings: apocalypse-appropriate sentiments (aka hopelessness), explicit sexual content, swear words, minor character death (past)
Summary: This is a sequel to Drown With Me If You Can. Erland and Arnaghad have made it to the safety of Kaer Seren’s cellars and have to face life during the apocalypse. They cope in different ways. In which: Erland wallows some more and Arnaghad wants cuddles.
Word Count: ~3k
AO3 Link I @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo
In the latter years of the 1130s, a conflict between the Northern Realms of Redania, Kaedwen, and Kovir and Poviss sprouted up in which Kovir and Poviss petitioned to gain sovereignty.
Erland pauses to ponder his next words and in that pause, becomes aware of something stirring.
Witchers usually sniff and listen before something breeches their line of sight, but with his beloved bear, it’s even more intense. Erland can hear the giant’s footsteps pound in tune with his own heart as soon as Arnaghad rises from his meditative perch at least four rooms down the hallway. Erland can smell the endorphins that chase each other through Arnaghad’s bloodstream as soon as he calls out for Erland, still far away. They have a different scent for every person and witcher picking up on them.
For Erland, Arnaghad’s contentedness smells like toasted white bread and strawberry jam. Conversely, Arnaghad is reminded of the concoction of oils and herbs he treats his old bearskin with so that it retains its texture whenever Erland smiles. Everything about Arnaghad is intense, as is the emotional knot Erland carries tucked between his lungs, the one that is made up of strings of the past and present that have become inevitably entangled. There is no easy emotion here and so Erland shoves them all aside in favour of putting down his next lines.
It came to pass that, under the supervision of the Hierarch of Novigrad, then Walter Beda, the rulers of the three countries met to negotiate the agreement. King Radovid III of Redania and King Benda of Kaedwen sailed on the Redanian flagship Alata to Lan Exeter where Gedovius Troyden, then Earl and later King of Kovir, met them, accompanied by his wife Gemma. Thus, the First Treaty of Lan Exeter was forged, and Kovir and Poviss gained the right to call themselves a kingdom.
Erland blows on the ink and the smell intensifies so much that his mouth waters. He glances to the side to see the bear appear in the hallway.
“There you are,” Arnaghad rumbles when he arrives at Erland’s small chamber which used to be a storage for barrels in need of repair. He shoulders through the narrow doorway without knocks or ceremony, and his bare feet slap against the stone, warmed by an underground pool of water which is suffused by heat from the earth’s core. With the White Frost raging outside the keep of Kaer Seren - in whose basement they currently reside in - even that heat will fade and freeze, but it has not been touched yet. They have not been touched yet, they made it to the safety of this hidden hearth and it nearly cost them their lives. “What are you doing, birdie?”
“Writing,” Erland says absent-mindedly and growls when Arnaghad’s hulking form blots out the light of half the torches as he approaches the makeshift desk. It’s a splintered plank of wood propped up on two empty barrels, a third one – overturned – functioning as the chair. The rest of the room is bare save for the rusted grates in which the torches reside and a wicker basket full of half-rotten corks. The griffins used to collect them to fashion floormats for the baths with. The griffins that now lay buried under rubble, only a story or two above Erland’s and Arnaghad’s heads. He tries not to think about that as he writes, writes, writes.
“Why, thank you dearest beloved, I had not figured that out for myself.”
Erland shrugs and bends further over his page. He is halfway through his account and he has to keep going while the words still come easily and his hand hasn’t cramped up. It tends to do that a lot these days, whether from writing, shovelling endless masses of snow or from stroking Arnaghad’s oversized cock. The first one is a need to preserve what might otherwise get lost, the second a necessity so their one exit from Kaer Seren doesn’t get blocked completely. The third activity is all pleasure and indulgence and re-learning the body of a man he thought lost to him for so long.
Arnaghad, the obnoxious idiot, steps closer and squints over Erland’s shoulder which truly sucks up the rest of the flickering illumination. His burly hand comes to rest on Erland’s head – now freshly shaven into his preferred undercut again with his hair woven into complex patterns Arnaghad yet remembers from his home – and his chin presses against Erland’s temple.
“’Kovir’s Independence and the First Treaty of Lan Exeter’,” Arnaghad reads out loud from the top of the page. “The fuck does this have to do with you? Are you trying to write a world history?”
“You forget where we are,” Erland murmurs and finishes his sentence, placing a small asterisk with a number ten atop the last word for yet another footnote.
“I haven’t.” Arnaghad plucks the feather from Erland’s hand and rises a little, takes the bent fingers into his own and strokes along them to straighten them out, one by one. Erland sighs and sags against the bear, letting fatigue wash over him, wash away his ambition for the day. “You forget where you are. Who you are and who you are with.”
“I might have,” he admits sheepishly and closes his eyes, listens to the faint gurgle of Arnaghad’s stomach. It’s a simple, well-crafted lie. Erland never forgets and how could he?
“I understood the journal,” Arnaghad says. “Well, I wasn’t willing to give my life for it as you were, but I understood why you wrote it. The ice might melt, the beasts might return and for that, whoever is to inhabit this world may need the information you captured. But this is unfathomable.”
“Of course, it would be to you.”
“What is that supposed to mean? Are you calling me stupid?”
“No,” Erland says and melts as Arnaghad’s hands let go of his to gently massage his shoulders. It’s only when the static pain slowly ebbs away that Erland realizes just how long he’s been sitting hunched over his notes. Each word an investment with so little parchment leftover.
“Then what? Why are you doing this?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Erland sighs and ducks out of his lover’s grip to get up and pop his joints. Avoiding Arnaghad’s gaze, Erland extinguishes the torches with a flurry of precise Aards and makes to leave the room.
The bear wouldn’t understand in a million years why Erland writes the chronicle, would probably call it a waste of energy and resources. There is utility in writing a bestiary, there is only sentiment in writing a history. And perhaps a flicker of hope that whatever civilization rises from the rubble of the Ice Age will not repeat their forebearer’s mistakes. Except no. Erland may be an idealist at heart, but not enough that this hope has a chance of threading through the fabric of his motivation.
His motivation is woven in entirely selfish materials. It’s distraction, it’s occupation, it’s indulging in self-pity and nostalgia, melancholy and pride. It’s to keep himself from spiralling into depression and forgetfulness, to keep his brain from deterioration. Between fucking and eating and sleeping, Erland needs mental stimulation more than exercise.
Arnaghad, on the other hand, spends his hours in meditation and weapon-less drills, doing push-ups by the hundreds, handstands by the hours, pull-ups by the thousands. His massive body, in spite of the lethargy and sluggishness his form might suggest, needs constant movement. To prevent muscle atrophy and to keep himself alert and strong for whatever they have to face.
For now, what they have to face is endless isolation. Just the two of them, a slowly but steadily dwindling supply of dried meats and herbs, pickled vegetables and fruit, and barrels upon barrels of ale. Most of them brewed with the recipe Keldar perfected over decades of teaching young griffins to hold their alcohol alongside their swords.
Keldar.
Erland tries not to think of the old griffin master, especially tries not to think about how they found his body, a frozen statue before the crumpled gates of Kaer Seren, half-buried in snow by the time that Arnaghad and Erland fought their way to the keep. He’d survived the avalanche, had stayed at the school, and Erland had abandoned him. Him too.
Dear old Keldar, dutiful to his last moments. It was what every griffin would have done, every one except for Erland it seemed.
“Birdie,” Arnaghad says, tapping the side of Erland’s skull where his griffin tattoo decorates his shaved skin. They walk side by side, down the endless winding corridors of Kaer Seren’s basement system towards the centre where the heat is the most intense. It’s also where they set up their meagre bedroll, a heap of old linens with Erland’s quilt and Arnaghad’s bearskin on top. “You’re getting lost in your thoughts again.”
“What were you saying?” Erland asks and pushes open the door to their bedroom. Slap, slap, go Arnaghad’s feet as he enters while Erland’s follows after him. He wears both their socks, still more prone to the cold even down here.
“Nothing,” Arnaghad says. He stops in the middle of their room – all grey brick cast in flame from the torches Erland managed to keep perpetually burning. It’s a trick he perfected back when the signs where first developed where he can attach the power of a sign to an object. So, he tethered an Igni to each of the torches, and he did not tell Arnaghad that this constantly pulls on his own energy. The bear would worry and call that too a waste of resources. But Erland would rather be tired by firelight than wide-awake in perpetual darkness, calculating in his head the days that remain to them. “Come here, you look fatigued.”
Erland catches Arnaghad’s steady gaze, darkened by his heavy brow and chiselled face, a small smile tugging on his oh so stoic lips. His hair is neatly bound at the base of his skull, two ceremonial mini-braids framing his cheeks to either side. He wears naught but a simple set of beige linen clothes these days, linens that tug and pull at his bulging muscles. He’s more than a brick wall, he’s as unmoving as the very ground they stand on. Arnaghad cannot be taken apart with brute force, it takes more subtler means of attack to undo him. Erland knows them all intimately and perhaps that is exactly why Arnaghad opens his arms to him then. Erland sighs. He has the rest of Radovid III’s reign to chronicle and his stomach is still on fast-mode. The only reason he came here in the first place was… to… Erland sneezes and the torches flicker. He knows when he’s defeated.
“I am tired,” he admits and crosses the distance between them. If ever there is such a space, unbridgeable at times, invisible at others, it is because Erland put it there. Not intentionally and not always happily, but if things went Arnaghad’s way, they would be close always. The man that envelops Erland in a tight hug has a constant hunger for touch and affection, and Erland has trouble having that piece slide into the greater mosaic he has constructed of his lover over the past centuries.
‘You’re getting old and sappy,’ Erland said to him once, three orgasms into the night and Arnaghad still insisted on holding him close. ‘Sappy and cuddly. I do not recognize you.’
