#so i adjust what i cook to have less or no garlic if she's eating it to

[crapcafe]

hearing people talking about cooking is always such an interesting topic and i'm gonna take a min to ramble about it. i learned how to cook (eggs and pasta mostly) as a kid from my mom because she learned to cook at a young age as well and she would also be gone on work trips pretty often. later on in life i worked in restaurant kitchens as a kitchen manager and a line cook. i've even had the displeasure of working alongside new hire line cooks that don't fucking know how to cook but figure that they can still do the job (they could not)

some things just become intuitive so it's hard for me to remember exactly what i needed to focus on learning and what did just come naturally from the start, but a lot of it relates to just general science/chemistry knowledge. denser items will take longer to cook than less dense things (potatoes take forfuckingever but sliced button mushrooms take like a minute or two), high heat makes things cook way faster so liquids will boil off sooner, dense items will sear/burn quicker, and thin/small things will just burn. some professional cooks don't even know this based on the amount of times i've had to talk coworkers out of turning the fryer temp higher because things were taking a long time to cook (this is a great way to get a nice crispy skin on some shit that's still frozen in the middle)

there's a lot of learning how to read recipes. abbreviations (sometimes tablespoon is T or tb or TBSP or Tbs), how to adjust amounts if you need more or less of something, looking up substitutions for things (if you don't have milk but need to make a cream sauce, using applesauce instead of oil or butter or eggs in some baking recipes, etc). its definitely a skill to know how to read some recipes, and coming in with your own knowledge is great, but it's another instance of "you need to learn the rules to know how to break them." this is how you get the screenshots of ppl substituting kale in their banana cookie recipes and then wondering why they suck

thinking of foods in terms of nutritional value can also be helpful. if you have tortilla chips and salsa youre technically getting some vegetables in you. frozen and dried fruits and veggies are still fruits and veggies. rice and beans is grains and protein. miso soup with tofu and spinach is lots of protein and iron. romaine salad with balsamic vin, olive oil, feta, and tomatoes is some vitamins and fats and calcium but without grains and fiber it wont give you too much energy so have some bread or something with it. moving away from processed food will make you feel better. apple slice and peanut butter is my new depression meal bc it makes me feel more alive than shredded cheese from the bag and you can feel like a roman emperor a bit.

if you're just starting out learning how to cook: try to keep it simple with starch + veggie + protein (veggie pasta is a staple classic, roast some stuff and toss it with pasta and garlic and olive oil), find something with just a handful of ingredients that you actually want to eat. the act of cooking can be fun but not everyone thinks its fun, so at least make sure you'll want to eat the final product. if there's any sauces you really like try to keep some on hand. gochujang+soy sauce+sesame oil+sugar+broth can be really good in a stir fry, and basically all of those things will last a long time.

anyway theres a lot of text about cooking. theres a reason i stayed working in kitchens for almost 5 years despite how shit working in kitchens is. i like food and cooking. its one of the few things humans have been doing for a bajillion years and its necessary to live a healthy life and if you can find some fun and peace in the process then thats even better. theres no shame in not knowing how to cook but there is shame in refusing to try and learn imo

insert senshi page about eating well and exercising regularly to live a healthy life

#personal #i cant remember the last time i made a text post on here

[amewinterswriting]

Chorizo Stew Recipe

For @ashen-crest, who expressed interest and anyone else who might want to give this a try.

A general note - this is not something you have to follow by rote. You can adjust virtually everything in this recipe: ingredients, cooking time, method, spices and it will still come out great. It's also a really simple recipe: one pot (less washing up!), about 10 minutes of prep time (great for low spoon and effort days) and doesn't need constant supervision once cooking (so great for getting anything else done in the meantime). It can also be really cheap and most of the ingredients are shelf-stable (chorizo is already a preserved meat and will last longer than you think) so it doesn't need to be planned for especially and it's packed full of vegetables so it's pretty dang healthy.

I suggest using a dutch oven - they hold their heat well, are oven-safe and have a lid - but I've also used Pyrex dishes before. The important thing is an oven-safe vessel that can hold a lot - this is a big meal and you usually wind up with leftovers.

Ingredients:

Chorizo sausage (the whole link if you can find it - apparently it was really difficult to find in my wife's hometown in the States, she made do with a minced version. There's usually both a hot and mild version - feel free to use whichever one speaks to you/the preferences of everyone else eating this)

Tomatoes (tinned - I prefer pre-chopped but follow your heart. If you have a glut of home-grown tomatoes, use those if you want)

Sweetcorn (frozen, canned, whatever you have)

Onions (fresh or frozen - we love the ease of the frozen pre-chopped ones but use what needs using at any given time)

Optional additional vegetables and pulses (whatever you have lurking around in cupboards. This dish is great for using up beans, chickpeas and lentils)

Garlic (fresh, granules, salt...there really isn't a wrong way to garlic)

Paprika (hot or mild, choose your own adventure!)

Pasta

Optional cheese (to serve. A mature/sharp cheddar goes well but really, any 'melty' cheese will be great)

Method:

Chop chorizo, onions and garlic (if using fresh). Add to dutch oven. Add everything except pasta and cheese. Seriously, dump it all in to one pot. I told you this was simple. Also add about a tomato can worth of water (which is a great way to rinse your can and get all the tomato juice into your meal instead of in the bin). At this point it might look like a watery mess - trust the method. You'll need that water later. With the lid on, cook in an oven at 180°C (Gas Mark 4, Moderate, 350°F) for at least 40 minutes but you can leave this longer to develop more flavor and make chorizo more tender, just make sure it doesn't dry out. Add pasta 20 minutes before serving and return to oven. Add additional water if needed - all pasta should be underneath the liquid and there should be enough liquid for the pasta to absorb. Serve in bowls with a topping of cheese if desired.

There are no measurements for ingredients: this dish doesn't really need a strict proportion so I've not included them. It's adjustable for how many vegetables you want, how many people you are feeding, etc. This can also easily be made vegan/vegetarian with simply removing the chorizo and cheese as needed - just adjust with more paprika and garlic to get the same hit of flavor. I've made this dish a lot of different ways (chicken breast instead of chorizo, for example), lots of different beans, no beans, no corn) and it's always really good. I did some quick maths using Tesco prices and this works out at about £2 per very hearty portion including absolutely everything but Aldi/Lidl are much cheaper for most ingredients. If you use gluten free pasta, it's obviously more expensive (add 25p per portion). But for the most part, the ingredients shouldn't need to be bought - this is a way to use up tins of things you'd forgotten about or just have a surplus of on hand.

#ame talks #not writing #recipe #not my usual thing

[nonbinary-renfri]

inspired by this post by @elliestormfound

It’s Lambert’s turn to cook dinner tonight for the witchers wintering in the keep and he’s feeling rather inspired, after Geralt and Eskel went ice fishing and came back with four lovely large trout. Going down to the root cellar while the other two witchers were taking care of the gutting and cleaning and de-scaling of the fish out in the yard, Lambert picked out some onions and some potatoes and some garlic. He also took a container of the goat milk butter they’d started making after Eskel had insisted on getting the keep its own mini goat herd. The animals themselves were stinky, ungrateful bastards, but even Lambert would admit having the fresh milk was nice. Once they finally figured out this goat cheese thing, it’d be even nicer.

But for now Lambert’s heading back upstairs with a basket full of potatoes and onions and garlic and is greeted by some absolutely beautiful fish fillets laid out on the kitchen counter. A lesser man- such as many high-class chefs with their fancy restaurants in the cities- might shed a tear at the sight of such divine knife work. Lambert is so glad Eskel let Geralt do the filleting this time.

He dices onions and garlic and preps the potatoes, washing them and piercing them in several places with a knife. The wood-stove is already lit, doing its best to spread fingers of warmth through Kaer Morhen’s cold stones. Opening up two of the burners, Lambert plunks down a pair of heavy iron saucepans onto the stove. He makes two batches of an onion-butter sauce, one with garlic and one without. While that’s simmering, he seasons the fish with rock salt that he’s fairly certain Vesemir collects and grinds himself, and then divides the fillets out evenly between two baking pans. Lambert pours the sauce over the fish before sliding them, along with the potatoes, into the large oven to slow cook.

With some time to kill, he washes the dishes he’s created so far and then starts poking around in the kitchen cabinets. He finds things he knew were there, like shelves filled with jars of different spices and a section dedicated to baking supplies, and things he didn’t, like glass bottles of apple cider in a bottom cupboard. Lambert uncorks one and sniffs it, and, yep, that is apple cider and it’s still fairly fresh too, probably squeezed and bottled by Vesemir this past autumn. He doesn’t think the old man will mind awfully if Lambert commandeers some of it; it’s for a good cause, and it’s not like Vesemir won’t also get a share of it.

Putting a larger pot on the stove top, Lambert mixes up a hot drink made with apple cider, a splash of squeezed fruit juice, and spices. Sticks of cinnamon and dried orange and lemon slices float in bubbling amber liquid as it simmers on the burner. Dinner will be done before the wassail is, but that’s alright; they can have it as a nice follow-up afterwards.

Lambert glances up from stirring the drink as Vesemir enters the kitchen. The old witcher is carrying a basket with fresh broccoli from the winter garden, tiny bits of ice glimmering on green buds from being washed outdoors in the cold. Taking a deep breath in, he smiles appreciatively. “It smells delicious.” Yellow irises find the bottles of apple cider out on the countertop. “Ah. I see you got into my juice stores.”

“For a good cause, old man.”

Vesemir’s nostrils flare as he leans towards the pot. “Yes, indeed. An after-dinner treat?”

How does he always know these things. “Yeah,” Lambert admits.

“Would you be willing to trust me to watch over your handiwork for a bit? I thought I would add broccoli to the menu tonight, but the table in the hall could really use a wipe down before we sit down to eat.”

“Sure, I can go do that. Stir the pot on the stove occasionally and don’t fucking burn my food, okay?”

Vesemir acquiesces with a nod and waves the younger witcher out the door.

The table is rather dusty and bread crumb-covered from a multitude of meals, so Lambert wipes it down with a dry cloth and then a wet one. He also takes the opportunity to set the table, putting out plates and silverware for all the witchers, though not in the pompous, shitty way a noble household would. Just a fork and a knife, thank you very much. The butter dish and the ceramic howling wolf salt and pepper shakers Eskel had brought back one winter go on the table too. Vesemir keeps his eyes on the broccoli he has searing on the stove as Lambert comes in and out of the kitchen, pretending not to notice as the younger snags napkins for the table that he knows will be neatly folded beside their plates. And he thinks they don’t know that he cares.

Eventually all the food is done cooking and the old witcher lets Lambert take care of the plating of things, helping him carry the platters of roast potatoes and fish and broccoli into the hall. The smells must reach the other witchers in the keep as Geralt and Eskel quickly appear at the door, dressed in clean clothes with cheeks pink-flushed and the slightly spicy-sweet scent from the witch hazel soap they keep in the hot springs wafting off of them.

“Wow, that smells good,” Eskel comments. Geralt’s nostrils flare in agreement and the two are quick to take their usual seats at the table, eagerly eyeing the spread in front of them.

As soon as Vesemir fills his plate, the rest of them are free to dig in as well. Scenting the air, mouth partway open, Geralt gravitates towards the fish without garlic and scoops a good chunk onto his plate. Eskel takes a smaller piece from the same pan and a similar one from the other as well. Like Vesemir, Lambert takes a big serving of the fish with garlic. They all take potatoes and cut them open, steam wafting into the air from the well-cooked soft white insides. Goat butter melts quickly from the heat and they sprinkle rock salt on top of potatoes now drenched in gold. Broccoli joins the rest of the food on their plates and they eat in silence for a while, too hungry from the day’s work and grateful for a good meal to have the wherewithal to interrupt it with conversation.

Eventually though, as Vesemir and Geralt go back for second servings of their preferred fish and Eskel takes more broccoli, they find themselves able to take their concentration enough off the food to talk.

“Thank you for making dinner, Lambert,” Geralt says, because sometimes he can be a polite bastard. Lambert suspects it has something to do with all that time the white-haired man spends around a certain uppity sorceress.

“Yeah, thanks,” Eskel parrots, talking through a mouthful of potato because he doesn’t have a questionable influence in his life to teach him courtly manners. “’S delicious.”

Vesemir nods in agreement. “Quite.”

Resisting the urge to shrug off the praise, Lambert pretends the tips of his ears aren’t turning red. “Mhmm. Yeah. Uh. You’re welcome, I guess.” He remembers the wassail he has simmering in the kitchen still, and takes the excuse to flee the room. “Hot drinks, for after dinner. Should be done, so I’ll, uh, go get them.” Getting up and walking away, he waits until he’s completely out of eyesight of the others, because Vesemir would somehow fucking know if he didn’t, before he lets the bubbling warm feeling in his chest spill onto his face. He smiles the entire walk back to the kitchen.

Returning with a big wooden pitcher full of hot wassail that drifts the sweet scents of apples, citrus, and spices into the air with curls of steam, he pours it into the mugs gathered at the far end of the table, placing one in front of each witcher.

Vesemir, the madman, doesn’t even blow on his before gulping down a large mouthful. He swallows and immediately goes back for a second, humming his approval.

Slightly more cautious, Eskel blows on the surface of his drink before trying it. His face changes to a contemplative look and then he nods, seemingly in approval.

Geralt takes a sip from his mug with an unreadable expression. Lambert watches him carefully, knowing the other witcher can’t stand to drink apple cider on its own. Taking another sip, Geralt lets out a quiet grunt.

Lambert’s voice gets ahead of his head. “So? Is it good?” Shit shit shit way too pushy, what, do you need validation or something-

Shrugging, Geralt says, like he’s simply stating a fact, “Everything you make is good.”

There is a pleased yet embarrassed heat rising in Lambert’s cheeks, because Geralt doesn't say nice things when he doesn't mean them. “Fuck you.” Dammit, why can’t he be the kind of person who just goes speechless in moments like this.

Geralt doesn’t reply, but he’s smiling in that tiny way he thinks is unnoticeable, with the very corners of his lips and the tilt of his eyebrows, or something. The white-haired witcher doesn’t go back for seconds of the hot drink like Eskel does, or fourths like Vesemir, but he finishes the mug that Lambert poured for him, which is compliment enough in the younger’s opinion.

It’s a good night, he thinks, as they finish their drinks and Geralt and Eskel take the dishes back to the kitchen to scrub them clean. Even better as they all pile into the study, with it’s warm wooden walls and bearskin rugs a ballast against the winter’s chill. They quickly have a fire burning bright in the hearth, and the room becomes cozy and comfortable. Vesemir settles into his armchair with the old bestiary he’s currently annotating and the three younger witchers tangle together in a pile on the fur splayed before the fire. They wrestle lazily for a bit before sprawling out drowsily, serene and drifting somewhere close to sleep.

In the early hours of the next morning the armchair is empty, bestiary shut neatly on the accent table beside it, and the fire has reduced itself to cold ashes. Lambert wakes up to white hair tickling his nose and his feet tangled with Eskel’s, the other man’s calves laying on top of Geralt’s knees. Soft fur brushes his chin from the bearskin that had been spread over the three of them sometime in the night, keeping them warm beneath it with their combined body heat long after the fire had died out. There’s no window in this room but Lambert has a feeling it’s still not late enough for them to need to get up, so he lies there with his eyes closed, simply enjoying the weight and warmth of his brothers beside him.

#i know that post is kinda old now lol #but i'm p busy so it took me a bit to finish this #i love writing cooking and food tho so. i knew i had to #maybe it's a lot of my fantasy background being redwall and other brian jacques books #and that man loves his food #fish recipe based off my grandma's salmon #i don't have it on hand but i need to get it again bc i really like it #part of what makes cooking a loving thing for me is learning ppl's tastes #like my mom doesn't enjoy garlic #so i adjust what i cook to have less or no garlic if she's eating it to #the point of cooking for someone is making them something they'll enjoy #i just think lambert would b thotful like that #also enjoy my many headcanons abt what kaer morhen is like #the witcher #lambert #geralt of rivia #eskel #vesemir #yennefer of vengerberg #food #cooking #the witcher fic #kaer morhen #writing #my writing #mine #yes i did eventually learn that in the games lambert can’t cook. no i don’t care

[youngjusticeslut]

If you have time: Redcat making a meal together? Or just flirting? I love how you write them ❤️❤️❤️

One of Will's resolutions this year is to order less takeout, and cook more at home. The many (many) meals of pizza, Chinese food, and chicken whizzees, combined with his lack of training time hadn't been kind on his waistline. And, admittedly, he was tired of Raquel's kid pointing out that he had a baby in there and asking when it would be born.

So, cooking. And vegetables.

It's a losing battle. He isn't a bad cook in the least, but if he has a choice between taking down a barrage of Shadow goons or convincing his almost five-year-old to eat a steaming pile of greens, Will would choose the goons. Probably.

Today, however, he's trying something different. Linguini with homemade pesto, blended with plenty of spinach. Lian happens to love this dish; she called it alien-guts. Or Beast Boy brains. Depends on her mood. Hence, this should be easy.

"Not enough salt, Red."

If only his wife wasn't picking at his every move.

Will sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you're going to sit there and criticize, can you at least make yourself useful?"

The former assassin pouts, bringing up a knee and holding it to her chest, while the other leg dangles casually off the counter. "I'm back not even two days and you're already putting me to work. For shame."

The comment rubs him the wrong way, but Will reminds himself that this is just an adjustment period. It'll take time. So instead of snipping back, Will just tosses her a bunch of basil.

Jade catches it, giving him a look. "And what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Remove the stems. Then put them in the food processor."

She groans, but obliges. "So much effort. We couldn't just order in?"

"We are trying to be a good influence on Lian and make something healthy for her to eat."

"Well, well. Someone's shooting to be parent of the year."

"Oh yeah. Lian's school gives the winner a trophy."

Jade snorts, but quickly suppresses it under a sigh. Will has to admit, he's missed this. Missed her. He isn't exactly ready to admit it out loud yet, but it's true. Being in the same room as her, subject to her endless quips... it's nice. Normal. At least, normal for them.

As he's adding more salt to the pasta water, he sneaks a glance over at Jade. She's actually doing what he asked, clipping the stems of the basil with her fingers, her brow furrowed in concentration. It's terribly cute, in a very domestic kind of way. If he weren't terrified of getting clocked over the head, or frozen out for the rest of the evening, he'd tease her about it.

Instead, he plops the linguini into the boiling water before leaning against the counter. "Hey. When you're done with the basil, I'll teach you how to dice garlic."

Jade raises a brow. "You know I can't cook."

"You can dice up a person ten different ways, I'm pretty sure you can handle learning how to do it to a piece of garlic."

She smirks, plopping the basil in the food processor before hopping off the counter. "Touché."

#young justice #yj #redcat #will harper #jade nguyen #lian harper #cheshire #your wish is my command #ariel's writings #I had to stop myself here #I could go on and on #but this is supposed to be a drabble #whoops

[dragon-kazansky]

Made with love | Helmut Zemo

Chef Zemo AU! 👨‍🍳

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

Huge thank you to @rumblelibrary for helping me out with this chapter!

[Previous chapter] - [Next chapter]

Part 5

Wanda basically threw you out after breakfast. You were at Escorpión Morado bright and early. The restaurant wasn't open for another hour yet.

It was as if he had been waiting for you. The moment you reached the door, Zemo opened them and let you in. He was smiling at you instantly.

"Morning."

"Good morning."

You smile back and let him lock up again before he leads you into the back. He lets you put your things down and takes you into the kitchen.

There's no one about. Just the two of you.

Suddenly you're feeling rather nervous.

On the counter is everything you needed for today, but Zemo ignored all of that as he brought in some coffee for you. You smiled as he handed over the cup, his fingers brushing against yours. You tried not to let it show that the little touch had affected you.

He had done it on purpose, not that he would tell you that. He just wanted an excuse to touch you a little. Zemo's way of flirting was less obvious sometimes.

He smiles that charming smile at you.

"I'm glad you agreed to help," he says, smile not once faltering.

"You're hard to say no to."

He likes that answer. He chuckles and sips his coffee.

"What are we making?"

"Paella! A proper paella."

"A proper paella?"

"A good paella takes a couple hours to make. I have everything I need, we just have to make it. I'm going to teach you how to cook like a chef," he winks at you.

"When is he coming?"

"This afternoon. That's why I asked you here so early."

"I don't mind. I'm happy to help, though I'm not sure how helpful I'll actually be," you offer and awkward smile. You feel out of place in his kitchen.

His kitchen. This was his domain. Helmut knew it inside and out. He knew every corner. He knew where every utensil lived, every pot and pan, every herb and spice. This was his kingdom and he had let you in.

It felt like an honour to be here.

"Should we start?" You ask, looking at the items he had set out. You felt rather intimidated.

Zemo glances up at the clock.

"Not yet. We have time."

"Alright, I trust you," you smile softly.

"Good. I have one condition while you're in my kitchen."

"What is it?" You felt even more nervous now.

"You have to call me chef. It's the only name I have in here," he grins, mischievously.

Your face felt warm.

"Yes, chef," you say, almost shyly.

"That's more like it," he says, sipping more of the delicious coffee he had made.

You had no idea how you were going to survive in here. With the constant concentration you would be putting in, to the way he looked at you, and now calling him chef, you're not sure your heart could handle it all. It felt as if there was a spell over you and you couldn't break it.

When you had both finished your coffee, he took the cups and put them to the side. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with aprons in hand. He smiles as be holds one out to you. You take it and put it on.

"Are you ready to make something so delicious, you'll never want to eat anything else again?" He asks, chuckling.

"That's quite the statement, chef."

For now he will pretend you actually calling him that wasn't sending his heart soaring and his mind racing. Instead he will act as normally as he can as he spends these next few hours with you.

"It's the truth. Until you have tried a real paella, you haven't experienced anything," he winks at you.

Helmut preps the paella pan.

"I've prepped everything, we just have to cook it."

"I've never cooked paella before," you tell him, looking at him in worry.

"Don't panic, I'm right here. I'll guide you."

That smile he gives you reassures you. You're in good hands.

He pours in the olive oil and sprinkles salt in a circle around the edge of the pan. He's smiling as he does it. You should be watching his cooking, but your eyes are drawn to his face instead. You could look at him for hours.

He knows you're looking. He can feel your eyes on him. He turns his head slightly, eyes flicking to you. His smile becomes a smirk as he meets your gaze.

You become flustered.

"The chicken and rabbit, if you would," he nods over to where meat was waiting.

You hand them over. He pops them into the pan with a flourish and looks at you with a little grin.

"We're going to brown the meat, so in the meantime, tell me what you and your friend have been up to."

"She took me bowling yesterday. She used to go with her brother."

"Ah yes, I know where she took you. I've never actually been."

"No?"

"No. I have spent a majority of my life in a kitchen," he chuckles. The sound makes you smile.

"I can believe that. Have you always wanted to be a chef?"

"Yes. Ever since I was a boy. I take pride in what I do. If it's not perfect, it doesn't get served, and nothing I have ever made has never not been perfect."

You smile as he grins at you. Those are easy words to believe.

"I wish I could cook like you."

"You could if you learnt how."

"I never seem to have the time to learn," you say, softly. He glances at you, seeing a longing look in your eyes as you look at the meat in the pan.

"Would you like a go at turning them? They need to be brown on both sides."

"Uh, sure."

"Don't worry, I'll be right here."

You take over from him. Zemo stands so close next to you, eyes on the food as you turn the meat over. You're so very aware of how close he is to you. You're doing everything you can to keep focused on the cooking.

After 20 minutes pass by, he takes over again. He pushes all the meat the sides of the pan and nods over to the green beans he had prepped earlier.

"Could you pass me those, please?"

You nod and hand them over. He puts them into it the centre of the pan, right in the middle of the ring of chicken and rabbit.

He sautès them.

"I could teach you to cook. Honestly. It would be my pleasure to be your teacher."

"That's a nice offer, but I'm here with Wanda. I should spend as much time as possible with her."

"Except, you're here now," he smirks.

"Well, yeah... you asked me here."

"And I'm asking you again."

"I'll have to go back home at some point. How much could you teach me in just a few days?"

He looks you in the eye.

"A lot, but what if you didn't go home. What if you stayed here. You could find a home in Sokovia, I could see you every day."

You look away with a chuckle.

"I would say you're crazy."

"Somebody has to be. Without crazy people, nothing would get done. If you go home, I'll be left here missing you."

"You would miss me?"

"Of course I would. You're special."

He says this without looking at you, concentrating on the cooking, but you knew he meant it. It was the way he said it.

Helmut adds garlic and then butter beans.

"This already looks so good," you say, smiling at the both the look and scent of the food.

"Wait until it's finished."

It feels a shame to know this was for Tony Stark. You would love nothing more than to dig in to this paella yourself.

"Would you like the honours of adding the paprika?"

You nod and add it to his instructions. You add the crushed tomatoes and watch as he mixes everything together.

Now he adds the water. Being the professional he is, he knows exactly the ratio to add. He has very obviously done this many times before. You're almost mesmerized by him.

He lets it simmer.

"If you did move here, you wouldn't have to worry about a job. You would be very welcome in my restaurant."

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" You look at him.

"Sí."

You smile softly.

"I can't just up and leave everything."

"Do you have someone waiting for you back home?" He asks, avoiding looking at you. It would make sense to him that you would have. He should have checked before hand, because now he feels a fool.

"No."

Nevermind. He's over the moon.

"Then why are you hesitating?"

"Because I don't know what I would do here. You're offering me a job, you're asking me to move out here. You don't even really know me. I'm just someone you met last year while on my holiday."

"I know enough about you to know you're special and magnificent. I know enough to like you. I would hate to say goodbye not knowing when or if you would return."

"I've really made an impact on you, haven't I?"

"Sí," he grins at you again.

"Since you're being so honest with me, then I suppose it's only fair I'm honest with you."

"Please."

"You have also made an impact on me. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since we met. I'm in love with your food, your restaurant. I admire everything you have done to keep your father's business alive. I love your country and want nothing more than to stay."

"So stay."

"I... I don't think I can."

He looks back at the food, lowering the heat to let it simmer some more. He thought he was so close to having you, but perhaps it's just not meant to be.

"Can't blame a man for trying."

You hate the way he sounded so defeated. It didn't suit him at all.

"Helmut..."

"Ah ah, what did I say?" He looks at you, turning that confidence back on.

"Chef, right."

"Yes. I only have one name in my kitchen, remember it."

Helmut adds the rice to perfection. He puts down the wooden spoon, that he had used to mix everything, and stands over it. Now it's all about the heat.

Zemo glances at you. You're looking at the pan. He uses your distraction as a moment to admire you.

