#6.5k | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

daily-dose-of-writing · 2 years

Note

For your 1-year anniversary, how about a fill of this prompt:

You gain the power to travel to fictional worlds, so you immediately decide to travel into your favourite novel, only to then find out that you’re the inter-dimensional evil they’ve been foreshadowing for the past 3 books

Only if you want to ofc, no pressure, please and thank you! 💖

First of all, I’m so sorry I got really carried away with this and it’s about three times longer than I initially intended, so I’m literally going to have to post it in three bits because it’s too long for one post, and I also got a little bit carried away with the plot of the favourite novel. Secondly, I hope you like it!!

[tw: a bit of violence and blood mentioned, childhood trauma and what I guess is very mild psychological horror]

———

She never meant to end up there, that much is true, but she most definitely wanted to. Reading has and always will be a form of escapism; therefore it should not be a surprise that everyone who does it may wish to disappear into the world inside those pages. This is, of course, just a fantasy. Wishing to be in a world born from someone else’s imagination is nothing more than a fun thought experiment; something to waste time while you’re riding the bus. It has never been an achievable feat. That is, until a few months ago.

The pages of her book fluttered half-heartedly as another train rushed past. Her hair was not so well secured, so it swam irritatingly in front of her eyes, forcing her to turn her attention away from the words on the page in order to swipe it away. She scowled.

It was not as though she were at a particularly interesting point in the book yet, but the interruption was still as unwanted as they often are. She returned her gaze to where her thumb held the book open at the spine. It was still in the developing portion; none of the major action had occurred yet, but something was brewing. Something had been brewing for a while, by then.

The book was the fourth and final instalment in a series that she had practically gobbled up. It was a wonderful story. The books revolved around five people who had all been the heroes of their own stories long ago, but had long since been forgotten as all but children's bedtime stories. They were ageing and greying and fiercely protective of each other and their thankless world who did not notice their help.

Each enemy they had faced thus far had known a frankly concerning amount about each of them, yet had refused to reveal their source. The similar information and attitude had led the group to theorise that they were all from a single group or organisation hell bent on what, they weren’t quite sure. It unnerved them greatly.

Despite everything, they concluded their adventures successfully. Although, there was a refreshing sense of realism to the story; as you could easily sense how much each fight was grating on them. They were being consumed by their own narrative.

They had surpassed the horizon of their own stories many years ago and were becoming nothing but hollow shells and reanimated corpses, dragged through a story they had never meant to inhabit. The desperation of the cause, of being meaningful, was all-consuming and slowly devouring them. Their paranoia — of a greater enemy that they knew only the outline of; from shambled, half-false scraps of information and near-forgotten folk tales of shadow people in shadow worlds — was driving them insane. Weariness was a constant companion to their souls.

Another train rushed past in a flurry.

She continued to read. One of the characters was becoming aware that there was something in the dark and she was almost certain it was observing her. Yes, she thought, something is most definitely brewing.

At last, her own train arrived and she stood from her seat on one of the platform benches. A crowd was massing around each of the doors to what she could see were also rather full carriages. It was going to be a long day.

She opened her bag and began putting away the book when she overheard someone pleading to get onto the train. She looked up to see a rather ramshackle-looking man half off the platform, trying to get into the already packed carriage.

Distantly she heard one of the accusing voices within the train call the man “grimy,” and frowned. He was obviously desperate to get onto the train; they didn’t have to be cruel about it.

At last, someone gave a great shove and the man went tumbling backwards. Instinctively, she lurched forward to stop him from smashing into the concrete, catching him just before he hit the floor. The doors of the train snapped shut and a moment later it sped off into the dark, leaving her attempting to haul the man onto his feet.

“Sorry about that,” she said, still in shock of the other passengers, “I can’t believe they did that. I — I should report them, they assaulted—”

“Thank you,” the man proclaimed sincerely, breaking her rambling train of thought, “However can I repay you?”

“Oh, uh,” she scrambled for a reply. In her peripheral vision she could still see the receding tail end of the train and winced, “Give me the ability to run off into a fantasy world where I don’t have to go to work this morning,” she joked, thinking of the look she knew that her manager would be wearing when she attempted to excuse her third late arrival that week. Something inside of her twisted at the thought.

“Alright.” The man replied, a flat tone to his voice and a sincere expression to his gaunt features. “As you wish.”

“You— what?”

Another train rushed past, drawing her attention away. When she turned back, the man had disappeared into the encroaching crowd waiting for the next train. Her brow crinkled and her lips parted lightly, but more and more people were arriving and she had already lost sight of the man.

The next train was equally as crowded as the first, but miraculously, she had managed to snag a window seat. The glass was cool against the clammy skin of her forehead and it soothed the encroaching headache from the hustle and bustle in the carriage. She supposed that the headache was also, in part, to do with the strange man who had offered she the ability to run into fictional worlds. Perhaps he was mad.

Absentmindedly, she began to wonder what it would be like if she could disappear into the world of one of her books. She wondered who she would be, an antagonist or a hero or no one at all. She wondered if she would reinvent herself or be painfully truthful to her own nature — of which would make her more trustworthy. She wondered if it would be fun, or if she would wind up as the same, hollow, shell of herself that the characters did; if she would return as somebody entirely different.

A heavy exhaustion suddenly began to weigh on her chest, a pressure that squeezed her ribs like an enormous pair of hands or a snake constricting around its prey. With heavy-lidded eyes and a gently throbbing head, she let the comforting lull of sleep sweep her away.

Sunshine tickled delicately at her fluttering eyelids. It was soft and warm against her face, reminiscent of summer picnics during childhood spent lying on a hillside looking up at the vast, blue sky — the sort that were more dream than memory. Licks of grass brushed against her neck almost reverently, soft and dry but prickled just enough to make it tickle. The coolness of glass and the odd softness of the synthetic seat material of the train was entirely replaced.

She opened her eyes and sure enough the sky was very blue and she was very still atop a hill of wild grass.

Dreaming, she concluded, was what was happening at that moment. It was simply a very, very, vivid dream. A light wind brushed across her cheeks and the delicate scent of the wildflowers, mixed with the cloying smother of midday heat invaded her nostrils. She could hear a cricket somewhere in the underbrush and cars shimmying along a road somewhere down below; the whooshing rather similar to that of a violent river or cacophonous wind. A very, very vivid dream.

She got up brusquely and looked about herself. At the top of the hill was a squat, white building with a slated roof and what appeared to be gold writing embossed on its side, but which was too far away to read. Curious and with little elsewhere to explore, she made her way swiftly up the hill.

The long grass pulled and caught on her boots as she walked and she tried determinedly not to think of the disturbingly realistic quality to it. Slowly, the building grew closer and closer, and the words began to become increasingly clear. “The New Inn,” they read. Absentmindedly she remembered someone telling she that words in dreams were incomprehensible and began to wonder why those were not.

‘The New Inn’ was a pub similar to any that she had seen before: thus she decided that it was simply her subconscious taking old memories of random pubs and recreating them. The bar was the first thing that she saw when she walked in through the door; it stretched the length of the first room with an array of colourful bottles behind it and empty cups upturned on the work surface. Each of them had the signature brand label on the front but none of them were recognisable to her. Similarly, the alcohol all seemed to be completely unknown brands.

The bartender: a young man with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up at her arrival and asked if they could be of assistance.

“Where am I?” She asked dumbly, tongue thick with disbelief and utter confusion.

“This is the New Inn,” he answered quickly. He had a deep voice, rumbling but soft; it didn’t quite suit him.

“What town though? Where are we nearest to?”

He frowned curiously and recited the name of the three surrounding towns. She almost laughed in his face. The towns that he had named featured heavily in the first two books of the series that she had been reading. The author had wanted to create a world that was similar but not quite the same as her own and had thus made up the names of each of their towns and cities — as well as avoiding references to pop culture.

“Are you sure?” She asked him.

“Quite.”

She reminded herself that she was surely dreaming and left quickly the way she came. A sudden thought crossed her mind; if it was indeed the world within her books that she currently resided, then she could probably catch the protagonists hanging around somewhere. It depends on the date, she thought.

Suddenly very curious, she slipped quickly back into the pub. “Sorry, yes, and er, what’s the date?”

The bartender offered her and increasingly exasperated glance but answered anyway. “August 4th.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, “Year?”

“Ye- you don’t know what year it is?”

“Humour me.”

The bartender sighed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “It’s 2026.”

She grinned feverishly. She was standing right at the beginning of the narrative; the first day of the story, just before everything began to come together. “Cheers,” she exclaimed and dashed out of the door once again, leaving the bartender gawking in her wake.

She knew exactly which town to go to in order to observe the unfolding story and thankfully there were road signs outside of the pub. As she walked, the strange man from the train station and the sincerity of his words returned to her, almost like a warning and they rattled around inside her head. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream. She laughed; of course it was a dream. It had to be a dream. This is just what you get from binge-reading something, she thought.

It was only a short walk, ten minutes or so — or at least what felt like ten minutes; in a dream state that could have been hours. She remembered the church being a particularly well embellished monument within the opening description of the scenery, so that was what she headed for. It was a great, towering structure that loomed over the surroundings with a watchful eye. The ancient clock settled below its domed roof counted backwards for a reason unknown to anyone at all, yet had never been fixed for that was how it had always been.

It was about half an hour before she spotted them; bespectacled, with freckles spattered across their face like constellations, hair and eyebrows just starting to go grey — the spitting image of how the book had described them. She grinned.

Behind by about a hundred and fifty metres, she followed them to the small shop where she knew would be the scene of the first skirmish of the book — as well as the reader’s first introduction to their character.

As to not be injured by the impending fight, she waited outside, watching through the window. A punch was quickly thrown, then another, then she barely had time to step aside as the offending party was thrown through the front window. The offender sputtered and staggered in the broken glass and peered up as a hand gripped hold of their shirt and wrenched them up. She winced. Despite knowing the offender deserved to be put in place for harassing the cashier, she couldn’t help but pity the for the beating they were getting.