‘Nor I myself,’ Arnaghad replied. If they were other people they might have attributed it to love, how it had overcome everything, how, here at the end of all things, it was them against the apocalypse. How they needed to hold onto each other for there was nothing else to hold onto. But Erland is an idealist, not a romantic, and Arnaghad a pragmatist, not an intellectual, and so that was where the conversation died then.
“You should rest more,” Arnaghad says.
“What a waste of time,” Erland replies and rises to the tips of his toes, uses Arnaghad’s bull neck for purchase to pull himself up. They’re barely eye to eye, but that doesn’t matter when he can finally tilt his head and kiss the tiny frown from Arnaghad’s face. It’s a matter of last resort as well as personal pleasure. Erland is in no mood to argue about his newfound hobby and he does want. Wants so much, so deeply it aches to the core of his bones. They’re still working through their differences – and that, he suspects, will take longer than any written history might – but with each day, Erland can allow himself a little more. He can allow himself to slot their lips together and push his tongue deeply into Arnaghad’s mouth, can allow himself to melt into his bear’s arms and let his rumbling groan rattle his skeleton. Erland smiles at the zealous manner in which Arnaghad’s whole body responds to the kiss. His hands, splayed across Erland’s shoulder blades, tighten, his cock stirs when Erland licks and sucks and adds a moan of his own, his shoulders rise. He’s so passionate, has so much to give, something that Erland has trouble keeping up with.
If half of this witcher had been the one leading the bear school, where could it have climbed to? What could it have accomplished if the abysses between its members hadn’t been quite so gaping? Erland tries not to wonder, tries not to rewrite the course of time in endless thought spirals, but it’s so hard. It’s another reason why he has to focus on the actual past. Because if he doesn’t remind himself that it is set in stone, if he doesn’t capture it with his own words, he starts to trail down the paths of forgotten ‘what ifs’, of unforgettable ‘what ifs’, of the ‘what ifs’ that are neither forgotten nor unforgettable, that are too daring to even consider. Erland loses himself in thought and it is then perhaps a blessing that he can lose himself in Arnaghad’s embrace instead.
“Do you think we could have dinner tonight?” Arnaghad asks after they part, even though he knows the answer. It’s worrying, a true sign that not even Arnaghad has an endless reservoir of energy. His hunger is much more vicious than Erland’s and it’s getting harder and harder for him to wait the intervals they settled on in order to stretch the food as long as they can. Usually, he doesn’t ask. Usually, his voice doesn’t sound so small. Fuck. It’s heart-breaking.
“Not yet, big bear, I’m sorry,” Erland sighs and noses along Arnaghad’s jaw, then sinks back down to his feet and presses his face into the crook of his neck. Wraps his arms around Arnaghad’s middle. Is proud when he doesn’t do the mental math right then and there. No, he won’t torment himself and he won’t succumb to the slight growl Arnaghad gives. Whether it’s from his throat or his stomach doesn’t really matter. The sound pierces Erland’s armour, but it doesn’t shatter. He’s still strong. Can still be strong. “Do you want me to distract you?”
“Ah, birdie, didn’t we just talk about how you’re tired?”
“I’d make a joke about being hungry myself,” Erland mutters, then licks over Arnaghad’s pulse point insistently. “But last I checked, your sense of humour is still as barren as the Korath desert.”
Arnaghad chuckles and the motion slightly shakes Erland where he rests against the bear’s chest. He lets his hand slide down to gingerly palm across Arnaghad’s half-hard cock and it rises to the touch, firms up. He closes his eyes and sucks on his own bottom lip. So easy to please.
“Says the man who thinks fun is a torture device,” Arnaghad retorts on a sigh and as such, it lacks an edge. Erland deftly plucks at the fastenings of the linen trousers and slips his hand into them. Arnaghad’s flesh is hot and solid, too big to wrap his fingers around.
“Alas,” Erland murmurs against the skin of Arnaghad’s neck, cranes his own to nibble on the bear’s jawbone, tracing it with his tongue. “My hand is tried from writing all morning.”
“All day more like,” Arnaghad grumbles.
“Even worse. It’s of no use now.” And with that, he gently guides Arnaghad to the corner where their makeshift bed is, bids him to sit down and takes his own place in Arnaghad’s lap with his belly pressed to the warm floor. Propped up on his elbows, Erland peers up at Arnaghad. From this low, the man seems taller than a mountain, his eyes far away, half-lidded and hazy and Erland smiles. He is tired, yes, so very tired, and that means he is sloppy. Sloppy as he descends over the head of Arnaghad’s massive cock which tastes salty and musky and he laps it all up he goes with lazy drags of his tongue. His lips are loose and his hands looser as they fondle Arnaghad’s cock at the base, toy with his balls.
Before long, spit leaks out of the corners of his mouth and runs down Arnaghad’s length and the low moans of the bear thunder through the hall, echo off the walls, loud enough to raise the dead, Erland thinks sometimes. He wishes he could revive his brothers and sons by cock-sucking alone, but the world has never been that simple. And it won’t ever be now. But if he can give Arnaghad pleasure and himself something to get distracted by then that should be enough.
Erland gets drunk on Arnaghad’s cock, chokes on it as he ruts into the floor without shame. They come within seconds of each other and Erland drinks up what he can, lets the rest spill over Arnaghad’s lap, then cleans that with his tongue too. After, he falls asleep there, curled into a ball in Arnaghad’s lap and it is enough. For now.
#witcher#tw3#witcher rarepair summer bingo#jo does wrsb#arnaghad x erland#erland/arnaghad#isolation#sequel#my writing#cw oral sex#cw hopelessness#cw swear words#arnaghad#erland of larvik#minor character death
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Watch of the Faithful
31 days of wayhaven // day 9: fight
fandom: the wayhaven chronicles
pairing: ava du mortain x cecilia beck
words: 2,733
rating: general
part 1 // part 2
read on ao3
“She’s lucky to even be alive.”
The words rocked Ava to her core when Elidor spoke.
Hands flew out to grip anything to keep her grounded. The edge of a side table was the unfortunate victim to her white-knuckle grip. She could see the fae’s lips move as he continued to speak with Agent Beck and the rest of the unit, but all Ava could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.
“…internal bleeding from cracked ribs and head trauma from the impact against the wall. I’ve given her something to put her into a temporary coma to allow her body to heal.”
Elidor hesitates for a moment before continuing. “If the demon infesting her hadn’t been keeping her body going, she would’ve died” His voice seemed pained at the thought.
Ava came crashing back to reality and slowly turned to face Morgan who was already backing away.
She held her hands up defensively, her face twisted into a scowl. “She was trying to kill us.”
“Did you have to hit her so hard, Morgan?” It was Farah who snapped, golden eyes still glossy from tears. “Didn’t you hear what he just said, you almost killed my best friend!”
Morgan flinched, her stony gaze faltering. “Listen, it’s not my fault demon Cece was a bitch.”
A snarl ripped from Ava’s lips as she stalked forward.
There was no stopping her. She was a freight train compared to the others, even Nat would’ve been useless at halting her.
Large hands gripped Morgan’s upper arms, slamming her back against the wall. She could practically feel the others flinch from the cracking sound of the wall.
“You have made it clear you do not care for Cecilia plenty of times. But this is unacceptable.” She was in her face. The fierceness of Ava’s attitude was enough to catch the other vampire off-guard.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” She snapped, pulling herself together.
“You almost took her away from us, from me. I swear to you, Morgan, I would have never forgiven you if she had died.” Her voice cracked at the thought of the detective’s death.
Morgan’s eyes were wide as Ava dropped her back to her feet. She turned away, unable to look at her any longer. A trembling hand ran across her forehead in attempts to soothe the anxieties bubbling inside her.
The room had fallen silent in the meantime, shock reverberating around the room.
“Ava?” A comforting touch fell on to her shoulder. She doesn’t even have to look to know it came from Nat.
“What it is?” She asked, a heavy sigh accompanying the question. She was tired, so tired, and was ready to be left alone.
“Why don’t you get some rest? I think Rebecca should have some time alone with Cece.”
She was right. Nat was always right.
Ava looked over her shoulder to observe the agent slumped against the wall. Her head was bowed, her sleek bob had been traded in for an unkempt mess of brunette waves that hid the sharp features of her face. Even if she had been told Cecilia had resembled Rook more—soft, rounded features, kind eyes, a dazzling smile that could charm anyone to their knees—Ava was still taken aback by the parallels between the two women.
She turned her attention to Nat. “I will in a few minutes.”
Catching the hint, she nodded, squeezing her shoulder before she left. Morgan had ducked out seconds after Ava had let her go, Farah following quickly to presumably give her a piece of her mind too, and Elidor had other patients that required his attention.
It left just Ava and Rebecca.
After a long moment of silence, Ava moved to stand in front of her superior, unsure of what to say.
“How could I not have realized sooner?” Rebecca finally muttered.
She pursed her lips. “None of us did.”
“You did.” Dark and tortured eyes met hers. “You knew.”
Ava said nothing. She only looked away with a furrowed brow.
“What kind of mother does not know when her own daughter is acting differently?” Her words were strangled from the fresh tears staining the russet skin of her face. “I swore to her I would make up for all those years I wasn’t there for her properly.” She shook her head, a humorless laugh following. “She said there was nothing to forgive me for, that she understood. You should’ve seen the way her eyes lit up when I asked her if she wanted to have lunch with me. I have never seen someone get so excited over lunch.”
She gave a knowing smile. “That sounds like her, yes.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I can’t keep failing her. Even with a heart as big as hers, I’m going to run out of chances. I’m going to lose my baby just like I did her father.”
Ava swallowed hard as she tried to choose her words carefully. There wasn’t a chance to respond.
Arms wrapped around her tightly as Rebecca’s cold professionalism cracked completely. This wasn’t Agent Beck, it was a tired and broken woman who was on the brink of losing it all.