You're so beautiful. So stunning.

He wants you to stay so badly. It's so very selfish of him, but he wants it. He's not prepared to let you go, not when he wants to see you every single day, speak to you every single day, teach you, work with you, be around you every single day.

You're something so special and this chef is so worried he will lose you.

You're looking at him. He turns his head quickly to adjust the heat.

He knows the exact moment it's done.

"This is a paella," he says, smiling down at the finished project. You smile at it. It smells wonderful.

Before you can day anything, Sam enters the kitchen.

"It's almost time."

Looking up at the clock, you hadn't noticed how much time had passed. Helmut had cute a lot of the time off by preparing the ingredients before hand, but cooking the paella took up quite a bit of time.

"You make sure the table is perfect, Sam. We will bring out the rest momentarily."

Sam nods and heads back out front. You removes your apron, placing it next to Helmut's on the counter and watch as he sorts himself out.

"How do I look?" He asks, looking at you.

"Handsome as always, chef."

He grins, winking at you. He swipes at your cheek quickly, brushing away something you couldn't see. He won't tell you there wasn't anything there, he just wanted an excuse to touch you in some way.

"Shall we?"

"You want me to come with you?" You ask, shocked me would even want you there.

"Of course. We did this together, we should see it through together."

You smile.

Helmut holds out his hand. You take it. It's bigger than yours, warm too. He leads you out front.

Tony Stark enters the building with another man. They both look around the place. You both stop to greet them near the entrance. Zemo doesn't let go of your hand as he smiles at the two men.

"Welcome to Escorpión Morado. I am Helmut Zemo, the owner and the chef," he smiles as introduces himself.

"We've met, but this Stephen Strange. He's investing in my restaurant. Who is this?" Stark turns to you.

Zemo let's go of your hand in favour of placing it on your back as he smiles at you.

"This is Y/N, a dear friend of mine who has helped me prepare your meal for the day."

Tony looks you up and down.

"This way, if you would." Sam guides the two men to the table that been set up specifically for them. With a nod from Sam, Zemo goes back into the kitchen to fetch the paella. Sam serves them drinks.

You stand there, looking between them both.

Both men a wearing expensive looking suits, and they smell expensive too. It seems strange to you that these two men are opening a restaurant. They didn't come off as the foodie types... more businessmen.

Sure, owning a restaurant is half business, but it should also be full of passion, love and life. It's more than just business.

"Does he pay you well?"

"I'm sorry?" You look at Stark.

"Does he pay well?"

"I, uh... I don't work for him. I'm just helping him today."

"Do you cook?"

"Not on this scale."

"At least you're good looking," he sighs, looking at you over the frame of his shades.

Sam clears his throat, looking at you. You find yourself moving to stand next to him. He smiles softly at you, so you smile back, silently thanking him.

Helmut returns.

Stark and Strange watch as places the paella pan on the table and stands back.

"What's this?"

You frown. How could he not recognise such an iconic dish. Even if you hadn't been travelling around Europe last year, you would know how to recognise a paella.

"Paella. A real paella. Dig in."

"From the pan?"

"No other way to eat it. This is traditionally how paella is eaten. You'll enjoy it."

Stark and Strange look at each other.

They dig in.

"Make sure to get some of the socarrat from the bottom. It's delicious!"

You smile at the way he encourages them, but neither man looks impressed.

Helmut stands with you and Sam as the two gentleman eat.

The seconds tick by incredibly slowly. The two men look at one another as they eat. There's a silent conversation taking place, you can feel Zemo becoming nervous the longer it goes on. You reach out and brush your hand with his. He looks down at your hands, taking yours in his softly.

You offer him a smile.

Both men stand from the table, you both turn to look at them, burrowing your brow at them. They dab at their mouths with their fancy handkerchiefs and turn to you.

"Well, that's something anyway. Good to know we don't have much competition around here. Thank you for your time, we shall be on our way now."

Stark drops an envelope on the table.

You can feel Zemo's hand grip yours a bit tighter now. He's angry.

Both men make their leave without saying anything more. Once they cross the threshold, Zemo storms off into the kitchen without a word.

"Helmut!"

He doesn't look back.

Glancing at Sam, he nods at you. You hurry after Zemo, but stop when you reach the door. Crashing sounds come from within. An angry yell. Things clattering to the floor.

You push open the door quickly.

Helmut pushes everything off the countertops, throwing dishes at the wall. He grips his hair with one hand, messing up the neat style it had previously been resting in.

"Mierda!"

You would find his Spanish endearing if not for the word itself, or the fact he was beyond angry.

Tony Stark had insulted him in the worst way possible.

"Helmut..."

He stops, back turned to you. He runs a hand down his face, using the other one to hold his weight as he leans against the nearest counter.

"He's wrong. You are competition. No food compares to what you make, and I'm not just saying that. He will never be able to make anything that compares to anything you make. Do you know how I know? Because you make your food with love. You enjoy every dish you put out. You make your own food in your own restaurant."

He doesn't say anything, just listens.

"Tony Stark has nothing compared to Helmut Zemo, and soon he will see that."

Zemo turns around slowly. He looks at you. All rage melts from his eyes when they land on you. He sighs softly.

"Thank you."

You smile.

He doesn't smile back, but you know he is truly grateful.

Sam enters the kitchen, the envelope from before now open in his hand. You look at him, taking in the expression on his face.

"I think you'll want to read this."

"What is it?" Helmut asks.

"An invitation."

You share a look with Zemo. Suddenly a cold sweat runs down your back. Dread fills every bone in your body.

Helmut steps forward and takes it from Sam.

You wait as he silently reads it.

He looks up at you.

"We're invited to dinner."

@namethathasnotbeentaken @belle82devart @cathrin2405 @lieutenantn @wilder-fangirl @latenightartist-author @lucky-luck-lucky @hb8301 @charistory @thatoneartgalsstuff @thesuitkovian @malkaviangirl @zemosimp420 @realremyd @the-chaotic-cow @lostghostgirl94 @zafiro-draco @lazygurl05 @pinkcutiepiee @goddessofmischief03 @whovianayesha @myybebe @awesomesauce-abbie @that-stupid-head-tilt-thing @zemo-is-my-muse @nonamec0s @apparrio @scuttle-buttle @alex-the-nb @my-blood-is-maple-syrup

#helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo #marvel #au #chef zemo au

[coeurdastronaute]

Nerd 14

Previously on Nerd

There weren’t many things considered as decorations in the house on the corner of Inglewood Street. The old stone house, with its black shutters and manicured lawn hid behind a stately oak and the polished Porsche in the driveway, glowed as a beacon in the neighborhood, of perfection and wealthy modesty. Inside, it was less populated than one might expect, never fully lived-in, at least not to the casual observer. 

Clarke moved her way down the stairs as she balanced the bag on her shoulder, fully prepared for work and then studying with her girlfriend on a fairly boring Saturday night. For the first time in a long time, she looked at the sparse frames of pictures of her family. 

Unsure of what made her pause, she furrowed, pushing her eyebrows tightly together and leaning into the image of her mother and father on a random date when they were together in college. They were carefree and at some bar trivia night. Abby hugged Jake’s bicep and nearly hid in his shoulder as he leaned forward, other arm lifted to interject an answer. He was smiling wide despite his eagerness, the flash ricocheting off part of his large glasses. His hair was floppy and fully, swept to the side and neatly arranged, while Abby was brimming with life. Clarke loved the candid picture because sometimes she looked at it, and these were two people who had entire lives and experiences and she forgot that. They probably got butterflies like she did when Lexa smiled at her. They probably spent hours excitedly waiting to see the other. 

In that picture, her mother wasn’t the person she was now, though both seemed insanely far away from Clarke. This college-aged person was alive, vibrant, in-love, awake, eager, and not cheating on her husband. The body language alone showed how much she adored him. 

In that picture, her father was the funny, charming man she remembered, not the angry, frustrated man who was skin and bones, who couldn’t eat, who couldn’t swallow, who had difficulties moving most days and remembering his own daughter others. He was alive as well. He was the man everyone wanted to sit beside for some reason, for som inexplicable reason he had this… he had a spark that drew those to him like a moth to a flame, except he was that flame, and he shared his light eagerly with those around him. 

Clarke relaxed her face after a few moments of looking and seeing and trying to find some kind of detail in that picture that would indicate that the couple in it would know what their life would like like two decades later. There wasn’t a single indication, and that terrified her. 

“Did you finish you math?” her mother’s voice called from the hallway, hearing her daughter shift and move to look at the next picture without seeing her first. 

“Yes.” 

The next image was a very tiny Clarke on her father’s shoulders and her mother hugging his waist as they all stood beneath a redwood tree. They had hiking gear, shorts, sunglasses, hats and sunscreen. They were all smiling. They were a family. 

“Did you email me that draft of your personal essay for applications?” 

Clarke gave up perusing, no longer feeling the yearn for that family unit that was far away. She rolled her eyes and stomped her way down the steps to find her mother sorting through envelopes and mail. 

“No.” 

“Why not?” Abby didn’t look up as she flipped.

“Because I’m a junior, and I have five months before applications are due.”

“That’s no excuse not to be prepared. Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time chasing after some gir--”

“Who am I chasing after?” Clarke scoffed, crossing her arms and peering at her mother. “Do you mean helping Lexa on her submission for film school? Do you mean tennis practice? Do you mean working part time? Do you mean having a social life?” 

“Considerate that you can help someone else get into college.” 

“It’s going to take her months to edit, which I can’t-- I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

That did it. Clarke knew it would. Clarke new an overt expression of her own independence would trigger her mother. She knew arguing and not appearing to care about college would give her the satisfaction of a righteous fight. She wanted it. It’d been brewing for about a week and a half, ever since Clarke said she was going prom dress shopping without her. Ever since Clark forgot to tell her about spending the night camping with Lexa and the film crew while the powered through the project. Ever since Clarke didn't’ come home for dinner last Tuesday and then raved about Mrs. Woods’ garlic chicken. Tiny things Clarke did with spite because she didn’t know what else to do, because she couldn’t do anything else. 

Abby’s nostrils flared and Clarke jutted her hip, shrugging to herself as she dug for her phone, ready to go to work and escape the house and the persistent smell of medical equipment and cleaner that haunted her until she was about two blocks from the house. 

“I’ll be home around midnight.” 

“Like hell you will. You’ll be home right after your shift.” 

“No,” Clarke paused as she turned to leave. “I’m going over Lexa’s to study. We’re watching a Cary Grant movie.” 

“You’re under the misconception that you get to make your own schedule and plans without asking permission. But that is not the case, Clarke.” 

“I’ve been doing fine.” 

“You’ve barely been home. Your father is--”

“Right there, in that room, asleep. I know this because I spent the morning with him. We made pancakes and played a game of cribbage. We talked about school and Lexa and I showed him pictures of the past week of my life. And I helped him with his meds because he’s having a bit of a flare. I told him I’d see him in the morning for omelettes because we’ve been watching cooking shows together and he wants to try the french style. I know exactly what is going on with my father.” 

She hadn’t meant to, but her voice began to raise as she spoke. Clarke felt her fist shake. She felt her muscles tighten and her jaw clench. She was okay with being considered lazy and unmotivated, but to be accused of negligence was uncalled for, especially from someone like her mother. 

“Don’t you raise your voice! You are greatly mistaken as to the nature of our relationship. I am your mother, and I am sick of your attitude, and your priorities not being your father and your family or your education.” 

“Lexa has nothing to do with any of that. Are you just mad I’m dating a girl? Or that I don’t care what you think anymore?” 

Slightly taken aback by her daughter, by her words, by her actions, by her entire demeanor over the past few months and frankly just sick of dealing with being the bad guy. 

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Abby shook her head. 

“I could say the same thing.” 

The two stared at each other before Clarke shook her head and adjusted her bag. She toyed with her keys in her pockets before checking her phone again. 

“I’m going to be late for work. I’ll be back tonight.” 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Abby insisted again. “You’re grounded indefinitely.” 

“Except I’m not,” Clarke sighed and shook her head. “I’m not because I don’t care anymore. I genuinely don’t.”

“You’re going to. Give me your keys and your phone.” 

“No.” 

“I’m not joking, Clarke. You’re going to need to readjust your priorities and attitude.”

“I think you should take your own advice,” Clarke insisted as she reached the front door. “Or are you too busy fucking Kane to realize that there is no more family here?” 

With a satisfying slam, she yanked the door shut. The anger that was stationed in her shoulders dissipated with the noise and movement. Clarke stood there in the quiet of her perfect neighborhood, the flapping of the flag lazily moving in the spring breeze was all she heard at first. Then the birds came. Then a lawnmower started in the distance. 

Clarke felt lighter than she’d felt in a long time. She also felt emptier than any other time in her life. It was officially the end, and now she had to deal with that because the anger and the hurt and the betrayal was all she’d had in her for what felt like months. It hadn’t made anything better, and it certainly ruined everything, but Clarke took some solace in the fact that now she could try to fill herself up with something else. 

XXXXXXXXXX

The party at Bellamy Blake’s house was in full swing by the time Lexa made her way up the winding driveway and into the belly of the beast. She wasn’t sure how she ended up there exactly, except that her girlfriend texted and said to show up. That seemed to be enough of a reason, though Lexa wasn’t particularly prepared. They’d had plans. Quiet plans. Private plans. Movie plans. 

And now Lexa was going to her girlfriend’s ex’s party. 

She shoved her hands in her pockets as she moved through the crowd, clearly not getting the memo that jeans were not entirely good enough attire, and in fact she seemed to be extremely overdressed. Her eyes bugged slightly as she watched a girl from her physics class walk by in a very tiny, very teeny lime green bikini. Lexa became suddenly aware of the appeal of such things, as if she hadn’t noticed them before, but then MIchelle who sat diagonally in front of her third period looked like that and she gulped. 

The music thumped loudly. The beats were rattling the walls and shaking the windows while the screams and giggles of her classmates sought to shatter glass. It wasn’t like the other parties she’d been to with Clarke. It wasn’t even like thrones Anya dragged her to when she visited. This was a night of debauchery and she hadn’t had time to prepare. 

And as much as she saw everyone else wearing bikinis, she hadn’t thought about Clarke wearing one. She’d seen Clarke’s boobs before. That was nice. But there was something to her girlfriend in a bikini that was… good. Very good, even. 

Lexa pushed her glasses up slightly on her nose and stared. 

“What are you doing here?” Gus asked, approaching quietly. She didn’t move or say anything else, just stared from across the pool, the steam billowing upward to ward the sky while everyone seemed to glow blue and green and red, the lights alternating around them, the flames of the fire pits dancing to keep everyone warm. The warm glow of the lights inside were lost on the white-blue shade to the water. 

“Lexa, focus,” he snapped his fingers in front of her face. “What are you doing here? Your sister would kill me if she knew you were at a Blake party.” 

“How is it different than any other party?” 

“It just is.” 

“Because of the pool? I’ve been to pool parties.” 

It hadn’t been since seventh grade and didn’t look like an episode of a CW show, but still, she’d been to a pool party with many of the same cast of characters that were currently on display. It was before puberty, but still. 

“We need to get you home.” 

“Clarke invited me.” 

“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t your scene.” 

“I can be in any scene. I’ve watched every John Hughes movie.”

“This is more of an episode of Euphoria than an 80s teen flick,” Gus sighed and took another swig from his cup. “And I fully believe you would fit in fine with Molly Ringwald.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Lexa nodded. “I’ll be fine.” 

She took her eyes off of her girlfriend long enough to assure her friend that she was perfectly fine now. She was dating the head cheerleader. She’d been to parties and seen--

“Gus-- is that cocaine?” 

“Okay, yeah, we have to get you out of here,” he shook his head and tossed his empty cup into a flowerbed. 

“Is it really?” she asked, craning her neck as he pushed her forward. “I’ve never see that in real life before. People actually do that thing with the credit cards and dollar bills? Astounding. Where does one get cocaine?” 

“You don’t need to know that.” 

“I’m not going to do it. I’m just curious.” 

They only made it a few steps before the ran into a sopping body. A tall, muscular, tan, perfectly chiseled and dripping body. It was the body of an actual god. It was the body of the perfect specimen, with biceps and the long swimmer cuts that pointed firmly toward his… his-ness. 

“Gus, long time, man. How you been?” Bellamy Blake grinned before slipping his cup in his teeth as he hugged the other football player. 

“Not too bad. Heard you’re heading to Oregon in the fall?” 

“Yeah, partial scholarship. We’ll see what happens,” he shrugged. “Staying close?” 

“Yeah, St. Johns, about three hours away.” 

“Full ride?” 

“Yeah. I got offered half to OSU, but would rather not have to pay anything.” 

“No, that’s smart.” 

The whole time they spoke, Lexa watched Clarke’s ex intently. She frowned to herself and wondered how her girlfriend broke up with him. He was effortlessly cool. He was huge. He looked like he knew how to go down on a girl, and Lexa was still apprehensive. She wished she could fast forward in life until she was really good at sex. 

She watched him grin and sip from his red cup, meeting her eyes curiously as Gus explained something about his college recruitment process. 

“I don’t think we’ve ever met before. I’m Bellamy.” 

He held out his hand. And though she didn’t want to do it, she sighed and shook his hand. 

“Sorry, I should have introduced you. This is Lexa.” 

“Lexa… Lexa…” He mulled. 

“Anya Woods’ sister.” 

“Wow, you’re Anya’s little sister?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How is she? I forgot she had a little sister. I remember her little brother died-- oh shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“We were just heading out,” Gus interrupted. 

“I was actually just going to go talk to Clarke.” 

“Why would you--”

Before anything else could be said, before anything else could transpire between the two of them, before Gus had to interrupt again, Clarke appeared, launching herself into her girlfriend’s arms, wrapping her own around her neck, her body still slightly damp from the pool she must have just climbed out of during the awkward introduction. 

“You’re here. I’m so happy,” Clarke hummed against Lexa’s warm neck. She buried herself there, suffocating herself happily, slightly tipsy. 

“I told you I’d stop by.” 

Clarke kissed her girlfriend’s neck. She leaned most of her body against her there and giggled, oblivious to the eyes, too drunk to care about anything else happening. 

“I am have the worst day. Maybe the worst week. Maybe the worst year ever. No, wait. Definitely the worst year, and today I finally told my mom everything and then left. So Yeah. It’s been terrible. I got drunk.” 

“Not the healthiest coping mechanism.”

“Not a bit,” Clarke grinned, agreeing eagerly and with a wide grin. She leaned forward and kissed her girlfriend despite her words. 

“You can be healthy tomorrow,” Lexa offered. “You okay?” 

“As okay as can be.” 

There was some throat clearing that happened behind them, and Lexa felt a burning in her ears and chest at the display, unaccustomed to it all. 

“So this is your new girlfriend?” Bellamy asked, looking at the pair. 

“Lex, I suppose you’ve met my ex,” Clarke gestured. 

“Kind of.” 

“Is this party a little much?”

“If I remember correctly, this was exactly the kind of thing you liked. We went to many a party in our tenure,” Bellamy shrugged, lazily leaning against a counter. “Things changed since I left, I guess.” 

“I enjoyed not thinking,” Clarke offered. “You were great for that.” 

Gus and Lexa looked between the two and then at each other. She was almost certain she didn’t know what was happening, but that certainly, something was, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. 

“You moved on quick, huh?” 

“Hey, step back,” Gus interrupted as Bellamy took a single step. “This is Anya’s sister.” 

“Woods?” he furrowed. “You’re dating Anya Woods’ kid sister?” 

“Yup,” Clarke nodded. 

“I heard she was--”

“Standing right here,” Gus finished. 

Lexa felt Clarke’s hand move into her own and she smiled despite the fact that she was picking up a drunk girl at her college guy ex’s party. There was a lot in that sentence she wasn’t happy about, now that she thought about it. 

“You ready to get out of here?” Lexa asked innocently, ignoring the rest. 

“I think we still have a few more shots lined up, Clarke,” Bellamy smiled and Lexa understood the need to punch. 

Noticeably torn, she looked at her girlfriend and back at her ex before realizing that she was actually drunk, and that wasn’t good. Lexa smiled softly and rubbed her girlfriend’s back. She kind of imagined how it must have felt to implode and take her mother down with her. Lexa remembered the feeling of telling her father she was gay and sad. Clarke’s implosion didn’t seem as successful as her own, and Lexa was more than happy to try to help in whatever way she could. 

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” 

“Yeah,” Lexa nodded quickly. “I’ll text my mom to let her know.” 

“You’re seriously leaving?” The college football player and terrible ex scoffed. “The night is still young. It’s barely after eleven.” 

“Thanks for getting me drunk, but I should probably go do something better.” 

“Thanks for showing me around,” Lexa offered nodding her head slightly toward the host before he could argue. “Have a good night. I’ll see you on Monday, Gus.”

“Get home safe,” the linebacker warned. 

Slightly dumbfounded, Bellamy Blake stood there, hands on his hips as he watched his ex weave through the crowd of people and disappear. As much s everything stayed the same, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling of change, and how averse he was to it. 

XXXXXXXXXX

“Here, you can, uh,” Lexa quickly moved through her bedroom, leaving her girlfriend standing by the bed. “I have some old sweats if you want.” 

Already, Clarke began taking off her pants, and Lexa quickly looked in the drawers of her dresser. She felt the tips of her ears burn slightly as she looked over her shoulder, her girlfriend slumping into the bed, pants lost to the floor. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone to that party. I knew it,” Clarke sighed, rubbing her face with both hands to ride herself of the spinning. “But I didn’t care. I just wanted to… you know…”

“You had it out with your mom. You just anted to go far away. I get it.” 

“Don’t be nice to me. I knew better than to go, especially to anything involving Bellamy Blake.” 

“Why?” 

“He doesn’t care about any of it. Just has drinks. I should have called you or like done something else.” 

“You’re allowed to want to take a night off from a giant secret after a huge fight. And you don’t need my permission,” Lexa reminded her girlfriend, offering an old shirt. 

“It was stupid.” 

“Do you feel better?” 

Gingerly, Lexa tugged at Clarke’s shirt, pulling it over her head until she flopped back down on the bed, her hair fanning out against the pillow. Agitated at herself, at her clothe, at the unfathomable uncontrollability to the entirety of her life, Clarke growled to herself as she tugged off her bra, tossing it to the side and gracelessly pulling on the shirt Lexa offered. 

“I don’t feel better at all.” 

It was certainly a pout, and Lexa did her best to ignore it. Instead, she slicked off the light beside the bed, and slid between the sheets next to Clarke. Lexa laid there until Clarke turned to face her, until she placed her hand on her neck and cheek. 

“I’m sorry you had to pick me up.” 

“It’s okay,” Lexa whispered. 

“It’s not. I’m not like this… I don’t mean to be… I mean--”

“It’s okay.” 

Clarke leaned forward, shifting beneath the blankets until their knees were touching. She moved to only push the hair from Lexa’s forehead and she paused before kissing her lips. She tasted the warmth of the tequila there and she didn’t care. Lexa signed. 

“Please don’t give up on me anytime soon,” Clarke murmured. Stunned from the kiss, Lexa blinked in the dark and shifted closer. 

“I wouldn’t ever.” 

“I know you wouldn’t. I just had to say it out loud.” 

“Okay.” 

Lexa was certain she was going to get another kiss, but instead, Clarke dug her forehead under her girlfriend’s chin and pressed their bodies together, hugging her tightly and disappearing, being overwhelmed, anchoring herself to a steady force. Lexa rubbed Clarke’s back for a few moments until she fell asleep, and then she allowed herself the option of sleep.

NEXT

[wannabe-fic-writer]

WandaNat x Reader : Kiss The Chef

Summary: Food is the way to the heart! In this case at least.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1,883

* * * * * * 

“I said minced, this is chopped.” You resist the urge to shout, instead choosing a mild anger.

The man frowns, eyes glancing at the garlic on the cutting board and back to you.

He clearly doesn’t know the difference.

A deep sigh wracks your body before you fan him aside, picking up the chef’s knife and a fresh garlic clove. Then mincing it yourself and making sure he sees the difference.

“Now you certainly don’t sound like someone who loves their job.” 

Setting the knife down, you wipe your hands off on your towel, and turn to your long time friend and pain in the ass, Mister Tony Stark. 

“Why are you in my kitchen Anthony?” You ask, passing him, and stopping at the sauce station to taste test.

Tony feigns hurt, hand over his heart,“ that is no way to greet a friend.” 

You simply look at him, a bored expression on your face. In short telling him to get on with it because you have a kitchen to run.

He nods,“ alright alright. I’m here to cash in that favor you owe me.” 

“Did you not do that already? Cause I’m pretty sure I catered your second wedding my friend.” You remind him.

Clicking his tongue, he tells you,“ you got paid. That was a job, this is a favor.” 

The urge to groan is high but you don’t. A deal is a deal.

“What is it?”

* * * * *

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you eye the large facility, before heading inside with a sigh.

Tony is waiting at the door for you with an all too familiar smug grin on his face. If you were the violent type you would’ve smacked it off. 

“Don’t look so proud.” You huff.

Chuckling, he throws his arm around your shoulder and begins the tour of his compound. He takes you around to the gym, shows you his lab, and the living quarters where your temporary room is, then finally shows you the way to the kitchen.

As you walk you memorize where you’re going, since this’ll be the route you take most often for the next month. 

Once inside, you survey the room with narrowed eyes, checking all of the equipment it’s fitted with. It’s all state of the art, which Tony brags about, and it’s not a problem but it does mean you’ll have to get acquainted with it all. 

Tony also informs you of F.R.I.D.A.Y his fully automated A.I. He let’s you know how it works, how to order fresh ingredients, and how to pull up recipes(mainly his favorite meals but also those of his teammates. 

“And the pièce de résistance.” He jokes, then grabbing a f/c fabric and shaking it out.

‘Kiss The Chef’ is written across the front of the apron in white and Tony happily places it around your neck, despite the blank expression on your face.

The man always finds your stoic and aloof personality amusing. Especially since, while cautious, he proves to be the exact opposite. Still you two are friends. 

You’re expecting Tony to leave. With it being well past six you decide to prepare dinner and the man knows you’d rather he not hover. But he does. 

Still you move through the kitchen with the same grace as you do your restaurant. 

With this being your first day as their chef, you want to make a good impression, so you fix a meal you’d perfected long before you’d become a professional chef. 

All the while you’d had to stop Tony from dipping into the food you made. Snapping at him more than once and slapping his hands away from the food. Until eventually you kicked him from the kitchen with a task to go get everyone. 

Using that time to set each plate on the table, with white wine as it’s a compliment to the pasta dish. Making sure they all look presentable and that the table looks nice but not cluttered, you go back into the kitchen to give them their space to eat.