A few others had come to watch. Beside her stood a tall man in a black suit, his hair was gelled back and he looked as though he was going somewhere important. “You know,” she murmured conspiratorially, “They were a hero once.” The man raised his eyebrows above the dark glasses that she hadn’t noticed he was wearing in a questioning manner. She took that as her cue to continue. “Yeah, years ago by now, but they’re still trying to do their hero stuff,” the offender’s back thudded against the wall and she winced again, “as you can see.”

“Pray tell, do you know much more about them?”

Excited, she began to babble. “Oh, yes! This is Sam Wallace, no one really knows them much anymore but they saved god knows how many people back when they were a kid and recruited by one of those dodgy ‘superhero’ agencies — you know, those ones that got shut down because they really mistreated their employees and recruits, by like, locking them in rooms with rats and whatnot to scare them into submission? They live just up the road from here, they’re really cool.”

The man smiled to himself and turned away, “Thank you ever so much for the information, I’m sure I will find it vital in future.”

Too caught up in watching the fight, she waved the man off with a quick, “sure, anytime,” without any deeper inspection of the odd comment.

The police arrived soon after to take the retired superhero away, but so did a suspicious-looking, black SUV with some obviously government employees inside — who told the police that it was under their jurisdiction from then on. She couldn’t stop smiling; everything was happening just as it was in the book.

Over the following two weeks, she followed the group of retirees and half-forgotten legends through their escapades, until they finally discovered the antagonists base of operations. It was a rather decrepit warehouse in a forgettable corner of a generic industrial estate. Wide and squat, with a jutting roof and signature damp, concrete floor, it was by no means conspicuous. The unassuming nature of the building made it rather perfect as a lair.

The antagonists name was Ryker, or at least that was what he called himself. She crept in after the group in order to get a good look, hidden by the shadows of the towering, metal shelves. It worked. He was a tall man, half his face was cast in shadow, accentuating the angular properties of it and his sleek, black hair was swept backwards and gelled in place. He looked oddly familiar, but she put it down to reading his description in the books.

#daily dose of writing #prompt adaption #short story #mine #6.5k

28 notes · View notes

userparamore · 9 months

Text

6.5K CELEBRATION: 📼 + THE BEAR ↳ for @djo

5K notes · View notes

desperatecheesecubes · 2 years

Text

It would be so funny if, instead of recording a heartfelt message, Jason just called Bruce a bitch one last time

10K notes · View notes

mrsensitive · 1 year

Text

4 times everyone else caught on before the 1 time you and quinn finally did

a good old 4+1 ft. best friend beau & a couple other cameos, some mutual pining and also reader is a costume designer . kind of an elaboration of a lil blurb i wrote a while ago so if it seems familiar no it doesn't 😋

You’d never been more grateful for Friday to roll around. You’d had what felt like the longest week from hell and just wanted to take your mind off everything, so when your new neighbour turned best friend Beau texted you to meet him and a couple friends at the bar, the thought that you wouldn’t know half the people there wasn’t enough to dissuade you from joining.

When you arrive, you’re quick to spot the group - Beau hadn’t lied when he said it wasn’t just the team, but he might’ve stretched the truth when he said you already knew some of the guys. A quick once over is enough for you to realise the only other person you really know is Brock. Sure, you had heard of the others from Beau’s stories and the fact that you sometimes watched the games, but you were starting to wonder if you should’ve just gone home to your bottle of wine instead.

Beau is quick to welcome you though, flooding you with the names of everyone you’d yet to meet and pushing you into the seat he’d just vacated.

“Wait here, I’m getting the next round,” he beams at you, a good few drinks in already. “Brock come give me a hand, bud.”

You try to get your bearings a little, looking around trying to commit names to faces since the only two people you knew had left, and you realise mostly everyone is in their own conversations save for the guy on your right. You pause, staring at him trying to remember his name as he watches you struggle, clearly bemused.

“It’s Quinn,” he offers after a moment or two. He’s laughing lightly and you relax in your seat a little. “Don’t sweat it.”

You breathe out a smile, “Thanks. I was getting there, y’know.” You pause, taking a moment to get a better look at him. “Hughes, right? I’ve seen you play before. You’re a great skater.”

“Oh uh…thanks.” He shifts a little in his seat. “Beau’s talked about you a couple times actually. So it’s nice to meet you finally.”

You can’t help your eyebrows from shooting up, both of you are equally surprised and amused that you’re even aware of the other. You’re half expecting Quinn to elaborate, scanning his face for any hint that what Beau’s said about you was any level of incriminating, but somehow, you find yourself a bit distracted by the way his hair is curling over his forehead.

Before either of you can say anything, Beau’s dropped a glass in front of you and inserted himself back in the conversation.

“So what was so terrible about work this week? What’s the drama this time?”

You let out a sigh, remembering why you’d dragged yourself here in the first place. “Oh, nothing new. They just decided to reschedule all our fittings so we barely had the right costumes prepared - which is just an embarrassing look for me, you know, even if it literally wasn’t my fault. I was running all over the place trying to make it work - and then on top of that I find out they’ve put our costume truck about three states over from where the set is so I’ve got to hassle someone about that and-”

“Costumes?” Your rambling is cut off by Quinn who looks much more interested than Beau, who, to his credit, has heard some variation of this story just about every other week.

“Oh, yeah. I’m a costume designer,” you explain, “I’m working on a movie at the moment.” For some reason you feel rather embarrassed that you didn’t clarify this to him before and you’re hoping the dim lighting is hiding the way you’ve started blushing.

“I’m going to take this as my cue to leave.” Beau says, already standing up to move across the table, “You tell Quinn the whole back story and I’ll come back when you’re done with that, okay?”

Beau, in fact, does not come back for the rest of the night but you’re so wrapped up in your conversation with Quinn that you don’t particularly notice anyway. Usually you hate talking about yourself, but the drinks have loosened you up and he seems so genuinely curious and intrigued about you. He asks how you met Beau, so you tell him the story of how his 7’s look a little too much like 1’s and you ended up getting so much of his mail that you had to go and confront him about it. You try to ask him about hockey but he seems rather adept at deflecting the conversation back to you every time. You can’t help but bask in the full attention he’s giving you and the more drinks you have, the more you find yourself quietly admiring his bone structure. You’re a little surprised to hear yourself laughing so much and how easily the conversation moves that you can’t quite remember how you ended up discussing how you both think roses are overrated.

You’re so caught up in each other that neither of you catch Brock nudging Beau and nodding his head towards you across the table.

“You reckon?” Brock asks, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

“Oh, easily. I’ve been watching them all night.”

You pick up Beau’s call almost immediately.

“Hey, what’s up? Do you need something?” There’s a tinge of confusion in your voice.

“What? No, I just- I have an extra ticket to the game tonight and I was going to offer it to you if you weren’t being so snappy.” Beau teases.

“Oh,” you let out a chuckle, ��Sorry, you just never call. I do happen to be free tonight though, if the offer’s still on the table...”

“Great, I’ll send you the ticket,” you can hear him smiling through the line. “Don’t drive, I’ll give you a lift if you wait a little after the game. Stick around and say hi to some of the other guys too.”

“Sure,” you reply, “I’ll see you later then. Maybe score or win or something? I dunno, make it worth my night?”

“Yeah ok,” you can hear him laughing now, “Will do, just for you. See you soon.”

And even if you were only joking, the team does deliver on your request. You hang by the exit as you wait for Beau, congratulating some of the other guys on the win as they start to trickle out. When Quinn catches sight of you, he can’t help the way the corners of his mouth quirk upwards and you can’t help the way you mirror it.

“Hey Quinner, congrats on the game,” you greet him, “Big win!”

You’re mildly aware of the way your heart rate has picked up slightly since he stopped in front of you. You want to believe that it’s just because the handful of times you’ve seen him now have always been aided with a bit of liquid courage, even if you’re currently fixating on his slightly damp hair and the way his bag is slung over his shoulder. Quinn, however, is severely aware of the way his heart rate seemed to stop upon hearing the nickname leave your mouth.

He clears his throat, “Yeah, thanks. I didn’t realise you were going to be here?”

“Beau said he had an extra ticket last minute - enticed me with a ride home, so I’m just waiting for him now.”

“Yeah, he should be done with the interviews soon - you know, three point night and all,” he laughs, glancing back at the doorway in search of a sign of his teammate.

“Coming from you, mister record breaker!”

Quinn whips his head back around to you, eyes wide as he starts to mumble something to try and downplay his night. He knows he’s blushing from the way he can feel his cheeks burning but he’s hoping it could be disguised as some sort of postgame flush.

You can’t help but let out a laugh at how off guard your comment seemed to catch him. “Surely you’re going out to celebrate?”

“Oh, I don’t know… we’ve got an early start tomorrow…” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck and your eyes flicker to his bicep briefly.

“Hmmm boring,” you tease, “All work and no play I guess.”

Something in your tone has him grinning now. “No rest for the wicked,” he quips.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, you’ve had an audience for just about all of your conversation.

“Is this what he looks like when he’s trying to flirt?” Petey asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I guess. Or trying to, at least,” Brock answers, still eyeing the scene in front of him. “How long do we think til they do something about it?”

Beau’s appeared next to them at the door now too, smirking as he watches you and Quinn completely oblivious to everyone else.

“Wanna take bets?”

Quinn’s nervous. He’s already texted you to let you know he’s arrived but he’s expecting that you’ll have to turn him away last minute. He’s still in disbelief that he’s even here, despite the fact that you’d offered to have him visit you on set several times already, but he always thought it was just a throw away thing you would say to be nice. He only tells you this about the fourth time you’ve asked, the arrival of the post season working out with one of the quieter days of your schedule, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing in his face about it.

“Quinn. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it. Most of our conversations are about movies, so I just thought you might find it cool to see what it’s like,” you shrug. "I've watched you play games before so it feels kind of fair, right?’

As much as he protests that it’s different, you are kind of right, naturally. He thinks it is extremely cool that this is what you do for a living, and even cooler that you’d even considered to bring him along and show him a part of it. At least, cool is what he’s trying to convince himself he’s feeling about it all.