She returned the gesture hesitantly. Rebecca was on the shorter side, not as small as Cecilia, but still at least four or five inches shorter than herself.
“Thank you for taking care of her, Ava,” she whispered. “Please, please, be good to her.”
Ava felt her chest tighten.
She wanted to say that she wished she could do better by her or that the girl deserved better, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it aloud. The internal fight of her selfish need for Cecilia and the desperation for her to have what she truly deserved was a war fought by tireless soldiers.
“Always.” That was what she finally settled on, ignoring the lump forming in her throat when she spoke.
But it was true. So long as Cecilia would have her, Ava would be there.
***
For the next week, Ava spent the majority of her time in the tiny hospital room Cecilia had been set up in.
She sat beside the bed, watching over her every second she could until Elidor ushered her out of the room so he and the other staff could care for her. It was a daily occurrence, and still, Ava was disgruntled every time she was evicted.
Sometimes, Nat came and sat with her. She brought a few of Cecilia’s favorite novels to read aloud. “I read that it helps,” she had said to the curious gaze she was given.
Ava appreciated the company. It was lonely without the detective’s lively chatter.
Farah and Agent Beck frequented the room as well. From what Ava could tell, Farah and Morgan were still not on speaking terms. To be fair, she and Ava hadn’t spoken since either, but that was partly to Morgan avoiding the leader like she was a reckoning. She supposed she was in a way.
When the fact was brought up, Nat predicted—quite tiredly—that everything would smooth over once Cecilia woke up. She also found out Morgan had popped in the few times Ava wasn’t there.
But still, none of them were Cecilia.
It had been a week since she had seen those pretty brown eyes or witnessed rosy lips curl into a smile that never failed to weaken her knees. She wanted the warmth of her touch, the softness of her lips. Ava was starving for her.
Her mind had been running in circles since that night as she thought of all the ways she could have stopped it. The ways she could have saved her. But right now, all she wanted was for Cecilia to recover.
Elidor had given the notice that they would be waking her up today.
“It might take some time. She’ll wake up on her own.” He gave a sympathetic smile to the little group who had gathered, feeling the mood deflate in the room.
So once more, Ava stood guard over the sleeping figure of her lover. She acted as an impenetrable wall between Cecilia and the dangers of the outside world.
She had been lost in thought when Cecilia first awoke.
Ava hadn’t noticed the way her eyelashes fluttered or the way her toes and fingers curled as her body slowly began to wake up.
What caught her attention was the soft sigh as her eyelids finally slid open, groggy gaze searching the room, confusion written all over her face.
Ava took a bandaged hand between her own. “You’re awake,” she said dumbly.
Cecilia attempted to sit up. Ava hadn’t been quick enough to stop her before a cry of pain left her lips and she fell back against the bed, breathing ragged.
“Mea vita, you need to rest.” Her lips brushed over the rough bandages covering her knuckles. Cecilia’s grip tightened pathetically on her fingers.
“Ava—” she croaked, voice hoarse from lack of use.
Letting go of her hand, Ava stood to fetch her a glass of water to help soothe the dryness of her throat.
She helped the cup to dry, cracked lips, her other hand cradling the back of Cecilia’s head tenderly. She made a note to bring her the lip balm she favored later, feeling guilty for not doing so before.
After settling her back down gently, she pulled her chair closer to the bed.
She smoothed down dark wisps of hair that were unruly from sleep. Purplish bruises were scattered over her face, deep shadows hanging under her eyes. A thick white bandage was wrapped around her forehead to cover the stitches she had received from her head wound. She was so beautiful even now, injured and under the fluorescent hospital lighting. It was one of her many talents.
Deep brown eyes shone with sudden tears. “Ava, I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, my love.” A soothing hand caressed her cheek, being careful of the discolored skin.
“What I did,” she shook her head, shifting so Ava’s hand was forced to fall away, “that is unforgivable. What I did to you and the others. Oh god, to Morgan.” She slumped further down, hiding her guilt as she wept.
“Cecilia, please,” Ava’s words were soft as she gently pulled her hands away to reveal her face once more. “It is not your fault. All that matters is the fact that you are okay.”
Plump lips rolled together as she thought, silent tears still slipping over her cheeks. Without thinking, Ava wiped them away, her touch a whisper against her skin.
“Is Morgan alright? It’s all blurred together in my mind. All I can remember is that I hurt her.”
Ava snorted, leaning back in her chair. “She’s fine. She heals.”
She took a few seconds to study her. “You’re mad at her. Why?”
Blonde brows shot up in shock. “Do you not remember her throwing you against the wall?”
“Kind of hard to forget.” She winced at the memory. “But I did deserve it.”
Ava stood up, beginning to pace the small length of the room. “Cecilia, she almost killed you.” It was becoming harder to stay calm.
“But she didn’t—”
“She could have!”
Cecilia’s lips hung open, unable to think of a response.
Ava’s chest was heaving and her fists were clenched. Her gaze was beginning to blur from tears. Not wanting Cecilia to witness the cracking of her stoic armor, she turned her head.
“Come here.”
She whipped around.
“Please,” Cecilia whispered, opening her arms.
Ava sat back on the previously abandoned chair, the top half of her slumping forward onto the bed. The comforting warmth of Cecilia’s embrace enveloped her even at the awkward angle she held her shoulders. Her forehead rested against her chest, her own arms sliding around her, being cautious not to jostle her.
Cecilia grunted as she moved to press a soft kiss to the side of Ava’s head. She quickly settled back down before she could be scolded, opting to run her fingers through the tendrils of loose blonde hair that spilled on to the sheets.
“I will be fine,” she promised, the pad of her thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped her glacial gaze. “Besides, I have you looking after me. I think I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have such a hot nurse.”
A strained laugh left her as she sat up, enjoying the pleased grin on Cecilia’s lips. “I am sure Elidor will be overjoyed to hear such a compliment.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you, silly. I meant you. Elidor isn’t my type.”
“And I am?” Ava chuckled.
The air was sucked from her lungs when she noticed the shift in her gaze to full adoration. “You know you are,” Cecilia murmured, grabbing at the collar of her shirt to pull her closer, pressing a tender kiss to her lips.
The door crashed open, accompanied by a loud squeal.
“I told you I heard voices!” Farah cried out happily.
Ava turned, quite irritably at the ruining of the moment, to see the young agent with an arm full of colorful balloons and flowers skip into the room. She had Nat in tow who seemed to be in charge of transporting an oversized teddy bear, but she seemed more than happy to be a part of it. Morgan trailed in after them. She had a small pink stuffed dog in her hands and an unsure look in her eyes.
Farah shoved everything she was holding into Morgan’s arms before rushing over to hug Cecilia who let out a small oof.
“Oh shit!” She jumped back. “I’m sorry, I forgot. I’m just so glad you’re okay,” she said sheepishly, glancing over at Ava.
“It’s alright, really,” she assured her, reaching out to take her hand gratefully.
Farah smiled.
“You didn’t have to do this.” Cecilia gestured to where Nat was helping Morgan set down the various gifts they had brought.
“We wanted to.” Nat’s warm smile accompanied her words as she greeted the girl with a gentle hug. “It’s the least we could do.”
Farah was bouncing on her heels excitedly, pushing a tight curl out of her face before Cecilia patted the edge of the bed for her to sit. She did without a second thought, already talking a mile a minute.
Ava settled back into her seat, finally feeling like she was able to breathe again.
She watched the detective carefully. The joy was overpowering the lingering exhaustion in her eyes. It wouldn’t be long before Ava would have to chase everyone out so she could rest.
Cecilia’s eyes suddenly looked around the room, landing on Morgan lurking in the corner. “I thought I saw you come in,” she said happily, clearly taking the vampire by surprise.
She seemed uncomfortable as she slinked over to the side of the bed, stiffly holding out the stuffed animal she had brought. “I’m sorry for, uh, throwing you against a wall and almost killing you.”
Ava stiffened, but amusement played on Cecilia’s face.
Cecilia grinned. “I knew you liked me.” She grabbed Morgan’s wrist, tugging her into a semi-forced hug, one that she eventually gave in to.
They had been allowed to stay for a bit longer. Elidor had come in to check on her a few times as well. He seemed just as relieved to see her awake as the rest of them did. Eventually, the rest of the team had been shooed out to allow Cecilia to rest. Ava had only been permitted to stay because it was quite clear she had no intention of going anywhere.
Ava had taken Farah’s spot on the edge of the bed, gently brushing hair away from her face.
“Do you think these beds are too small for you to lay with me?” Cecilia murmured with a quiet smile.
She chuckled. “These beds are barely large enough for me alone, carissima.”
“Guess I’ll just have to beg Elidor to let me move back to my room tomorrow.” She yawned, nuzzling into Ava’s hand on her cheek.
Her heart clenched as she watched her. She didn’t dare to move until she was sure Cecilia had fallen asleep. And when she did, the farthest Ava went was to her post in the chair so she could stand watch over her darling once again.
#31 days of wayhaven#31daysofwayhaven#it's a lil late but i had hw to do last night askldjajsd#ava du mortain#ava du mortain x mc#ava du mortain x female detective#ava du mortain x detective#the wayhaven chronicles#twc#wayhaven#oc: cecilia beck#ava x mc#ava x the detective#ava x cecilia#whc#twc fic#my writing#wayhaven fic#wayhaven a#wayhaven oc#twc a#agent du mortain#du mortain#agent a#a route#seraphinitegames
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Falling for Farah's Framejob | The Wayhaven Chronicles | Det. Bishop Vasquez x Agent Mason
Summary: Farah develops a plan and runs with it of their own accord, inviting Detective Bishop Vasquez to the warehouse to help them cook up some fun and silliness for the rest of Unit Bravo.
a/n: Reminder, Bishop is genderfluid. So, a horrible thing was heard in my own kitchen during the making of dinner and I couldn’t resist using it. Though this thing ran off with my brain. Consider yourself warned there is a lot of domestic fluff, cooking, and general silliness with a splash of pining.