You don’t even try to hide your proud grin when you hear their reactions to it. First their awe at the set up and then the silent chatter about how much they enjoy the meal. 

As you wait, you nibble on the leftover food and drink a beer. Until Tony comes in to bring you to meet everyone.

“Guys this is a friend of mine, Y/n. Y/n this is Steve, Sam, Bucky, Wanda, Natasha, Carol, and Rhodey.” You nod to everyone, eyes lingering on the brunette Wanda and the red head Natasha. 

They look familiar you just can’t place where you’d seen them, so you move past that.

“Y/n is the chef who prepared this meal. As a favor to me, she’s agreed to be our chef for the next month, hopefully by which we can have the position filled permanently.

Everyone nods at his information and the man you now know as Rhodey speaks up,“ well thank god for that. This was incredible. I’m assuming you have experience as a chef.”

Nodding you tell him,“ I’m head chef at a restaurant in Manhattan called-”

“Pezzo di Paradiso.” Wanda interrupts with wide eyes.

Beside her, her redhead girlfriend holds the same expression.

How had they not noticed? You work at their favorite restaurant. And this is a dish they’d thought tasted familiar. 

They’d seen you more than a few times there. They even considered asking to thank you after a meal on more than one occasion but always became flustered at the idea of having an actual conversation with you.

Mainly Wanda. The young woman had developed a crush on you that grew with each visit to your restaurant. A crush that Natasha had continuously teased her about, despite her own attraction to you. 

Now you’re to be in their home for an entire month.  

That seems to fly by quicker than anyone liked.

Over the next couple weeks the team finds themselves loving absolutely everything you cook and growing to like you as a person in general, which admittedly takes a moment since you’re pretty closed off. 

Some nights were spent teaching one of them a certain recipe or valuable techniques. Your two main “students” being Wanda and Natasha.

At first the women weren’t sure about invading your environment as you worked but you’d assured them you didn’t mind showing them some stuff. Especially since you allowed their teammates to learn from you.

What everyone had begun to notice was your approach to the women. While with everyone else you were stern and slightly frustrated, you were much more patient and forgiving with them.

On more than one occasion Tony found you smiling or chuckling softly at Natasha’s mistakes with meals or Wanda’s curiosity toward the meals you made.

He’d teasingly asked you why didn’t snap at them for hovering or being in your space and when you stumbled to answer him he knew. Your month in the compound had lead you to develop feelings for the women.

Which had ate away at you. 

The women are in a relationship. Clearly in love with one another. You knew that your feelings for them would amount to nothing as they are obviously happy together.

But that doesn’t make leaving any less hard.

Your month is up. Tonight is your last night as their chef. So you plan to go all out, as both a thank you and a goodbye. 

Using F.R.I.D.A.Y, you pull together everyone’s favorite meals. It’d been a while since you yourself cooked eight different meals but you still give it your all. Even when you set the table. 

You have F.R.I.D.A.Y call everyone down after you’ve set name cards around the table. You know there’s a chance that you’ve overstepped, having left red roses at Wanda’s and Natasha’s spots.

It’s your way of telling them that they are indeed special to you, without the risk of saying the words to them and having that blow up.

As had become usual, you hear their excited chatter as they sit down, and even their comments pointing out the difference in their spots to Wanda’s and Natasha’s. 

You present them all with a three course meal. Starting simply with salads for everyone, again being special with Natasha and Wanda as you give them soups from their countries of origin. 

The second the smell of the Shchi hits Natasha her mouth waters and while she is mesmerized by the food, she finds herself mainly focused on you as you place a bowl of Zöldségleves in front of Wanda.

Both women then look at you. 

It’s clear you’d paid more than enough attention to them as they spent time with you in the kitchen. And you’d noticed the few times the women mentioned missing the taste of food from their homes. 

Which is further proven when you serve them their favorite meals from their home countries. Chicken Paprikash for Wanda and Pelmeni for Natasha. 

By the end of the night everyone is stuffed, not leaving though until they toast to you and thank you for your services. 

Natasha and Wanda, set on one particular goal, wait for everyone to leave, before going into the kitchen. 

They find you putting away the leftovers from each dish, named sticker labels pressed to the side of the tupperware. As always they’re flustered and attracted to the sight of you moving in the kitchen so elegantly. Like this is truly your element. 

“Oh,” you finally notice them, taking a hardly noticeable step back in shock,“ is there something I can help you ladies with?” You ask, ignoring the heat that’s begun to rush up your neck at the realization of your situation.

“In fact there is.” Natasha says, a smirk tugging at her lips.

You’re almost positive this is the moment they tear you a new one for leaving the roses and obviously making their meals more special than the rest of the teams.

“We were hoping we could give our compliments to the chef.” Wanda speaks slowly, a small purposeful step forward.

Fighting a confused frown, you nod,“ um, well, compliments received.” 

The women take notice of your nervous state. It isn’t often that you act this way. As you usually keep a cool and collected air around yourself. 

And unbeknownst to you, this gives them every bit of information they need. Their thoughts that you are attracted to them as they are you had just been confirmed by you.

“Actually, Wanda and I believe our actions could speak much louder than our words.” Natasha’s voice drops to a flirty tone.

You aren’t sure if you heard her right, but it’s clear you did when Wanda nods and takes yet another step forward.

Hesitantly, she reaches for your hand, and releases a breath when you let her take it.“ We’d really like to show you are gratitude.”

Her innocent words hold a suggestive tone and you swallow, glancing at Natasha who simply smiles reassuringly. So you nod and let them pull you from the kitchen.

You aren’t sure if this will be more than it’s implied to be but you’re eager to find out.

* * * * * * 

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader #asks #request #reader insert

[ryik-the-writer]

CHAPTER 29: Instincts

A03

         Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

·         Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

·         Chapter 3: Day One

·         Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

·         Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

·         Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

·         Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

·         Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

·         Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

·         Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

·         Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

·         Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

·         Chapter 13: The Girl With Blue Eyes: Underground

·         Chapter 14. Recovery

·         Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

·         Chapter 15: Trapped

       Chapter 16: Filth

       Chapter 17: Fairydust pt. 1

       Chapter 18: Fairydust pt. 2

       Chapter 19: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

       Chapter 20: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 2

       Chapter 21: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

       Chapter 22: Reflections pt. 1

       Chapter 23: Reflections pt. 2

       Chapter 24: Closing

       Chapter 25: Felix is helping Pan

       Chapter 26: Temporary Fix

       Chapter 27: The Search Begins

        Chapter 28: The Missing Pan

So this is what death feels like? It’s not terrible, just incredibly long.

Dehydration had long set in, so much so that even Pan’s eyes were dry.

Jones was refusing to give him food and water until he “revealed what he knew.”

Pan would, of course, tell him to fuck himself. Nevermind that he had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

Maybe it was journalistic instincts or his own, but Pan wanted to know what Jones was going on about, why he thought kidnapping him would give him what he wanted.

He had been waiting for the man to finally spill, but Jones seemed to be as clever as he was.

Pan would die a slow painful death with an unknown secret. He could only hope it tore Jones to pieces.

But it was harder for him to focus on disemboweling Jones when his own demise were front and center.

It was odd how unafraid he was. Annoyed and pained, yes, but not necessarily scared.

He remembered wanting to die on plenty of occasions: when he was a snot-nosed little punk in Scotland and his father used to wail on him, when he found out Belle was in love with his fucking brother of all people. When he’d be on a high after writing an amazing story that ruined someone’s life. Even in between the better moments of his life, when he was investigating with Felix or having drinks with Tink and Lily, when he just couldn’t find peace.

When he was with Wendy and he felt so grounded he couldn’t take it.

Shit. He swore he wouldn’t think about her. Wouldn’t think about any of the people he gave a shit about.

Yeah, now that he was on death’s door, he could finally admit to himself that he kind of gave a shit about something.

His pride and his ambition had stood in the way for so long, he had plenty of time to realize when those walls had come down.

Wendy fucking Darling.

She’d gotten under his skin, into his veins. He’d become desperate for her presence, for her validation.

For her smile.

“She’s really beautiful you know,” Jones had gloated to him last night as he drunk from that damned flask of his. “Really something. I might just get a taste of her myself.”

A weak snarl was all Pan was able to muster, but his brain was burning with all the things he was going to do to him the second he had these fucking cuffs off.

Maybe that’s part of the reason he was still hanging on. He wanted Jones’s blood to soak his lips, give him the hydration he had denied him for days now.

Or maybe he truly had gone soft and he wanted to see her and everyone else again.

All the people who hated him and cared for him…he was going to be lost to them now.

It was true then: Peter Pan didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be forgotten about.

And he wanted to see her again.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 “What are we doing?” Wendy laughed as Killian drug her up the boat.

Jones hid his smile well. “You shall soon see, Miss Darling.”

Wendy shrugged and followed, charmed that he still referred her to something so gentle. He’d been courting her for three days now, and each time they were together she found herself a bit more star struck.

Killian was so far advanced in the world than she. He had seen things, been places she’d only seen on maps, lived as a person she was far from being.

But Wendy ate up his stories, usually told over brunch or a nice picnic.

Tonight however would be the first time they’d have dinner, and have it on his vast ship she’d been admiring from the dock for some time now.

She was grateful for his company just as much as she was for the distraction from her current dilemmas.

Pan still had yet to return or make his location known. They were both set to return to the Mirror in a few days with their suspension ending, and she only hoped he thought to come back by then.

She could honestly care less at this point, she had decided, squashing the guilt she felt. Pan had made his decision, had chosen to push her so far away he could never find her again. She wouldn’t be the one to try to make amends if he returned.

The “if” part was what was keeping her from falling asleep at night. If he’d been more ceremonial in his departure, she might be more relaxed. But he just vanished. No note, no hints. Not even a plan for his cat. He pretty much left the poor thing to starve.

Wendy still checked in on the creature, but had slowly made the transition to her own apartment. Sometimes at night, when she was getting out of the tub or combing her hair, she’d look down her window at his building and spare the thought that he was coming back soon.

But it was just a flutter of a thought, and she would return to the present. Story ideas for when she returned to work, making peace with Tink, and Jones.

Wendy would be the first to admit she was naïve when it came to dating. Her first and only beau, Edward, had been more boring than a sack of flour and their breakup had been a celebration for her.

What she had with Pan was more of a fight to the death speckled with quick moments of peace. It was stimulating but painful all at once.

Whatever she was building with Jones excited her. It wasn’t the back and forth screaming match she had with Pan. It was tamer, and felt unabashedly like romance.

“You know, the last time my view was obstructed I solved a nearly decade’s old mystery in this town,” Wendy deadpanned as she felt a railing under her hand. They were going up something. And they were on the docks judging by the scent of salt in the air.

Killian’s chuckle rumbled through her back. “I’ve heard a great many about your adventures in town. You’ll have to tell me all about them.”

Wendy felt around until she found his hand, and he paused.

“I haven’t finished learning about you,” Wendy pointed out, her heart speeding up.

She felt Killian’s warm breath on the edge of her ear. “I have to keep some of my secrets, love.”

Wendy swallowed hard. Damn. Now it was more than the darkness that made her heart swell.

Thankfully though, that part soon passed and Killian removed the blindfold.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the setting sun, and then the sight before her made her gasp.

 A well-set table decorated the deck of Killian’s ship, complete with a bucket of ice and what looked like champagne.

She could smell garlic in the air, not doubt encased in whatever was under the metal dishes on the table.

Killian had passed her and began lighting the elongated candles on the table.

“What is all this?” Wendy laughed.

“An anniversary dinner of sorts,” Jones winked.

“We’ve barely been acquainted a full week,” Wendy pointed out, following him when he motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs that he had pulled out.

“Then we have something to celebrate,”

Wendy watched him, amused as he popped open the champagne and poured them each a glass. He raised his, tipping it towards her.

“To five days of a beautiful relationship,”

Wendy scoffed. She could toast to that, and she did, tapping her glass to his.

She took a slow sip of the bubbly drink, stilling her flinch at the strong alcohol. She’d never had anything stronger than a glass of wine at her college graduation and she knew her tolerance would be very low.

He drained his glass quickly but made no attempt to refill his or hers.

“And now,” he bowed, lifting the lid off their plates.

Wendy witnessed a well-crafted dish of crispy fish surrounded by colorful vegetables in a sort of white broth.

She glanced up at Killian and noticed the slight hesitation in his eyes.

Oh my gods, she thought, he’s nervous about his food!

Wendy picked up her fork, getting a bite of everything on the utensil. The vegetables were a bit salty for her preference, but the fish melted on her tongue.

She chuckled. Of course someone who lived on a ship would know how to cook a good fish.

She smiled as to ease Killian’s mind.

“Delicious.”

He glowed at the compliment and comfortably began to eat his own dish.

Wendy continued to examine him, wishing more than anything that she could figure out his game. Jones didn’t make her uncomfortable, not really, but he did make her question his motive and his interest in her.

“You’re quite distracted for someone eating some of the highest quality crawfish on this side of Maine,” Jones joked when he noticed her inquisitive expression.

He’d been taking small circles around her, disguising his intentions. Tonight was the final test, one last go before he decided—not if—but how he would eliminate her.

He was starting to doubt that she knew anything at all.

“I was just thinking about you,” Wendy said boldly.

Jones stopped chewing, the slightest tension curling his fingers.

“Aye?” he said, keeping his demeanor.

“I was thinking of me as well,” she admitted. “How I know so little of you yet came onto your ship—lovely craftsmenship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, easing a bit. Wendy was young, and hopefully easily distractible.

“I feel like I should be afraid of you,” she continued, not feeling the least bit foolish about the reveal of such a personal thought. She’d fought off maniacs and barely escaped with her life; she wasn’t afraid to admit if she was scared or not.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know you, and for all I know you poisoned the very food I just ate, or you plan on knocking me cold and dumping me into the harbor.”

One out of two, not bad, he thought.

Still, he to keep the game going, had to pull her out of that state of uneasiness if he wanted to win.

“Allow me to put you more at ease,” he offered. He stood and made his way across the deck where he had set up an old vinyl player.

Wendy gasped when he turned on a gentle tune, looking up at him with stars in her eyes when he came back to her and held out his hand.

“Care for a dance, Miss Darling?”

Wendy’s stomach twisted, the memory of Pan twirling her around the club downtown causing a periscope of emotions to crash over her.

She took Jones’s hand and squeezed it, praying the memory would leave her.

As Jones guided her down the deck and positioned his hands like a true gentlemen, she decided she could leave it indeed.

“Now,” he said as they moved. “Allow me to ease your mind. Ask me a question, anything you like, but I want to ask you one in return.”

“I’m a journalist, Mr. Jones, I’m fairly good at asking questions.”

 “Then make them count,” he grinned.

She accepted his challenge, licking her lips as she laid out in her mind exactly what she wanted to know.

“Do you live on this ship?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Hey now,” she chastised.

Jones chuckled. She really was a delight.

“It was an antique I restored for one of my clients,” he said. She didn’t need to know that said client had been disemboweled by him on the very deck they were dancing on.

“He practically gave it to me when I finished.”

“You’re a carpenter then. A traveler as well?”

“One question at a time, Miss Darling,”

“Not a question. More like an observation.” she corrected.

He smiled. Witty as well.

“Tell me, how did such a well-established lady like yourself end up in Maine of all places?”

Wendy scoffed, the life she had before Storybrooke seeming so long ago.

“An internship. It was really an excuse to leave home and see a bit of the world, but I decided to try to make it a career. It’s been…”

Jones’s smile faded when Wendy’s tenseness caused them to stop. As if sensing her distress, the vinyl player abruptly stopped its song.

“Are you alright,” Jones inquired.

Wendy gulped, memories of that devil woman Cruella and that sick bastard Jekyll crawling through her brain.

“It hasn’t been easy being here,” she said.

It hasn’t been easy being with Pan, she wanted to say.

“That lad, the one who abandoned you” Jones pushed. “Does he have anything to do with that?”

Of course, Jones knew the answer to that, having had said lad in his company for several days now.

“More than you could ever know.”

Jones tilted his head. It was really tragic, watching such a vibrant creature fade over such a wretched little creature.

He cupped her cheek and turned her to him, rubbing his thumb over her soft skin.

“Let him go, love,” he said. “He’s not worth it.”

Wendy Darling was innocent, both in spirit and in the crimes he had stacked against her. It didn’t stop what he had to do, but he would prefer that her last memories were pleasant.

But Wendy was plagued by the pandemic that was Pan. She told him in her message to him that she had to let him go, there was no room anymore to wait on him.

Yet he was still in her mind. She wanted to let him go, needed to.

She looked into Jones’s smiling eyes, this enigma of a man who had wondered into her life. Maybe it was fate’s way of telling her to move on, or perhaps just a coincidence.

Either way, she needed his help.

She cupped the hand on her face, keeping him where he was.

He didn’t move, perhaps sensing what she wanted to do, needed to do.

She leaned in, leaning up just enough so that their lips touched.

Kissing Killian was like tasting the rarest of liquor: it was addictive, intoxicating, dangerous. Wendy weaved her fingers into his hair, her other hand unsure quite where to venture next.

But Jones did. He led it to his chest, one of his hands cupping her waist with purpose, the other traveling to tangle in her locks.

He felt Wendy tensed under his touch and he pulled back.

“Please, not my hair,” she said, ashamed.

He nodded, uncertain and shocked when his heart lurched at her pained expressin. “Do you want to stop?:

Wendy wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. Was she really about to go through with this? Have relations with someone she’d only known a few days?

She thought about all the morals that had been lodged into her mind since girlhood. They seemed so faint now, a side effect, she thought, of being in the presence of someone as moralless like Pan.

Truth was she wanted to do it, wanted to fill that emptiness Pan had created in her.

“Where…is there…”

He nodded, knowing her mind and lead her to his sleeping quaters.

He sat her down on his bed, hands twitching by his side while the rest of him remained still.

This had to be her choice. He couldn’t continue unless she made the first move.

They stared at each for a moment, their heavy breathing subsiding as Wendy made up her mind.

She reached a hand out, inviting him.

A small smile curled on his lips. He took it and got down on one knew, hands guiding up her smooth knees.

Wendy leaned forward and began to remove his shirt as he lifted his arms up to let her.

The weight of her inexperience began to thrive as she gazed upon his lean, mature form. He had little knicks and scars on his arms and chest, tales of a life he . Just like her.

She felt so small compared to him, so young. She considered calling this whole thing off—she knew he’d respect it.

“Nervous, love?” he inquired.

He intertwined his fingers in the hand that had undressed him.

“Let me lead, Wendy,”

She allowed it. Allowed his hands and lips to seek her out.

He was gentle. He wanted to be.

Wendy wasn’t like the other women he’d bedded in the past. She had this air of sophistication he hadn’t known before, cutting deeply into the innocence she wore like a torn coat.

But her passion, bless her. She allowed the instinct to take over, to guide her hands and lips to places he wants them to be.

He’s struggling to contain himself, his own instinct telling him to conquer, but Wendy doesn’t deserve that.

It was part of the game, after all. Seduce the pretty girl woman, kill her and be done with it. One last round of euphoria before he moved on to the next target.

His kisses are heated, biting, but patient – she allows him to remove her clothes, carefully.

He moans when her soft, round lips mouth down his neck, and he wraps his arms around her waist, caressing her bareness possessively, greedily. He soon draws her mouth to his own once more.

“Wendy,” he breathes, almost trembling. Her name alone is so delicate.

She looks at him and he is so proud of the fire in her eyes.

“I…” she begins, stopping and laughing nervously.

He couldn’t stop his own from breaking free. He picks her up just enough to spread her on his sheets, ready for the next bit.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. It’s a line he’s used on his targets before as he’s reeled them in. The answer’s always the same. Of course they do, why wouldn’t they?

But something in Wendy’s expression changes. There’s no hesitation in her eyes, but an unwavering defiance that changes everything.

“No, Killian,” she said with a sad smile. “I don’t trust you at all.”

Indeed, those few words change everything.

When she leans up to kiss him, he doesn’t return the gesture right away.

Wendy Darling is indeed not like the other women he’s dealt with. She’s young, charismatic, and worst of all, far from a fool.

Her hand strokes his jaw, turning him back to her.

“But I still want you,” she says, her very being glowing. “Is that alright?”

The man between her legs accepts her in earnest, those predatory eyes fluttered shut as he pressed into her hand.

  Oh Wendy, run, he wants to say.

  “That it is, love,” he says instead, sealing her fate.

  Hours later Jones examined her in the fading moon light. The game had stopped. Maybe it had been over the second he asked Wendy her name.

She was breathing so tenderly, so calm despite the fact that she had just slept with someone who had been killing people longer than she’d been alive.

Unperturbed that she and her little friend below were teetering on death’s door.

He rose and dressed quietly, slipping the sheet fully around her body, but he didn’t kiss her temple despite how he desperately wanted to.

He heads below, pausing to grab a bottle of water, an act that surprises even him.

He makes his way below deck slowly, the form of his captive becoming clearer the closer he gets. Within a moment he make out the lad’s deadly glare.

“You fucker,” he wheezes.

Jones smirks. “Oh, so you heard?”

Pan lurched forward, thwarted by his shackles but the malice in his eyes didn’t die.

“I’ll fucking kill you for this!”

Jones chuckled, pulling a barrel forward as he reveled in one-upping the pious lad.

His smirk faded though as he thought of Wendy.

He was due to report back to his contact tomorrow afternoon. He was expected to report two deaths and he hadn’t managed to kill off the one before him.

Now as he stared at the glaring youth and his thoughts stayed on the blonde goddess above his head, for the first in his like Killian Jones was having second thoughts…about everything.

“You don’t know anything, do you?” Jones tested. Of course Pan didn’t respond.

Jones sighed. He couldn’t just let him go. He had been noticed by now. Jones heard whispers in the street of his disappearance. He needed to be dealt with now.

Jones uncapped the bottle he brought with him. Pan struggled to keep his eyes from following the sloshing of the water.

His capture held it out to his cracked lips. “Take it.”

Pan turned his head. No matter how much he needed it, he wouldn’t give in.

Jones growled and grabbed Pan by his hair, forcing his head down. He squeezed the bottle and water spewed all over Pan’s face and hair, the lad struggling fruitlessly in his grip as he cough and wheezed.

Jones threw him back, glaring at him as he cursed and shook the water off.

“What the fuck do you want!” Pan yelled.

Jones stood and backhanded him. “Shut up. You’ll wake her.”

Blood oozed from Pan’s right nostril, moistening his lips.

“I’m going to break your fucking neck!”

“I’m afraid you won’t get the chance,” Jones sighed as he flicked stray water droplets off his hands. “You see, boy, I have to end you soon.”

Pan’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t fret, I’ll be quick, simple. I’ll grant you that.”

“It’s lasted for days,” Pan reminded him with a snarl.

Jones shrugged. “As for our lovely Miss Darling …”

Pan paused, dreading the words that would come from his mouth next.

“Tell me,” Jones said, his tone sincere. “Do you think she’d dig further if I let her alone? Do you think she’d try to find your murderer once your bloated corpse washes up on shore?”

Pan gritted his teeth. Hearing her passion had disturbed him. He had yet to picture her in such a way, let alone with his damn kidnapper.

Now she was above him more close to death than he was, and he couldn’t save her.

And then there was the question of would she try to avenge him.

He hoped not. He truly did.

Jones tilted his head as Pan’s mind raced. He almost felt sorry for the boy, having such a lovely creature so close to his closed-off heart.

He stood, his decision made.

“Good night, boy,” he sighed, closing the door on his returning remarks.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Wendy’s eyes opened, the earliest rays of a new day awakening her.

She hadn’t meant to spend the night here, didn’t expect she’d be welcome.

Yet her bed partner was sleeping comfortably beside her, one his arms draped loosely on her waist, and she did indeed feel welcomed.

Maybe she could stay here a bit longer and enjoy the smell of sea air and warmth.

But natured called, and she did have to at least check her phone.

Maybe Pan…

No, she wouldn’t think about him.

Let him go…

She sighed and regrettably removed herself from Jones’s hold, blushing when the sheets scraped her naked skin.

It was hard to believe. She’d been beaten and traumatized but the idea of giving up her womanhood was what was having the most profound effect on her.

She wasn’t a virgin anymore. It was the last thing she’d managed to hold on to from before Storybrooke before all its insanity got its hooks into her.

Now, with her short hair and circled eyes, she truly wasn’t the same girl who’d left London over two months ago.

She was new, darker.

Pan had given her her start; Jones had pushed her over the edge.

And, despite the morals swimming in her head, she was glad.

She was glad it had been her choice, that it was something she had had complete control of.

She smiled as she put on her underthings and dress, stalling her movements to prevent from making a noise. Perhaps Jones would be interested in hearing her revelation when he awoke?

Perhaps he also wouldn’t mind if she searched for substance in his kitchen? That crawfish from last night was long gone.

She located her bag and cellphone and quietly escaped the room, swiping through app notifications that had all but drained her battery.

She stopped in the hallway when she saw she had seven missed calls, three of which were from Tink.

She had a series of missed texts from her as well.

Wendy, please call me.

Wendy, it’s important.

I know I hurt you, but please I need you to call me.

Do you know what happened to Pan? Have you see him at all?

Wendy glanced around and found a random door. The room seemed to be an office of sorts, or a collection room judging by all the memorabilia, but quiet enough to make a phone call.

She called Tink, her stomach turning with apprehension. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who had noticed Pan’s absence then.

Tink answered after two rings.

“Wendy!” she said, her voice winded.

“Hey,” Wendy answered uncertainly. “What’s—”

“Where are you?” she cut in. “You – here – as soon as –”

“Tink?” Wendy said, moving around the room for a better signal. “You’re breaking up. What’s going on?”

“Wend—”

The line abruptly went quiet and Wendy cursed when she saw her phone had died.

She tossed her bag on Jones’s desk and untangled her charger from the rest of her belongings.

She squatted down to search under the desk, hoping to see a charging port, but there were too many boxes in the way.

She made a note to tease Jones’s about his hoarding as she pulled boxes out of the way, one of which was surprisingly lite and came out easily.

She stumbled a bit, tipping the box over and causing its contents to spill.

“Bloody hell,” she growled, her hands gathering the sheets of papers that had slipped out.

She shouldn’t have looked. Maybe it was journalist instincts that caused her to look down. It was defiantly trauma that made her bolt back when she saw the face on the paper.

Jekyll.

“No.”

No…no no…

It couldn’t be. How could Jones … why would he …

Her opposite hand fluttered around her, searching desperately for something to grab on to.

It brushed against something hard—a beeper? Hand’s shaking, she picked it up. She wasn’t sure what force was making her turn it on. She should be throwing it.