When he sees how excited you look, running out to meet him, he once again can’t help the grin that weasels its way onto his face. He holds out the second coffee cup in his hand to you.

“Hey,” he greets, “I brought you a coffee. I stopped on my way here but I didn’t really know what you usually get or if you prefer, like, hot or iced? So I just got you what I get which is-”

You’re pleasantly surprised and amused, letting him ramble a little before you cut him off, thanking him and groaning when you take a sip. “God, thank you. I’ve already had one today but I truly needed this.”

He’s relieved to hear it, immediately relaxing. “Hectic day then?”

“Kind of, but like… A controlled hectic you know?” You pause, giving him a once over, realising he’s a little less jittery than a minute ago - and also that he looks good. You’ve only ever really seen him in very weak bar lighting, or after a hockey game - but definitely never before lunch. The sun looks good on him you think, and you’re rather charmed by the outfit he’s picked out for the occasion but you’re quick to snap yourself out of your thoughts.

“Let me show you around!”

You give him a tour of the set, proudly pointing out how you managed to convince them to move your trailer closer, talking him through your designs you have pinned up and showing him some of the final costumes.

Quinn’s already wide-eyed, kid in a candy store at all of this, staring and asking if he can touch things. He almost doesn’t believe you when you say he can watch them film a scene or two. He’s amazed by the whole set up of it all, the cameras, the monitors, all the people who seem to be constantly walking places very quickly with a lot of purpose. You lead him to your little costume camp in the corner, letting out a chuckle at how impressed he is.

“Okay, look so I do kind of have to do my job and leave you alone here, but just stay where I tell you to, don’t get in the way and you’ll be fine.” You’ve barely finished your sentence when someone calls your name, so you’re pushing Quinn into an empty chair, wincing a smile at him and scurrying away.

You don’t really get a chance to check back in on him for a good hour or two, but Quinn’s barely noticed the amount of time that’s gone by. He’s shocked at the fact that he’s so close to actors who he actually recognises, but he’s even more in awe simply watching you in your element. He knew you’d downplayed your role to him but even so, he’s mesmerised at the way you’re handling everyone’s questions, how you’re there in between takes to fix collars and ties and things he hadn’t even noticed, at how almost out of nowhere, you suddenly seem to have this commanding yet gracious air of authority around you. He’s never seen or even pictured you like this but he’s completely caught up in it, not realising that one of the makeup artists has been watching his laser focus on you this whole time and sidled up to him.

He doesn’t quite hear her at first.

“I was just asking if you were the boyfriend?”

Quinn’s immediately blushing furiously and he’s only glad that you aren’t there to see it. “No- no, um. Just, uhh, just a friend is all.”

His response appropriately earns a raised eyebrow.

“Ahhh, okay. Gotcha. Sorry, was just asking,” she pauses, entertained by his spluttering, “She’s rather amazing, you know? Really great at her job and just incredible in general.”

“Yeah, I, uh- I know,” he answers, glancing at you briefly. There’s something in this stranger’s tone that has him slightly confused, wondering why he’s being told this.

She only hums in response before walking away, leaving him to try not to overthink the interaction. He quickly pushes it aside when he sees you making your way over.

“Hey,” you grin, coming to a stop in front of him, “Been having fun?”

“Oh yeah,” he perks up immediately, “Heaps.”

“Great, because we’re starting to wrap up. I’ll take you back out to the entrance, save you all the boring stuff, y’know?”

Quinn’s surprised that it’s already heading into the late afternoon when you exit the studio. He turns to look at you, shoving his hands into his pockets and mustering up as much sincerity as he can.

“Thanks again for having me. It was, um, it was really cool watching you do your thing.”

“Well thanks for finally taking me up on my offer,” you counter, “and thanks for the coffee. I’m glad you had fun, really." You pause, cocking your head slightly, “We’ll go watch the movie together when it’s out.”

This, Quinn is sure, is a throw away line, at least he thinks. You’re not completely sure if you meant it either, but you know you only said it because you knew he would take it as one.

A couple days later you get a text out of the blue from Beau, and then Brock.

Beau: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU TOOK QUINN ON SET???? I’VE KNOWN YOU FOR HOW LONG AND YOU’VE NEVER ASKED ME?!!?!?!

Brock: I like movies too :))

For whatever reason, Beau’s apartment had become the designated gathering spot. You’d already found yourself there a couple times already with the rest of the group, so you didn’t really question it when he ropes you into the games night he’s hosting, claiming they need another person to even out the numbers. It doesn’t occur to you to ask why he couldn’t have asked literally any of the other guys instead, so you don’t realise he has a whole catalogue of excuses ready to cover the fact that he’d been orchestrating a reason to get you and Quinn in the same room again.

If anyone were to ask Quinn why he was late, he also had his own list of excuses ready to rattle off before he’d admit the truth. He’d spent an embarrassingly long amount of time switching between three shirts knowing that he’d see you - and so what if you’d done the same, as long as nobody else knew?

Currently, you’re all way too many drinks in, lining up along the couch in preparation for the final tie breaking round of charades. Beau’s couch is definitely not big enough to fit six of you but you all squish in anyway, mostly too drunk or too determined to win to care. You should have expected this level of competition from a group of professional athletes; you've done a good job of keeping up all night, but you’re suddenly very acutely aware of how close Quinn is sitting next to you. You take another hard swallow from your drink before turning your focus onto Beau flailing his arms in front of you.

You manage to keep your cool through several rounds, but eventually you realise Quinn’s thigh has, at some point, ended up pressed firmly against yours. Immediately your whole leg is tingling and your face is flaming up, but Quinn doesn’t seem to show any signs of pulling away, or simply even realising. You blink, trying to refocus, but the only thing your brain seems capable of processing at the moment is the feeling of Quinn’s leg against yours through your jeans. If it weren’t for Beau’s overly dramatic reaction, you probably wouldn’t even have noticed that your team had already lost.

You move to lean back against the couch - which was a mistake, considering now your shoulders are brushing too, and someone might as well have set your entire body on fire. Your head is starting to spin - must just be the shots catching up, you try to convince yourself - and you’ve drawn your lips into a thin line in an effort not to combust.

Brock lets out a laugh, clocking your expression. “Alright, no need to be such a sore loser, princess.”

You can feel Quinn turning to look at you, even if you’re desperately avoiding his eye contact. Beau is looking at you now too, eyes flickering over the way you and Quinn are pressed into each other’s sides. He grins, gears already turning in his head.

You hope your laugh sounds convincing. “Yeah, didn’t realise I’d get so into it, huh?”

“We’ll just have to have a rematch another time,” Beau reassures you, well aware losing wasn’t the reason why you looked so distressed. He fakes a look at the clock as you stand up from the couch, having decided you wouldn’t have survived much longer if you didn’t move.

“Well I guess it’s getting a bit late. I think we’re all pretty far gone at this point so everyone’s welcome to crash for the night if you want," Beau offers.

“Dude,” Quinn pipes up, “There’s no way you have enough space for all of us.”

“Well, lucky a certain someone just so happens to live not so far away!” Beau is already shepherding the two of you out of his apartment, still wearing the biggest grin on his face.

Before you can even begin to protest, you’ve already found yourself standing next to Quinn in the hallway. A beat passes, the two of you staring at the shut door incredulously before you finally catch Quinn’s eye, both unable to help the fit of giggles that escapes when you catch each other’s expressions.

In hindsight, you think this is the exact moment where you lose the ability to deny to yourself that you see him as just one of Beau’s friends. His eyes are a little glazed over from the alcohol, and his lips are flushed the prettiest pink to match his cheeks which are pulled into the widest smile you’ve seen him wear to date, and for the first time you notice exactly just how full his eyelashes are.

“I guess I do have a free couch,” you breathe out once you’ve both calmed down.

“No it’s fine really, I can just get an uber home, don’t worry about it,” Quinn argues, the slight awkwardness of the situation finally hitting him.

“Quinn, don’t be ridiculous. Your car’s still here, isn’t it? I literally live down the hallway,” you pause, “... like Beau said.”

He swallows, blinking at you for a good while. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure then.”

He waits for you to tell him that you’ve changed your mind, that actually the boyfriend you’ve never mentioned before wouldn’t like it if he stayed, or anything along those lines - something that would make the whole thing feel a little more believable, but instead, he just finds you looking at him. He doesn’t think he can handle that much longer without buckling at the knees, the way your eyes are searching his face, so he turns and starts walking down the hallway. He goes to ask what number your apartment is when he suddenly feels your soft hand slip into his.

You don’t know what it is. Maybe how nervous he suddenly seemed, maybe the way his hair looked perfectly dishevelled, or maybe in your intoxicated state you’d just finally decided to throw caution to the wind.

“I’m back this way, idiot,” you laugh at him before tugging him down the other way to your door.

Quinn is sure that his heart is thumping so loudly that you can hear it echoing through the silent hallway, or that you can somehow feel it where your fingers are laced through his but you’re being nice and saving him the embarrassment by not saying anything about it. He’s also hyper aware of how you didn’t drop his hand until you were both inside, even when you were rummaging in your pockets for your keys.

He glances around your apartment, following suit as he watches you kick off your sneakers. He’s overtly aware of the quietness compared to the chaos of just earlier, and the overwhelming sense of domesticity as he trails behind you into your home.

You watch him as he looks around, trying to find something to do in order to not get distracted staring at his nose. “Want some water?”

“Yeah actually, thanks,” he feels like he’s whispering, like if he speaks any louder you might realise that he is, actually, in fact, standing in your apartment and decide to kick him out.

He watches you reach on your toes to grab an extra glass from the cabinet and he finds himself endeared by it all - the way your shoes were lined up in the hallway, the sweater left draped over the couch, the lone mug left on your kitchen counter by your coffee machine.

He gestures at what he’s guessing is an open script left on the table next to an array of pens. “New project?”

“Yeah, I’m almost done reading through it,” you answer, “I won't be working on it for several months still, but I haven’t completely decided yet.”

“Is it shooting here as well?”