Read on AO3
Falling for Farah’s Framejob
-1-
BAM!
“What the …?” Farah chirruped, her head snapping toward the detective.
Bishop raised a brow at her. It took a second for their completely serious look to give way to a tiny smirk that twitched upward. The two stared at each other, then Bishop tipped the chef’s knife under their hand enough to show the vampire the massacred clove of garlic. Farah’s brow drew together.
“You want to try?” Bishop asked with wide grin.
Farah’s eyes widened.
“Don’t go all out,” the detective warned, setting a garlic clove on the cutting board between them and set the knife down. They could just imagine Farah hitting the knife so hard the blade shattered or the clove pulverized to nothing.
Bishop talked her through where to set the blade and then Farah dropped a heavy fist atop it, which dusted them both with a fine mist of garlic. Again they looked at one another, then fell into laughter in unison.
“Think that might have been a little much,” Bishop stated.
“Guess now we’re garlic buddies,” Farah howled, bumping the detective’s shoulder with their own.
Bish laughed wildly, trying to dust some of the juicier bits off their clothes. “Good thing all the vampire stories are wrong or you’d be fucked.”
Farah froze and blinked once, then struck her best Wicked Witch of the West pose. “I’m melting.”
The detective snickered and shook their head, handling the next two cloves on their own.
“Melting,” Farah insisted, bumping the detective again with their shoulder. “What a world,” she crooned, acting like she was indeed fading away behind the counter.
“I thought you were helping me,” Bish charged, glancing back over their shoulder.
“I got you.” Farah sprang up next to them with a little hop. “Whatcha need?”
Another head shake. “Stir the rice and see if the water’s boiling yet.”
“On it.”
Bishop finished up the chopping, keeping a bit of an eye on Farah. The detective still wasn’t quite sure why they were doing this. Nate had told them that most vampires didn’t really eat, in fact he insinuated that most of them actively avoided I, which made sense with hypersensitivity and all. So, when Farah suggested that Bishop come over to the warehouse and cook with her, it was kind of a surprise.
They’d met in town and figured out a menu on the fly in the grocery store. Farah wanted to go all out, at least in the detective’s opinion. Apparently, their Southern tutor had also introduced the vampire to their hometown favorites. Bishop, however, kept the vampires’ oversensitivity in mind and planned to make sure to keep the flavors as natural and controlled as they could manage. They kind of hoped that the chocolate pièce de résistance might be the savior of the evening if the Cajun Gumbo went awry for some members of Unit Bravo—one in particular sprang almost instantly to mind.
Even with Farah’s easily distracted nature, it didn’t take the two of them long to get everything together. The rice was warming toward perfect doneness. The sauces were chilling. The flourless chocolate cakes were resting in what Bishop was sure had to be the safest hiding place. And the French bread was sliced nice and thin waiting for some the homemade garlic butter and a quick toasting in the oven. The two of them even managed to get most of the pots and pans cleaned and put back away.
As Bishop wiped down the counter, Farah cackled. The detective really wasn’t sure what they were talking about anymore, but their abs were killing them from laughing so much.
Noticing the wispy tendrils of smoke rising from the pan, Bishop nodded in Farah’s direction. “Pour that flour in there and stir it up.”
The flash of movement might have stopped the story for a second, but it picked back up as the oil sizzled with its fluffy addition.
“What’s this supposed to look like?” Farah asked.
“Wet sand,” Bishop told them, looking up to notice the intense nose wrinkle on Farah’s face.
Amber eyes blinked at them as if she was waiting for them to deliver a punchline.
“Don’t leave me hanging. What’d he say?”
Farah flashed a toothy smile and chuckled. “It just gets more wet when you lick it.”
Eyes closed in regret, Bishop’s head fell back with a shake.
“Can’t believe I’m the one that has to break it to you, but that’s how it’s supposed to work,” a low voice offered from the doorway to the hall.
Bishop’s chin dropped slowly and they swallowed at the sudden lump in their throat. Mason smirked and the detective tried not to think about the fact that he probably heard the gesture. At least they knew he couldn’t possibly hear the tingles that the sound of his voice shot down their spine. The way his keen gray eyes studied them made Bishop wonder if maybe they were wrong.
The spell broke when Mason sneered. “What the hell is that smell?” he asked Farah.
She shrugged.
“Yeah, figured this was going to go south,” Mason declared
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Bishop taunted with a sharp glare in Mason’s direction. No one criticized their cookery skills without literally eating their words.
“Whatever that is, it’s unsalvageable.”
“Bet,” Bishop shot back before Mason even finished the last syllable.
That got his attention. Mason straightened. “You’re on. Don’t think your science’ll save you now.”
“Shows what you know. That’s exactly cooking is, Agent.” Bish laughed knowingly. “Just delicious chemistry.”
“Uh, Bish,” Farah called.
The distinctly raw flour smell was venturing past toasty. Sliding up to their cooking assistant, Bish grabbed up a wooden spoon from the rest next to the stove and turned their furrowed brow and full attention to the roux. They’d made it like they usually did, forgetting that Farah wouldn’t be familiar with proper speed roux procedure. Mason’s hearty chuckle resounded off the tile surfaces with a smugness that Bish would not allow. There was no damn way they were going to lose this bet, and certainly not in the first two minutes.
Not a half a minute later, the roux was saved and another set of scrutinizing eyes manifested in the doorway. Adam’s jade gaze darted around the room like a chaperone at a high school dance. Bishop wondered if it was Farah’s remark or Mason’s that caught the unit commander’s attention and drew him toward the action as well.
“Still smells like chalk,” Mason noted. The click of his lighter being snapped open and closed repeatedly now echoed around the kitchen.
Bishop rolled their eyes then raised their hand to mimic a quaking duck with their slender fingers. “Yeah, you just keep talking. You’ll choke on every word.”
Mason chuckled at them, snapping the lighter closed and leaning forward to rest their elbows on their knees. The detective couldn’t look away if they’d wanted to. The silver finish of the lighter glinted in the low light as it twirled between Mason’s deft fingers. Their tongue darted out over their bottom lip and pulled it between their teeth. His wolfish grin and the toasty scent in the air pulled Bishop out of their trance.
Specialist Agent my ass. Troublemaker Supreme is far more accurate, Bishop thought. The roux, thankfully, was only at the strong cafe au lait stage. This time, they kept their full attention on the pan despite the fact that they could feel Mason’s keen gray eyes on them. It made their skin prickle.
“What are you making?” Adam asked.
Before Bishop even thought about answering, Farah hopped onto the counter and started detailing the planned menu. “Gumbo,” she answered in a sing-song tone.
“Chicken and sausage,” Bishop added as they stretched to reach a bowl brimming with roughly chopped vegetables.
“That’s the trinity,” Farah announced like a play by play announcer. “Green pepper, onion, and celery,” they counted each ingredient on a separate finger, “then comes the pulverized garlic.”
Neither Bishop nor Farah could recall that incident without a chuckle.
“What?” Adam asked.
Bish shook their head. “Nothing,” Farah said with a chuckle.
The veggies sizzled brightly as the detective scooped them into the pan. The chalky raw flour smell had dissipated and gone nutty and toasty. With the addition of the veg, the kitchen erupted in a lovely scent that Bishop could only describe as … green and distinctly Southern. It was one of those lovely mouthwatering scents that always made their stomach growl even if they weren’t the least bit hungry.
They were instantly aware of three pairs of eyes on them, which sparked a serious blush.
“What’s that … ?” Nate asked from the hall, rounding the corner. “Oh, Bishop. Did Farah rope you into this?”
A tiny shrug. “Not really roped.”
“Just wait,” Mason mumbled, his voice low and tantilizing. The image that sprang into Bishop’s head at the suggestion, just darkened the heat in their cheeks.
Adam shot a warning glaze across the kitchen.
Bishop was unphased, well that’s what they tried to tell themself despite the fact that they could feel their pulse beating it’s way through their jugular. It was one of the strangest things about working with vampire’s; they were far too aware of all the little things no one else could hope to notice unless they were looking really hard. And for all Bishop tried to control those little things, the effort just seemed to multiply the reaction.
Oh, right, broth, they thought grabbing the container they’d prepped for just this moment.
“Let me,” Farah said with another quick hop off the counter.
“Drizzle it. Slow,” Bishop said in a low guiding voice. They stirred tender vegetables careful not to splash any of the oil mixture out of the pan. “Stop for a sec.” After whisking the mixture smooth again, they gave Farah a nod for more. Back in their element, the detective’s full focus returned to the meal in the making.
“Surprised to find you down here,” Nate said quietly as he slipped into a chair at the table near Mason.
Adam crossed the room and stood near the window watching the night march against the retreating light of day.
“Why’s that?” Mason replied quietly over his shoulder.
“Why, indeed?” Nate asked, rhetorically as Mason’s attention returned to the human cooking for them. A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“You get the sausage,” Bish told Farah with a pat on the shoulder as they shifted past the young vampire as if they were in the middle of some song and dance. Grabbing a nearby plate, large chunks of delicately browned meat got drowned in the dark stew. It was a hectic choreography they had worked out somehow over the last few hours. The detective pulled the spoon out of the way and leaned back when Farah dropped the chunks of meat into the boiling mixture, which splashed out violently.
Mason tensed, relaxing again as soon as Bishop giggled.
“Hold up. Don’t be scared.” The detective took Farah’s hand and turned palm down over the pot. “Just open, low over the surface and you won’t get the splatter.”
Following the suggestion, Farah grinned. “Nice. Good to know.”
“Not sure I buy that,” Bishop said with a laugh of their own.
“I don’t know. A few more lessons and I might be able to cook dinner for you.”
The entire room erupted in laughter, except for Bishop, who slid an arm over Farah’s shoulder and pulled them close. “Good, because I hate cooking alone.”