But it came to life and revealed its secrets.

WHY HAVEN’T YOU RESPONDED?

COMPRIMISED. BLUE EYES FOUND.

“Blue eyes,” Wendy pondered before the bluest pair of eyes she knew flashed across her mind. “Belle?”

PITY. YOU ARE NO LONGER OF ANY USED TO ME THEN.

GOODBYE.

That was it, and if Wendy had to guess Jekyll had had his brains blown out after receiving that message.

She dropped the beeper, wiping her hands frantically on her dress, not wanting any part of her on him.

She had been searching for Pan that night at the club. He had disappeared. She thought he abandoned her.

Jones had it. All this evidence that had been taken from…where? His secret lab under the hospital…

The car his corpse had been rotting in?

“I … I …”

Panic was setting in. The roots of her hair were standing straight up.

She could see Jekyll’s rotting corpse so clearly.

Pan had been there too. Talking to her. Keeping her from losing her mind.

She was searching for him in a sea of strangers. She felt so lost.

There had to be a logical explanation, right? Jones just picked up the beeper, found it somewhere …

She glanced at the overturned box again, full of Jekyll’s fucking face.

He didn’t pull them out of a dead man’s car, did he?

“Wendy?”

He heard him stop, seeing the mess around her.

She looked up at him and saw everything. The guilt of being caught, the secret of a man who had too many secrets.

And she knew right then that Jekyll wasn’t the only one.

It was like an arrow had gone straight through her skull, carrying a physical rage and boiling hurt that settled into one acidic fire.

She shot around, staring at the man who shot her, but only one thing—one person—had squirmed past the pain.

Pan hadn’t abandoned her…

And she needed him now.

She abandoned him.

“Where is he?”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Yeah, I don’t write sex scenes sorry ;p

Still, sorry for the, what, year-long wait? Yikes. Going through some stuff and I just haven’t felt like writing. Trying to get into again, so hold on tight!

#darling pan #darling pan fic #papers and sleuthers #wendy darling #peter pan #ouat #ouat fic #ryik's fics #captain hook #killian jones

[antihumanism]

auntie H hit us with a couple recipes I'm tired of cooking the same shit

This morning I was watching the sunrise and drinking a breakfast Monster Ultra Paradise with a couple shots of vodka (you sip off the top of the can, then pour the vodka into the can and give it a shake), and eating a baggie of Kroger chow mein noodles (you pour the noodles from their bag into a baggie). After taking a good swig off the Monster with vodka, I popped a chow mein noodle into my mouth and the combination of after taste from the Monster/vodka and the current taste of the noodle tasted exactly like eating a pop-tart. I feel like I have made an important discovery, but I don’t know if it counts as a recipe.

As a recipe, I make roasted brussel sprouts a lot.

In a large bowl, pour enough oil (olive oil or canola oil generally) to cover the bottom of the bowl. Add garlic, ginger, oregano, and one or two other seasonings as inspired at the moment. Mix the seasoning into the oil.

Trim the sprouts and cut them in half and chuck them into the bowl. Add nuts (walnuts are best) and an Other or two (good Others: grapes, cranberries, onion, jalapeno if cut thick; ok Others: carrot; bad Others: apples and habaneros don’t work). Toss the contents of the bowl until evenly covered. At this point, you could add a dash of mustard or soy sauce if it was something you wanted, or some corn starch if you want a bit more crunch and toss again.

At this point, preheat the oven to 400 degrees, let the sprouts sit and soak.

Once the oven is at temp, pour the bowl out evenly on to a baking sheet and stick it in for fifteen minutes, turning about half-way through. Serve on a bed of rice or sauteed noodles.

Brussel sprouts also make a good addition to fried rice, just make sure you cut them up a bit (four or six sections). You can put anything in rice, honestly. Peanut butter, soy sauce and hot sauce mixed into rice over heat is pretty cheap and a decent source of proteins.

Or, tofu is always good and versatile. I’m fond of marinating it with soy sauce, oil, a couple diced jalapenos and the contents of a small can of crushed pineapples.

Bread is also good and versatile. 1:2 ratio of warm water:flour (generally 1.5 cups water:3 cups flour), a bit of salt, a tablespoon/packet of yeast all go into a bowl. Play with her and explore her depths. If she’s too squishy, sprinkle in some more flour, and if she’s too dry with loose flour molecules then add a splash of water. Let her nap and rise under a plastic cover. I like to let the dough rest overnight, but an hour or three can be enough.

Pull your risen dough out of her bowl and play around with her on a floured surface. Here’s where you can get exploratory. Bread is forgiving, so you can add almost whatever spices or fruits you want. A diced Granny Smith apple, some honey and cinnamon, or some cocoa powder and sugar, or just go au naturale.

Cover a baking sheet in parchment paper. Dump the the dough on the parchment paper on the baking sheet and stretch it out or bunch it up depending on what sort of loaf you want.

Let the dough set for fifteen minutes or so. Then, put a bread or muffin pan or something similarly high-walled into the bottom rack of the oven. Turn the oven on and preheat it to 450 F. 

When the oven reaches temp, pour a cup or so of water into the bread or muffin pan on the bottom rack. Then, put the baking sheet into the oven for about 30 minutes. Use a knife to check whether she is cooked all the way through.

Stews are also useful, and they’re all more or less the same. Peppers, celery, carrot, onion and possibly potato, some sort of dried protein filler (beans, lentils, peas), a pound of tomatoes (canned or fresh both work), two to four cups of water, garlic and oregano and cumin and other applicable seasonings (beans + chili + cocoa is an iconic combination, so is peas + potatoes + curry + ginger). Let it simmer for 40-60 minutes, checking to see if the filler and root vegetables are soft (and adjusting the seasonings accordingly). Once everything is soft, add the finishers (vinegar is good for beans, coconut milk and soy sauce are good for peas, honey and hot sauce are good for everything, mustard is good for lentils).

I’ve only ever cooked for myself and eaten my own food for the past couple years. So I haven’t been much into recipes, just look around and figure out what the skeleton of the recipe is, then improvise around it.

#looking at this makes me fairly confident i am not sapient #maybe the doctors were right about me :/ #very rambling #fried potatoes and baked beans also make a nutritional combination

[suwya]

Till the Stars Had Run Away - Chapter 5

.

Summary: Killian Jones was a voyager. Actually, he was many things, or at least he had been - a lieutenant, a brother, a loving boyfriend - until everything had turned upside down and his life had hit an all time low. So, he gave up. Aboard his spaceship he abandoned Arcadia, his planet, navigating the stars and other solar systems in search of... well, he still didn't know what he was searching for, but his rule was "never remain in the same place longer than necessary."

.

Rating: M

.

Prologue; Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

AO3

.

.

A/N: Thank you @thisonesatellite​ for being the best beta I could ever ask for . And thank to all of you who are reading this.

.

.

Chapter 5 . .

“Do not wait to strike

 till the iron is hot;

but make it hot

by striking.”

(W. B. Yeats)

.

.

.

Everyone on the Jolly Roger was almost ready to start the journey back home and the crew was busy sorting out the last details. In the end, the little holiday had been a pleasant one; Emma was happy she had decided to embark on this adventure. But she also looked a bit worried. Wrinkles showed up on her forehead while she was chewing her bottom lip. “Henry, would you mind checking if everything is in order in our cabin?”

As soon as the kid left the main hall, Emma approached Killian. “Can I talk to you for one second?” 

Killian observed how she was acting anxiously, often checking on the door in case Henry would come back. “No need to find an excuse with your boy. If you want to spend some time alone with me, you just have to ask.” He tried to minimize the moment.

She answered him with a roll of her eyes, but it was clear that something was bothering her. “Are we leaving already?” She asked.

“Probably not before tomorrow morning. I need some more time to replace the fuel and our water supplies.”

“Oh, okay.” Was her short reply. But Killian detected apprehension.

“What’s the rush?” He inquired.

She dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand and he decided to take advantage of the moment alone with her. “Why did you accept?” He suddenly asked. “To come on this trip.” He added to her puzzled expression.

“I just want to offer Henry every possible chance to live a life full of good experiences.”

Killian hummed, but he had a feeling there was something more. He made another step towards her, invading her space, and he could now distinguish the freckles that dotted her cheeks, which he found very endearing. He tilted his head and kept his eyes connected with hers, trying to read what she was not telling him.

Emma did not step back nor she lowered her stare, but she was biting her lower lip again. "And I have a lead." She admitted eventually. 

He didn't see that coming and arched an eyebrow in question. "Come again?"

She looked briefly over her shoulder towards the door, but Henry wasn't in sight. "I may have found someone that could have information about my adoptive parents and their plan," she whispered in case Henry could hear her, "I know where this person is, but I don’t know how to reach him."

Killian was all ears even though he somehow already knew he wouldn't like what was coming next.

"I need a favor,” she started explaining. “This man, he appears to be on a planet… ahm...” She handed him a little piece of paper with some coordinates. “Here, see? Do you think we could make a stopover there on our way back home?”

Killian glanced briefly at the numbers written on the paper and nodded. An unpleasant feeling of anxiety was growing inside him. 

“I have already arranged an appointment, well sort of, with this guy.” Emma went on. “I can set the meeting at an hour when Henry should be already asleep. He doesn't usually wake up at night, but in case he does… would you distract him until I come back?"

"What kind of appointment? Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Will you?" She insisted, avoiding his questions.

Killian sighed. "On one condition.”

“Shoot."

“What’s this guy’s name?” Killian asked as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Emma stared at him for a few seconds. “Are you going to check on him?”

“Of course I will.”

“I have already done that. Thank you, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m the captain here, and I have to take all the possible precautions when it comes to my ship. And you meeting someone whose name I don’t even know could represent a risk.” Killian was starting to lose his patience. Everything about this appointment was screaming danger.

Emma crossed her arms in front of her defensively, but in the end, she surrendered. “Fine. His name is Sidney Glass and he’s a journalist, he’s not a criminal or anything. He travels a lot, that’s why I’m pretty sure he’s got more current information than what I have about New-Tolemac.”

“So what’s the plan, Swan? Seduce him until he speaks?” He asked sardonically. 

“Would it be any problem?” She retorted.

He swallowed hard. “I don’t like it. If he’s a journalist, it won’t be easy to make him spill any possible secret he may know.”

Emma looked behind her back again. Still no sign of her son. “Will you take care of Henry or not?”

Killian finally nodded. “I assure you, nothing will happen to the boy while he’s in my charge.” But his gut told him he was already regretting the decision.

.

.

~·~·~·~

.

.

Days passed quietly. Killian tried to bring up the topic from time to time, but she wasn’t keen on talking about her upcoming appointment, always avoiding his questions and rapidly changing the subject. She was also spending less and less time sitting near him in the main cabin at night, just in case he started worrying again. He suspected she knew that meeting this man could be risky, but he soon learned how stubborn she could be, especially with a goal in mind. 

That’s why he was surprised when the evening before the scheduled appointment she approached him while cooking dinner. Henry was sitting nearby, immersed in his tablet. 

“What the hell is that thing?” She asked pointing to a big hairy bug Killian was holding.

“It’s a mottled furry cockroach.” He answered as the most obvious thing.

“Yuck!” Emma scrunched her nose in disgust. “It’s huge!”

“This one? Oh, no, it’s just a baby. Grown-ups can reach even 3.5 feet length.” Killian seemed delighted.

“Is it dead?”

“Of course it is. One little bite of this creature and you’re going to pass some nasty hours of life. Its foam is poisonous.” He explained.

 “And what exactly are we going to do with it?” 

“Why, eat it!” Was his answer. “It’s our dinner.”

“You are not being serious, are you?”

“Believe me, with a nut of garlic butter and some secret spices only I know, it’s exquisite.”

She moved close to him, probably more than necessary. He shot an inquisitive look at her. She spoke as lower as she could so that Henry couldn't listen. “Are you trying to poison me, so that I can’t go to my appointment?”

He turned towards her and stared directly into her eyes, his face mere inches from hers. “Try something new, love, it’s called trust.” And he could sense a sudden shift in her behavior, even though he didn't know if it was because she was making an effort and opening her trust to him or if it was because they were standing so close he could feel her warm breath on his face. They stayed like that for a few beats of their hearts.

“Could you please stop making eyes at each other when I'm in the same room? It's gross.” Henry said behind them. 

Emma hurried back to the table “I don't do that”, she stated, while Killian tried to concentrate on the ingredients in front of him even if he couldn't suppress a smile. What the hell was with this woman that made him act like a teenager with his first crush?

As soon as the meal was prepared Killian served it on a metallic tray accompanied by some rehydrated vegetables. When all were served with their portion of food, he opened a bottle of yellow sauce and poured just the right amount on the plates. After that, he sat down waiting for his guests’ reactions.

Emma was fidgeting with her fork, moving pieces of food from one side of the plate to the other. 

Henry was the first one in giving in to it, always famished. “It's not bad at all!” He exclaimed enthusiastically. 

Killian put his right elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand. He was staring expectantly at Emma.

“Okay, let's do this!” She breathed. And then she put a piece of meat in her mouth and closed her eyes, probably for savoring it better, or maybe for just not seeing what she was eating. After a couple of seconds, she emitted a sound that Killian would describe as a moan “God. This is delicious!” She purred.

Killian’s mouth fell open. He was conscious of ogling her and his pupils were probably already dilated, but he couldn't help himself.

As soon as Emma opened her eyes and met his, a bright red color flushed her cheeks, but Killian couldn't figure out if it was because she suddenly understood what she had just done, or because his inappropriate thoughts were written all over his face like an open book. 

“Guys, you're doing it again.” Henry managed to say with his mouth full of food without averting his eyes from his plate.

The rest of the dinner passed in awkward silence.

.

.

~·~·~·~

.

.

It was already dark when Emma emerged from her door, wearing a skin-tight black dress that left little to the imagination. A dark leather jacket that she wore hanging from one shoulder and high heels of the same color completed her outfit.

Killian was just walking from the main cabin to the ship's entrance when he stopped short: jaw dropped, admiring the vision before him. "You look stunning." He breathed.

He tried to move towards her as casually as possible, adjusting his trousers to relieve the sudden unpleasant pressure and praying to the gods that she didn't notice it. But of course, she did, if her quick look down and a sudden blush on her cheeks were any indication.

"Good." She exhaled not making eye contact with him. 

"Remind me why letting you go alone is a good idea." He spoke in a low voice at a cautious distance from her, restraining the urge to put a rebellious lock behind her ear.

"I can take care of myself." She stated finally looking defiantly in his eyes.

"I’m aware of that. But that Glass man, you don't know anything about him. Just be careful."

She swayed a bit towards him, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're being jealous." She was teasing him, he didn't need to be a mind reader to know it. But that wasn't the time to play that game, so he just gave her a warning look.

"Don't fuck it up." She smiled, and then she stepped next to him, invading him with her scent. She put her mouth to his ear and whispered: “And yes, the pun was intended.” 

With that, she turned back and made her exit through the main gate.

Bloody Hell! Killian thought.

.

.

~·~·~·~

.

.

As soon as Emma left the ship, Killian sat down at his control board and switched on his computer. He inserted the name of Sidney Glass and waited until he had all the results. He had already checked on the man several times, but he hadn’t found anything conclusive yet. Maybe there wasn’t anything to find out, but something inside him was telling him to keep looking.

Not much appeared on the screen. A bunch of local prizes for articles he had written years ago. Appearances in several news conferences on various planets. He didn’t seem to have a family and he had traveled a lot. 

This was frustrating. Sidney looked clean, this should have reassured him, and yet... But then two words appeared on the screen: "Lepka Industry". The man had worked for the Industry at an early age. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Killian thought.

What are you getting into? The LED light started to blink. 

“Not now, Liam.” Was Killian’s short answer.

If I were you, I would go back to Althea-Seals as soon as possible, deposit that woman and her lad safe at home, and forget about them forever. 

“Well, luckily, you’re not me.”

You don't know her, brother, you have no idea what troubles she could bring. And any connection with the Industry, even the most feeble one, means danger. You, of all people, should know that. Listen to me, Killian. Forget about her, before it's too late.

A voice inside Killian whispered to listen to his older brother, always with words of wisdom. But another voice, louder, was suggesting to ignore him. “Maybe it's already too late.” He sighed. .

.

~·~·~·~

.

.    And it was late, indeed. Literally. Too much for his likes. More than three hours had passed since Emma had gone out, and she hadn’t come back yet. Killian was starting to feel anxious. What if something had happened to her? And he was stuck on his ship, taking care of her son. He went to the kitchen counter and poured a glass of his favorite liquor. He stared at it but didn’t drink it. He shouldn't indulge in its temptation. Henry was sleeping just a door down from him.

He was still pondering the option of swallowing the amber liquid or not when Emma opened the main gate with the code Killian had previously given to her.

First thing inside she took off her high heeled shoes, balancing precariously on her wobbly legs. She looked very tired. 

 “I’m exhausted” she exhaled “and I had too many drinks.”

“How was your date?” He tried to ask nonchalantly. He didn't want to show her how annoyed he was, but he couldn't help a scowl.

“It wasn't a date.” Was her dry reply.

 He released a sarcastic chuckle.

 She watched him carefully, “Are you drunk?” 

“I would never do that while in charge of your boy, Swan.” His patience was hanging by a thread.

Emma approached him. Killian straightened his back and stared into her eyes, trying to keep control of the situation, and not wanting to give her the privilege of berating him without case, but his confidence had never intimidated her. She looked at the glass he was still holding and took it from his grasp drinking it down as if it were water. He was impressed, he knew his rum should have burned her throat. 

“You still haven't answered my question.” He insisted.

“I don't know.” Was her evasive answer.

“And what does that mean?” 

She shrugged. “I had some news, but not what I expected to hear.”

Bloody infuriating woman. Killian internally cursed. “Good or bad news?”

She exchanged the glass with the bottle on the counter and drank directly from that. “I don't want to talk right now.” She had no intention of divulging more information, it was clear in her posture. She was trying hard to maintain control over the situation.

He was not one to back down from a challenge. “And what do you want to do?”

At her lack of reply, he pressed “Did he touch you?”

She took another sip without averting her eyes from his, but without answering either.

To hell with personal space, he thought. With a quick movement, he took the bottle from her and deposited it in the sink, then he cornered her between himself and the kitchen counter. “Did you have fun, Princess?” He asked, mocking her royal title.

“You don't have a right to question my actions, Jones.”

“Believe me, I'm very well aware of it!” He stated, punctuating the last consonant, his face at mere inches from hers. The first thing Killian registered was that she lowered her eyes to his mouth. The second thing was that she vehemently grabbed the lapels of his vest. The third was the distinct sensation of her burning lips on his. And he had the clear impression that in the kiss she was putting all of her frustrations, and all of her hopes, and all of her exhaustion, and whatever other feeling she was experiencing.

It was frantic and desperate and hot. And Killian’s head was swirling: because of the lack of oxygen, because everything in her was intoxicating because he was already addicted and she was his drug.

“That was…” he murmured when they had to split up to recover some air.

But she didn't let him finish. “A one-time thing.” She disentangled from him and when she reached her cabin without looking back she said “goodnight Captain,” and disappeared behind the door. .

.

~·~·~·~

.

.

When Emma got out of bed the next morning, she had a dull headache from her hangover and a feeling that something was wrong. The ship was swaying, Killian had probably taken off during night, not wanting to waste other time to get home. Her mind immediately flew to him and the last moments of the previous day. 

She had kissed him. Why? What had she been thinking? She told herself that she had probably drunk more than she could handle and she shouldn't give it any importance, but would go on behaving towards Killian exactly as she had done before. Nothing would change. They were both adults and it had been just a kiss. 

But what a hell of a kiss it was. She couldn’t avoid thinking about it. 

She couldn't fool herself either. She felt attracted to him, and he was probably aware of it, too. With his self-confidence, his lean torso, his ever unkempt dark hair, and his scruffy stubble. But Emma was not one who easily surrendered to a man's charms. She didn't want to get lost in the ocean blue of his eyes. She wanted to be found. The problem was that she didn't know if she could trust him.

But it was not just the turmoil of a morning after that was bothering her, something wasn’t right, she could sense it. A shake and a loud noise confirmed her foreboding. Henry woke up with a start and they briefly looked at each other before bursting into the main cabin. “What was that?” They asked in unison.

The ship was shaking and Killian had visible difficulties keeping it stable. The knuckles of his right hand were white with the effort and his bionic hand was in an impossible position. Through the windows, they could spot a very close planet. 

The red LED was blinking and the metallic voice resounded in the cabin: Damages on the orbital maneuvering system and the vertical stabilizer, one of the propulsion engines is offline. I’m asking permission for landing, but I’m not getting any signals back.

Something shiny passed close to the ship. 

“Was that a meteorite?” Henry asked.

“I have no idea what that was. The moment we entered the gravitational layer of this bloody planet, those bright flying things appeared out of nowhere.” 

“Are we being attacked?” Was Emma’s worried question. “And why did we go so close to land?”

“There wasn’t supposed to be a planet here!” Killian was almost shouting from frustration.

Another loud bang shook the ship even worse.

“To hell with permissions! Hold tight, we’re landing over there.” He exclaimed, pointing to what looked like a spaceship's port.

Emma sat down on the same chair she used to sit at night. Then took Henry’s arm as an invitation to sit upon her knees and so Killian could keep doing his job without interference. The boy was already reaching for the man in his endless need to be helpful, he probably thought that he could give a hand in holding up the steering. But another flashing thing hit the ship and a piercing alarm started echoing through the cabin. That deterred Henry and he sat upon Emma’s lap, grabbing his mother's shoulders to avoid falling as a strong jolt shook the ship to its foundations. 

While they approached the ground, big rocks appeared outside the windows, floating, and they became incandescent as soon as they came in contact with whatever atmosphere was surrounding the planet. 

Was this land itself spitting meteorites? Killian tried to understand what was happening, but even if he had traveled to many different places, he had never seen anything like that. He was also worried about his crew, he wanted to look at them, be sure they were all right, but he was too concentrated on avoiding the rocks and not getting hit again.

The port was approaching fast. Killian internally prayed to the Gods above that the brakes would still work properly. He just hoped that someone could rescue the three of them alive.

After what seemed to be a long and quite difficult maneuver, the ship touched down. He turned off the engines and everything went silent. They looked at each other, waiting for a sign of life, but nothing came. Killian leaned his head against the back of the chair and exhaled. Then he got up and started rummaging through his belongings.

Emma and Henry were clinging to each other, but the boy slipped away and ran towards Killian hugging him. “You did it!” He exclaimed. The man was taken aback by this show of affection, he scratched a spot behind his right ear and tried to defuse “I’m a hell of a Captain!”

Killian took a shoulder bag from behind his hammock, and two laser pistols, delivering one of them to Emma. “What are you doing?” She asked, holding cautiously the weapon in her hand.

“We sent a request for an emergency landing and nobody answered. This planet does not appear in any known charts. I am taking the necessary precautions, it's best to be prepared for anything, good or bad.”

“I want a weapon, as well.” Henry stood there with his back straight and his hands on his hips, to reaffirm his statement. 

“No way.” Emma thought that was enough to put an end to the subject.

“But what if I’m in danger and I need to defend myself?” He insisted stubbornly.

Killian retrieved his automatic harpoon from a locker near the control dashboard. “Take this. Munitions should be downstairs.” But before Henry could run towards the stairs, he grabbed the boy’s elbow and added “Don’t use it unless it’s necessary, lad. And try not to hurt yourself.” Henry nodded and ran away enthusiastically. 

Stunned by the remark, Emma stood, mouth agape, staring at Killian. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t worry. It probably won’t work. I forgot to recharge it.”

“You forgot to recharge your weapon.” It wasn’t a question.

He was moving fast around the cabin, retrieving who knows what from here and there, packing his satchel “It was supposed to be a simple commercial trip: no big risks.” He stopped right in front of her and raised one eyebrow. “Wasn’t it?”

She looked at him chewing her bottom lip. “What are we going to do?”

“Go outside, have a look at the damages, find the replacement parts, and hope to come back home alive from this place.” 

.

.

~·~·~·~

.

.    The planet seemed to be desert, apart from the port there was nothing, just sand, and rocks. No people on the horizon.

“This is strange,” Emma said as the three of them were exploring the surrounding area. “Can you feel it too?” A sense of oppression and discomfort pervaded her.

Killian nodded. “It’s too quiet. Something is wrong.”

A large stone flew from nowhere and Killian saw as Henry was right on its trajectory. He launched himself trying to protect the boy from the inevitable collision. The last thing he felt was a sharp pain in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Then everything went black.

.

#cs ff #cs au #Till the Stars Had Run Away #alternative universe - science fiction #space au #My writing

[shortythescreen]

come over chapter 3: the party.

Warning(s): Dysfunctional family dynamics, Octavio’s parents being assholes, misuse of stim, kind of abrupt ending, fem reader, NSFT/18+.

Relationship(s): Octane/ Female Reader. 

Author’s Notes: Last chapter you guys! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this. I’ve had so much fun writing come over and hope to write for Octane again soon <3 

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3. 

The rest of your ride to Psamathe is smooth. You and Octavio sip at that Aguardiente but about a half an hour before you two are due to arrive, you make him put it away. He protests, trying to tell you that in order to deal with his parents, you were going to need to be at least kind of buzzed. You two stash the drink anyway, drinking water all the way over, and Octavio eyes you up in the silence that follows.  

Octavio probably could’ve given you head right after you finished with him but you were insistent about not looking sex ruffled – which would be a lot harder to hide with your hair fucked up, and that dress you’re wearing.

This is technically a job for you. He bats the thought away, trying to tell himself you came out as a friend. As your ship lands, though, and you lug your giant camera tote he told you that you didn’t need to bring out of the ship…

It’s not discouraging. There’s nothing to be discouraged about.

Which is what Octavio tells himself as you two approach his childhood home.

You react like most people do to the sight of where he grew up: your jaw drops, your eyes widen, and you take the time to look the manor up and down. Ma always complained she’d wanted a bigger mansion. Considering she and Pa had only had him, that had never made a lot of sense to Octavio. Their room was empty most of the time, let alone all the other ones that he or the housekeepers didn’t occupy.

“Holy shit,” you mumble to him and he offers you the crook of his elbow. You turn your head to look at him and blanch. Octavio stares at you, foot beginning to tap impatiently. “What are you doing?”

“Offering you my arm. You’re my plus one. This is what rich people do, amiga,” he tells you. He distinctly leaves out the fact that he had etiquette training from the time he could walk until he was thirteen and purposefully jumped off the top of the stairs mid-lesson. His arm was broken, and he was in a sling which meant he didn’t have to go through which spoon was the right one again.

“I forget you’re a rich person,” you say.