“Only bits of it. Looks like it’ll be mostly in LA though. And a couple other locations but it’ll be fun,” you shrug, handing him the glass.

“So you’re gonna do it?”

“Yeah, I think so. Script’s pretty good so far, and it’s an exciting team. Kind of like why not, you know?”

Quinn only manages to mutter out some sort of agreement. He’s surprised by his own disappointment at the idea that you could be moving out to LA, when in the grand scheme of things he’s only known you for about half a year. Thankfully, you interrupt him before he can think about it much more.

“Anyway, I’ll go get some blankets for you. Bathroom’s down that way, there’s extra toothbrushes in the first drawer.”

When he’s back, he almost crumples at the sight of you in your pjs setting up the couch for him. He notices you’ve refilled his glass before you turn around and shove a pile of clothes into his hands.

“Sweats for you, they should fit, I think,” you crinkle your nose. “My room’s down that way, just let me know if you need anything.”

He only manages to get out a small thanks in response. He’s staring at you, he knows that, but he can’t help how soft you look in the dim lighting.

You tilt your head, giving him a small smile. “Night, Quinn.”

“Yeah, goodnight,” he mumbles.

He makes a mental note to both punch Beau and then thank him in the morning.

+ 1

Nothing ever happened after that seemingly eventful night. It’s now well into the next season and you’re thinking that this is just what the dynamic of yours and Quinn’s friendship is like. You’ve gone back to trying to convince yourself that it’s normal - like you also think Beau’s good looking, right? You had a bit of a crush on him too when you first met him, even if that came and went awfully swiftly and you don’t get anything even close to the same kind of head spinning giddiness when he talks to you. Quinn thinks he’s been less subtle about it all, and you think you’ve been dropping hints but apparently your efforts have only been evident to everyone else but each other.

You know that the team has a gala coming up soon. Beau’s mentioned it to you a couple times in his attempt to gauge how you would feel if he forced Quinn to take you as his date. When he tells Quinn his master plan to finally get the two of you together, Quinn almost chokes on his own spit.

“Ask her as my date?! You’re kidding right?” he practically screeches.

“No.”

Quinn stammers, trying to formulate some kind of reply. “I don’t- We’re not- … I’m not doing that.”

Beau groans. “You guys are both such idiots, I’m sick of it. It’s so obvious that you like her and I don’t know how you can’t see that she’s head over heels for you too!”

Quinn only stares at him in response.

“Why won’t you just ask her? The world isn’t going to implode.”

There’s a good minute of silence, the two of them staring at each other waiting for someone to break. Quinn finally sighs, taking a seat on the couch.

“Isn’t she leaving for LA soon?”

“Are you being serious right now? Please tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

Quinn blinks. “I don’t know. Vancouver and LA are pretty far apart.”

Beau is just about ready to physically knock some sense into him.

“You’re not even in Vancouver half the time anyway. Plus she’s not moving away forever. Don’t be such a drama queen.”

When Quinn doesn’t say anything in response, Beau doubles down.

“If you don’t ask her, I will for you. I’m not lying but you can test that out if you’d like.”

Beau doesn’t believe that Quinn will do anything, but he doesn’t give him much time to prove him wrong anyway. He’s calling you that evening.

“What are you doing Saturday night in two weeks time?”

“What? Nothing, I don’t think.”

“Okay, great. You’re coming to the gala as Quinn’s date then.”

“I’m what?!”

“You heard me.”

There’s a pause.

“Are you home right now?”

“Ye-”

You hang up on him before he can finish the syllable and you’re storming down the hallway until you’re banging on his door. He looks rather calm when he lets you in, but you don’t miss the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You point an accusing finger at him. “Explain it to me again. You want me to do what now?”

Beau rolls his eyes. “You’re free. Quinn’s free. Why not? It’s painfully obvious that you have this massive crush on him.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “No I don’t. And you’re asking me instead of him because?”

“Because he’s being an idiot, like he has been for almost an entire year now.” Beau looks at you and he can tell you could be convinced. “Just say yes. I’ll be there, the other guys will be there, there’ll be free food and drinks. Plus you’ll get to dress up! You’re always telling me you want to have an excuse to dress up yourself instead of other people!”

You can’t deny his last point. Literally just the other week, you’d sent him a link of this drop dead gorgeous dress you’d found whilst sourcing for your next project and complained to him about how you wanted to get it for yourself but had nowhere to wear it to.

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. Just say you’ll come as his date. That’s it.”

You pause. Beau finds himself in his second stalemate of the day, but he knows you’re going to give in more easily. He listens to the tick of the clock in his living room, patiently waiting for you to cave.

“Fine.”

You don’t give him a chance to properly react before you’ve flung open his door, marched back to your own apartment and screamed into your pillow about what you’ve said yes to.

Beau should’ve known you were going to be insufferable leading up to the actual night. You spend the entirety of the next week pestering him about what the dress code is, how you have nothing to wear, what to expect, who else is going to be there. He gives you the same answers every time you ask and he promises to go dress shopping with you on Thursday. You’re only the slightest bit more relieved at this, but as soon as you agree, Beau’s texting Quinn that he has about a week to deliver.

Quinn had called you as soon as he saw Beau’s message, apologising and saying that he wished Beau had given him a little more warning so he could have asked you himself (he knows he wouldn’t have) and telling you that you don’t have to go if you didn’t want to. You were barely done freaking out about it yourself, but the way he sounded so completely flustered about it all through the phone was somewhat reassuring.

When you make your way up the stairs to your apartment on Wednesday evening, you find yourself actually excited to go pick out a dress the next day. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t pulled together some inspiration images, but in your defence, you were just good at your job. Your steps falter a little when you notice a package at your door, but as you get closer, you notice there’s a post-it note over it.

Been a minute since our mail got confused again :)

– Beau

You’re confused because you don’t remember ordering anything, but it’s definitely been addressed to you. You head inside to open it, brows furrowing when you start to recognise the fabric. Needless to say, your jaw is definitely on the floor when you pull out the same dress that you had sent Beau not too long ago. You’re scrambling to grab your phone to yell at him when you remember they’re currently playing a game at the moment, so you settle for a borderline blasphemous string of texts instead.

Hours later, when you’re still reeling, you get one single message in response.

Beau: Wasn’t me. Was all huggy :)

It feels like the last days left until the gala had gone all too quick yet also taken way too long. You felt like you’d been pulling your hair out about it nonstop, and it didn’t help that the guys had gone away on a roadie in between.

You’d started getting ready way too early. You couldn’t do up the clasp of your necklace since you weren’t used to having your nails done, leaving you too much time to start wondering if you’d maybe gone a little overboard with it all. You’d been pacing around your apartment for the past half hour trying to occupy your hands with something else instead, waiting for a more appropriate time to get changed. You think you must look like a deranged housewife, washing your dishes and folding your laundry with a full face of makeup and maybe too much diligence.

You’re so caught up in distracting yourself that the buzzer ringing makes you jump.

“Hey, come on up. I’ll unlock the door, I’ve just got to get changed,” you say over the intercom.

You run back to your room to pull on the dress you’d been fawning over for weeks, still not entirely sure how either Quinn or Beau had managed to work out the right size for you. You hear the door being opened and Quinn calling out your name just as you’re spraying your perfume.

“In my room!” You yell back, “One sec!”

When he rounds the corner and lays eyes on you, Quinn’s certain he’s turned completely into putty. He’s never seen you so dressed up and you look so breathtakingly stunning that he almost drops the bouquet in his hands.

You’re equally breathless when you turn around to face him. You didn’t realise that he’d gotten a tie to match, and you wouldn’t know that he’d dragged Petey to help him pick a new suit in an attempt to impress you. You’re both staring at each other for what feels like forever before either of you can manage a word.

“Um, hi,” he breathes, barely audible, “You look- you look really beautiful.”

You can’t hide the blush that’s creeping up your neck, but you don’t try to anyway considering his cheeks have gone a rosy shade to match.

“Thanks, Quinn. You look really good too.” You don’t notice how he flushes even deeper because you’ve finally noticed the flowers he’s holding, and even more so, how there’s not a single rose in the bunch. “Are those…?”

Quinn suddenly feels embarrassed about the fact he got you flowers. “Yeah, I um, I got- they’re for you.” He feels like a school boy all over again, mentally kicking himself for not being able to get a proper sentence out. He looks down at the stems, rubbing at his stubble. “Did I overdo it?”

You laugh, you’d been fidgeting with your nails the entire time.

“No, I think it’s really sweet.” You take the flowers from him, laying them down on your vanity when you remember your necklace.

“Oh, can you help me with this? I can’t seem to get the clasp.” You hand him the chain and turn, moving your hair out of the way.

You can smell the waft of his cologne and feel his focus on the back of your neck, suddenly incredibly aware of how close you’re standing. Your mouth has dried, you're pretty sure your ears are ringing and you think you’re fully frozen in your spot.

“There,” Quinn mumbles, barely even able to get the word past the lump in his throat. He’s still thinking about how unreal you look and fighting the overwhelming urge to spin you around and kiss you right then and there.

You’re both snapped out of the moment when his phone starts ringing. It’s Beau, asking what time you guys are going to arrive.

“Yeah, we’re just about to leave. See you soon, dude.” Quinn answers, turning his attention back to you. “Ready to go?”

On the way there, you’ve somehow recomposed yourself to manage a somewhat normal conversation. You’re not sure exactly what it is that sent your nerves into haywire in the first place. The fact that you’re so done up, that you’re technically his date, or the fact that he seems just as antsy as you. He tells you he’s a little nervous about the speech he has to make, so you squeeze his hand in reassurance and try to reel your nerves in for both of you.

It’s a lot easier when you get there and see everyone else. You’re reminded that they’re your friends and that this is just another time you get to hang out, even if it’s a lot more fancy and official than what you’re used to. But when you finally go to take your seats after doing your initial rounds of mingling, you still manage to somehow knock your fork to the floor. You bend over to pick it up and you don’t realise Quinn’s covered the edge of the table with his hand until you bump your head into it. Before you can even say anything or just thank him for it, he’s offering to swap forks with you.