That seemed to calm some of the giggles in the room, and reinforced Farah’s grin.
“Time to cover it?” Farah asked.
“Yep,” Bishop said, giving her shoulders a squeeze. When Farah moved from their side, Bish saw it. “Oh damn.”
“What?” several voices asked at the exclamation, far too worried over such a tiny irritation.
Bish blinked over their shoulder at them all. “Forgot the wine. Should have added it after the broth.”
Farah looked almost heartbroken.
Wedging the bottle between their thighs, Bishop started the corkscrew then noticed the forlorn look. “It’ll be fine. Just might need a few extra minutes is all.”
Relief showed on Farah’s face. Bishop still wasn’t sure why this all seemed like such a big deal to their friend, but they hoped to discover an explanation at some point. The cork came free with a resounding pop, and the detective wandered toward the stove giving the cork a slow wiff. Smells perfect.
All eyes remained on them when they tipped the bottle and drew several circles around the pan. Pulling the steam toward their face and taking another long sniff, they dashed another splash of wine into the pot. Then gestured for Farah to put the lid on.
“Adam, do you only drink reds?” Bish asked.
“Depends.”
With a nod, they walked across the kitchen and stretched on their tip toes to grab a wine glass from the display that hung them upside down so that no dust gathered in the glass. Careful not to fully tip the bottle, Bishop filled the glass a little more than halfway and held it out to the eldest of them.
“It’s a dry white, not sure if that’s your style.”
Adam took the glass and swirled it softly before raising it to his nose. Then he took a tentative sip. He gave a silent shrug in what Bishop could only hope was at least a modicum of approval. Still it brought a smile to there lips when he crossed back to his spot near the window with the stem pinched between his fingers.
Looking around the kitchen, it was kind of strange. The five of them just gathered in the kitchen together while dinner simmered. Bishop couldn’t help but recall visits to their gran’s when they were little. It felt like this. Smiles and giggles and talking and cooking. Wonderful smells and conversation. Then there was Mason and the way his eye moved over them.
“Still smell like chalk?” they taunted, leaning on the counter and staring right back at Mason.
“There’s still a hint of it in the air,” he replied too quickly.
Bishop was almost certain he said it just to get under their skin, but this was one arena where the detective’s confidence shone. “Give it an hour, and see if you can still say that.”
“An hour?” Farah crowed. “A whole hour?”
Bishop chuckled. “Believe me, it’s not that bad. And good things come to those who wait,” they added, their gazing flicking toward Mason for a second before Farah’s forehead landed against their shoulder with dramatic flair. Bishop patted her back in an attempt to soothe the impatience.
-2-
“Aren’t you meant to be helping me with coffee and dessert?” Bishop asked.
Mason’s chuckle tickled against the shell of their ear. “Who says I’m not?”
He shifted subtly behind them. With his body pressed against their back, they’d already lost count of the number of scoops of coffee they’d put in the pot—thrice. The detective couldn’t resist the feel of him, however, and leaned back against the firm plane of Mason’s chest. The hand on their hip flexed as the tip of his nose traced the length of Bishop’s carotid. They could feel every calm breath teasing against their thin sensitive skin.
It was maddening.
Dropping their head to the side served as a silent request for more of his attention. They really wanted him to kiss them, at least, though given the fact that Mason had managed to keep some kind of physical contact with them all through dinner, a sharp bite might prove more satisfying.
Either way, Mason denied them and brought his lips back to their ear. “Just how strong are you planning on making that?” he asked with a gutteral chuckle that shook down Bishop’s spine.
Without a doubt, Mason had to be able to hear the way their heart pounded in their chest, but with him so damnably close, he’d feel the shiver his voice sparked through their body, too. Bishop sighed in exasperation, both at themselves and Mason, as they lifted the filter out of the coffee pot for the second time.
Leaning back, they tipped their face toward their distraction. “Could you please, I beg of you, grab me the small plates, so that I can get this pot of coffee started?”
Mason stared at them for a long moment, letting his knuckles trace the line of Bishop’s jaw. When his hand spread out over the side of their neck, he kissed them. Bishop’s pleased hum reverberated through them as Mason deepened the kiss, his tongue flicking into the detective’s mouth in a tease before delving farther. He broke it sooner than Bishop would have preferred, stepping to the side and opening one of the cabinets just as Nate rounded the corner.
The detective’s short hair would do nothing to discuss the flush burning up their neck. No, it’d be completely obvious how worked up Mason had them moments before. Bishop’s eyes flicked in Mason’s direction as he stretched his lean body toward the high shelf. Bastard, they thought with a sly smile. He seemed completely unphased, meanwhile Bish could still feel the heat blazing even hotter in their cheeks and at the tips of their ears.
“Hey, you two.”
Mason just nodded with a low grunt, while Bishop emptied the overfilled coffee filter and placed it back into the coffee maker for yet another try.
“What can I do to help?” Nate offered, earning a curious glance from Mason.
Bishop’s attention was wholly focused on the coffee, finally able to get the right number of scoops measured out. “Um,” they thought as they closed the lid of the pot and flicked the button on. “I need the sauces in the bottles on the top shelf of the ice box.”
“Gotcha. Oh, and Mason, Adam needs you upstairs.”
That got his attention. He set a few plates near Bishop and let his hand brush across their hip before striding across the kitchen. A little spark shot through them, then the detective grabbed a small saucepan out of a cabinet, and filled it with water.
“Anything to worry about?” Bishop asked, curious about what he’d said.
Nate gave them a tiny grin and shook his head. “Farah was getting impatient. I figured maybe you could use a more helpful set of hands.”
The heat rushed to Bishop’s cheeks again, as they set the pan on the stove. “Sorry,” they said in a sheepish quiet tone and bit their bottom lip.
“No need to be,” Nate said. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his elbow.
As he approached them, Bish grabbed one of the bottles and set it in the pan of water. “Thanks. But we both know I could exercise a bit more willpower.”
He chuckled at them. “True, but at the start of something it can be intense, especially with someone that prides himself on that particular trait.”
“That’s the truth,” Bishop agreed. That was the perfect word to describe Mason, they thought. They pulled a tray out of lower oven and set it on the counter. With considered care, they tapped a few of the giggly little cakes out of the ramakans they’d been baked in. Holding them carefully, Bish peeled the parchment paper off them.
“Like opening a gift,” Nate observed.
“A luxurious chocolaty one.”
“Best kind, depending on who you ask.”
Bishop chuckled. “I think so. But I didn’t want to make too many,” they explained as they set the cakes on the rack once again.
“Probably a good call.”
“Yeah, I noticed I was the only one that finished dinner.”
Nate bumped their shoulder with his elbow. “I thought it was wonderful. And the fact that you got Adam to even try it should feel like a victory in itself.”
That puffed Bishop up a little and they nodded. “And I was shocked that Mason tried it.”
“To be honest, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen him eat anything.”
Bishop didn’t say anything, couldn’t really. They weren’t sure what to make of that little revelation. Instead they grabbed the plates and set out seven of them. Popping back over to the stove, they lifted the bottle and swirled it around to distribute the heat more evenly and set it down once more.
“So, what are these?” Nate asked picking up the bottle with a reddish hue.
“Sauces,” they repeated, with a wide grin.
The vampire cast a look on them that read, smart ass.
“That’s a raspberry coulis. Just cooked them down with a bit of sugar and lemon zest and strained it to remove the seeds and fleshy bits.” Bishop winced at the turn of phrase; Nate didn’t seem distressed about it, so they let it go. “The tartness pairs beautifully with the chocolate. But it could be too intense.”
“Is that why you prepared three?”
Bish nodded, he’d figured out their plan. “A French pastry cream, very lightly sweetened. Just a nice creamy accompaniment.”
“And that?” Nate pointed at the pan in front of them.
They hissed in a breath through their teeth, still feeling a little guilty about this one. “This is a little self-indulgent favorite of mine. Bourbon caramel.”
“Oh?” Nate’s brows rose over his soft brown eyes.
Bishop smirked knowingly. “Want a taste?”
“Please.” The other bottle was set on the counter and Nate wandered over. When Bishop held their hand palm up with the index finger extended, Nate copied the action, and was rewarded with a warm strip of the sauce. He popped it into his mouth before it could ooze over the sides of his finger. The hum that rumbled in his chest drew a smile from the chef.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” they laughed, giving the bottle another swirl in the water.
Nate darted across the kitchen and back in the blink of an eye. He leaned one hand on the edge of the counter holding out a spoon, and Bishop couldn’t hold back their grin or their laughter. But they did lift the bottle once more and fill the tablespoon until the caramel started to dome.
“Vampire with a sweet tooth, huh?”
With the spoon already in his mouth, Nate could do little more than give them a crooked smile and a shrug.
Bishop snapped the dial on the stove to off and crossed back to the cakes and plates. On two, a little ocean of red filled the bottom of the plate before being topped with a perfect little chocolate confection. Two more cakes received healthy crowns of the cream. The last three plates each got a turn on the rack where Bishop drizzled them with lines of caramel, before setting the cake atop it. Then a few more thin lines fluttered over the delicate desserts.
“Maybe you should have made more,” Nate suggested, having watched the display intently.
“I did. But I figured that this might be best to start. Wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”
Nate nodded, but gave the detective an incredulous look; they couldn’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t be taking any of the cakes back home with them. “I’ll get the coffee and the cups.”
“I’ll get these.” Bishop had waited tables in high school and college and was more than capable of lining the plates up perfectly, but before they got two situated, Nate set a lovely dark wood tray on the counter near them. “Much safer.”
“Especially in this house.”
The two of them chuckled quietly as they loaded their respective trays with goodies. Bishop doubted any of the cakes, except the one plate she made for herself would get more than two bites taken out of it, if that many. They weren’t offended. On the contrary, the fact that Unit Bravo, who had no need for typical human food any longer, had tried anything they cooked made them feel proud, and a little more welcome in a way.