“Makes one of us. Take the arm, mami, c’mon, let’s get this over with.”

You raise an eyebrow at him but slide your hand into the crook of his elbow anyway. You two stroll up to the way too big, double doors of the mansion and a large man Octavio doesn’t recognize opens one of them.

Inside the foyer, there’s a line of men in black suits, clearly some kind of security detail. Your heels click across the porcelain floors and when he chances a sideways glance at you, he sees that you’re unable to flush your face of the awe written across it – the vaulted ceilings and the crystal chandelier glittering in your eyes. You turn your head, looking up at the portrait of him, and ma, and pa, and he tugs your arm a little closer, trying to take your attention off of the grim looking little boy he didn’t see himself in.  

He turns his gaze ahead and instantly his arms tense. Mami stands in the threshold of the ballroom, eyes stabbing through his.  

Last he’d seen her, she’d had the beginnings of grays at her temples. Predictably, she’s dyed it back to its original brown, and stands with her back poised straight, hands folded in front of her. When you two are close enough, her pinkened lips pull upwards, into a smile that shows her teeth but doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mijito,” she says, opening her arms. She wraps them around him, and they press their cheeks together in a brief kiss. “This is your photographer?”

“Si mami,” he murmurs, using the hand you don’t have captive to gesture your way. He tells Mami your name and how every piece of media that’s come out of Apex’s headquarters has been yours. “She’s incredible at what she does.”

“I should hope so. We expect nothing but the best,” says Mami.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Silva,” you say, offering your hand out. Mami’s smile doesn’t fade but if it didn’t reach her eyes before, it definitely doesn’t now, anger flaring in them.

“Ms. Silva, cariña,” croons Mami, and Octavio cringes away from the way her voices oozes, thickened by sweetness she doesn’t truly have. “I divorced from Octavio’s father a long time ago.”

“Oh, I-” you begin, probably going to apologize for information he hadn’t given you. Octavio doesn’t want you to do that. As a matter of fact, he kind of wants his mom to apologize for looking at you so coldly when she hadn’t publicized her and Pa’s divorce to begin with. Octavio jumps in, cutting you off.

“She didn’t know, ma, back off,” he bites. Ma’s blazing eyes turn on him and he glares back. Before she can say more, Octavio is hauling you into the ballroom.

“She can set up in the corner, near the bay windows!” Ma calls after him in Spanish and Octavio’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t feel like playing translator for someone who speaks English just fine tonight, but he has a feeling she’s going to rope him back in, make him play the dutiful son just for talking back. The bar’s already set up and kitchen staff are putting out a long buffet table of food. In the corner that Ma said you could set up in, there’s a long drape rolled out with Silva Pharms logo all over it – in bright, stim green.

“Oc,” you say, catching his attention as you two pull up to where you’ll be stationed for a majority of the evening. The hand on the inside of his elbow squeezes and he turns his head to look at you, at the little furrow between your brows, at your other hand moving around to squeeze his. “Hey, it’s okay. Some people don’t like to even think about being married to someone they divorced. I get that.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” mutters Octavio. “She was a lot meaner than she seemed.”

“Well, I didn’t notice. So, it’s fine,” you say. Your hand encompasses his and he watches your tote fall to the crook of your elbow instead of your shoulder. You don’t try to adjust it though, focused on him, and that makes his shoulder relax as much as it makes his pulse rapid. “It’s okay, Oc, seriously. We just got here. No one’s here yet. Help me set up and then we’ll grab some food before your parents’ guests arrive, okay?”

That… Sounds like a good plan. Octavio tries to shake the nervous energy from his limbs, remind himself that at least you’re here, but he can’t quite get rid of it. He feels like a dog backed into a corner by handlers with sticks but instead of beating him, none of them are moving.

To take his mind off it, he rapidly puts together your camera. You scold him several times, reminding him to be careful with your equipment.

“Octavio, you have to screw that in, not push it-”

“I knew that!”

“You did not!”

Octavio only cackles when you tell him the right way to set up your camera, but he does do it the way you tell him to. Once your camera is put together and placed on its little trifold, you and Octavio meander over to the buffet.

Whoever Ma hired to cater (because Ma always does all the organizing for these things; Pa just shows up) likes colorful dishes, bright blue and reds staring up at you two. There’s some leviathan meat in the corner that Octavio will definitely getting his hands on before the night is over, cooked medium rare with some kind of garlic and herb butter spread over it, the juice pooling in the plate beneath. More important than that though is finding the chicharron that Octavio knows is here.

It only takes him a minute to pull up the rind, with large, square knots of pork along it. He grins at you, coming closer, the meat recklessly flopping with every step.

“You gotta try this,” he says as you bend over the other edge, eyeballing what he’s pretty sure is some kind of cheesecake, placed just beneath the chocolate fountain. You twist around with an empty plate, hovering it just beneath the chicharron before it can drip onto the floor.

“You need a plate,” you reply and Octavio snickers. Despite your words, you lean in, biting the edge of one of the protruding cubes of pork. You sigh at the taste and Octavio grins, showing all his teeth. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, baby!”

You and Octavio eat before the guests arrive and as people begin to filter into the ballroom, you take your place at the corner where you’ll be taking pictures. Octavio isn’t too far away, pacing the big, empty space just beside the tarp with all the Silva Pharm logos. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until someone he doesn’t recognize comes up to him, laughing about how Octane can never sit still, huh?

Octavio smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he agrees. That’s one of the things he’s always hated about these stupid fundraisers or events or whatever the hell this thing is. He usually doesn’t know half the people there, or even a quarter, and they all walk up to him like they know him. Even more so now that he’s made Octane.

“Octavio,” someone says, and he glances up to see his Ma fast approaching. She doesn’t look angry, though. Maybe a little annoyed but Octavio has learned that she always looks like that, one side of her mouth pulled up a little further than the other, brows low on her face. At least, she always looks that way around him. “Come and say hello, the photographer isn’t going anywhere.”

Octavio sputters, though Ma places her hand on the inside of his elbow and without thinking, Octavio bends his arm to meet her. Octavio doesn’t think a lot anyway, but it feels like a low blow to use you to make his brain work a little less. He glances back at you, standing with your back straight, waiting for someone to come get their photo op. You smile at him. He smirks back.

It makes sense that mostly old people invest in a pharmaceutical company but that doesn’t mean Octavio doesn’t find them totally, completely boring. They talk about things like their most recent vacations, or something silly their butlers did, and Ma laughs along, placing a hand over her chest as though these stories are the funniest things she’s ever heard.

Maybe they are. Octavio wouldn’t know. He stopped finding the staff’s misfortune funny around the time Señora Luz told Pa she was pregnant, and she suddenly didn’t have a job anymore. He wasn’t allowed to open the door for her either.  

Ajay’s parents approach and Mami greets them warmly, pulling them into big hugs and giving them kisses on each cheek. On principle alone, Octavio is a little less familiar, waving their way, and they all laugh about how they’d never known him to be shy.

They didn’t know the first thing about him anyway.

“Oh, but where is his blazer?” Ajay’s mom asks and Octavio grunts. Ma turns her cold eyes back to him, calculatingly sizing him up. She must not have noticed when he walked in that he wasn’t wearing one. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.

“It’s so hot in here, don’t you think?” Ma smoothly covers and Octavio taps his fingers soundlessly against his thigh. He’ll hear about it later.

Octavio finds himself getting restless. His fingers itch and his toes curl in his overpriced shoes. He wants to run. Maybe even turn and jump out the bay window. Or go out back and see if Ma still has horses on this property or if she finally got sick of the memories of Pa in these halls.

He glances your way, finding you hunched over your camera. The couple at the other end of it smiles and you snap three shots, back to back. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between them, but you’d know if the angles were different, or if one had flash and another didn’t. When they walk off, you stand upright and catch his eye.

Your wink sends a powerful burst of something through his chest. It makes his blood pump faster but also makes his shoulders relax and fuck. He’s so, totally fucked. You’re the one thing keeping him from doing something stupid. Which means he’s fucked.

“Mijo,” he hears, though this time it isn’t Ma, and Octavio curses to himself. Yeah. He’s fucked.

He turns, not bothering to paste on a smile. If nothing else, amongst themselves, the Silva’s aren’t fake. Ma is busy with the Ches and a group of people that like to laugh at other people’s expense. Octavio hasn’t seen his Pa in awhile but he looks just like Octavio remembers – his thick eyebrows are trimmed, arched like he’d spent way too much time having someone do them, his dark hair graying at the edges. Unlike Ma, he doesn’t dye it though, claiming the silver makes him look more refined, that his most recent wife likes him gray. He’s surprised she’s not clinging to his arm, in something way too tight and tiny that would piss Ma off if she saw it.

“Where’s Gloria?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Gloria’s young, grossly so, closer to Octavio in age than Pa. She’s nice, though, and last Octavio heard, she and Pa’s marriage was going swimmingly.

“Who knows?” Pa asks back and Octavio subtly rolls his eyes. Leave it to Pa not to know where his wife is. He doesn’t outright berate her though, which means they must still be together, so she’s somewhere around here. Octavio should say hi. He’d be happier to see her than Pa, or Ma. “You look nice tonight, hijo. Thank you for bringing a photographer – you know your Mama won’t let anyone I hire work.”

Octavio does not know that and doesn’t really care to, but he nods along anyway. His eyes keep flickering over to you, eager to go make stupid faces in the background of your pictures or tickle your sides so that you lose focus.

“Ah, I see,” Papa says. Irritated, Octavio turns his gaze back to him.

“You see what?” He asks.

“You’re fucking her?” Papa asks and Octavio feels his shoulders jump up to his ears. His whole body braces, like he’s about to jam stim into his thigh, like he’s about to take off in the middle of a firefight.

“What the fuck, papa?” He hisses back, not even realizing they’ve switched to Spanish until a second after he’s speaking it. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“C’mon, son, you wouldn’t be the first one to fuck the help,” sniffs Papa, and the way he says help makes Octavio bristle all over. “It’s okay. She’s cute!”

“That’s none of your business,” seethes Octavio, practically baring his teeth. “Don’t compare her to Luz. This is different.”

“Luz? I wasn’t talking about Luz,” says Papa. Then, his eyes narrow, and he looks a little bit more hostile, stepping into Octavio’s space. “What do you mean different? Octavio, did you get her pregnant? You know we can’t afford that kind of a scandal-”

“Oc!” You suddenly chime from his right and he and Papa both jump. He spins to face you and you look at him, bug eyed, hands risen like you’re trying to declare a cease fire. “-Tane. Octane. Buddy. Some people are asking you for a photo-op… Am I, uh, interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all, sweetheart,” Papa says, moving forward to introduce himself. Somehow, it’s worse than Mami not doing it at all, especially with the sweet smile you give him as you shake hands. “Go, Octane. The people want you. Here, take a vial with you, get into character.”

Pa hands him a vial of stim and Octavio’s fingers close tightly around it, knuckles white with frustration. You jam your hand into the crook of Octavio’s arm and drag him away. He’s still fuming, hot all over with his rage, and you move a little closer to him as you guys stroll across the ballroom.

“You okay? That looked kind of heated,” you say, and Octavio looks down at you, doing his best not to fixate all that fury on you.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s-it’s fine- did someone really want a photo-op or did you just sneak me out?” He asks, realizing that you must’ve seen that something was going on between he and his papa. The sheepish smile that tugs your lips confirms it. Octavio laughs, trying not to bend at the waist so he can keep walking. “Bad girl.”

“Sorry,” you say, but Octavio kind of wants to kiss you for it, “but I can keep you for a little while with that photo-op thing. These people won’t turn it down.”

Okay, yeah, Octavio really wants to kiss you. Not only did you save him from an exchange with pa (about you, but he pushes that part to the back of his mind), you’re now offering to keep him from him indefinitely.

“You’re the best,” murmurs Octavio. His lips barely brush your ear and he doesn’t miss the little stutter of your breath. Oh yeah. He’s definitely going to repay you for earlier on the ride back to the Apex City.

Octavio lines up and that really seems to get people wanting to come over for pictures. Two old men he doesn’t recognize give him a cigar and he wedges it and the stim vial between his teeth, pointing at the camera with two of them. When a woman walks up, he dips her low, cackling while she swoons. More people come and Octavio makes stupid faces at the camera, even getting one old timer to throw up horns with him. You make the shoot fun and for once, he thinks he might have to pat Ajay on the back. Or apologize for lying. Maybe both.

“Mijito,” Octavio hears in the middle of another picture with two women. One has her hands on his chest, her leg swept up, and the other presses against his back while he holds up his arms in some silly superman pose. He peers over the head of the one in front of him, seeing not only Mami, but Pa standing at the very edge of the tarp. Fuck.

The picture’s taken and you lift yourself from behind the camera, glancing between him and his parents. He shoos away the two women, who thank him for the time and then swarm you to get a look at the picture. You fumble with your camera, clearly preoccupied with making sure his mami doesn’t bite his head off. With no other option, your gaze turns to the photos, and Octavio tries his best to keep his chin held high as he walks over to his parents.

“Your papa has told me something interesting,” says Mami first. Octavio’s jaw clenches and whatever tension he’d been accumulating earlier returns full force. The urge to run or fight hits him hard but he stands his ground. “Is that photographer pregnant?”

“No,” groans Octavio, reaching up to scrub at his face. “God, what is wrong with you two? Why is it if I look at someone you have to tell me to not get them pregnant? Or assume I will?”

“You haven’t been responsible with anything else. Why would we expect you to be responsible with sex?” Mami demands. If he weren’t already seething, Octavio might be embarrassed at this conversation. He is, though.

“I was responsible with Navi. And with every other pet you got me. And with my stim. I’m here, aren’t I?” He growls out and Mami holds up a finger instantly, drawing a little closer to try and hide the look she’s giving him.

“Don’t speak to your mother that way.” Pa says and Octavio whips his head to look at him, instead of his mother’s icy glare.

“What way? I’m just telling her the truth. I’m here when I didn’t want to be. I brought you guys a photographer,” growls Octavio.

“For no one else’s benefit but your own,” hisses Mami, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t do something like this without an ulterior motive. Does she have something on you Octavio? Is that why you brought her here?”

“No! She’s a good photographer and I needed someone other than you two here!” Octavio snaps, the words rolling off like venom and Mami’s chin tilts down, eyes flashing.

“Oh, of course, bringing a chew toy to a PR event must make you feel so much better,” Mami scoffs. He reaches up, pushing a hand through his brightly colored mohawk, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t talk about her like that,”

“I’ll talk about whoever I want however I want, and-”

“Not her!”

“God, you are just like your father, Octavio. We cannot afford to have you in trouble with the Games, and certainly not for some-”

“Ma, I’m not doing this with you. I’m here, I’m promoting Silva, and unless you want me to leave, you will not speak about her the way I know you were just about to. You will not.” Octavio outright barks and this seems to draw the attention of those strolling by them. Mami’s face slackens, her eyes flashing. In them, in the clench of her jaw, the curl of her fist, he sees something. Something like recognition.

He doesn’t care, too busy fuming about the fact they’re even having this stupid fucking argument. Octavio barely notices Pa, standing off to the side, looking as useless as he always does when he and Mami argue, or the short, porky man that hurries up to Mami’s left.  

“Excuse me, Señora Silva,” the butler says, cutting their staring contest short. “There’s something requiring your attention in the kitchen. A wine shipment hasn’t arrived?”

“Hijo de gran puta,” snarls Mami, throwing her hands up. She turns away from his glower and it feels good to have won one of those standoffs. Even if it was technically a foul. Mami stomps into the distance and that leaves Octavio and Pa.

“Son, you know it’s not a good idea to-” begins Pa, but Octavio doesn’t let him finish. He hates when he does things that remind him of Mami but he turns away from him anyway, looking out at the rest of the ballroom as though he’d just gotten into an argument with everyone in it. He wants to run. He wants to jam the stim into his thigh and carry himself all the way back to the ship port, maybe roll in some mud to get this stupid crisp button up dirty. He wants to-

“Hey,” your voice chimes gently. He feels your fingers on his cheek and you turn his head, making him look at you. Your face is soft, and vulnerable, and open, and he’s so fucked. “C’mon. Show me to the bathroom.”

Octavio snorts. He offers you his elbow, but you don’t take it, instead interlocking your fingers and pulling him towards the exit. He notices your camera is still set up on the way out, but you’ve draped something over it to signify your booth is closed for a little while. Realizing he’s supposed to be taking you somewhere, Octavio pulls you up the stairs, down the hall, and into one of the many rooms of his childhood.

Being the son of preoccupied billionaires with too much on their plates to bother handling a rambunctious little boy, Octavio had a lot of rooms growing up. He had a game room, and a homework room (which was supposed to function as an office, when he got old enough to take over some of Silva Pharms mountains of paperwork). This room was always his favorite though. He slept in it most nights and even when he moved out, he hadn’t changed anything about it.

The full-sized mattress in the corner has racecar sheets. Octavio can’t drive for shit, but he always liked to watch old movies when it was common for everyone to use cars. The noises of engines rumbling with motor oil, of rubber on pavement… When he was a little boy, he told Luz he wanted to be a race car driver when he grew up. She laughed but on every holiday from then on out, she bought him a model race car.

All of them are lined up on the very top of a shelf, which has a bright red racing strip painted down the side. He’s got posters of old Nascar drivers on the wall, people who have been dead for centuries but who got to do super cool, fun things. Who sometimes even wrecked their cars.

“Hope you didn’t actually need the bathroom,” mutters Octavio, locking the bedroom door.

“What if I did?” You ask. He looks over his shoulder at you, checking to see if you’re serious, only to see you lounging on the edge of his mattress, peering around the room.

“Your room’s really cute,” you say, and Octavio snorts as he joins you, collapsing onto his old bed. It was way too big for him as a little kid, and even now as a young man, his slight frame doesn’t take up much of the larger beds offered to him. “Who even likes cars anymore? No one drives them.”

“We have a Bugatti in the garage.”

“Of course you do.” You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the party downstairs just barely reaching you. “So… you wanna talk about it?”

Not really. Talking about it means telling you what it was that got him and his parents into an argument in the first place. “My parents are just… The worst.”

“I got that.” You say. He glances your way, appraising you, and you hold your hands up. “Hey, we call them like we see them here.”

“They just, um.” Octavio frowns. Should he tell you? He feels like he shouldn’t. “My dad kind of saw me looking at you and asked if we were fucking.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you says anything, unsure of how to proceed. Octavio’s knee begins to jiggle, and he huffs out a big breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“I told him it was none of his business, so I guess he decided to tell my mom. Which was… What that was about,” explains Octavio, waving his hand noncommittally. “They thought you were pregnant.”

“Ouch,” you say, and Octavio giggles. He peers over at you and you’re smiling, eyes soft, shining in the low light from his stupid race car lamp. Your make up has smudged a little, the vermillion on your lips mostly gone after you two had your share of food. Yet he can still see the remnants of it, especially as he sees the little upwards curve of your lips.

Fuck.

Without thinking, Octavio reaches up, hand cupping the back of your neck so he can haul you into a kiss, trying to take the remnants of that pretty red you’d been wearing. You go willingly, matching his vigor, his speed, and that’s one of the things he loves about you. One of the things that’s been driving him crazy, keeping him up until ungodly hours as he tries to figure how someone could affect him this way. You always keep up, even if you’re not ready to run into the line of fire.

You rest your hand on his chest, tilting your head, and Octavio instantly wedges his tongue between your lips. You part them readily and you still kind of taste like whatever chocolatey something or other you’d gotten your hands on earlier. His other hand settles on your hip, and he wants to pull you on top so badly, wants you to scream so loudly that they know what’s going on downstairs. He wants you to look at him like you just were but maybe forever.

He wants to tell you. He wants to tell you what he said to you that night, what’s had him so bugged out. The thought alone feels like a rush.

You pull away from him pressing kisses across the taut flesh of his jaw. He sighs, head moving away, and your teeth clink against the black studs he has in his ear lobes. His blood pumps in his veins, the hand on your neck gliding down the length of your spine.

“Te adoro,” he murmurs between kisses. You pause, pulling away to meet his eyes. Your hair tickles his cheeks and he reaches up, tucking it behind your ear. “Eres en mi vida todo mi tesoro.”

“What?”

“Quiero decirte. Pero tengo miedo,” continues Octavio, fingers slipping into your hair. He tugs you down, catching your lower lip between his teeth, and you shudder in his grasp. You’re half on top of him, your body hot, your mouth swollen, and he wants. “No quiero perderte.”

“Oc, I don’t understand,” you breathe. Rather than telling you, though, he kisses you hard, lips moving across yours, and you melt into his arms.

“Jesús,” groans Octavio as his hand slides beneath the high cut on the side of your dress. He grabs at your panties, trying to yank them down your thighs. The twist of your torso to lean over him makes it hard. “Get those things off.”

“What did you say?” You huff out, though you obediently rise, dragging your panties down.

Rather than answering you, Octavio grabs you by the waist, pulling you back on top of him. He doesn’t stop you at his cock, though, half hard and tightening his pants. Instead, he helps you up, hooking your legs beneath his shoulders, your thighs on either side of his head and you whine, burying your fingers into his soft hair as you realize what he’s doing.  

His hands travel up your naked thighs, to your ass, gripping it tightly. He looks up at you, at the dark look in your eyes as you pull the fabric of your dress aside, spreading your legs wider, clit even closer to his mouth. He huffs a breath against your cunt, damp but not wet, and his cock demands that he rectifies that right now.

With no further warning, Octavio’s mouth finds the shape of your cunt, molding against it, wetly kissing the pretty pink flesh. You quietly gasp, fingers wrinkling your dress, and he swipes at your slit with gentle flicks of his tongue, letting the musky taste of you linger on his lips.

That doesn’t feel right, though, not for the urgency at which he feels the need to move, so he flattens his tongue, sliding it through your slickening folds and up to your clit, slowly peeking out. The minute he feels it, firm and juicy and wet beneath his tongue, he sucks it between his lips.

The unhinged moan you let out is only emphasized by how you tighten your grip on his hair. You try to spread your legs further and Octavio fingers dig into the pillowy flesh of your ass. Octavio helps you fuck your clit against his tongue, using his grip to make you grind against him, and the moan that leaves you sends a painful jolt to his dick.

His eyes flutter briefly open and if he wasn’t hard before, he is now, Dios. Your hair frames your warmed face beautifully, mouth open to heave in desperate little pants. Your clit is needy, twitching against his tongue, and your hands are fisted into the fabric of your dress, partly for leverage and partly to give him access to you.

His tongue slips down to your hole, the tip of it pushing, pressing it apart to gather up even more of your taste. You shudder above him, trying to roll your hips forward, and Octavio quickly takes the hint. His tongue moves back up to your clit, flicking back and forth, moving swiftly, and he feels your thighs tense, ass cheeks clenching in his hands.

“Oh, Oc, don’t stop,” you whimper, and he sucks as you thrust forward, uncaring of the way his chin drips with you. He’s going to smell like pussy. “God, right there, right there, Octavio, yes, yes, yesyesyes-”

You cum with a noiseless gush and Octavio groans at the sensation of your juice trailing down his chin. He doesn’t care that you slacken in his grip, that he’s momentarily suffocated by your cunt, just wants you to grind against his face as much as you can, try to ride out that orgasm you just had. You shudder, pushing at his head. Octavio pulls away, letting you scoot back down the length of him. The second he can reach you he kisses you, open mouthed and dirty, letting you taste the salty cum on his lips.

“Fuck.”

“Si, I’m trying,” he says, pressing your hips against his slacks. The noise that leaves you is half laugh, half moan, your clit hypersensitive against the fabric. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Yes,” you say, “please, yes. Yes, let’s fuck.”

“Yes, good, okay,” Octavio babbles. He taps your ass with two fingers. As you roll off, he undoes his belt, tossing it to the side. He unzips his pants, thumbs hooking into the waistband, only to find you reaching down to help him. He raises his eyebrows up at you and you smirk, seemingly having caught your second wind. “Si?”

“Si?” You taunt, reaching down to tug his pants down. You only pull them just enough that his cock can spring out, erect from eating you out, and you sigh at the sight of it.

He grins, trying to scoot his pants down a little more, only to pause at the sensation of something cool in his pocket. You climb on top of him, parting your dress again, and he watches you carefully.

With one hand, Octavio rolls that sweetheart neckline down your shoulders, to your elbows. It puts you in an odd position, unable to move your hands, but your tits fall out and, fuck, if that isn’t the sexiest shit he’s seen.

“I’m gonna ride you.”

“Oh, I thought you were sleeping.”

You snort. Unable to move your arms, your dress caught around your biceps, Octavio has to reach down to position his dick beneath your wet cunt. It opens beautifully for him as he drags the blunt tip along your lips, drenched with your earlier orgasm, and when it bumps your clit you jolt. Finally, gratefully, he finds your hole, and without further teasing, you sink all the way down onto him.

Your mouth falls open and you both groan in unison. Octavio’s thighs clench, trembling, because it’s only been a few hours since he’s cum and he’s not sure how much it will take for him to do it again. You feel so good, though, your pussy pulling him in.

“God, Oc,” you groan, falling forward, and your hands find purchase on his firm abdomen, tits squishing together as your index fingers touch. Before he can say something back, you’re moving, breasts jiggling with every bounce of your hips.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines, tips of his fingers digging into your thigh, and he’s pretty sure you can feel his pulse thumping through his dick. He bucks up into you, making your tits bounce harder, and you gasp as the tip of his cock thumps against something that feels different than the rest. “God, there?”

“There,” you moan back. As your eyes flutter shut, he slowly, carefully, pulls the neon green vial from his pocket. You’re lost in your own bliss, only sliding halfway up his cock. He waits, waits for your eyes to flutter open and when you finally look at him again, eyes heady and dark with lust, he jams the stim into his thighs.

Your jaw falls open, eyes widening as his veins bulge green, eyes brightening. He grins, wolfish, heart pounding. In the games, the stim makes him want to run, to shoot something. Now, all it does is make him eager to fuck you harder, faster, faster, faster.

 The vial rolls out of his hand and he seizes your hips, holding you in place. You whine, desperate and he’s quick to oblige you. He thrusts up, cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur, tirelessly fucking you from the bottom, his thighs tensing at the tight squeeze of your walls on his cock.

 The soft hair around his cock is already slick with you, worsening as he fucked into you with all the energy he saves for the ring, saves for when he’s Octane. Your chin drops against your chest, and he devours you with his eyes. He catches the way your teeth sink painfully into your lower lip and something primal comes over him, an animalism for your noises to overpower the ones from the party downstairs.

 One of his hands shoots to your stomach, thumb blurring down to your clit. He fondles the hard, wet nub, and groans at the sensation of your pussy muscles clenching hard around his throbbing cock.