“Oh, don’t even worry about it,” you laugh a little breathlessly, “Five second rule, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, but he’s already replaced the fork next to your plate with his anyway.

Brock and Petey have watched the whole exchange and share knowing smirks from across the table.

Everything else seems to go smoothly. Maybe it’s the soft touches on his arm or on your back, the blushing smiles and longing glances across the room, but something about tonight feels like tomorrow you won’t be able to pretend nothing happened.

Quinn’s speech goes well, and now everyone is up and moving around again. You hang back and let the long line of teammates and attendees go to congratulate him first.

Beau approaches Quinn, interrupting his train of thought.

“Now that the business part is done, you gonna finally make a move or what?”

Quinn’s eyes almost pop out of his head at the idea of this and also the volume at which Beau is speaking.

“Shut up,” he hisses, “She’ll hear you!”

“Doesn’t matter - she’s going to notice anyway with how hard you’ve been staring all night!”

“No I haven’t,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah ok, sure buddy. Just- no time like the present!” Beau claps him on the back and leaves Quinn to shift his gaze back to you. He’s starting to get lost in how at ease you look, talking to some of the other wives, when he realises Beau is right and you’ve caught him staring.

You make your way to him, prodding him gently in the shoulder.

“Told ya you didn’t need to be so worried.”

He’s blushing again. He can’t seem to get a handle on the effect you have on him.

“Yeah, it went alright, I guess. Made it out alive.”

“Well I, for one, think you spoke really well.” There’s a slight teasing in your voice, but you hope he can tell you mean it.

Quinn finds himself lost for words in front of you for what feels like the hundredth time that night. He’s scanning your face and tries not to think too hard before he opens his mouth again.

“Can I kiss y-”

“Please.”

His hands are quick to find your waist and pull you closer as your hands find a place against his chest. The kiss is quick and rushed and almost all teeth from how big you’re both smiling, but you don’t mind it. You feel like the ground’s been pulled out from under you in one fell swoop and you’re free falling but somehow it feels like exactly what you needed.

When you pull away, Quinn’s wearing the goofiest lopsided grin you’ve ever seen and you can only imagine that you look the same.

“I, uh-”

“You’ve got lip gloss on you.”

You’re both giggling as he swipes over his lips with his thumb.

You’re so lost in him that you almost don’t register all the hollering and clapping from your table. Usually you would hate the idea of so many eyes watching you, but it all feels like such a long time coming that you can’t seem to be even remotely embarrassed about any of it.

#a result of the freak behaviour quinn has been displaying as of late... like sorry i am just a Girl #actually he did all that and then i turned around and wrote over 6.5k about him so . whats more freakish im not sure anymore #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes blurb #📝

748 notes · View notes

i04rei · 7 months

Text

ᰍ . thank u sm 4 6500 fllwrs — 🍥 !

ᰍ 🪩 favourite blogs — . !

@agsthv @bulilta @chouqs @dollienini @eliatopia @florietas @fuckici @haeivn @haelyubi @hy4k @iluvrei @i08wony @jenfaery @joysite @jeonzio @k-iwi @k-yujin @kurcmia @lorlita @mi-yeons @mjngs @mazeui @ningrlz @n-ebullosa @nothanxxxxx @ojiito @plwstic @sseulr1n @sakkurada @si-eunnis @tyunlouv @tzulipss @tearscents @umiena @v6mpcat @v6que @w-eons @wonflirtz @wiotas @y2qi @y-ves @yeonzzen @yeon-n @y0oni3 @y-angs @y-urios + many more (no specific order)

#⌅　🎧　┈　i04rei #ʾ　　　　6.5k flwrs　　　　∿#— © wonhrts .

183 notes · View notes

somecunttookmyurl · 2 months

Text

we only have (on average) around 29,000 days on this planet so if you're going to waste half of one fucking about instead of using your words then you will not be doing it twice

#and for like. 6.5k of those you're a child/teen with no/limited control over your own schedule

44 notes · View notes

ghost-bxrd · 21 days

Text

Good news! Next Owl Song part will be up today 💚💚💚

#owl song #sitting at a solid 6.5k words right now lol #still need to add a few things but it will be done today MEAHAHA #talon dick grayson #Nightwing #jason todd #batfamily #dick grayson #batfam #ghost talks

36 notes · View notes

neverevan · 4 months

Text

Wip Word Search 🔍

rules: use this generator to generate three random words (or however many you'd like to do) and share the lines where they show up in your WIPs

my words: affect, great, opposed

1. affect from the mudslide fic ☔️

He watched as Eddie got up from the couch, carefully depositing Christopher’s legs from his lap before turning back to him and planting a soft kiss onto the top of his soft curls. He was getting too old for these kinds of affections when awake and — as much as he couldn’t wait to see Christopher become his own, independent person — Buck desperately wanted to halt time. It wasn’t a fair thing to think; Chris wasn’t exactly his kid to begin with and regardless of what Eddie’s will said would happen after his death, Buck's place in their lives wasn’t set in stone, so he savored every tiny moment he could. Somewhere along the last handful of years, Eddie and Christopher became Family, with a capital F. Buck loved Chris like he was his own and his feelings for Eddie were clear as day — only if not for the man himself. It was better that way, Buck reasoned. He probably wouldn’t let Buck hang around all the time, if he’d have known. Eddie probably didn’t think of them that way anyway. Buck ran his fingers through the curly hair tickling his cheek and pulled the kid’s small frame just a fraction closer, relishing in the moment of stillness.

2. great from the jealous eddie fic 🧇

“So uh t-tell me about yourself, you know, hobbies, pets, family, whatever.” “That’s pretty broad.” Jason chuckled and Buck felt his cheeks heat up immediately. Wow, he really hasn’t been on a proper date in such a long time that apparently he lost the ability to make conversation. Great. “Sorry I—” “Relax, Buck. It’s alright.” His shoulders sagged a little at that. “I guess cycling is a hobby, right? I’m not allowed pets at my place and uh… Two sisters, parents live in Nevada.” “Uh great, that- that’s great! I have a sister too, my parents live in Pennsylvania though.” Jason assessed his face for a long moment before he leaned back in his chair with a small sigh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem much more nervous than before. Is everything alright?” “Uh yeah— yeah, I’m fine, just…” Buck sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Eddie, my uh my partner at the 118, he’s been acting kinda weird about us going out. I just… I don’t know, I guess I got a little into my head about it.” A disapproving frown tugged at the patch of skin between Jason’s eyebrows for a moment, before it disappeared with a sigh. “So he’s one of those guys then.” Buck knew what he meant instantly; the type of guys who were just too macho not to feel threatened by even the mere mention of two men dating. Of course, it couldn’t have been further from the truth — and Buck was quick to make that clear. “N-no, not at all! He’s a good guy, great actually. He’s my best friend.”

3. opposed from the breeding kink fic 🛏️

“You might be right,” he breathed, leaning over Buck and slipping his hands under his thighs for more leverage, “maybe we should just stay here like this forever.” Eddie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment when he bottomed out again. It wasn’t a plausible or in any way realistic idea, really, but Eddie found that he still wasn’t opposed to the fantasy of it. Especially not when Buck’s warmth enveloped him so perfectly, while he got to watch his chest rise and fall quicker and quicker, listen to his quiet whines and grunts as Eddie sped up his movements until he hit a steady rhythm and smell as fresh sweat broke through the lingering scent of their shared body wash; tea tree and mint. His hair was still damp from their shower and that was one thing they didn’t share; the shampoo — and god, Eddie was grateful that it never became something that he’d lose on the account of getting used to smelling it on himself, so now he could let the fruity and fresh scent of green apple, and something that uniquely belonged to Buck wash over his senses.

tags under the cut 💛

I was tagged by @hippolotamus @theotherbuckley @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @fortheloveofbuddie and @wikiangela thank youuu 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @eddiebabygirldiaz @nmcggg @thewolvesof1998 @ladydorian05

#this took longer than I expected lmao #also quite a bit more than just a line each but idc I miss my main wips 😭#these were literally my first 3 wips for this fandom and I still haven't posted any of them I—#though I am heavily aiming to finish the first draft for the breeding fic today/tomorrow #it's already at 4.6k so that 5k estimate is out the window but maybe 6k? 6.5k?#I am bargaining cuz it's just some silly smut and I don't wanna edit anything longer than that 😭#but I do want it to be my last fic of the year so 🫡#(though unfortunately my vertigo's back and I got too dizzy to pay attention for now but I'll be back at it later)#ALSO I need to write from buck's pov more cuz I wanna appreciate and cherish eddie through his eyes he way he deserves it!!#buddie #911 #wip #the mudslide fic #the jealous eddie fic #the breeding fic

36 notes · View notes

retrievablememories · 8 months

Text

reading through the replies of cherry bomb and i'm starting to wonder if part 2 is gonna be too low-stakes/boring the way i'm writing it now LMAO....?!

some of these speculations for what's gonna happen are so interesting. i need to step my cookies up!

#text #6.5k words in and i still haven't decided on an ending or a solid middle #so i still got room to change things up

45 notes · View notes

thee-morrigan · 4 months

Text

in any universe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Dinah Batra/Nate Sewell 6.5k words rated G (for 'good god I didn't expect this to get so long???') content warnings: snowstorms, mysterious cabins, a rogue time-traveler, and gratuitous descriptions of Ava's eyes read it on AO3

I had the absolute pleasure of writing for @evilbunnyking as part of the @wayhavensecretsanta this month. (Did I spend the past several weeks fully giggling, twirling my hair, kicking my feet, glitter-gel-pen writing in my diary about Dinah, Nate, and Ava? Maybe! 💖) Thank you for letting me have a playdate with Dinah! I had a blast with this, and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it 💖🥰

— It’s barely past noon, but already the watery winter sun is fading, rays of diluted daylight trickling slowly past the stark, spiky tree limbs that jutted at irregular angles into the blue-grey sky. What little of it filters onto the ground — hard and hoary with frost and the dusting of snow from the spindrift of flurries early this morning — is weaker still, the scant brush of the sun’s warmth against Dinah’s face barely registering, its light trailing off like unfinished sentences, thin tendrils curling into nothing but air, like the smoke of a snuffed candle.