“Do you know why Farah did this?” Bishop asked once they’d placed the spoons and napkins on the corner of the tray.
Nate stopped near them and gave a little shake of their head. “I really don’t. But for one, I’m really glad she did.”
“Me, too,” the detective agreed. They’d have to remember to let Farah know. Maybe they’d find a really fun way to thank her.
#TWC fanfiction#Farah Hauville#Nate Sewell#Agent Mason#Adam du Mortain#Detective Bishop Ripley Vasquez#Falling for Farah's Framejob#Don't @me I know how out of sync the premise of this is#But Bish loves to cook you can't change my mind#And Farah is devious and amazing#Food and cooking#Friendship#Relationship Building#Mutual Pining#Flirting
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the wayhaven chronicles | mason x mc (kira langford)
mason has a realization.
m tag list: @raleighcarrera @choicesarehard @tkyoon @zigtheeortega 💕
~5.6k words | M (18+)
the thing about fucking her is that one time is supposed to be enough.
it’s not like he’s got a rule or anything -- he doesn’t. sure, most of his flings are just that: one night stands he can fade away from gracefully, who understand what he’s about and take what they can get.
necessity or scarcity means that he’ll occasionally come back for seconds or thirds, and maybe he can convince himself that’s the case, here. wayhaven is a small town, with few prospects, and he spends so much time with kira anyway. maybe it’s just the reality of the situation -- the assignment -- that has him double-dipping.
it’s not, though.
it’s her. usually, even a spectacular fuck only lingers in his mind for so long. there’s no use dwelling when there’s always the next partner, a new chase or some other way to spend his time on the horizon.
but the detective stays in his memories after he sleeps with her. he finds himself thinking about it a lot more than he usually would, replaying the way she’d felt under his hands and the sounds she’d made in an almost absentminded way, so that he’s remembering it even when he’s not jerking off. even when he’s not trying to get back into her pants again.
nothing much changes, after they start sleeping together. he continues to hit on her in an overt way and everyone around them starts to catch on to the fact that what’s between them is more than just words.
kira lets him touch her in the woods, in her car, at the carnival, in her bedroom, at the warehouse. even in the common spaces. even in the kitchen.
surely if once wasn’t enough, then twelve times should be, right?
but it’s not. she remains a persistent distraction in meetings, on patrols and just about any time he’s supposed to be doing something other than fucking her speechless. which gets to be kind of annoying.
and he doesn’t pursue anyone else. but that’s not new, either.
so -- the warehouse feels a little different when he knows she’s on her way over. he can’t quite pinpoint exactly what it is, but there’s suddenly purpose in the day when kira’s coming by for a briefing or a meeting -- something he never felt on any of the other assignments he had.
“what’s got you so excited?” felix asks, looking pointedly at his tapping foot, a grin spreading across his face.
mason stares blankly back at him. “i look excited to you?”
“well, you’re not scowling, which is about as close to happy as you get.”
his lip curls with a sneer, but felix just laughs at him. nate turns around, looking equally as amused. “do i need to separate you two?”
mason’s already diverted his attention to something else -- the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the familiar subtleties of kira’s heartbeat. as nonchalantly as he can manage, he slips from his seat on the couch to the arm of it, freeing up the space he’d been sitting in.
she smiles at all of them and the room feels a little brighter for it. felix waves her over from the other end of the couch, but when she sits down, it’s at mason’s end instead of toward the center. her shoulder bumps into his leg as she drops into the seat he’d been occupying just moments ago.
mason bumps her deliberately back. “watch it.”
the detective turns her smile on him. “hi,” she says, her proximity softening some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders.
everything that had felt so annoying before her arrival slowly starts to fade into nothing. not a minor annoyance -- nothing. his brow furrows with deep confusion; since when had she become so relaxing? “hey.”
agent langford clears her throat and starts passing out folders. mason startles, reaching for his more roughly than is strictly necessary. he hadn’t even realized she was there.
“here are the details on your new case. there’s been a series of kidnappings and robberies in town we want you to investigate. so far there’s no discernible pattern -- victims range in age from fourteen to eighty.”
kira hums, her eyes scanning the brief inside the folder. when she opens her mouth to speak he can tell she’s just had a coffee. “what makes you think our perp is supernatural?”
“all victims we were able to make contact with were injected with a very specific paralytic. our lab analyzed blood samples and discovered traces of fae venom in the toxins. those that were kidnapped turned up similar results at the crime scenes.”
kira grins. “like pixie dust?”
rebecca’s lips twitch with a barely suppressed smile. “something like that. i want you to split up and visit each of the crime scenes today. try to find something to link them together so we can predict the next target. let me know what you turn up.”
adam stands in front of them all as she departs, frowning down at the file in his hands. “i’ll take the office building. nate, you and felix visit the high school. mason, you and kira can take the church.”
felix laughs. “is mason even allowed inside a church?”
“come on,” nate grins, already heading for the door, “as much as i’d love to see him handle the high school...”
when he looks back at kira, her lips are pursed to stifle a smile. he sighs at her, shifting to stand. “don’t take their side.”
“hey, they have a point.” she squints into the sun as they step outside, then asks, “are you alright with walking? it’s not that far from here.”
“sure.” for once, it isn’t freezing in this useless town, and it might be nice to take their time. plus, “we won’t have to risk getting stuck somewhere in that trash heap you call a car.”
the detective laughs. “you wish we’d get stuck in my car together.”
“well, i can definitely think of one way to pass the time if we did,” he smirks, tapping his fingers on the sides of his jeans as they itch for a cigarette. she shakes her head at him.
his eyes drift down to her ass as she leads the way down the street. the jeans she’s wearing seem like an unfair tease, even though they’re more or less the same thing she wears every day. but they do make him suddenly aware of the fact that it’s been a couple days since they’ve had time to sneak off together.
mason clears his throat. “been awhile since you spent the night at the warehouse,” he says casually, “you could stay over tonight.”
the ghost of a smile appears on her face, the look in her eyes making it obvious she knows what he’s talking about, even though she plays dumb. “why? it’ll be early enough when we get done here.”
he licks his lips. “you know why.”
her footsteps slow to a stop, and he blinks as he realizes they’re already at the church. there’s crime scene tape in front of the steps, and kira reaches out to hold it up for him to duck under with an expectant nod. “come on.”
he waits for her to stand next to him before they walk inside, in tandem, closer together than they probably need to be. immediately, the smell of dust and incense permeate his senses and he wrinkles his nose, sighing as he starts to glance around for anything amiss. “remind me what we’re looking for, again?”
“clues,” kira says obnoxiously, grinning over her shoulder at him. she moves away to walk down the left aisle of pews and the annoying church smell worsens, giving him a headache. he changes course to follow her instead of walking down the right side on his own.
it looks like... a church. he’d had a hunch this visit was going to be a waste of time before they’d even left to come here, but now that he’s seen what they’re working with he’s pretty positive he’d been right. “there’s nothing here.”
“do you always have to be so negative?” she asks, her voice hushed. it’s then that he realizes he’s close enough to hear her perfectly, anyway, and backs off a little, maintaining a more respectful distance behind her. though he does find his eyes glued to her ass again.
“it’s part of my charm.” the little scoff she gives in return makes his lips twitch, and he leans back against the pew in the front row as she steps up to the alter, her eyes narrowed on the artifacts -- props? -- strewn across the table.
he’s content just to watch her work. kira’s methodical as she walks slowly across the church, her brow furrowed and her lips frowning. it only takes her a few minutes before she sighs and admits, “i don’t see anything.”
“i told you.” she crosses the room to be closer to him again, and he can feel his grin return once she’s within reaching distance. his fingers find the belt loops of her jeans and tug her hips forward. “doesn’t mean we have to let this empty room go to waste, though.”
her eyebrows arch. “this is a church.”
“so?” his gaze is heated as it slides down her body pointedly. he maneuvers her into the pew, then drops to his knees in front of her. “maybe i’m taking up praying.”
she laughs, but when he looks up at her she’s biting her bottom lip, and he can read desire in the way her pupils dilate -- in the way the lightest flush spreads out across her face.
“okay,” she grins, “go for it.”
he’s never been religious, but there’s something about the sounds she makes when he eats her out that make her seem like a goddess he’d have no trouble worshipping. she threads her fingers into his hair and pulls, and he isn’t satisfied until she’s had too much and starts pushing his face away with a whine.
the sun’s low in the sky when he stands, and though his dick is straining at the front of his jeans, begging for relief, he knows they’re expected back at the warehouse. they’ll be the last to arrive as it is.
he grabs kira’s hand when she reaches for his zipper and helps her up, too. “later,” he says, shaking his head. his free hand travels up to his mouth, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth to clean it off. the way she shivers makes his smirk widen dangerously. “stay over.”
“sure,” she agrees, reaching up to smooth down her hair. he knows she’s probably hoping to keep what happens between them private, but there’s no way the rest of the team won’t know exactly what they’d been caught up doing as soon as they get back to the warehouse, especially with that look on her face.
as expected, she shifts back and forth on her feet obviously when they convene in the meeting room and adam says, “so you searched the church... for three hours. and didn’t find anything?” his voice is slow, like he’s working up to an explosion.
mason shrugs. “yep.”
even nate is eyeing them with disapproval, but behind him, felix is grinning like a kid on christmas morning. mason glares at him.
the detective clears her throat. “did you guys find anything?”
adam’s jaw clenches before he responds. “no. the rest of the employees had already cleaned up the office building.”
nate pulls his pinched look of disappointment away and confirms, “the high school was empty as well.”
kira nods like everyone in the room isn’t staring at her. “tomorrow we should speak with some of the surviving victims. i’ll stay over tonight so we can be ready to go first thing in the morning.”
six eyes snap to mason to stare at him instead. “sounds good to me,” he answers, unfazed, “later.”
he turns and leaves without a backward glance, though he can hear felix teasing kira even when he rounds the corner and heads down the hallway to his room. the sound of her voice is unusually loud to him, until he shuts the door and makes a point of ignoring it. he’s sure he doesn’t want to hear whatever stupid shit they’re talking about anyway.
it’s over an hour before her familiar heartbeat tap dances back into his ears. he’s just starting to get annoyed, waiting for her, when she opens the door and slips inside without knocking, her steps purposefully light. she doesn’t want anyone else to know she’s here.
he lifts his head from the pillows where he’d been laying in bed and smirks at her. “you sure took your time.”