 You borderline scream, trying your best to smother it with a scramble of your hand. It doesn’t help, the noise choppy with every powerful thrust of his hips into your cherry red cunt.

“Oh! Octavio! Oc!” You cry, the fingers of your opposite hand digging into his button up, grasping for purchase. He doesn’t know whether you lose your balance or just can’t keep yourself upright, but you plummet into his chest. He doesn’t flinch, just uses the angle to fuck you down the length of him, panting into your ear. Your pussy makes wet noises as he pounds you down onto his cock, tongue flickering out over your ear.

“What did you say?” You suddenly whine. It startles him and his rhythm stutters with his surprise, breath hitching in his throat. He holds it until he’s lightheaded, staring past your head at the ceiling. You weakly grind against his cock and he realizes he’s practically stopped moving, body only moving because of the stim being force through his veins like adrenaline.

“Oc,” you huff out, turning to press your brow against his throat. He can feel his pulse hammering in his jugular and he can’t tell if it’s because of the stim or because of you. “Please.”

Octavio abruptly sits up beneath you. His hands wrap tight around your waist, lips placing wet, open mouthed kisses along your collarbones.

“Te amo,” he murmurs into your skin, lowly, like maybe you won’t hear him if he speaks quietly enough. Recognition flashes in your face. The arms of your dress slide back up your shoulders as you suddenly wrap your arms around his shoulders You use him for leverage to lift yourself up and down his cock, your wet cunt squeezing, hugging. Sloppy noises make their way out and he vaguely recognizes that his pants are going to be ruined.

“Say it so I can understand you,” you demand and he’s helpless, a slave to your desires, every sweet roll of your hips sending bolts of lightening through his gut. He grunts, fingers digging into your lower back.

“Fuck,” he hisses and you twist your head, biting into his throat. He moans, the noise low, strangled, drawn out as you continue to raise and drop your hips, only moving part way up his dick as you do. “Fuck, fuck, baby, porfa, I need-”

“Say it!” You gasp, the friction of his pubic bone against your clit sending you into a frenzy, making you use your grip on his shoulders to raise yourself up higher, until only the tip is inside. Your thighs work to keep you up but you slam back down and Octavio shudders.

“I love you,” he finally whispers, and you turn your head into his hair, wailing near his ear. He whimpers at the noise, trying to roll up. In this position, though, he’s at your mercy, and you fuck yourself onto him once, twice, three more times until you’re shaking into a wetter, softer orgasm.

He hisses at the sensation, at how your cunt clutches him, trying to keep him inside even as you continue to drag your body along his dick. He presses his face to the space between your breasts, smelling your sweat, and your perfume, and he pulls you all the way down so you’re sitting on the very base of his cock, rocking you along it. Almost there, right there, yes, mierda, so good…

“Fuck,” he hisses out loud as he cums. It’s weaker than the one in the ship, little spurts gushing out of him instead of erupting. He keeps his forehead on your chest, catching his breath, your cheek resting on top of his head as you do the same.

“So…” you say, softly, and your voice is hoarse, even though you hadn’t been doing a whole lot of noise making. Shame flushes through Octavio, the last of the stim ebbing from his system. He’ll need to get his dialysis machine to wash away the shreds of it but he can’t focus on that, can’t focus on anything but what he said to you.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m,” he says, grabbing your hips, trying to push you off. You clutch him tighter and your fingers cup his chin. You bring his gaze up to yours and his breath hitches at the way you look at him, at that soft, gentle look that he wanted you to give him forever.

“I love you too.” You say. The world freezes. The noise from downstairs fogs out of his ears, the wet, sticky sensation of you on top of him gone as he stares up at you. You, who has been here for him this whole night, who started off as a hook up.

He moves quicker than lightening, quicker than he’s ever moved, yanking you into a kiss. Your lips move together, hurried, passionate, making up for all the time he didn’t know. He pulls away, lips making a wet, popping sound.

“I could listen to you say that all day,” he huffs out. You giggle and he holds you tightly to his chest for a long, perfect minute, your fingers carding through his short hair.

Octavio hurtles back onto the bed, arms flopping above his head and you snort, still sitting in his lap, his dick inside of you. You don’t seem in a hurry to get it out though. Octavio strokes your thigh. “I really wish you would’ve told me that before this. I could’ve come as your girlfriend.”

Octavio’s lips twitch up in a little smile and he reaches up, placing a hand on your cheek. You make a face at the sweat there, but you don’t move away, your eyes a little softer, a little more open than he’s seen them before.

“You could’ve told me. Ever thought of that, chica?” Octavio asks. He throws his head back, laughing when you lean away from him, climbing off his lap to flop next to him in bed. You loop an arm around his shoulders, interlocking your fingers and nestling against the one closer to you.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, and he kisses the top of your head, humming.

“You love me.”

“I do. I do.”

#octane/reader #octavio silva/reader #octane x reader #octavio silva x reader #apex octane #apex legends octane #apex legends #apex lemons #apex imagines #nsft #lemon #shorty writes #female reader

[fanfoolishness]

Home Cooking (SUF)

(Fluff and angst in nearly equal measure, Connverse, 8800 words. Set between Little Graduation and Prickly Pair.  Steven experiments with home cooking and decides to share his creation with the Maheswaran family, but he finds himself getting unexpectedly emotional.  Many thanks to @honestlyhufflepuff and @followerofmercy for help bouncing ideas around, and @taikova, whose tweet about the sadness of Together Breakfast is briefly referenced here.)

*************

Steven shuffled aimlessly down the aisles of Beach City’s small organic grocery store, his shoulders nearly brushing against the wares more than once in the cramped space.  Grocery shopping was one of the few errands that got him out of the house these days.  He supposed he should be grateful for that, at least.

He paused in the freezer aisle, wrinkling his nose as he looked at the lean selection of vegetarian options.  He was getting sick of the macaroni, even though it came in three flavors, and he hadn’t been impressed with the tortellini or the enchiladas.  They always seemed to come out mealy and weird when heated.

He left the microwave dinners in the freezer case, wondering what else he should get.  He’d already loaded up on a few packs of protein shakes.  He wandered into the spice section and noted a hand-written recipe card under some Cajun seasonings.  He looked it over for a moment, raising his eyebrows, then took a picture of it with his phone.  

He nodded to himself.  He pulled a few things into his basket, then wandered back into the loaded produce section, piling peppers, celery, onion, okra, and garlic on top of the spices.  

“Why not?” he murmured, and headed to check out.  The worst that could happen was that he might ruin it, and messing up dinner sounded a lot less intimidating than some of the other mistakes he could make.

***

It had been a long time since Steven had properly cooked anything, and he was starting to realize it.

He did mess up in a few ways.  Nicked himself badly, his eyes burning as he tried to cut the onion. He kissed his hand to heal it and tossed the bloodied knife into the sink, reaching for another one.  Luckily the onion remained unscathed.

He was fine with chopping the okra, celery and peppers, getting into a steady rhythm.  He julienned them first, then diced the resulting strips until he had piles of colorful, slightly unevenly chopped vegetables.  The garlic was tricky, but he was more careful this time, using a smaller knife.  His tongue poked out the side of his mouth as he focused.  

The roux almost stymied him.  It took three attempts before he stopped burning the flour and creating a sludgy black mess in the bottom of the pan.  He summoned his shield to fan away the smell out the front door, grumbling to himself.

But he’d come this far, hadn’t he?  The fourth attempt with the roux was okay.  He had been tempted to give up and order another cheese pizza, but he was determined now.  What else was he going to do with the vegetables he’d bought if he gave up now?  He stirred the roux carefully, brow furrowed in concentration as he added more ingredients and allowed them to simmer.

It smelled so good.  So different, too, from the greasy smell of pizza, the clean scent of tea, the dull lifelessness of protein bars.  He really had been eating just to eat, hadn’t he?  The kitchen hadn’t smelled this good in months.

He half wanted to text the Gems and ask them to try it with him, but he felt a little uneasy at the idea.  They weren’t talking much these days; Steven spent most of his time working on his plants in the greenhouse, now that he’d left Little Homeschool, and the Gems were working hard to pick up his slack.  They mostly saw each other in vague elliptical orbits these days, a hello from one of them running into a goodbye from another.  He wasn’t sure how to fit back in with them again.  Maybe he was just going through a phase.  He stirred the pot, taking care to keep the vegetables from burning.

Besides, food wasn’t exactly the Gems’ thing.  Garnet only ate occasionally, mostly at Steven’s request.  Pearl would share a cup of tea with him once a month or so, though he knew she still didn’t actually care for it; tea was just the least offensive thing she had discovered in the entire lexicon of human foods and drinks.  Amethyst would readily eat both the food and the spoon as well, but he didn’t exactly trust her judgment when it came to fine dining.  Yesterday he’d seen her eating dry ramen in the wrapper  with chocolate and motor oil.  

He thought about inviting Dad over for dinner.  But lately things had been kind of weird with Dad, too.  Steven knew he was still having a hard time adjusting to losing his hair and being attacked, but he wondered if there was more to it than that.  He also kept trying to ask Steven questions that made him uncomfortable, questions about plans and the future and how he was doing, and Steven wasn’t sure he was up for it right now.  He let out a long breath.

His phone buzzed.  Hi you! What are you up to? Connie asked.  

He mentally kicked himself.  Of course, it was a Saturday.  Connie actually had a little time to hang out some weekends.  Why hadn’t he asked her to do something earlier?  Too wrapped up in his own head, he supposed.

Trying out a new recipe.  It’s hard.  I burned it three times already, but I think this time is the winner.  It smells awesome.  He sent her a picture, having to try twice because steam from the dish clouded the first shot.

That looks amazing!  Wish I could try it.  Actually, I’m getting hungry just looking at it!

He gulped, fingers firing off a reply before he could stop himself.  Want me to bring you some?

The phone buzzed again.  That sounds like a great idea!  But I told my parents I’d hang out with them tonight.  Dad found a new strategy game and he thinks he can take out my mom, but he doesn’t know how badly she’s going to stomp him.  My mom gets really competitive.  It’s gonna be hilarious.

He considered.  Well, there’s a huge pot of this vegetarian gumbo.  I could make some rice, and we could all share?

Let me check! 

He paced back and forth with his phone in his hand, hoping to feel a familiar vibration. He gave the gumbo a stir, then nodded.  It looked like the recipe had said it would, three hours after starting it.  He dipped in a tablespoon and brought out a steaming spoonful, blowing on it gently, then swallowed a bite.

Oh.

“That’s… that’s really good,” he croaked to the empty dining room.  Tears pricked his eyes unexpectedly.  He tasted garlic and pepper, heat and spice. He felt warmer than he had all week, a warmth that had nothing to do with his jacket or the temperature outside.  It seemed to fill him up from his chest and belly outward.  How was food this powerful?

His phone buzzed.  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and read Connie’s reply, and his face spread into a smile. 

They’d love that!  Come by as soon as you can!  Miss you <3

***

Steven rocked back and forth on his heels, standing on the Maheswarans’ doorstep, the food carefully nestled in his largest grocery bag.  He could feel the heat radiating through the cloth bag against his leg.  He rang the doorbell, his stomach flip-flopping as he did so.

She asked you to come, he reminded himself.  Yet he was seized with a sudden fear that the Maheswarans were just being polite, that Connie must have talked them into pitying him, that they didn’t actually want him around --

The door opened.  Doug Maheswaran grinned at him, looking comfortable and relaxed, no trace of pity in his warm eyes.  “Young Universe!  Good to see you.  Wow, have you grown again?  It’s been too long.  Come in, come in.”  Doug reached out and took the bag of food from Steven.  “Thank you for bringing dinner, it smells delicious. Saves me from having to come up with something!”

Steven blinked, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer force of Doug’s cheeriness.  “Hi, Mr. Maheswaran, you’re welcome!  Um, well, it made a much bigger batch than I thought it would, so it seemed silly for me to try to eat it all on my own…”

“Doug, for heaven’s sake, let the poor boy get inside before you badger him to death,” Dr. Maheswaran called from the dining room.  Steven peeked around Doug, hoping for a glimpse of--  “Connie!  Steven’s here, come on down.”

A barrelling of footsteps down the stairs, and Connie burst into the living room, grinning all over.  “Steven!”  She wore a shirt he hadn’t seen before on her, a pretty purple one with little white polka dots.  Her hair fell in loose waves around her face.  He fought a burst of giddiness.

“Connie!”  

Steven grinned back at her.  Normally they’d go for a full-on, leap-in-the-air style hug upon seeing each other again, but he held out his hand for a stiff handshake instead, conscious of Doug still standing a few feet away and Priyanka leaning into the doorway between the living room and dining room.  

Connie batted his outstretched hand aside and hugged him anyway.  He closed his eyes, her hair soft against his cheek, and held her for just a moment before she pulled back.  She was still taller than him by a good inch or two, but hadn’t grown since the last time he’d seen her.  Good. It hadn’t been too long, then.

“It’s, um, good to see you,” he breathed.

“Likewise,” she said, blushing.

Doug coughed delicately.  “All right, you two.  Come on, let’s get dinner set up before it gets cold.”

Steven followed Doug toward the dining room, but couldn’t help but take the opportunity to grab Connie’s hand and squeeze it, for just a moment, before letting it fall.  “You’re sure they’re okay hanging out with me?” he whispered to her.

She gave him a sweet smile. “Of course they are.  My parents love you, Steven.”

He chuckled, his nerves catching up to him.  “Are you sure?  I’m surprised they don’t think I’m a bad influence on you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of being a bad influence on myself, Steven,” said Connie loftily.  “Don’t flatter yourself.”  She winked.

They entered the dining room, where the table was already set.  He could see into their small kitchen through the propped open door, where Doug was already putting the rice and gumbo into serving dishes.  

Priyanka pulled glasses down from the shelf.  “It’s good to see you, Steven,” she said with a faint smile.  “This is so thoughtful of you.  Thank you.”

“Oh, uh, no thought at all, really,” blustered Steven. “I just was trying out something new and thought it would be nice to share it.”

“Were your father and the Gems busy?” Priyanka asked, opening the refrigerator.  “Water, or iced tea?”

Steven glanced at Connie, who caught the look on his face.  “The Gems are pretty busy these days, Mom,” said Connie.  “And they don’t have to eat, remember?  Iced tea for me, please.”

Doug laughed. “Oh, yes, I remember now.  It was very nice of them to try that time we went out to dinner.”  He set out the serving dishes on the table, faint wisps of steam still rising from the gumbo and rice.  

“And Dad… doesn’t like Cajun food,” said Steven quickly.  “Iced tea would be great.”

Priyanka gave Steven an odd look, but brought out their drinks without further questions.  “Well, I’m excited to try this. Connie tells us you’re an excellent cook.”

“Aw Connie, come on.”

“You are!” said Connie, sitting down at the table.  Steven sat beside her, and Doug and Priyanka took the seats across from them.  “I mean, I know you don’t cook fancy things all the time, but when you do, they’re always really good.”  Steven’s ears burned.

Doug doled out portions to each shallow bowl, setting out a scoop of white rice on each dish, followed by a full ladle of gumbo and a sprinkle of chopped green onions.  The gumbo was rich and reddish, thick-bodied and clinging to the edge of the rice, glorious with the scents of pepper, onion, garlic. Steven peered into his bowl, hoping it tasted as good as he thought it had in his own kitchen.

Priyanka was the first to take a bite.  She chewed thoughtfully, then smiled in satisfaction.  “Steven, that’s quite good.  This is your first time making this?”  He nodded. “Well, color me impressed.”

Steven’s eyes widened.  He knew exactly how much a compliment from Priyanka meant, and he blinked in astonishment.

Beside her, Doug dove in.  “Steven, this is fantastic.  This tastes just like something you’d have visiting the Crawfish State.  Send me the recipe, all right?”

“Sure,” said Steven. “Really?  You -- you guys like it?”

Connie licked her spoon.  “That is insanely good.  What did you put in it?  It’s nice and spicy. Not exactly hot-spicy, but more of an earthiness? It’s delicious.”

“I just followed the recipe,” he said, shrugging and looking from face to face.  They each kept eating, apparently honestly enjoying the food.  He’d known he could cook, he supposed, but it was different sharing that with people besides himself.  He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for Lars being nervous to share his ube roll cake, back before when Lars still worked at the Big Donut. 

But Steven had no reason to be nervous, right?  Connie was sitting beside him, relaxed and happily eating his cooking, and her parents both wore warm smiles.  There was something strange and familiar both about this, a scene he’d seen a thousand times on television, a scene he’d tried to recreate at home more times than he could remember.  He tried to imagine Dad and the Gems sitting around the table, each enjoying the meal, laughing together, conversation flowing as easily as breathing.  It seemed both more and less possible than it ever had before.  He watched the Maheswarans, eating and talking together, and he felt hungry in a way that had nothing to do with his food.

“Don’t you want some?” asked Connie, nudging him a little with her elbow. 

“Oh!  Yeah, yeah,” he said, carving out a bite of rice and gumbo.  The whole reason he’d come here!  He popped it into his mouth, heat and spice hitting his tongue, combining with the sharpness of scallion and the comfort of fluffy rice.  He swallowed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Oh. Oh, no.

There it was again, that warmth, a comforting feeling that seemed less about the food than what the food meant.  He blinked, tears starting at the corners of his eyes.  Not here!  Not in front of Connie’s parents!  He stared furiously into the depths of his bowl, willing himself not to cry.  A losing battle.  A tear trickled down his cheek, falling into his food before he could wipe it away.

The conversation fell quiet, and the Maheswarans’ faces shifted from open and relaxed to suddenly worried.

“Steven?  Are you all right?” asked Priyanka, her voice cautious.  Soothing.  He wondered if she saved that voice for her patients.  He’d only rarely heard her use it with Connie.

“Is something wrong?” said Doug.  “It is a little spicy --”

“No!  I’m fine,” Steven muttered, setting down his spoon and rubbing at his face with his right hand. More tears.  Was he bright red?  He felt his cheeks flushing.  “I -- might have put too much garlic in, that’s all --”

He felt Connie’s hand on his left hand, nestled in his lap beneath the table.  She took it in her own and squeezed.  He didn’t trust himself to look at her without crying even more obviously, and that was not what he had come here to do.

She fumbled, trying to come up with something.  “Steven Universe, afraid of a little garlic?” The words were teasing, but the tone was concerned.

He sniffed, straightened up, and let go of her hand.  “You’re right. I’m being silly.”  He took a few more bites, the food as delicious as before, his eyes feeling puffy.  He smiled through it.  “So, Connie said you guys were going to play a new board game?”

“Oh! Yes,” said Doug.  “Now, Priyanka always claims to be above such frivolous things as board games --”

“I do not,” she protested. “Games have a place and purpose, as long as your responsibilities are taken care of first.  Besides, they’re a good way to hone critical thinking skills and --”

“And crush everybody,” Connie supplied.  “Don’t pretend otherwise, Mom, you love being competitive.  How were you surprised at all that I took up swordfighting?”

Priyanka arched an eyebrow.  “Because swordfighting is an archaic form of battle and you were twelve.  But I have to say, I have always admired your determination.”

“She’s the best, isn’t she?” said Steven, finishing another bite.  The comforting warmth in his chest was more manageable now that the topic had changed, and he found himself enjoying what he’d made, something filling, something delicious, something real.  The stinging in his eyes faded.  “She’s always worked so hard.  She’s amazing at swordfighting, and science, and literary analysis -- I mean, the conversations we’ve had about books --”

“Steven!” Connie hissed. “You flatterer!”  She giggled and nudged him again.

“All right, all right,” he laughed.

“I know it’s rough on you two not being able to see each other as often,” said Doug sympathetically.  He ladled a second helping into his scraped-clean bowl.  “What are you up to these days, Steven?  I heard you’ve been busy.”  He dug into his food.

“Hm,” said Steven, pushing a chunk of pepper around in his dish.  What am I up to?  “The school for Homeworld Gems is going well, I guess.  We had our first graduating class.”  Don’t think about the dome.  

He kept babbling, aware that the Maheswarans were looking at him.  “It went really well?  They were all pretty excited to head back out to space and move on.”  The chunk of pepper slid around in circles, aided by his spoon.  “I kinda stepped back from the school, though… I figured the other Gems were the best ones to be in charge.  You know, they actually know what it’s like, trying to adjust to life on Earth without being ruled by anybody.  I… don’t.  At all.”  He shrugged glumly.  “But I hear they’re doing great without me.”

Priyanka looked at Steven, then glanced at Doug, giving him a slight nod.  Doug finished his second portion, letting his spoon rest back in his bowl.

“That’s excellent news about the graduation,” said Priyanka, her voice measured. “You must be proud.  But I know that for me it’s always bittersweet, seeing the interns match to their new residencies and move on.  It does sound like you’ve helped a lot of people.”  She got to her feet and collected her dishes. “Doug, would you please give me a hand with these?”

“Of course, dear,” said Doug, gathering up his own dishes and following her into the kitchen. As soon as the kitchen door closed behind them, Connie turned to Steven, taking his hands in hers.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes.  He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear. 

“Thanks,” she said softly.  “That was bugging me.”

“It was very cute though.  It made your ear look like an elf’s. Just the way it peeked through the hair.”

She smiled, but the action didn’t reach her eyes.  “Are you okay?” 

He looked down at their intertwined fingers.  “Ugh.  You noticed that, huh?”

“Of course I noticed you getting teary at the dinner table, and don’t tell me it was garlic.  You love garlic.  If you hadn’t realized, I know you pretty dang well, Universe.”  

He squeezed her hands.  “I -- I don’t know if you do,” he mumbled.  “I don’t know if anyone does right now.  I feel like I barely know me.”  He gulped past the sudden lump in his throat.

Connie leaned forward until their foreheads touched.  “Isn’t that what being a teenager is all about?”  They were quiet for a moment, their breathing matching.  

“Are you okay, Connie?”

She spoke into the stillness, her words winding, wandering. Wounded.  “I don’t know.  Mostly?  Not completely.”  She shrugged.  

“Come on.  You can tell me.”

“I know, it’s… hard to get started, is all.”  She held tight to his hands.  “I swear, I feel crazy some days.  It’s like I’m normal me, the same as I used to be.  But then there’s this new Connie fighting to form inside me, trying to figure things out, and I don’t understand her.  And in between the two of them, everything is just a mess.  Sometimes I mouth off to my parents and get in trouble, sometimes I just want to cry for no reason, sometimes I just don’t care about school, sometimes I hate everything --”  She squeezed his hands back, much harder than he had squeezed hers.  “Mom says it’s pretty normal for my age, but if that’s the case, this is a stupid age.”  Her eyes shone with sudden tears.

 “That sounds really hard.  And… kind of familiar, actually,” he said in a soft voice.  “I didn’t know you were going through all that.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell you,” she whispered.  “I knew you had your own stuff going on, and I didn’t want to pile on, especially when we don’t get to see each other as much as before.  It’s been weeks!”

“I know,” said Steven miserably.

“But it’s all so frustrating, and I hate not feeling like the me I’ve always been.  It makes everything more difficult.  I have a harder time focusing on my classes, but I need to, because for the first time in my life they’re actually challenging and it’s weird.  I got my first C on a test last quarter, did I tell you?  And sometimes I try talking to friends at school like Jeff or Bri, and that helps with the human stuff, but they don’t understand how much I miss seeing you and the Gems all the time. Especially you.  Because I do miss you, jam bud.”

 “I’m sorry, I should have been around more -- I should have been here for you --”

“Don’t apologize, you dork,” said Connie, wiping her eyes.  “It’s not like it’s your fault.  Sometimes stuff sucks a little and that’s how it is.”  She took a deep breath.  “Now.  Tell me what’s been going on with you.  I went first because I knew you’d feel bad telling me unless I shared my stuff too.”  She leaned back and stuck her tongue out at him.

“So rude,” said Steven, laughing despite himself.  “I guess you do know me pretty well still.  Um, as far as what’s going on with me, I -- I don’t know.  It’s like, everyone’s growing up, you know?  You’re getting ready for college prep stuff, and Lars and the Off Colors went back to space, and Lars, of all people, is… actually mature now.  I think he finally has his head on straight.  And it’s good, but it’s also confusing, because that was never the guy I knew.  And he and Sadie never made it work, and they’re fine with it, and that’s fine, but it just feels weird.”  He bit his lip.  “Did you hear, the Suspects broke up --”

“No!” Connie gasped.  “I heard about it, but I thought it was some sick prank --”

“Right? Me too!  But they all have their own things going on now.  Buck is going to medical school, Jenny’s got a little business going, Sadie has this new partner Shep and they have a totally different sound together… I don’t know.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Connie.  “Why do things have to be so confusing now?  I thought growing up was supposed to make things clearer.  Instead it seems like everything just gets more complicated.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Steven mused.  “I keep thinking, it seems like Beach City is doing fine without me, and so are the Gems, too.  I hardly even see them now.  They’re doing great with Little Homeschool, and I wonder did they even need me at all?  What was I doing, trying to run a school?  I’ve never even been to school!  I was making it all up as I went!”  He huffed in frustration, then continued.  

“I guess I’m glad my schedule’s opening up now, but I haven’t figured out what I should do instead.  I have time to sleep in but I keep waking up in the middle of the night.  I could do music stuff, but I haven’t felt like it in forever.  Lately I’ve been messing with plants, growing them the old-fashioned way, but that doesn’t really feel like anything.”  His voice trailed off.  

“And…”  He hesitated.  He hadn’t told her yet about the dome he accidentally created on graduation night, how he’d nearly hurt everyone. Or what happened in the Reef with Pearl and Volleyball.  He still wasn’t sure how to say that out loud. To anyone. 

“-- and I think my dad is still messed up after what happened with Bluebird,” he said instead.  “He was starting to get more comfortable with Gem stuff, but now he’s not coming over as much.  He doesn’t say it, but I think he’s kind of worried something might happen again.  I am too, I guess.  It honestly scared both of us.”

“I still can’t believe they went after your dad,” said Connie, a glimpse of her warrior side shining in her eyes.  “I know you let them go, but if I’d been there with my sword --”

“There’d have been no stopping you,” he chuckled.  Could they have stopped me? If I hadn’t stopped me?

“So what we do, then?  I’m a mixed up bunch of stupid hormones and you don’t know what to do with your life or your family, and I guess that makes us both at least a little awkward,” said Connie.

“I don’t know,” said Steven honestly.  But not knowing wasn’t as scary with Connie holding his hands.  There was that much, at least, and that was a lot.

The kitchen door swung open and Steven and Connie quickly let go.  He wasn’t sure if holding hands would be frowned upon by the Maheswarans, but didn’t want to find out, either.  “All done with your food?” asked Priyanka.  They nodded.