“We should have taken the SUV,” Ava says, and Dinah looks up at the woman walking alongside her, the spectral tendrils of sunlight gilding the edges of her face — the slope of her nose, the wisps of pale hair that the wind has tugged free of her usual low bun — turning the other woman’s profile as silvery as the frosted path beneath their booted feet. For her part, Ava does not look at Dinah as they walk, hawk-sharp eyes sweeping along the path ahead, across the surrounding wood, as if the trees standing sentry are liable to go from resembling a watchful assemblage to becoming one entire, long bare limbs poised to come alive as soon as she looks away.

“It’s not far,” Dinah replies, turning her gaze back to the path ahead as well, the winding, snow-flecked bridleway looping its way through the forest just as the fissures in the bark of the surrounding trees spiraled up and around their vast trunks.

Sweet chestnut trees, she thinks, though she can’t remember when or why she came by this knowledge, at what point she learned to associate the thick, purple-grey trees with that identity.

“It is an unexpectedly lovely day for a walk,” Nate adds from her other side, throwing Dinah a gentle smile. “I’d thought we were due a heavier snowfall than this morning’s flurries turned out to be.”

“We are,” Ava says, turning her head to look at both Dinah and Nate as they traipse further through the woods. “The radar this morning indicated we can expect winter storm conditions this afternoon, and perhaps into tomorrow as well.”

“We’ll be safely back at the warehouse before the worst of it hits, Ava,” Dinah soothes, though she can’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving upwards in mild amusement at the idea of Ava monitoring the weather radar map. “And Nate’s right: at least for now, it’s a nice day.”

Ava sighs and turns her gaze back to the path ahead, though not, Dinah notices, before her expression softens a bit, her mouth relaxing, green eyes glimmering with something approaching a look of fondness towards them both.

Dinah is right about the cabin not being much further, situated only a few miles away from the warehouse, and so it isn’t much longer before they reach the place. Despite its relative closeness, however, and perhaps because of its being nestled just that much deeper into the forest surrounding Wayhaven, there is a certain air of isolation about the little house, as though they’ve somehow managed to travel much further than could ever be possible in the time they’d been walking.

She thinks this air about the old cabin, this shimmer of eerie uncertainty surrounding the property, is partly why Tina had begged the favor of her, to check in on the house after a few reports from the owner about things seeming just the slightest bit out of sorts recently — windows that should have been locked being cracked open, bedside lamps left switched on when they oughtn’t have been, and that sort of thing. Tina had been inclined to chalk it up to the particular quiet of the surrounding wood and simple human forgetfulness on the owner’s part, given that he mostly kept the cabin as a source of supplemental income these days, letting it as a vacation rental property. The only reason he’d known to report anything amiss in the first place had been thanks to the cleaning crew he paid to check in on the property once a month, give or take when the cabin was occupied by guests, whose presence could explain any or all of the unexpected occurrences the owner had reported to the station.

Still, Tina had said when she relayed all of this information to Dinah a few days ago, I know it’s probably nothing, but, if I’m being honest, that place has always kind of given me the creeps.

And so Dinah had agreed to the favor. One last thankless detective’s task for old time’s sake, she supposes.

“Just a quick look around and we can go,” she promises Nate and Ava as they approach the cabin now, raising her voice slightly over the wind, which has begun to pick up in the past few minutes, accompanied by a fresh flurry of fat, wet snowflakes.

Despite Tina’s apparent discomfort with it, the cabin appears, if anything, like something you’d find in a winter painting or emblazoned on a postcard, nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering ancient cedar trees and the elegant sweeping cradle of silver birches, long-limbed and half-frozen. The snow-dusted roof glitters in the white-gold wash of afternoon sun, contrasting against the darkened timber walls of the cabin. It emanates a certain charm, as if it holds secrets within its sturdy frame.

Nate, his gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, gazes at the cabin with a sense of wonderment. "It's like something out of a fairy tale," he murmurs.

“I wonder why Tina said it gave her the creeps,” Dinah muses as they step onto the wide, weathered planks of the porch, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket and scrolling through her last texts with her erstwhile colleague until she sees the code to the lockbox fastened next to the front door.

She punches the code into the keypad with gloved fingers, a bright, staccato chirrup sounding as the electronic latch clicked open, allowing Dinah to retrieve a small leather keychain bearing two keys, one silver and one a dull bronze. It’s the silver one that must be the cabin key, she thinks. The bronze one is smaller, with fewer teeth than its companion. It almost resembled a mailbox key, but she’s not sure it’s quite large enough for a standard post-office box.

She puts it out of her mind, though, as her assumption about the silver key being the one needed to enter the cabin proves correct. As she inserts the key into the lock, a gust of wind howls through the treetops, causing the branches to sway and creak. The sound is mournful, as though the forest itself is warning them of something unseen.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Dinah steps inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the frost-laced windows. The cabin is unexpectedly warm, despite its emptiness and the cold of the world just beyond its wooden walls. The wind and promised winter storm conditions have begun to pick up in earnest now and, while the interior warmth is a welcome surprise, she hopes they can report everything in order quickly and begin the trek back towards town and the warehouse before it gets any colder.

Dinah steps further into the cabin, letting the warmth envelop her. She glances around, taking in the worn wooden furnishings and old-fashioned charm of the place. The thick wooden planks that make up the walls are dark and weathered with age, each knot and grain clear as day, like a tapestry of nature itself. The scent of pine and wood smoke fills her nose, mixing with the musty odor of dampness and age, lingering beneath the sharper tang of citrus — oranges, she thinks, rather than lemons — particular to furniture polish and oil soap. Lingering from the cleaners, she presumes.

Before or after they’d phoned the owner? She wonders. Before or after they noticed whatever it was they’d noticed to create the impression that all was not as it ought to have been?

Nate follows behind her, pausing only to scrape the frost and forest debris off his boots and onto the coarse fibers of the doormat. "Seems normal so far," he remarks, though his voice holds the barest tinge of unease.

She thinks she understands it, this shade of uncertainty coloring his voice; perhaps it is only the way in which her brain has primed itself for something, anything, to be unusual. Perhaps it is how preternaturally lovely the cabin had been as they approached it outside, the glittering winter panorama that had made Nate think of fairytales.

Perhaps it is the slight, burnt-sugar taste on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, whose flavor she associates with campfire-scorched marshmallows and, more recently (more pertinently), with magic.

Ava is close behind, the door creaking slightly as she pulls it shut, leaving them in near darkness until she finds a light switch. Dinah’s eyes have swept from Nate’s face to Ava’s, as if seeking a second confirmation of something, but Ava’s gaze is narrowed on the large stone fireplace in the center of the living room.

“How long did you say it has been since this cabin has been occupied?” She asks.

"Quite a few months, if I remember correctly," Dinah replies, her gaze following Ava's to the fireplace. The hearth is immaculately clean, not a trace of ash or soot to be seen. Stranger still, the scent of freshly burned wood hangs in the air; evident beneath the pine and citrus scent. “Well, aside from the cleaners, I suppose. They would have been here last week, I think? Or the start of this week.”

“It seems unlikely that they would have built a fire,” Nate muses, his expression thoughtful as he watches Ava, her gaze still fixed on the rough fieldstone fireplace. “Though the room certainly smells of one.”

"Indeed," Ava replies, her voice low and thoughtful. She steps further into the room, striding past Dinah and Nate to kneel before the fireplace, stretching one hand out toward the cold hearth. Her fingers hover for a long moment over the scrubbed, smooth grate before she pulls her hand back, straightening and turning back to face the others.

“It does not seem to be any warmer than it ought,” she concedes, the beginnings of a frown creasing her brows. “But it smells as though someone lit a fire. Recently.”

“Maybe they burned a candle?” Dinah suggests with a shrug, though her hazel eyes are pensive flick between Nate and Ava, watching whatever unspoken conversation they’re having.

“Perhaps.” Ava does not sound convinced.

“You’re probably right,” Nate says gamely, giving Dinah a smile that almost successfully wipes the earlier glimmer of uncertainty from his face. “What else did you need to check before we head back?”

Their sweep of the other rooms, thankfully, doesn’t seem to spark any additional sense of lingering disorder, although it does take a bit longer than Dinah had anticipated because of the cabin's surprising size. Closets, bedrooms, and a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen are methodically examined by the trio. Finally satisfied that she's done her due diligence and can report back to Tina that everything seems more or less normal, Dinah checks her watch, squinting at the dimly lit dial.

"I think that's it," she says as they finish their search of the cabin. A soft sigh of relief escapes from between her lips as if expressing a quiet gratitude to the labyrinthine cabin for not exposing them to any other irregularities.

Nate, who had stopped to scrutinize an antique grandfather clock situated against a wall just past the entryway, looks up at Dinah's voice, his own lips parting as if to respond. It is Ava, however, who speaks next, calling to them from the far side of the living room, where she's taken up what Dinah can only consider her typical position before a window, this one overlooking the front porch and, beyond, the path they had taken to reach the cabin earlier this afternoon.

"It would appear we have run into a problem," Ava says grimly, her beryl eyes narrowed at whatever she's spotted outside the cabin.

"What is it?" Nate asks, stepping away from the old clock and towards the living room.

Dinah answers as he ducks through the open doorway, having twitched aside the curtain of another window nearer to her. "Winter storm conditions,” she sighs.

They decide to make the best of it — because what else can they do, really? They will spend the dwindling daylight hours and the coming night in the cabin and reassess in the morning. By then, they reason — they hope — the worst of the snowstorm will have passed.

Once more, the trio split up, this time in search of necessary supplies for the coming evening rather than the presumed vandals or squatters they’d been sent to suss out earlier. Ava elects to venture outside and to the small shed behind the cabin in search of firewood, before the snow completely blankets the forest and renders visibility difficult for even supernaturally keen eyesight. Nate and Dinah will stay inside, sorting through the numerous closets and cupboards for candles, blankets, and foodstuffs.