“i was talking to nate about the case,” she answers, taking a few measured strides closer. “why, did you miss me?”
“i miss being inside of you,” he says, standing so he can have the physical advantage over her, using the full breadth of his body to back her into the wall, “or did you forget you left me with blue balls back there?”
kira tilts her head back against the wall, smiling at him. “i don’t think you’d ever let me forget that.”
he’s already unbuttoning her jeans, eager to get to her bare skin. “you’re right about that one. but there’s a few other things i’d be happy to make you forget.”
they only get undressed halfway; she’s seemingly just as eager as he is to get to the good part, and even after they’re done and she’s shifting her clothes back into place, her moans still rattle around inside his ears, the sound of her voice when she’d said his name echoing through his head.
mason reaches up to swipe his hair out of his eyes, grinning at the way kira wobbles a little unsteadily on her feet when he steps away. “need me to carry you back to your room, sweetheart?”
she’d been eyeing his bed, but turns back to him, then. her mouth twists into a frown that’s all wrong on her face. “i think i can manage.”
she straightens up and moves toward the door. something seems to have shifted in the air between them, the mood from before suddenly gone in favor of something colder. his brow furrows at her back, and he opens his mouth to call out to her before thinking better of it, only letting his gaze linger on the line of her spine.
kira hesitates, but when he doesn’t speak up, she opens the door and leaves.
so much for the afterglow. an annoyance he can’t place fills him abruptly, made worse by the fact that her room isn’t far enough away for him to tune out the sound of her -- he’s hyperaware of her as she gets changed, paces around in her room, does something on her phone and then ultimately gets into bed.
a cigarette would dull his senses. she’s not here now to complain, so he could have one, but then he’d miss out on the sound of her breathing as it slowly evens out and she eventually falls asleep.
and he doesn’t want that.
mason loses track of time once there’s complete silence surrounding him. late at night, there’s hardly any activity in this part of the warehouse, and knowing that kira is around -- hearing her heartbeat whenever he wants -- is comforting in some weird, unidentifiable way, despite how fucking loud it seems.
except that at some point her even breathing turns ragged, quickening like she’s panicked. he slowly sits up in bed as he hears her gasp, squinting into the darkness of his room suspiciously. she still sounds like she’s alone, but she’s undeniably afraid, tossing and turning and whimpering --
it all stops abruptly, and he realizes what it is when her door opens and then slams shut. he stands, walking to the door and listening silently. he can picture her out there as her back hits the door and slides down, a shaky exhale trailing off into deep breaths that are a little calmer, now.
he should leave her alone.
except his fingers twist the door knob before he can stop them, and he steps out into the hallway to look at her. she’s exactly where he’d imagined her, slumped on the floor against the door of her bedroom with her head in her hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly with every breath.
“hey.” her head jerks up and she startles, like she’s surprised to see him there. that’s fair. he’s surprised, too. mason leans against the doorjamb, folding his arms across his bare chest. “another nightmare?”
she swallows, averting her eyes. he watches her push her fingers through her long, dark hair, and then she nods, staring off down the hallway. “yeah.”
nate or felix would know the right thing to say to her. he does not. “haven’t you gotten used to those by now?”
kira turns her cheek and her eyes find his in the dim light of the hallway. he can tell instantly that he’s said something stupid, and frowns at her when he notices just how tired she looks. she scrambles to her feet and snaps, “forget it.”
the detective storms off down the hallway and disappears out of sight before he can say another word. annoyance spikes once he’s alone in the hallway, and he sighs heavily when the door to one of the common areas opens and then slams shut.
something within him feels drawn to following her. there’s an instinct he doesn’t recognize telling him to go to the lounge and sit with her until she feels as calm as he does when she sits with him.
his fists clench as the door to nate’s room opens and he pokes his head out into the hallway, too. nate stares at him, and then quietly asks, “are you alright?”
“why wouldn’t i be?” he growls, quickly ducking back into his own room and slamming his door closed, too.
he stares at the ceiling for hours waiting for the sound of her footsteps to come back down the hallway again. at dawn, he finally hears the hinges of her door creak, and something tight in his chest loosens slowly, letting him relax.
kira still looks exhausted when they all reconvene an hour later. she and felix are together on the couch again, though he’s sitting closer to her this time, concern in his eyes as they talk quietly, their heads bowed together.
he sits on the arm of the sofa and pretends not to notice the way they stop talking as soon as he does so. “morning,” felix smiles at him, though he barely nods back, staring at the way kira’s gone tense where she’s sitting.
she only waits a minute before getting up, crossing the room to get herself a cup of coffee. she stands there stirring it for a long time before slowly sitting down in one of the empty armchairs next to nate.
mason stares at her from across the room. there’s an empty chair on the other side of her, but it’s not like he can get up now, without a reason. annoyance fills him as he watches her pretend not to notice the way he’s staring at her; kira sips her coffee and chats with nate and looks at her fingernails and her shoes. she acts like he isn’t even there.
adam and agent langford walk in together, but he misses most of what they say, inexplicable displeasure settling inside him. he only snaps back to attention when he hears the detective say, “adam, you’re with me,” and watches, in surprise, as they leave the lounge together, something unpleasant twisting in his stomach.
there’s a long stretch of silence before agent langford says, “the three of you should go question some of the high schoolers. the rest of the debate team was around when sarah was kidnapped. maybe one of them saw something.”
working with nate and felix should be easy. it’s familiar enough to him.
except that he’s spent most of the last few months alone with kira, and it’s odd to know that adam’s with her, now, working the angle he’d usually occupy.
“stop sulking,” felix directs, nudging him with his shoulder, “just because we’re not as pretty as kira --”
“i’m not sulking,” he bites back, “i don’t give a shit who she investigates with.”
“uh huh,” felix says, his disbelief obvious, “right.”
“i don’t,” he insists, “so shut up before i --”
“please,” nate sighs, “can we save it for later? it’s taxing enough talking to high schoolers as it is.”
he falls silent, glowering at nothing. everything is heightened in an unwelcome way and even his irritation feels dialed up to a new level. he pulls a cigarette out as soon as they stop on the sidewalk outside of the school, and pointedly turns his back on nate and felix when they head inside without him.
mason leans against a street sign and stares out at nothing, scuffing the toes of his boots against the curb. no one’s checking up on him like kira would be if she were here, and the silence is strange. time drags on at a glacial pace without her to check out or whistle at or snipe back and forth with.
he isn’t exactly great at reading her, but he’s pretty sure she’s pissed off at him. that’s not new -- he’s annoyed her plenty since they first met, and probably said a lot worse than whatever had made her so upset this time -- but the way it unsettles him is. if he had to explain it, something just doesn’t feel... right.
shaking the odd feeling out of his head, he smokes the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket waiting for nate and felix to return. they don’t look particularly happy when they do.
“find anything?” he asks, because he’s probably supposed to care about that.
“sarah’s teammates recall seeing a blue light when she was kidnapped,” nate answers, frowning. “but the way they described it...”
felix shrugs. “wouldn’t make sense for it to be fae. so either the lab got something wrong, or we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”
“great.” his thoughts drift to adam and kira without conscious effort.
“hopefully kira had better luck,” nate sighs. “we’ll wait for them at the warehouse.”
except that it takes hours for them to return. the minutes continue to tick by agonizingly slowly, until he’s pacing in the lounge, fidgety and tense.
“seriously?” felix asks as he lights up yet another cigarette, pulled from the emergency stash under his bed, “i’m sure they’re fine.”
“what?” his voice is a growl, his eyes set into a glare. he’s not worried about them. he’s annoyed they’re wasting so much of his time. the sooner they debrief on their progress for the day, the sooner he can get out of here.
“leave him alone,” nate directs to felix over his shoulder, “they had some kind of fight.”
“we didn’t have a fight,” he snarls, his annoyance building further, “and i don’t know what you’re talking about. i’m not doing anything.”
they exchange a glance right in front of him. fortunately, the sound of footsteps reaches his ears before he can argue with them further, though he’s forced to frown when her heartbeat follows the squeak of her shoes on the tile, a little faster than it should be. he puts out his cigarette and tosses it into the trash.
she looks normal enough when they enter the room. that it’s not immediately identifiable why her pulse is racing deepens his scowl. his gaze shifts to adam uneasily.
he seems to misread why mason’s looking at him. “we didn’t get much of a lead. our victim doesn’t remember anything that happened to him.”
kira sits down in one of the chairs across the room from him again and actually pays attention to whatever nate and felix are saying, doubtlessly filling her in on what they’d found out at the school. he skulks silently in the dark corner of the room, tuning them all out in favor of waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.
it doesn’t, though, even when she stands to leave, grabbing her purse. he shifts to his feet in turn before he even realizes he’s doing it, and though kira looks surprised, she meets his eyes and asks, “walk me to my car?”
mason smirks at her, licking his lips. he nods, and doesn’t look at the rest of the team as they leave the warehouse, stepping outside. “it’s been a minute since we made use of that backseat,” he grins, the persistent, low-level hum of annoyance and unease he’d felt all day starting to fade away into nothing.
he doesn’t even notice how quiet she’s being until they reach her car and she stops him when he moves to grab the door handle to the backseat, curling her fingers around his wrist. “actually --” he turns, and finds her staring out into the woods beyond his shoulder, looking at nothing. “about that.”
kira’s heartbeat is still too fast. her hand drops from his wrist and his falls back to his side, away from the car door. she finally turns and catches his eye. “when we started doing this you said it’d be fun for both of us. but it’s not fun for both of us anymore.”
mason stares at her in confusion as she rocks back on her heels, putting some space between them. “what?”