“That was truly delicious, Steven,” she said.  “Why don’t you help me finish up, Connie, and Steven, you and Doug can set up the game.  That is, if you’d like to stay for it.  You’re certainly welcome to join us.  From what I’ve seen perusing the rules manual, this game is much better balanced with four players than three.”

“Oh, please stay, Steven!” said Connie brightly.  “Maybe we could form an alliance and actually take my mom out for once.”

Priyanka let out a sharp bark of a laugh as Doug took down a board game from the bookshelf behind the dining room table.  “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”  

“All right, I’ll give it a shot,” said Steven. “But no promises, Connie.  Gemkind has abolished warfare, remember?  Strategy’s not exactly my strong suit.”

“Well, check out the rules and see what we can swing.  You’re going down, Mom,” said Connie.  They retreated, and Steven joined Doug in the living room, where he already had the game out on the coffee table.  Steven sat down beside him on the sofa.  

“Have you played this one, Steven?  It’s called Interstellar Showdown.  It can be collaborative and cooperative… or intensely competitive!”  Doug’s face glowed with anticipation.  “Priyanka always wins no matter what we play, but I’ve been studying strategies for this game on the sly.  Just between you and me, of course.”  He opened the box and started rifling through the instructions.  “Would you mind organizing the pieces for me?”

“Sure,” said Steven.  He held up one of the small transport ships.  “This is actually a pretty close version of some of the Gem ships I’ve seen,” he said.  “Do you think it’s a coincidence?” He grouped the blue pieces across from him, where he guessed Connie would probably sit, and got to work separating the pink pieces from the plastic that held them in place.  

“Hard to say.  What’s that thing Connie was telling me about the other day -- convergent evolution?  Sometimes nature makes things very similar to each other because it’s the best shape for the task, like bird wings and bat wings. I think that’s what she said.  She’s always telling me about interesting things she’s learned in school,” said Doug.

“Me too,” said Steven.  “I never knew our atmosphere was mostly nitrogen-based until Connie told me.  Who knew, right?”

“Right!  Nitrogen’s not the first thing you think of when you think ‘breathable.’  I always thought it was all oxygen, all the time.”  Doug set down the instructions and picked up a deck, tearing off the plastic wrapper. He shuffled the cards, doing both the regular shuffling as well as the bridge where the cards fanned upward.  Steven watched, slightly jealous.  He’d never figured out how to shuffle like that.

“How do you do the bridge thing?” he asked Doug.

“Bridge thing?”  Doug looked down at his hands.  “Oh, with the cards.  It’s not too hard.  You basically do the same shuffling action, but in reverse.  Give it a shot.”  He handed the cards to Steven.

“See, I can do the regular shuffling just fine --”  He demonstrated.  “But then this always happens.”  The cards limply collapsed between his hands, refusing to arc.  “Splat.”

“Try again,” said Doug, pulling out another deck of cards from the box and shuffling them downward.  Slowly he arced them upward, the cards bending into perfect semicircles.  Steven watched his hands closely.

“Okay, let’s see --”  Down shuffle.  He fanned his fingers outward, trying to urge the cards to go up instead of sideways.  They splatted again, and he frowned, mouth twisting.  “I can never get it,” he muttered.

“It’s hard to explain.  I think I had to keep practicing.  And try to change the shape of your hands as you lift the cards.  That’s key,” said Doug.  He shuffled again.

Steven tried it three more times, getting more irritated each time.  The third time the cards fluttered away from him, making a mess and knocking over the pile of pink spaceships.  A few of them skittered onto the floor and Steven flushed, suddenly embarrassed at his own irritation.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said hastily, picking the pieces back up.

“Hey, it’s fine,” said Doug, picking up a ship he’d missed under the couch.  “No big deal if the bridge doesn’t work out for you.  But if you want to keep trying, we can.”

Steven took a deep breath.  “Okay.”  He tried again, this time flaring out his fingers more widely, driving his thumbs downward as he did.  A few of the cards finally arced, weakly, and he looked in surprise at his own hands.

“See, you’ve got this!”  Doug showed him again, and Steven studied how his fingers curled beneath the cards on the upswing, the angles in relation to the table, how the thumbs moved.

Steven tried again, and this time the arc was actually visible, if not as neat as Doug’s.  “Hey! I’m doing it!”

Doug set his cards down, smiling.  “You just needed a little help.  It’s tricky!”  He clapped Steven on the shoulder, and Steven shuffled the cards once, twice, a third time, smiling.  Doug switched decks with Steven, and Steven shuffled the cards, the action getting smoother with each attempt.  

“Thanks, Mr. Maheswaran.”  

“No problem.”  They went back to punching out spaceship pieces from their plastic frames.  Doug took the white pieces, and Steven took the pink ones, leaving yellow for Priyanka.  

Doug cleared his throat.  “I’m sure you already know this, Steven, but in general, there’s never anything wrong with asking for help.”

Steven’s hands stilled on the plastic spaceships.  “With… shuffling?”

“With anything.”  Doug kept setting out the yellow plastic pieces, one at a time, his hands steady and sure.  “No one knows how to get everything right on the first try.  Sometimes it’s shuffling cards.  Sometimes it’s stuff at home, too.”

Steven’s cheeks flared.  “It -- it was just too much garlic --” he faltered. “I wasn’t --”

“Hey, hey, I’m not trying to put you on the spot, Steven,” said Doug, turning a little to face him directly.  He looked worried, but kind.  “But you’re important to Connie.  And you’re important to Priyanka and me, too.”  He reached out again, and this time instead of a quick clap, his hand rested on Steven’s shoulder.  “If there are things that are worrying you, I know you already have a lot of people in your life you can turn to.  But when I was your age, sometimes the people closest to me were exactly the ones I didn’t feel like I could talk to.  And if you’re ever in a place like that, I want you to know you can talk to me and Priyanka, even if you feel like you can’t talk to Connie or your family.”

Steven looked into his face, then sniffed, reaching up to rub his eyes.  Part of him wasn’t sure what he could possibly say to Mr. Maheswaran.  But part of him felt like he was thawing, a cold layer of fear slowly breaking up and dissolving in parts.  Not completely.  Still, though, the feeling was a good one.  

“Thank you, Mr. Maheswaran.  I -- maybe I will.”  He let out a long breath.  “Though we should probably finish setting up the game.”  But impulsively he leaned forward, and Doug’s hand on his shoulder became a hug, brief and a little clumsy but warming all the same.

“Sounds like a plan, kid,” said Doug, smiling.  His own eyes looked a little watery, or was that a trick of the light?  “Come on, ladies,” Doug called.  “Are we going to defeat you, or what?”

***

They did not, in fact, defeat Priyanka.  Though it was very, very close.  Steven’s Pacifist aliens did form a powerful alliance with Connie’s Warrior race, and Doug’s strategic use of the Zombie aliens constantly stymied them.  But in the end Priyanka’s Virus aliens stood victorious with their colonies towering above the others’, with most of the other players’ ships lost to the warp. 

Priyanka was a restrained, if slightly smug, victor.  “Well,” she said, smiling faintly at her collection of yellow colonies.  “That was certainly tricky.”

“Modest as always,” Doug teased, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly.  “Ahhh, one of these days I’ll get the perfect strategy together.  Maybe.”  He let out a long sigh.  “I thought for sure that last gambit was going to work….”

“My dad, the eternal optimist,” said Connie.  “What’d you think, Steven?  It ended up being a very Gem-like game, didn’t it?”

“Uncannily so,” said Steven.  He was glad he’d managed to draw the Pacifist card at the beginning of the game and could worry more about helping Connie win.  Even in board game form with painted on planets, the idea of colonization couldn’t help but creep him out a little.

Despite that, though, it’d been fun to see Connie with her brow furrowed in concentration, poring over the board to come up with a strategy.  He’d enjoyed Priyanka complimenting him on a particularly clever bit of negotiation, and it had been fun to cheer Doug on with Connie for the final encounter.  “It’d be cool to play again as some of these other alien species.  They all seem to have a special power that breaks the rules just a little bit. It’s a neat game.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a rematch another time,” said Priyanka.  She checked her watch. “But it’s nearly nine o’clock.  Won’t your family be getting worried, Steven?  Beach City’s not exactly down the block.”

Steven met Connie’s eyes.  He knew he’d probably be unable to convince the Maheswarans that it was fine to stay longer, that the Gems hadn’t had the concept of “bedtime” for him in years.  “I hadn’t realized it was getting so late,” said Steven.  “I hope I didn’t intrude on your family time --”

“Not in the slightest,” said Priyanka.  “It’s been a pleasure to have you, Steven. We should do this more often.”

“Besides, you were kind enough to bring over a delicious dinner!” said Doug.  “Don’t forget to send Connie that recipe for me.”

Connie reached out and poked him in the side. “If you don’t remember, he will hound me forever about it,” she warned.  “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Steven?”

“Of course not,” he laughed.  “Don’t worry. I’ll send it as soon as I get home.”

“Speaking of dinner, there was a little bit left. Let me go package it up for you,” said Doug.  “There’s plenty left for a few more servings.”

Doug and Connie both stood from their seats, and Steven gave Connie a questioning look. “I’m just going to the restroom,” she said.  Steven nodded, and realized he was now alone with Priyanka.

For a moment they didn’t speak, looking at each other from across the game board.  Steven wondered about Doug and Connie both excusing themselves, remembering how long Connie’s parents had taken in the kitchen after dinner. After he’d cried.  His cheeks burned as he put the pieces together.

He cleared his throat.  “Dr. Maheswaran, can I ask you something?”

She blinked, looking as if she had been lost in thought.  “Of course, Steven.”

He looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together.  “Did you and Mr. Maheswaran plan on… giving me a talk?”

“What do you --”

“Mr. Maheswaran talked with me earlier.  He told me I could always talk to you both.”  Steven looked pointedly at his shoes.  “That was planned, wasn’t it?  After I got weird at dinner?”

Priyanka sighed, then rested her elbows on her lap, leaning towards him.  “I suppose I can speak plainly, then.  Yes.  We saw that something seemed to be bothering you, and we didn’t want to leave it unremarked upon in case you needed to reach out.”

Steven blinked in surprise.  He’d fully expected her to deny the whole thing.  It was what the Gems would have done.

“Oh!  You -- I thought so.”

Priyanka smiled ruefully.  “You’re nearly an adult, Steven.  I’m not too surprised you realized.  I hope you don’t think that we’re trying to patronize you.”

Steven stopped twisting his hands and shoved them in his pocket instead, willing them to stay still.  His leg betrayed him by starting up a quiet jitter.  “No, I don’t think that,” he said in a rush.  “At least, not exactly.”  His leg stilled a little, remembering Doug’s quick hug, the way he’d felt like he was thawing.  “It was… really nice, what he said.”

She nodded. “That’s why I asked Doug to talk to you, instead of talking to you myself.  He’s far more approachable than I am.  I have been told I can be… intimidating.”

Despite himself, Steven could feel a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.  “I was pretty scared of you at first,” he admitted.  “I think Connie was too.”

Priyanka’s gaze softened.  “I can be very stern.  Subtlety isn’t one of my strong suits, Steven.  That’s why I wasn’t going to belabor the point by trying to corner you, if that’s what you suspected is happening right now.”

Steven looked anywhere but at her face. “Maybe…”

She chuckled.  “No. I wasn’t planning on pulling you aside myself, and Doug really did just decide to go box up the food.  And Connie wasn’t in on it, if you’re worried about that.  This was solely a parental decision.”

Steven relaxed, a fear he hadn’t even fully articulated slipping away.  “Oh.  That’s, um, good to know.  Thank you.”

“However, since you’ve brought it up… would you mind if I shared my thoughts?”

He thought for a moment.  He was, quite honestly, still a little afraid of her.  But he liked that she had asked.  “I’d like to hear them,” he said cautiously.

Priyanka straightened back up, leaning against the back of the sofa and looking thoughtful.  “I worry about you both,” she said, looking up at the ceiling.  “To be frank, this is a terrible age.  Every problem is magnified, large or small.  Human brains struggle so much at this age to mature, to grow, to form identity.  I wouldn’t go through it again if you paid me.” She let out a short, sharp laugh before continuing, still keeping her gaze fixed above him.  

 “I know Connie is having a hard time of her own, and sometimes she lets us in, but sometimes she doesn’t.  It’s normal, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult.”  She sighed.  “And I know she worries about you. She’s always wanted to fight by your side, but soldiers often struggle after their war ends.  I know that neither of you was a soldier in the traditional sense, but still… as I said, I worry.”

“Was I a soldier?  I don’t know.”  He’d never thought of himself like that.  Yet he knew battle, didn’t he?  Didn’t he know sacrifice?

“Maybe,” she said.  “I don’t know all the details.  But I know it was a war.”

“Yes.  It was.”  He swallowed.  “There are things that happened to me I still haven’t told anyone,” he said, so softly that he could barely hear his own voice.  He followed her lead and gazed up at the ceiling, its plain eggshell surface slipping and blurring in his vision.  “And some things that only Connie knows.  Terrible things.”

A moment’s pause.  “I... wondered.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say them out loud.  They’d be real, then, wouldn’t they?  The war is over.  Why do I still think about old scars?”  The tears started again, but if he didn’t look at Priyanka, he could pretend they weren’t happening.  He kept staring at the ceiling.  “And then there’s new things. I’m not human.  Not fully.  And sometimes things happen that I don’t understand -- that I can’t control --”  He sucked in a breath, suddenly remembering where he was.  He snapped his head back down and tore his gaze from the ceiling.  “No. I shouldn’t --”

Across the table, Priyanka’s eyes looked red.  She folded her hands in her lap.  “What if you did talk about it?”

Steven stared at her, his cheeks damp, his nose running.  “I can’t.  I -- I’ve already said more than I should. I’m sorry.”

Priyanka nodded.  “All right.  You don’t have to speak about it to me. Or to Doug.  Or even Connie.  But I would ask you… please think about sharing with someone.  When you’re ready.”

Steven nodded blearily.  “I’ll… think about it.”

She stood up, bringing him a tissue from the box on the end table and taking one for herself.  She dabbed at her eyes.  He got to his feet, feeling uncomfortable sitting while she stood.  He wiped his face, then balled up the tissue and stuffed it into his pocket.  

“You aren’t alone, Steven,” she said, standing beside him with her arms crossed, looking through the window to the darkened street outside.  “Even if it must feel that way sometimes.”

“It does,” he mumbled beside her.  “And I feel stupid for even thinking that, when you’ve both been so kind, when I have Connie, and my family, and --”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult.  Sometimes, it makes it even harder,” she said, and the fact that she didn’t tell him it was fine, or that he was going to be okay, made his chest ache.  He was more grateful to her for it than words could convey.

“Um… Dr. Maheswaran,” he said awkwardly.  “I don’t, um, I don’t know if you’re a hugger, but --”

Before he’d finished his sentence, she put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to her.  He rested his head against her shoulder, closing his eyes, trembling only a little.

“Usually, I’m not,” she said, and he could tell by her voice she was smiling.  “But I make exceptions for those I care about.”  She embraced him a moment longer, then let go. He found the balled up tissue in his pocket and used it again.

“Thanks, Dr. Maheswaran,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“You’re very welcome, Steven.”

“Uh… what are you guys up to?” asked Connie uncertainly from the entrance to the dining room.

“It’s a clear night, and Steven was pointing out the regions of some of the nearer Gem outposts,” Priyanka answered without hesitation.  “I was curious about some of the missions he’s been on.  Once things settle down with school, hopefully you’ll both be able to explore further.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Connie, though she still looked suspicious.

Doug appeared beside her, holding the bag of Steven’s food.  “Thanks again for sharing with us,” he said.  “Any time you want to come by and bring us dinner, you won’t catch me saying no.”

“Nor I,” said Priyanka. She nodded toward the front door.  “If you two want a few minutes to say goodbye outside, take your time.”

“Just not too much of it,” Doug joked.  He handed the bag to Steven, and gave him a warm smile.  “We’re up for a rematch any time though, Steven.  Take care.”

“Drive safely,” said Priyanka, smiling as well. “We’ll see you in a few moments, Connie.  Goodbye, Steven.”

Steven followed Connie through the front door and onto the doorstep, where she promptly sat down, patting the step beside her.  He closed the door and gratefully joined her, setting the food down between his feet.

“Um, what was that?” Connie asked.  

“What was what?” said Steven, trying to keep his voice casual.  Not that that would work on Connie.

“You and my mom talking.”  Connie waved a hand at the night sky, which was covered in clouds.  “I know she didn’t develop a sudden interest in astronomy.”

Steven buried his face in his hands, the ups and downs of the evening catching up to him.  He took a few breaths before he lowered his hands and looked at her with a watery smile.  “They worry.  About you.  About me.”

“About us?  Being together?”

“Not like that.  I think they’re fine with that.  I do think they like me,” he admitted. “But they know we’re not exactly fine.”

“Mm.”  Connie leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist.  “I thought they might try some kind of concerned talk after I realized how long they were talking in the kitchen.  I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to warn you, but they came back too soon.  That’s where they go to be sneaky.  ‘Oh, we were just doing the dishes, Connie!’  And then the next thing you know it’s ‘we’re not mad, we’re just disappointed.’  They didn’t do that, did they?”

“No, no.  They were kind.  Really kind.  Your mom… She’s actually a big softy, isn’t she?  I never knew that before.”  He reached up, putting his arm around her shoulders.  He’d never stop marveling at how right she felt beside him.

Connie laughed, the sound sweet and silvery.  “It took me a long time to realize that’s why she’s so scary sometimes.  She doesn’t want anyone to know.  Whereas Dad -- he’s just out there with it.  He doesn’t care who sees.”

“Sorry if I made dinner weird.”  He tried to think of a way to explain how he had felt.  “I just… did I ever tell you about Together Breakfast?  That was before I knew you.”

“You mean Garnet’s wedding cake that we didn’t get to eat?  I figured there had to be a story behind it.”

“Yeah, we had one then, but there was an original Together Breakfast.  There was one day I was trying to get the Gems to hang out with me.  I was twelve, I think.  I made this nasty breakfast -- waffles covered in chocolate and whipped cream and popcorn -- and I wanted them to share it with me so much.  But they were all hiding in the Temple, and then Amethyst tried to eat the whole thing, and Pearl and Garnet were too busy.... Anyway, a Gem monster got out and it turned the breakfast into this hideous horrible whipped cream nightmare.  We defeated it and went out for pizza in the end.”

“That sounds messed up, but also, completely normal for you.”

“Right?” he laughed.  “But I thought about it a while back.  The messed up part wasn’t the monster.”  This was hard to say.  Harder than he’d thought it would be.  “Why’d I have to beg them to hang out with me?  I was twelve.”

“Oh, Steven.”  She was quiet.  “They really are aliens, aren’t they?  But that doesn’t make it okay.”

“I saw you and your parents sitting around the table, happy and normal and enjoying something I’d made -- something good, something I was proud of  -- and I don’t know.”  He pressed a kiss to her forehead.  “I really enjoyed dinner with all of you tonight.  But it was hard, too.”

“I didn’t know all this stuff was going on with you,” said Connie.  

“I didn’t know about your stuff, either,” he reminded her gently.

She nuzzled against him, her face soft against the crook of his neck.  “Okay, okay, fine.  I’ll talk to you if you talk to me.  Deal?”

“That seems fair,” he said, though his mind raced with thoughts of pink flashes and white-hot rage.  He forced the thoughts away, stuffing them down.  He’d talk to her about more things.  No need to bring up everything.  There were still some things he had to figure out on his own.

“I don’t know if I can see you every week,” said Connie sadly.  “Not until some of my classes start dying down.  But we should do a video chat every week for sure.  We’ve been bad at that lately.”

“Agreed,” said Steven.  He’d been the one to say he was too busy for the past three or four calls.  He swallowed his guilt and kissed her forehead again.  “I missed you, Connie.”

“I missed you too, Steven.”

A gentle knock at the door. Connie let out a long sigh.  “Ahh, that’s my cue.  I could sit here with you forever, you know.  But I guess they have a point.  I’m freezing.”

He laughed, holding her close.  “I’d better warm you up before you go.”  A quick kiss, then a longer one, slower, softer.  They broke apart, blushing furiously.  

“Now they’re really going to give me a concerned talk,” Connie giggled.  “‘Why are you so flushed, young lady?’”  

“Because it’s cold outside!” said Steven, his eyes wide in the picture of innocence.  They broke down laughing almost immediately.

She got to her feet and crossed her arms.  “Go on, you.  Before I do get in trouble.”  She beamed at him.

“Oh, fine,” said Steven, standing up and grabbing the bag of food.  He grinned as she kissed the tip of his nose.  “But… call me tomorrow?”  

“I will. And don’t forget to text me that recipe!”  She blew him a final kiss as she opened the front door.

“Bye, Connie!  Bye, Dr. and Mr. Maheswaran!” Steven called.  He turned and headed back to the Dondai, gently swinging the bag in his hand until he remembered it held his food.

He drove back home, the car still pleasantly full of the smell of spices and peppers.  This time of night there was an utter lack of traffic on the road.  The drive home passed quickly, smooth and dreamlike in the cloudy dark.

The Dondai’s wheels drove over the gritty sand, coming to a stop just below the path up to his house.  He sat in the car for a moment, considering, then pulled out his phone.

First he sent a text to Connie.  Made it home, safe and sound.  Here’s the recipe, he sent.  He included a few photos and perhaps an overabundance of heart emojis.

Then he hit a familiar phone number and raised the phone to his ear.  After three rings, it picked up.  “Steven?” asked Greg.  “Is everything okay?”

“Oh!  Sorry, Dad.  I forgot how late it was.  Everything’s fine.  I was just wondering… have you had anything for dinner yet?”

“No, I was just snacking around…”

Steven smiled, looking at the bag in his passenger seat.  “Want to come over and watch a movie?  I made dinner.”

Greg’s voice through the phone was surprised, but glad.  “I’d love to, son.  I’ll be over in five.  Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

He ended the call and lowered his hand.  He let out a long breath, then unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed his dinner.  He stepped out into the sand, heading up the path home, and he left behind the sound of waves upon the shore.

*****************************************

(Note: I chose gumbo based upon the meal I had at a soul food restaurant for my 33rd birthday, five days after my brother died.  My family and my friends gathered there, and it was the first food we’d had all week that I could actually *taste.*  It made me feel alive again. It made me feel human.  And I thought Steven needed that too.

And yes, this is a real board game. It’s called Cosmic Encounter in our universe and it’s delightful.)

#steven universe #steven universe future #suf #connverse #connie maheswaran #priyanka maheswaran #doug maheswaran #the maheswarans #fanfoolishness' steven universe fic

[fic-for-fic-sake]

First Date?

A/N: Okay so I wrote this in March during the beginning part of quarantine so keep that in mind while you read. I hope you enjoy it and as always; likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

“Natasha you cannot be serious.” You deadpanned, making a face at her over facetime. 

“I am! I read it in a Buzzfeed article, tinder is letting you swipe all over the globe to find a quarantine buddy. It’s a thing.” She pouted from her end of the line, cutting up vegetables for her lunch. 

“I mean that’s ridiculous, are people really dating over facetime? Is this what the world has come to?” You asked, flopping down on your bed. 

“I mean, life goes on, even if you can’t go outside. Besides, I think it would be good for you, you’ve been in quarantine for more than a week now and you can’t keep facetiming me. Find yourself a new buddy, it could be fun.” She retorted, popping a piece of chopped zucchini into her mouth before throwing the rest in the pan on the stove.  

“What are you making anyway? It sounds loud.” You responded, ignoring her observation. 

“Stir fry, want some?” She teased, letting you see the pan with everything in it that made your mouth water. Red pepper and zucchini along with broccoli, chicken, and beautiful white rice. 

“I wish we were together so you could cook for me.” You moped, feeling your stomach growl with the thought of food. When was the last time you ate again? It was hard to keep track when you couldn’t leave your apartment. 

“It’s not my fault you moved to Spain.” 

“It’s only for a year! And how was I supposed to know this would happen!” You yelled at her through the phone, you doubted it had the same impact because you were staring at her kitchen ceiling as she tended to her lunch. 

“Just think about what I said, I gotta go! I’ll call you back later.” She said, as she blew you a kiss and then hung up, leaving you to look at your own tattered reflection in your black phone screen. 

You sighed as you padded to your kitchen in sweatpants to grab a pint of ice cream you had been working on. You popped a spoon in your mouth and scrolled through your phone, looking for the article Natasha was talking about. Sure enough after opening the Buzzfeed app, you saw that people were indeed doing first dates over facetime. It didn’t sound like a terrible idea, you only really had to look presentable from the waist up and you did kind of miss dressing in normal people clothes. 

Spooning ice cream into your mouth you redownloaded the tinder app and started swiping through. People from all over the globe popped up on your phone. New York, London, San Francisco, Berlin, Seoul, and New Delhi. You swiped for longer than anticipated and got a few matches but none of them really panned out until you found one profile in particular. 

Steve Rogers, an artist from Brooklyn who worked at a law firm, interesting combination. His very first picture drew you in, dark blond almost brunet locks swept to the side, a full beard, and a killer smile. Okay, you were interested. You scrolled through his pictures to find one of him in a suit, presumably at work, another of him in a cream colored cable knit sweater looking out into the middle distance, and the last one was him standing shirtless on a beach, hair slightly shaggier and coffee mug in hand. Holy shit. He was gorgeous. You swiped right and nearly dropped your phone out of shock when it said that it was a match. 

No way. No way would this literal Adonis of a human being swipe right on you, but who were you to argue with the tinder algorithm. You got up to put your ice cream back in the freezer when your phone made a pinging sound. A message from Mr. Handsome himself. 

Steve: Hey

You: Hi

Steve: Madrid huh? What time is it there? 

You: A little after 9pm

Steve: What are you up to? 

You: Oh you know, the usual, staring at a wall because I can’t leave the apartment

Steve: Wow, it’s like I’m there with you. 

You chucked at his dry humor. You and Steve talked for pretty much the rest of the night before you told him you were going to fall asleep on him if you stayed up any longer. Before he let you log out for the night, he asked you on a date, over facetime. You smiled so hard you swore you tore a muscle in your face. You accepted his proposal and agreed to facetime tomorrow evening for you and tomorrow afternoon for him, so you could cook together. 