The cabin resonates with a strange sense of harmony, each of them engaged in their own tasks; Nate humming slightly as he sifts through kitchen cabinets, the rhythm of Dinah's steps echoing through the rooms as she ascends and descends the staircase, rifling through bedroom closets.

Ava returns, though after how long, neither Dinah nor Nate are entirely sure. Time has seemed…looser, since entering the cabin, perhaps since entering the surrounding wood altogether. Slowing and speeding at intervals irregular to their own cadence, each moment stretching on indefinitely but also second by second – ticking away as marked by the steady rhythm of the grandfather clock.

Nonetheless, she returns, indeterminate time notwithstanding, arms laden with chopped wood, cheeks flushed against the biting cold, her form in the doorway a specter-like silhouette against the backdrop of mounting snowfall. She shakes loose a flurry of snowflakes caught in the folds of her scarf, the collar of her coat, shuffling wet clumps of snow off of her boots and onto the wide, wooden planks of the front porch before stepping past the threshold and into the cabin proper.

Nate emerges from the kitchen as she deposits her findings in a precise stack next to the fireplace, the logs clattering and thudding methodically alongside one another.

“It seems we were wise not to have attempted the walk back,” he says by way of greeting, crossing the living room to pull the front door shut where Ava, arms otherwise occupied, had left it half ajar. The heavy door slides shut with a muted thud, the worn, smooth metal of the brass handle icy beneath his palm as he gives it one more firm, brief tug before releasing it, satisfied that the torrent of snow falling in wet, heavy swirls outside wouldn’t make it into the dry warmth of the old cabin.

Ava gives a murmur of agreement, on her knees before the hearth, hands busied with the work of starting a fire with the wood she’s procured and the ceramic urn perched on the mantle, which is full of matchbooks, taken over a period of years, no doubt, from restaurants and bars and hotels. The logs are slick with the meltwater of snow and ice, although some thoughtful previous cabin guest has left a small stack of newspaper pages on the hearth, tucked behind the spindly wrought iron stand holding a small assortment of fireplace tools, presumably to be used as tinder.

With deft fingers, Ava strips off her gloves, laying them neatly on the stone of the fireplace, and reaches for a sheaf of newsprint, crumpling the pages into loose wads. She arranges them with a few of the driest twigs, striking a match against the strip on its book cover and holding the tiny flame to the newspaper until it catches and begins to consume itself in a bright orange glow. The first crackling embers in the grate send out a thin spiral of fragrant smoke, wrapping itself around Ava as she fans the flames into life. She pauses, straightening a bit to unwind her still-snow-speckled scarf, the wool of it damp in spots where the warmth of the cabin and her fledgling fire have begun to melt the lingering frost, and watches as her handiwork takes hold and steadily grows. The warmth now emanating from the fireplace is welcome, cutting through the chill that had started to settle in her bones.

“Thank you, by the way,” Nate says, coming to stand next to where she’s still knelt before the fire, a pleased hum of a sigh accompanying the words of gratitude. “For the fire, and for venturing into—” he sweeps a hand toward the front windows “—that to gather firewood.”

“And for not reminding either of you that I advised against walking here in the first place?” She leans back on her shins and tilts her face up to look at him, the tops of her booted feet pressed flush against the floor, her palms resting flat against the tops of her thighs. Ava’s voice is dry as bone, but there’s an unmistakeable shimmer of amusement in her eyes, the bright green of them turned aventurescent in the flickering glow of the firelight.

Nate laughs, and the warmth of it, resonant and radiant, sears through any lingering coldness in her that had gone unreached by the heat of the fire now burning steadily in the grate. Warms her to her marrow, as his laughter (his voice, his existence) has done for over three hundred years, now.

“That too, I suppose,” he amends, still smiling as he offers his hand to her, although they both know it is an unnecessary politeness — she does not need assistance to unfold herself from her position before the fire, to rise to her feet. She accepts it anyway, pale, calloused fingers grasping his dark, fine-boned hand as she rises to stand beside him.

Deeper into the cabin, footsteps sound, light and quick, as Dinah emerges from the dark of the corridor behind Ava, a bundle of fabric and a cardboard box cradled in her arms. She smiles, glancing at the fire as she steps further into the room and towards the two vampires standing in front of it.

Something about it — everything about it, she amends, for it is everything, really, about their current situation — strikes her with an odd feeling, a warm swell of something like familiarity or nostalgia or sentiment that takes her a moment to place. The crackling blaze of the fire, warm as bathwater against her face as she draws nearer, warmer still where its glow reflects off of her companions, its light painting their faces and hands in shades of rose and gold and ochre. How the light and heat contrast with the mercurial silver of the afternoon outside, the cloud-smothered sky already grown too dark for the hour, even for winter, its icy fingers pressing and dragging against the windows. The way Ava and Nate always seem to look at her, and even more so how they always — have always, at least as long as she’s known them, in each, century-spanning context — look at each other.

When she places the odd, slip-sliding sensation, she can’t quell the soft laugh that bubbles out of her. Nate gives her a quizzical smile as he steps towards her, reaching to pull the box from her arms. He sets it on one of the two chintzy, overstuffed armchairs in the middle of the room, the one nearest to the fireplace, lifting one of the flaps to peer at its contents.

“Is something amusing you, agent?” Ava asks, one dark blonde brow arched as she unbuttons her woollen peacoat before moving to hang it next to Dinah’s on the wooden coat rack by the front door.

“Just experiencing deja vu, I think,” she answers, unfolding the bundle of cloth still draped across her arm — a cable-knit sweater, it turns out, large and cream-colored and heavy looking, which Dinah slips on over her own thinner sweater, warm enough under her coat for the weather earlier in their day, but somewhat lacking in the current snowstorm. The garment hangs loose on her, the hem landing halfway down her thighs, and she has to roll the sleeves twice to free her hands, but it’s gloriously warm, and she almost laughs again at the memory of another borrowed sweater, in another lifetime.

“Deja vu?” Nate asks, still sorting through the box Dinah had unearthed. Her search of the bedrooms had been a fruitful one, it seems: the box is full of useful paraphernalia for anyone unexpectedly snowbound, including, among other things, at least a dozen long, white candles, a couple of camping lanterns, one heavy flashlight, and packages of batteries for each. Ava has crossed back over to them now, too, and slips a hand into the box alongside Nate’s to help him sort through its contents.

“Thinking of the last time we were…unexpectedly ensconced in a remote location like this. Lauterbrunnen.”

“Ah,” Nate says, and she knows before even looking at him that he’s smiling at the memory she’s called up, can hear it in that one syllable alone.

“The selection of reading materials pales in comparison to the chalet, of course,” she allows, failing entirely to contain her grin at Ava’s quiet, whip-quick rejoinder: “The volume of materials, as well.”

“But,” Dinah continues, that irrepressible grin seeping into her voice, “we do have electricity and running water here, so.” She shrugs. “Maybe that almost evens out, all things considered.”

And, of course, of fucking course, it is at that moment that the power flickers — dims — and peters out entirely.

The kitchen, bathed in a blend of candlelight and lantern glow, becomes their sanctuary as the world beyond the frost-coated windows plunges into the inky cold. The kitchen turned out to have an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, so Ava has built them another fire, its comforting warmth and scent filling the air, coupled with the aroma of the soup Nate had found in the pantry (although he’d seemed truly distressed at having only canned food to offer Dinah, with no fresh produce to supplement it, and it had been an effort not to laugh at the consternation on his face).

Canned though it may be, the soup is hot and filling, and Dinah sips at it happily enough, warming her fingers against the large, earthenware mug as she does. In addition to the lighting supplies they’d quickly put to good use, she’d found a jigsaw puzzle in a hall closet, and so, for lack of much else to do, they’re now sat together at the long kitchen table across from the wood stove, puzzle pieces strewn across the width of the table, tiny cardboard islands in a sea of dark mahogany.

Even as they collectively bend towards their task, their breaths intermingling in a rhythm of shared concentration, Dinah’s mind remains centered elsewhere. She finds herself watching her companions more than working on the puzzle, studying their focused faces under the flickering candlelight. There is a certain harmony to their movements, the result, she knows, of years and years and years of working all manner of tasks alongside one another, and Dinah can't help but feel a pang of affection for them both.

“You know you can’t win a jigsaw puzzle, Ava,” Dinah remarks, a teasing grin tugging insistently at one corner of her mouth.

Her comment is rewarded by a soft huff of laughter from Nate and a pointed silence from Ava — although perhaps the latter is less due to Ava choosing to ignore her and more the result of the commanding agent’s intense focus on the scattering of puzzle pieces arranged before her.

She’s not surprised, of course, that Ava takes jigsaw puzzles as a kind of tactical challenge, that she faces them as something to be outwitted through strategic brilliance and logical prowess. It’s part of why she likes her, really: a shared thread of fiery determination that runs through them both, this impulse — this compulsion — to rise to any occasion, meet it head-on and straight-backed, no matter how un-momentous the occasion may be. After all, hadn’t Dinah once taken the task of choosing a wine that Ava might enjoy as a challenge to be faced? Heracles and his Labours; Dinah and her (unboxed) wine.

Ava and her jigsaw puzzle.

Still, scouring hundreds of puzzle pieces in the dim light of the lanterns and candles, coupled with the growing lateness of the hour, is beginning to wear on Dinah and her human eyes, so she leans back in her chair, stretching languidly as she does. Propping one elbow on the back of the chair, she twists in her seat, casting her eyes about the room if only for a brief change in focal distance. Through the open doorway of the kitchen, she can see into the living room, the light of the still-crackling fire a rippling glow, illuminating the overstuffed armchair set closest to the fireplace.

Illuminating the object resting thereupon, which Dinah is quite sure had not been there earlier in the evening. There, lying open and facedown along one of the chair’s puffy arms, is a book.

It’s a squatty paperback, small and thick, its pages, as best she can tell through the dimness and the distance, gone slightly yellowed with age, corners slightly rounded and curling, dulled with the thumbing of untold hands over unknown years of use.