“i just --”
“it sure seemed like you were having fun yesterday.” what the fuck is she talking about?
“i was,” she agrees gently, “it’s not about that. of course i enjoy that. it’s everything else.”
“there isn’t anything else,” he bites out, voice filled with obvious frustration.
“right. that’s what i’m saying.” she’s looking at him like he’s supposed to know what she’s talking about. he stares back at her in silence for a long time.
mason shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, dragging his tongue along his teeth. he sure hadn’t expected this when he’d followed her out here. “well, when you change your mind you know where to find me, sweetheart.”
he walks back inside without looking at her, trying to put a name to the strange feeling swelling inside him. if he’s ever felt it before, he can’t recall when or why, but that it might be something new seems even more unsettling.
the rest of the team is waiting for him in the lounge when he returns. “what?” he demands, glaring at each of them in turn. “why are you looking at me like that?”
“i told you i didn’t want to have to clean up your mess,” adam sighs, his face pinched. mason bristles.
“there’s no mess. it’s not a big deal.”
nate glances at adam and then looks over at him. “it’s just that kira seemed -- upset. adam said she wasn’t like herself today.”
“well, we’re officially not fucking anymore, so i guess you don’t have to worry about it,” he bites out, reaching for his cigarettes where he’d left them on the table. it’s not like anyone’s around to tell him no.
“woah,” felix says, frowning over at him, “what? are you okay?”
he snorts. “like i care.” smoke billows in front of his face, obscuring the rest of the team from his view. when it clears, he sees that they’re all staring at him again. “what?”
“you know you can talk to us if you want to, right?” nate’s eyes look concerned. “we’re here for you no matter what.”
mason glances off with a shrug. “i know. but there’s nothing to talk about.” he pauses, inhaling deeply. smoke fills his lungs slowly, and that irritatingly unwelcome feeling starts to dissipate. “come get me if there’s any updates with the case.”
he goes up to the roof because his room still kind of smells like her, if he concentrates, and he doesn’t want to be tempted into concentrating.
alone, he finally lets himself consider something he’s been putting off thinking about. the complicated parts.
she’d wanted those. and he said no.
that strange feeling starts to twist his stomach again. as he stares off into the sky, unseeing, it eventually starts to take a recognizable shape.
those two months they’d spent setting up the warehouse, when he hadn’t seen her at all -- he’d felt like this then. he remembers it and its strange ache with stunning clarity.
he misses her. that’s what it is. he fucking misses her.
that’s never happened before.
he blinks, stunned by the revelation. “huh.”
slowly, it all starts to make sense. the way he feels better when they’re near each other -- how he’s always looking for her in any room, whenever he can --
unbelievable. he likes her.
numbly, he finishes his cigarette and ducks back inside. his feet carry him back to the lounge like he’s sleep walking.
“oh, good,” nate says when he sees him, sounding pleased. mason can feel the way the expression on his face is still puzzled, his brows drawn together in complete confusion. “you figured it out.”
his head snaps up. “what?”
“the detective,” nate prompts, looking at him expectantly. “right?”
mason pushes a hand through his hair. it’s difficult to place -- almost impossible. he’s a hundred years old and he’s never felt like this before. “maybe there’s something else,” he admits begrudgingly, the words stilted. “besides the obvious.”
felix is practically vibrating from his position on the couch. “okay, you need to go over there,” he exclaims, his eyes wide, his smile stretching his face. “and tell her right away! seriously.”
he cringes. “just show up at her apartment?”
“yes,” felix insists emphatically, “you have to tell her right now.”
ugh. but he’s already told everyone here -- isn’t that enough? he looks at nate.
“i think she’d like that,” he says, which is the opposite of what mason was hoping for. he sighs, running his fingers through his hair again.
“are you sure?”
felix opens his mouth, but nate leans in first. “only if you want to.”
well. he does miss her. he knows that now.
still, he hesitates. there’s silence in the room until felix makes a strangled sound of impatience, and they all turn to glare at him again. “stop it,” nate scolds, “be patient with him, he’s having a crisis.”
“okay -- i’m going,” he announces decisively. from the couch, felix crows with victory, clutching his chest when he falls back against the cushions.
“love,” he sighs dramatically, “it’s so beautiful.”
mason looks at nate. “make sure he’s not doing that when i get back.”
“no promises,” nate answers, and he can hear them bickering distantly as he heads for the door and then kira’s apartment, as quickly as he can -- before he has time to change his mind.
he feels strange again when he knocks on her door and waits for her to open up. almost like he’s injured, somehow, a little weak and confused. well -- he is knocking. that on its own is strange.
she’s already in her pajamas when she opens the door and frowns at him. “mason?” she steps aside to let him in, seemingly unaware of how frantic and panicked he is. mostly it seems like she, too, is confused by the knocking. “what’re you doing here? is everything alright?”
“uhhhhh.” great. he’s a moron. how is he supposed to start? “well -- i was thinking.”
“dangerous, for you,” she quips, doing something funny to his stomach again. oh, holy fucking christ. he knows what that is. that’s fondness. he’s fond of her.
he turns his head and holds her gaze steady, ignoring, for the first time ever, the heat that forms between them. that’s not what he’s after. “i was thinking about the complicated parts.”
kira doesn’t say a word, but his eyes zero in on the straight line of her teeth where they bite at her full bottom lip. her body language is otherwise frustratingly difficult to read.
“maybe i want them -- out there. with you.”
anyone else wouldn’t be able to hear the tiny hitch in her breath when she inhales, but he does.
“do you?”
he nods. there’s silence again, but just for a moment -- he only has a split second to figure he’s just fucked up in a major way before her face transforms with a beautiful smile.
“i want that, too.” the softness he used to turn away from is back in her eyes, again, but this time, he holds her gaze. “i care about you. a lot.”
there’s something about hearing her confirm, out loud, what he’d already sort of known. a million little things click into place at once, unlocking something inside of him. it feels like he’s had dozens of puzzle pieces waiting around for this moment -- pieces he’s only now able to put together. “yeah. me, too. i just didn’t know what it was. but now i do.”
her smile turns a little more private, and it’s all the more beautiful for that. “just like that?”
he shrugs. “you leaving today flipped a switch. i hated it.”
worse than that -- felix and nate were right. she’s obviously unbelievably pleased to have him in her apartment, saying shit like that to her. her whole face is lit up with joy.
“you could’ve just talked to me about it.” he arches an eyebrow at her and is rewarded with her laughter. “yeah -- i heard it as i was saying it. okay, fair enough.”
“look.” further delight blooms across her expression as he steps closer, closing the distance between them. “you’re going to have to get used to all of this, okay?”
“oh, yeah?”
he loves the way she has to tilt her head all the way back to look at him when he gets too close.
how could he ever think that any amount of time spent together would ever be enough?
“yeah,” he confirms, leaning down to close the distance their height difference creates between them, “because now -- i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
#the wayhaven chronicles#mason twc#twc mason#mason x detective#twc m#myfic#me: i'll write him again but not for awhile#me @ me: girl#i'm tired of looking at this lol i need it out of my drafts#the next one will have more sex promise#as per usual i have an aversion to recognizable plot and coherent endings#not choices
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빵빵덕 - some mystery duck links
I give up.
http://comic.naver.com/challenge/detail.nhn?titleId=696837&no=1&
https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/빵빵덕
https://www.insgy.net/tag/빵빵덕
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Heck it. Do the rest of the character meme with CU (dont need to do it now, obviously).
Send me a character and I'll tell you....
¡¡WITH PLEASURE!!
- Favourite thing about them: He is absolutely teeming with positive vibes! He has such an infectiously cheerful and upbeat energy that it makes me feel happier by proxy! It's inspiring, ya know? Makes me feel better about everything going on around me.
This guy means a lot to me is what I'm saying
- Least favourite thing about them: God, the show writes him so terribly. Yes, he's a dumbass, but there's more to him than just being a dumbass! Where's his snark? Where's his passion? Where's his empathy? What the fuck??
- Favourite line: Oh ho, I have several:
- "This is not a comic! This....is a history book! And as such, it must be taught in every classroom, and you yourself must teach it! Because that is how good it is!"
- "Thank you for chronicling my surprisingly grounded biography! The truth is a slippery thing....and you nailed it!"
- "You kids have no sense of dramatic timing!"
- "Aw, go jump off a duck!" (obviously)
- BrOTP: Well duh I'm going to say George and Harold. They're his sidekicks and he cares about them very much! I want to see them just hanging out and being pals without the threat of a giant monster destroying the city for once in their damn lives.
- OTP: You all already know it's Edith
- NOTP: It's not that Krupp/Cap is a bad ship, it just really weirds me out to think about
- Random headcanon: He can't draw to save his life, but he's a surprisingly good writer.
Especially in the movie, he has this unexpectedly robust vocabulary and a clear, confident way of speaking that's perfect for storytelling.
And yeah, the stories he comes up with aren't anything grand or groundbreaking, but they're memorable in a way where you can listen to them a hundred times over and never get bored of them because they're that enjoyable.
- Unpopular opinion: Not sure if this is unpopular but it's still an opinion:
Movie!Cap is best Cap, followed by Book!Cap followed by Show!Cap
- Song I associate with them: "Holding Out For a Hero," but specifically the Shrek 2 version because I find that one to be a lot more badass and fitting for his character
I need a hero/I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night/He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast/and he's gotta be fresh from the fight
- Favourite picture of them: I know I just answered this one separately but here have some more:
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