“Nate,” she asks, cutting off whatever conversation had been happening, whatever idle, puzzle-side chatter she’s fully relinquished the thread of now, her focus grasping instead for the unexpected snag of this book in the living room. “Did you leave that there? That book, in the living room?”

She tilts her head, chin jerking slightly in the direction of the doorway, not taking her eyes off the book as she speaks, because she already knows what his answer will be, already knows that, even if he had found a book to peruse while she’d been rummaging through bedrooms and closets upstairs, he would not have left it thus, splayed carelessly as if forgotten in the wake of something more captivating. Knows that, whomever it was who had last touched this book and then left it, discarded and haphazard, on the arm of the chair, it would not have been Nate, whose elegant hands are gentle and careful with almost everything they touch, and always so with books.

Well. Give or take a scant few exceptions, she remembers, although when she thinks of the circumstances in which he might be — in which he has been — so driven to distraction as to be truly careless in setting aside a book, she is reasonably confident that they do not apply to this particular scenario.

Nate looks up from the scattering of puzzle pieces through which he’d been sorting, eyes moving first to Dinah, half-twisted in her chair across from him, to the open doorway through which her gaze is still focused, finally alighting on the book in question. His brow furrows slightly as he glances from the discarded paperback to Ava, who has wrested her own focus from the jigsaw puzzle to the two of them, something in the tone of Dinah’s voice tugging her away from her consideration of optimal puzzle completion strategies.

“No,” he says finally, and can see his own confusion mirrored in Ava’s expression as those cool, emerald eyes slide to meet his, a mélange of question and calculation flickering there as he answers.

Green eyes and brown shift once again towards Dinah as she twists back around to face them, her own dark eyes lingering over her shoulder and into the living room for a too-long moment, as though not trusting the room behind her to remain static once she turns her back on it.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and looks between the two vampires, her mouth stretching in a grim almost-smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs ruefully as she meets Nate’s puzzled gaze. “Although I was really, really hoping to be wrong.”

She stands abruptly, the chair skidding back on the wooden floor with a harsh rasp that echoes in the silence that has settled over the three of them. Dinah meets Ava’s eyes first, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before shifting her attention to Nate. There's a sense of urgency crackling around her as she strides towards the living room, her fingers tightly curled in anticipation.

She moves deliberately towards the forgotten book, each footfall echoing in the stillness of the room. She hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and picks up the novel, the rough edges of the worn pages making her fingers prickle with an odd sense of unease.

She flips it over to see the cover — the title, Time's Shadow, is embossed in gold letters above a dramatic illustration of a branching tree, its roots plunging into a shadowy abyss while its leafy arms reach towards a clock face trapped in a twilight sky, although its hands point to a minute shy of twelve o'clock.

Puzzle abandoned, Nate and Ava have followed her into the living room, though neither of them seems to have any more idea than she as to how this book came to be here, or from whence it came.

Dinah flicks through the pages, her gaze quickly scanning the taut lines of text. The scent of old paper and ink wafts up, mingling with the room's musty air. There is nothing else remarkable about the book. No annotations, no dog-eared pages, no forgotten bookmarks or slips of paper. Just an ordinary book left in an extraordinary circumstance.

Nate steps forward, a mix of caution and curiosity on his face. "May I?" he asks, extending a hand towards Dinah.

Wordlessly, she hands it to him, watching him as he studies the book. He traces the edge of one golden letter before opening the paperback carefully, his long fingers leafing through the worn pages with a careful reverence, dark eyes skimming across the pages, though nothing seems to catch his attention.

The silence of the room is broken, suddenly, by a soft voice. "I hope you were kind enough to mark my place before you turned the page."

The trio whirls around, startled by the unexpected voice that had so disrupted the stillness of the room, a stone thrown into a tranquil pond. Seated comfortably on the weathered armchair against the far wall is a man who wasn't there moments ago, hands folded neatly in his lap, a thin smile etched across his face.

The man is nondescript in most ways — medium height, mid-forties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back from a high forehead. His eyes, as calm and deep as a placid lake, meet theirs with an amused glint.

Dinah straightens her spine and takes a step forward, her gaze hardening to steel on this stranger. "And you are?" She manages to ask, forcing her voice to remain steady, courteous, even, tempering the whirlwind of questions threatening to break loose.

Ava has moved to lean against the threshold that divides the two rooms, her fingers curling around the edge of the wall as she studies the interloper. Her green eyes hide nothing of her suspicion as they flicker over him, assessing and analyzing with a calculated precision.

The stranger chuckles, the sound warm and non-threatening. "My name is Cyrus," he says, his voice as soft and smooth as worn leather. "And I mean no harm."

Nate, still holding the book, steps closer to Dinah, his face unreadable. There is a moment when their gazes meet; an unspoken understanding passing between them. When his gaze flicks to the stranger, though, there is nothing but polite interest on his face, as open and friendly as it had been the day Dinah had met him. "And why are you here, Cyrus?"

The stranger — Cyrus — merely chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that echoes through the silent room. He leans forward slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together. "There are many answers to that question," he says finally. "Some requiring less explanation than others."

He glances at the worn paperback still clasped in Nate's hand. "I suppose you could say I'm here for my book." He gives another light laugh, then shifts, leaning back a bit in his chair before unfolding his hands and gesturing towards the other armchair, the couch. "Please, take a seat," he says, an air of welcoming familiarity settling around him. "There's much to talk about."

Nate and Dinah share a glance, a silent question passing between them. Ava's gaze is fixed on Cyrus, her posture rigid but curious. Finally, Dinah steps forward, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room as she takes the offer. She sits, her back straight and her mind whirling with a thousand questions.

Nate follows suit, handing the book back to Cyrus as he does so. The man accepts it with a warm smile, tucking it next to him on the chair.

"Now then," he says. "I, along with my book, am here, in part, because this is my house."

An indignant, disbelieving noise escapes Dinah before she can stop it. "No, it isn't. Micah Langley owns this cabin."

The stranger's smile, while not fading exactly, has morphed into something cut through with sorrow. "Micah Langley is my husband. Or, well." He pauses, as if considering. "I suppose it may be more correct to say he was my husband. What year is it, please? It is possible that I may have already died. It's so difficult to keep track of which year it is, let alone which timeline one has stumbled into."

The statement hangs in the room, a tangible thing that seems to ripple and flex with tension.

“I am,” Cyrus continues calmly, voice as placid as if he is discussing the weather on any given Thursday, “come unstuck from time.”

They gape at him, for a long stretch of moments.

Nate breaks the silence first. "I beg your pardon?”

"Unstuck," he repeats with a nonchalant shrug. "One minute I am somewhere, the next... here. I do not control it. It just... happens. Just as you might walk through a door. Exit one room — one time — and enter another."

He asks again: What year is this?

When Ava answers, he sighs and gives a small nod. "As I suspected. In this timeline -- in this universe -- I am unfortunately no longer among the living."

The group's silence stretches on for a few moments longer, the only sound being an occasional crackle from the fire in the grate behind them.

And then they begin to ask questions.

Where had he come from? What year had he left? How did he cope with the constant displacement? Did he have any control over it?

While in this timeline — in this universe — he is dead, he confirms, in answer to Dinah’s slightly incredulous protestations that he hasn’t been alive as she’d known him — known of him — for almost a decade. However, in other universes, other timelines, he is very much alive. Oh, he’s dead in some of them still, he acknowledges. But in others he lives on, lives well, lives differently.

In every universe, though, the one constant: his beloved.

The man who owns the cabin still, though has barely stepped inside it since the death of his husband — this breathing, dime-store-noir-novel-reading, dead-not-dead man sat on an armchair before them.

Somehow, in every timeline, Cyrus finds Micah, or Micah finds Cyrus, or they find each other.

Across any world, each forking decision path splitting into a crystalline myriad of mirrors, a tapestry of threads, tangling and intersecting and weaving together in infinite ways. In every universe, they are bound to meet, or to have met. A microcosm of their own making, each of them the reference frame for the other -- the special relativity of two human bodies, the nature of their time and space impacted by the other's gravitational pull.

The night passes and they are insatiable, the three accidental guests of this man’s former home, asking him question after question. What does he mean, unstuck from time? How does it work? How can he know how else he lives in other realms of time? Of space? Are they each of them truly him? How did he first learn this? What does this mean, practically speaking? How, how, how?

To his apparently eternal credit, he answers all of them, or at least all of them as best he can, with the same unflappable serenity of demeanor with which he’d introduced himself and his…situation.

At some point, the power clicks back on, lamps humming back to life, the radiator clanking as it begins the process of re-warming itself and the cabin. The sudden noise and light — low though it is — cracks through the spell of the evening — no, somehow now nearly morning — and the four of them blink at one another as reality creeps back in.

Cyrus stands and stretches, stifling a yawn. "I do believe, my friends," he declares, his voice resonating with the soft weariness of the late hour, "It is time I took my leave."

"But," Dinah protests, her sleep-deprived mind still struggling to grasp the enormity of their conversation, "where will you go?"

He tilts his head towards Dinah and smiles, a sad but understanding gleam in his eyes. "Once more into the fray, I suppose. Another timeline, another universe."

He walks to the entrance and looks back at them, his features softened by the diffused light from the lamps. "Do not worry for me. In each world, I am home."

(Later, as they are straightening up and finally, finally preparing to leave the cabin and return to their own homes, their own reality, they will discover that he has once again left his book, forgotten once more on the armchair nearest the fire. None of them are certain whether the dog-eared page — the sight of which once again sends a streak of dismay across Nate’s face — marks the same spot as the book had been opened to before. But whether it is or it isn’t, the page that’s been saved now includes a note, of sorts, in the form of a single highlighted sentence: Space by itself, and time by itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two will preserve an independent reality*.)

*this is, in fact, an actual quote from the physicist Hermann Minkowski, in an address to the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians, 1908. Physics: secretly the most hopeless romantic coded science since 1908!

#yall i went into a full fugue state and emerged 6.5k words later #wayhavensecretsanta #twc #katie writes things

19 notes · View notes