The next day you were freaking out, deciding what to wear. What does one wear to a facetime first date? This was uncharted territory for all parties involved and the internet, where you would usually go for advice, was no help either. Natasha advised just wearing casual clothing, and she was right. You didn’t want to look formal just sitting around your apartment, that would be weird. You decided on a pair of light wash jeans and a baby pink sweatshirt hoodie from Calvin Klein. You kept your hair down, a simple style. You decided against makeup because after the call ended you were just going to take it off anyway. Perfect, you looked good and casual, not like you hadn’t left your house in four days. 

You made sure you had all the ingredients in front of you for a simple dijon sauce and chicken. You were debating whether or not you should wear an apron when your phone rang, it was Steve. You propped your phone up against the wall before you answered. 

“Hi!” You exclaimed, adjusting the phone before you stepped back into the frame. 

“Hey.” Steve’s voice rang out through your empty kitchen. You took a minute to admire what he was wearing. A plain gray long sleeve shirt hugged his arm muscles and black jeans were on his legs. His hair was swept to the side and his beard was neatly trimmed, truly the picture of perfection. 

“Are you ready to cook?” You questioned, pointing your wisk at the camera which garnered a chuckle from him. 

“What are you making?” He questioned, as he opened the door to his fridge and began to root around for ingredients, giving you a perfect view of his lower half. You tried not to stare at the image of his perfect ass on the frame, instead focusing on lighting the stove and beginning to chop up some garlic. 

“Chicken with a dijon sauce.” You replied, brows knitted in concentration. “What about you?” 

“Funny, I’m making chicken noodle soup.” He replied, laying out his celery on the cutting board and also beginning to chop. 

“God this is strange.” You commented as you turned on your stove and put some olive oil in the pan. 

“Strange good, or strange bad?” Steve implored, putting the chopped celery aside and now moving on to the carrots. 

“Yeah, I haven’t decided yet.” You chuckled a bit as you threw your chicken breasts into the pan. “How many times have you made chicken noodle soup?” You wondered. 

“I’ve been making it for years, it’s my mom’s recipe.” He explained, a smile on his face as the memory. “It’s kind of a comfort thing and these days I’ll take comfort wherever I can get it.” 

“You and me both Steve.” You replied automatically, flipping the chicken in the pan. He laughed and the two of you made polite conversation as you continued cooking your respective meals. 

“Okay, you ready to eat?” He asked, ladling his soup into a cream colored deep ceramic bowl. 

“My mouth is already watering.” You jested as you plated up your chicken and broccoli and drizzled a healthy amount of sauce over the top of everything. You both went to each of your fridges and grabbed the same bottle of chilled white wine. You had both decided on Verdejo white wine on your suggestion that it was amazing. He said he trusted your recommendation. 

You sat at your plain kitchen table in your small apartment, looking into the phone and seeing he lived in less humble dwellings. You could see a beautiful large window with what you assumed showed a spectacular view of the city. He poured his wine into an intricate stemmed glass while you poured yours into a glass cup. You laughed. 

“What is it?” He questioned, a small smile playing on his lips. Oh how that smile took your breath away. 

“I just think it’s funny that I have a washing machine in my kitchen, my walls are yellowing, and I’m drinking wine out of a cup.” You said, gesturing to your surroundings. “While you are living in a beautiful apartment and have the perfect drinking vessel for your wine.” 

“Yeah but you’re only in Spain for a year right? Work with whatcha got.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders, “I went to Romania with a friend of mine and we stayed in this little rundown shack with newspapers on the window and we didn’t have electricity.” 

“Wow Romania, what brought you there?” 

“I was commissioned to do a painting of the Romanian Athenaeum in Bucharest.” 

“Steve that’s amazing!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up in the air, “you must be a really talented artist, why’d you switch jobs? 

“I didn’t so much as switch but take a backseat in art. I loved it but it didn’t pay the bills. When I first got to New York I was living on my friend Bucky’s couch, and months later he was kind enough to offer me a position at his law firm.” Steve explained, stopping intermittently to take spoonfuls of soup. 

“That’s incredible. I wish I could paint.” You added, putting a forkful of dijon chicken into your mouth. “But art was never my strong suit.” 

Before he could provide a response, he brought the wine glass up to his lips and your movements halted as he swallowed a few sips of wine. You wondered what he would think of your recommendation. After a beat he wore the biggest smile on his face. 

“Doll, this wine is amazing! How did you know about this?” He asked incredulously. 

You could feel yourself blush at the pet name but recovered quickly, “When I studied abroad in Barcelona I went to a few wine tastings and they always had Verdejo and it was always my favorite, hands down.” 

You and Steve seemed to have no problem coming up with things to talk about. Your dinner time had long since passed and now you were yawning every few sentences and you could feel your eyes drooping. 

“Looks like someone’s tired.” Steve teased, a soft smile playing on those petal pink lips of his. No matter how tired you were you could still feel the need to press your lips against his. After a few more yawns Steve insisted that you hang up and go to sleep which you did begrudgingly. Ten minutes later you sent him a picture of you in your pajamas and tucked under the covers of your small bed. To which he responded with a picture of his own, thumbs up and face beaming. 

You had to remind yourself to thank  Natasha for forcing you to do this tinder business in the first place.

#steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers fanfic #mcu fanfic #reader insert #avengers fanfic

[iturbide]

Oh, 12 would be a great one for Claude and, really, any of the Golden Deer. Like, when he opens up to them that he’s Almyran, they want to show him that he’s more than welcome and he’ll always be their trusted leader and beloved friend. Maybe they organize a mounted archery contest? Tending to wyverns? I recall Claude enjoying a celebration in Almyra that was a ceremonial dance around a huge fire (my memory is a bit fuzzy, I am embarrassed to say as a Claude lover). I bet you have some ideas!

You know you’re right any of the Golden Deer would be great

so since i can’t pick why not all of them

12. Following their family traditions that they enjoy. 

“Lady Judith!!”

She stopped, touching her rapier as she turned toward the sound of running steps…and relaxed, folding her arms over her chest as seven mismatched fighters came stumbling to a halt before her.  She recognized them, of course: it would be hard not to, given that they were all generals in the Alliance army now, not to mention Claude’s old housemates from his days at Garreg Mach.  “Should I be worried?” she asked.

“Did you know Claude’s Almyran!?” Raphael asked excitedly.

Some aunt she’d be, if she didn’t.  But she only quirked a brow politely and nodded.  “I did.”

“Why did you never make mention of that!?” Lorenz demanded.

It was hard to keep her hand off her sword.  “What does it matter where he came from, boy?” she shot back.

“It matters a lot!!” Leonie insisted, hands fisted at her sides.

“He’s been here in the Alliance for, what, six years?” Hilda ventured, counting off on her fingers.  Seven, in truth, though Judith made no effort to correct her.  “And this whole time he’s never had any way to see his family!  I’d be a wreck if I couldn’t go home once in a while to visit my father and brother.”

“He must have been so lonely, all this time,” Marianne murmured, folding her hands, “being so far from home, with nothing to remember it by…”

…well this had certainly taken a different turn than she expected.  “What are you saying, exactly?”

“Claude’s been working so hard, trying to keep us ahead of the Empire, making sure the Alliance has what it needs to survive and win – the least we can do is show we appreciate it,” Lysithea huffed.

“And, well, what better way than trying to make him feel at home?” Ignatz added, adjusting his glasses.  “Only…none of know all that much about Almyra.  I heard from Cyril once that it has vast open plains, but…I doubt I could capture a likeness without having seen it myself.”

“My brother collects battle standards from skirmishes at the Locket, but that’s not much to go on where fashion and decoration are concerned, either,” Hilda sighed.

“We were hoping you might know more,” Leonie said.  “I mean, if you knew Claude’s Almyran, maybe you know what it’s like there.  What kind of food they have, that sort of thing.”

“With the Empire so close, we know he can’t go home, but…maybe if we could bring a little bit of home to him…” Mariane ventured.

“So will you help us out, Lady Judith?” Raphael asked.  “Please?”

Judith smiled, running a hand back through her hair.  Lucky Claude, having friends like these at his back.  “Well, I can’t claim to know much,” she cautioned, “but I’ll gladly tell you everything I can.”

///

Claude sighed, rubbing his eyes as the ink started to blur on the page.  It was getting hard to stay focused, which usually meant it was time to get up and go do something else…but things had been weird lately.  Tense, in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  His old housemates from the Golden Deer had been acting extra flighty, giving him a wide berth every time they happened to cross paths and making excuses whenever he tried to talk with them before beating a hasty retreat.  Even Hilda, who usually loved shirking her chores to take breaks with him, had waved him off twice, saying she was in the middle of something (despite all evidence to the contrary).

It hadn’t been this way before Fort Merceus.  But then, nobody had known about his Almyran heritage, either.

Raking his hands through his hair, he leaned back so far that his seat threatened to tip over.  He’d been so certain that if anyone could bridge the divide between Fodlan and Almyra, it was his old house…and it hurt to realize that his secrecy at the academy had been justified.  

Admittedly, none of this was what he’d wanted to focus on while he stepped back from his Enbarr siege tactics.

A knock came at the door, and he tipped his chair forward, sprawling across the map.  “Come in,” he mumbled.

He wasn’t actually sure if he’d been loud enough to hear.  But the door opened anyway, and Judith came striding in, grinning ear to ear.  “You busy?”

“Kind of,” he grumbled.

“Too bad,” she replied.  “Even Master Tacticians need breaks, and you look like you could use one.”

“Please don’t call me that,” he groaned.

“Would you rather I call you ‘boy’?”

“Like you do to Lorenz?  No, thank you,” he scoffed, shoving himself more or less upright and trying to ignore the chorus of pops that accompanied his stretch; if his own regret at sitting too long weren’t bad enough, her glare only compounded it.

“You definitely need a break,” she declared.  Any stronger and it would have been an order.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed.  “I need to check on the wyverns anyway.”

“That sounds like more work,” she warned.

“At least I won’t be hunched over a desk, though, right?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You didn’t say what kind of break I needed.”

“Smart-ass,” she snorted, hooking his arm in hers and dragging him out the door, away from the stairs leading up to the roof where the wyverns had taken roost and toward the gate leading out of the fort they’d occupied on the march toward Enbarr.  The rain that had forced their stop had long-since passed, but the dry ground and the clear skies above promised that they’d be free to resume the march with the sunrise.  It would be a perfect night for stargazing, if he could escape Judith–

The aroma of wild garlic and roast fish almost knocked him off his feet.  As it was, only Judith’s hold on his arm kept him stumbling in the right direction.  There was a bright blaze visible through the trees, too big to be a campfire…and as they broke through the undergrowth, he realized it was a bonfire – a small one, filling the clearing with the sweet scent of cedar smoke.  “What is this?” he asked.

“What’s it look like?” Judith grinned.

“It looks like I’m dreaming,” he replied, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.

“Well, I can assure you that it’s real,” she laughed.  “Now you’d better hurry up if you want to eat, I don’t know how long they can hold Raphael off.”

As if on cue, Hilda appeared at his side, grabbing hold of his other arm.  “Thanks, Lady Judith!” she giggled, dragging him toward the fire.  “We were starting to worry you’d never show up!”

“…did I miss something?” he asked.

She didn’t answer with anything but a smile.  But as the firelight drove the darkness back, he realized that she was wearing a sash not so different from his own, complete with bright patterns and dangling ornaments.  As the rest of the Golden Deer gathered around, he realized they all had them, the traditional green and gold accented with different colors for each of them.  And they were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

He couldn’t find words for a minute.  He just stared at them, every one of them smiling (even Lorenz!) and bearing familiar traces of his homeland.  “What is this?” he asked again.

“It’s a party!” Raphael laughed.

“A celebration,” Lysithea corrected.

“Lady Judith told us about an Almyran fire festival,” Ignatz added, adjusting his glasses.  “We couldn’t find everything she mentioned, but we tried to get as close as we could.”

“I got the food together,” Leonie beamed.  “Spent most of today fishing and foraging and cooking, and I think it all turned out pretty great.”

“Sure did,” Raph agreed.  “I got to taste test after I got the fire going!”

“I didn’t have enough time to make whole outfits,” Hilda sighed, “but I at least managed to make sashes for everybody.  I tried to base it off yours, but I’ve never seen you take yours off, so I had to do a little guess-work.”

“But…but what is it for?” Claude asked, still hopelessly confused.

“It’s for you,” Marianne replied, playing with her sash.  “You’ve been working so hard lately, preparing for Enbarr…we wanted to thank you.”

“And what better way than by giving you something from home?” Lysithea asked.

Claude couldn’t stop the smile from creeping across his own face.  “…did Judith happen to mention that the Festival of Fire is part of the New Year celebration?”

They all stopped and looked nervously at one another.  “I…can’t seem to recall,” Lorenz replied awkwardly. 

“I’ve gotta say, you couldn’t have picked a better celebration,” Claude beamed.  “The Festival of Fire always precedes the New Year festivities.  It’s about burning away problems and bad luck so that we can go into the New Year without worries to drag us down.  Andwe’re working our way toward a new dawn, aren’t we?  One free from Imperial rule.  This’ll make sure we come at the battle free of any burdens.”

Their anxiety melted away as he spoke, and by the time he finished their smiles were brighter than the bonfire.  “Will you tell us more about it?” Ignatz asked eagerly.  “The festival, and the New Year?”

“Of course I will – I’ll even teach you how to jump the bonfire without setting yourself on fire,” he winked.  “Thank you all.  This is…amazing.”

“We’re glad you like it,” Hilda giggled.  “It’s the least we could do for you.”

If this was their least, he couldn’t help but wonder what else they might have done.  This was already more than he’d expected.  More than he’d ever thought to ask for.  And as Leonie led the way around the fire to the blankets laid out with a feast fit for an Almyran table, he felt the warmth of their company burn away all his old fears.

50 Wordless Ways to Say ‘I Love You’

#answered #dorkling2 #meme #fanfiction #fire emblem: three houses #claude #judith #i love all the golden deer so much #i can't pick just one #and honestly it feels so fitting to have it as a giant team effort #everyone contributing what they have and what they know #raph gathering the cedar wood for the bonfire #leonie working on the food and prep #ignatz doing tons of sketches and loose paintings through the night #judith bringing claude's oud before she joins in so he can lead them in the music #all of them dancing together and leaping the blaze #it's just such a warm and wonderful image #thank you so much for this prompt #snippets

[qqueenofhades]

Since you asked for prompts and I love your work: Kastle celebrating New Years, if you'd like.

@fortysevenswrites said: For your prompt request: snowy dinner for Kastle, if you're so inclined :-D

She does not, Karen Page thinks, envy anyone trying to get out of JFK tonight. (She never envies anyone trying to get out of LaGuardia, so that goes without saying). It’s bucketing it down, has been since four o’clock, so all the tourists desperate to freeze their asses off at the ball drop in Times Square better bundle up warm. Karen thinks of the rough sleepers with their dirty sleeping bags, their damp cardboard, their battered McDonald’s cups hoping for change. Some of them will probably freeze to death tonight, and the tourists will walk right on by.

She shakes her head, tells herself to snap out of it, and goes to stir the pasta. She feels self-conscious trying to make Italian food of any kind for Frank, remembers what he said about Maria’s grandmother and her authentic Sicilian, and her forte isn’t as a chef anyway. But she can read a recipe and open a good bottle of red wine, which will hopefully cover a multitude of sins, and Frank is too polite to mention if it actually tastes like shit. He can’t be eating many home-cooked meals these days anyway, since Frank goddamn Castle seems to have a pathological aversion to it. Karen would ask where he’s been, the last couple months, but don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, etc. She’s lucky she got him to agree to tonight.

She checks the pasta, stirs the sauce, pops the bread in the oven to keep it warm, applies the garlic liberally, and hastily turns down the stove before it can set off the fire alarm and send her neighbors all bitching out into the frigid night. (Can’t be a good omen for New Years, anyway.) She gets the glasses and pours the wine, and by 7:00pm, when she told Frank to turn up, it’s more or less ready. Karen resists the urge to fidget, adjust the tablecloth too much. It’s 7:05, then 7:15, but the weather is self-evidently crap and there could be delays on the subway. (Does Frank take the subway, or only ever drive around in that hulking black murder van of his? Karen imagines him in his skull hoodie, sitting next to some nice old babushka out doing her shopping. Knowing Frank, he might offer to carry it home.)

It’s 7:30, then 7:45, and she’s almost started to think that he’s not coming when there’s a buzz on the bell, a thumping up the stairs like the Huns are invading, and a knock -- after that riotous prelude, almost shy -- on her front door. There’s no one else it can be, unless Matt and Foggy’s New Year’s dinner has gone really wrong (Karen doesn’t want to know) but she peers through the peephole anyway. Sure enough, it’s Frank, stomping snow and huffing with cold, flakes gathering on his hood, holding a somewhat wilted bouquet of white flowers. He looks nervous. It’s kind of adorable.

Karen bites a smile, wonders how much of a hard time she should give him about the lateness, and opens the door. “Hey,” she says. “Started to think I was gonna have to eat this by myself.”

“Sorry.” Frank looks down, does that shrug, thrusts the flowers at her like a peace offering. “I can still come in, yeah?”

Karen gives him that you-knucklehead stare she’s perfected, takes the flowers, and steps back to admit the Punisher into her apartment. She goes to put the bouquet in water, takes the wine glasses off the counter, and hands one to him; he murmurs a rasping thanks, nods, takes a sip. “It’s good,” he says, after a long pause. As if he’s switching himself out of whatever mode he’s been running in, remembering to take his walls down. “Smells real good, Karen. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She surveys him, the breath of the winter night still hanging around him. There are scrapes on his knuckles that look fresh. “Do I want to know why you were late?”

Frank shrugs. “Some dickhead thought he was gonna drag a drunk girl down an alley and have a little fun. I made fuckin’ sure he didn’t.” He pauses, evidently considering that a good amount of information, then adds, “We gonna eat?”

Karen raises both eyebrows, gesturing him to the table. The random would-be rapist can count himself lucky if all his limbs are still attached to his body, and she thinks Frank would have a lot more blood and/or unidentifiable stains on him if there was a detour to drop a weighted garbage bag into the East River. But as ever, she loves it, that ferocity, the knowledge that at least one other girl in this stupid city will get home safe tonight, protected, defended. Maybe that’s why she could never really, truly, completely ask Frank to stop. Not when she needs it too.

The dinner is long, the wine is good, the conversation -- well, it takes a while, and Frank is never the most voluble of companions, but it does the job. It gets late, and Karen says he doesn’t have to go out into it again if he doesn’t want, and Frank glances sidelong at her. It’s understood that this is their way of agreeing that he will spend the night in her bed, as has happened before, but for two presumably grown-ass adults, they can’t seem to broach the topic directly. Fine. If this is how it is for now, Karen can wait. He’s trying. That’s the reason she hangs in there with it. Maybe she needs it this way too. Plausible deniability.

She falls asleep after, curled up against him, their bare skin nipped by the chill, the piece-of-crap radiator in her bedroom. When she wakes in the morning, there’s an indent on the pillow and a black coffee waiting. Karen sits up, and sips it, and watches the snow come down.

(Frank isn’t there, but she wasn’t expecting him to be.)

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlecastles #ask

[danetobelieve]

One Shell Of A Dinner Party, pt. 1 || Ricky, Skylar and Winston

Winston wasn’t exactly the type to have many people over for dinner. It wasn’t that they weren’t sociable, it was more that they weren’t exactly an outrageously good cook. They could manage most of the basics, and only a fifth of their meals went in the bin, which was much better then it had been before. They even made themselves vegetables and more importantly they ate them. But Ricky was cooking the fish tonight, because as a human seal person AKA a selkie, fish and meat were the things that they mainly ate. They knew what they were doing and they’d do a good job. Winston had handled the sides, though they had deliberately made less then they usually would as they suspected that perhaps they would be the one eating most of it. They weren’t completely certain what Skylar was, but they were a bit too similar to Ricky for it to be a coincidence. Ricky was hard of hearing, so was Skylar. They both had the same teeth and suddenly there was a knock at the door. Adjusting the shirt that they’d chosen to wear, Winston headed to the front door and swung it open to find Syklar. “Uh, hey!” they did their best to sound excited but truly social situations with people made them somewhat nervous and they didn’t want to make things too weird with Skylar, “Thanks for coming… do you want to come in? Can I take your coat?” 

Skylar let out a nervous sigh as she stood outside the door, her contribution for dinner wrapped neatly up in some paper and tucked under her arm. She’d decided it would probably be rude to recycle the falling fish that she’d found this morning and went with the ones she had caught herself on the pier. At least she knew where those came from. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs this was not and, even though she was perfectly okay to test her luck eating one of the sky fish, she didn’t think Winston or Ricky would be as unbothered by it. But, that wasn’t why she was nervous. Being invited over for dinner, by a random man she’d accidentally caught in her fishing line, with the person who’d helped save her from the terrible ghoul in the cave… it was a little weird. But, as far as she could tell, that was small town hospitality? When in Rome… “C’mon, just knock on the door-- okay.” She mumbled to herself before rapping the door with her knuckles. When Winston appeared, she smiled, her nerves probably evident on her face. “Um, hi! Thanks for having me. I come bearing gifts of fish?” She held up the package in her hand. “Oh. Thanks!” She said as she stepped inside, removing the light jacket that she wore.

While Ricky was super excited about the prospect of having Skylar over for dinner, he was starting to wish they hadn’t set up the event for the week he was apparently cursed. He could still see his breath on the air in front of him, and while the profound cold and sense of dread and permanent feeling of the rough wood against his fingertips no matter what he was touching didn’t seem like they were actively killing him, they did make him very uncomfortable. He heard the knock on the door and knew it was their guest, craning to try to hear the scraps of conversation from the entryway as he mixed spices in a bowl in preparation for the fish Skylar was meant to bring. Wiping his hands on a towel that somehow felt like rough wet wood, he wandered out from the kitchen into the main entryway, broad smile on his face, “Fishhook! Welcome to our humble abode.” His words created puffs of steam as he spoke them, even his speech affected by the chest’s curse “I’ll be your cursed host this evening. Come in! I’ve got some spices in the kitchen I’ve been mixing for the fish. I think you’ll like them… I hope you will at least.” He offered his hand to Skylar to shake… she didn’t seem like the hug type, and gestures back towards the kitchen “I set up a cheese plate! So we don’t starve while I grill. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Liquor? Water? I think I have juice in the fridge but I’m not sure. Winnie the Dude you want something to drink?” Curse or no he was going to make this a good evening. 

Nodding to Skylar, Winston shrugged. “Thank Ricky, he’s doing all of the hard work, I just get to look here and look less pretty then him.” Taking Skylar’s jacket, they slipped it onto a coat hook and smiled to her gently before leading her through their hallway and into the combined lounge, dining and kitchen space. Winston wasn’t sure if Ricky had changed the place to be open plan or if they had just had a love affair with open plan spaces. Either way it worked really well. Winston noticed the puffs of frost from Ricky’s direction and had to admit that they weren’t about to try and explain that one, but ever since Ricky had touched the chest they had been colder then before and it was starting to get to a stage that worried Winston. “Fishhook? Oh, I get it they…” They led Skylar through the house and shrugged at Ricky. “I’ll get like a beer or wine or something, but you cook and I can do drinks, dream team.” They headed into the kitchen and started pulling various drinks out so that they could display them to Skylar. “We’ve got red and white wine, we’ve got Coronas, we’ve got Talisker Skye Whiskey, we’ve got water; both sparkling and still, we’ve got orange, apple and exotic juice and I think we’ve got milk if you’d prefer that?” 

A bit overwhelmed by the flurry of activity and conversation, Skylar set the package of fish down on the kitchen counter. “Oh! Um,” Skylar shook Ricky’s hand awkwardly, very aware that her hand was just a little too slick, “Hi again. And no thanks for the cheese plate or milk-- I’m lactose intolerant.” She said with a wave of her hand at the various beverages that were being offered her way. The two of them were very nice, even if it all was just a little much for her. “If I’m Fishhook, does that make you catch of the day?” She said before laughing a little bit at her own joke. Even if she knew both of them, it was still a little awkward to be invited in. “Um, water will be fine, thanks. I drove here, I’m not really feeling anything particularly alcoholic.” She said with a wave. Gesturing to the fish she brought with her, Skylar scratched her temple, “I already cleaned the fish, but I didn’t filet them-- I wasn’t sure how you wanted to cook them.”

Shaking Skylar’s hand, Ricky was unsurprised to find it still felt like splintered wood in his grasp. This little gift from the chest would get old fast. “More for us then!” He knew better than to overindulge in the cheese, unless he wanted to spend the night puking, but a little of a good thing wouldn’t kill him. “I’m the catch of the month, bare minimum.” He shot her a rakish wink as he bowed courteously to Winston, “Well if you’re going to play bartender I’m going to get started on the fish. I’ll have an Ardbeg neat, if you’re pouring. There should still be a bottle up above the glasses.” His favorite scotch tasted of smoke and sting and he loved its familiar burn. “If it gets too late we do have a very comfy couch. You’re always welcome to stay here. As to the fish. Thanks for the cleaning. I’m not averse to it but I’m not the biggest fan of fish guts all over my kitchen. I think I’ll leave them whole then.” He ducked out to start the grill, marveling at how it didn’t feel any more or less cold than the house; everything was arctic to him at this point. Returning to the kitchen he grabbed a sharp knife from the block and lightly scored the outside of the fish, “How was your day? Get hit by any falling fish?”

“Wouldn’t catch of the month go kind of gross after like the first day though?” Winston retorted quietly as they grabbed Skylar a glass, filled it with ice and then filled it with water. “Wait, unless you don’t want ice? I can get rid of it?” They held the water tentatively, it felt slick within their grasp and suddenly Winston wondered why they had decided to do the drinks. They weren’t a capable host. They knew this. But Skylar and Ricky apparently hadn’t worked it out yet. They would have to fake it till they made it. As Ricky offered them a place to stay, they slid a glass of scotch over to their friend and was about to suggest that they could drive Skylar home if they wanted to drink, but then they remembered that they weren’t currently in possession of a car due to a giant crab… thing. “Just do whatever you want, it doesn’t really matter to us, I think is the point.” Winston grabbed themself a beer and hicked up onto one of the counters to watch, grabbing a piece of cheese to chew on as they did. Taking a long sip of beer they laughed. “What is with the fish falling from the sky? I don’t mean to be cliche, but it is all a little … fishy.”

Floundering a little bit under Ricky’s wink, Skylar felt the back of her neck heat up. At least he was wearing a shirt this time, at least he was fully clothed now. Skylar accepted the glass of water from Winston with a grateful smile, “This is perfect, thanks.” She said, taking a deep drink of water to avoid looking directly in Ricky’s direction. It wasn’t just that he was undeniably attractive, it was the fact he seemed to have a knack for making her squirm that made her eager to change the conversation. “The fish! Mmm. Ahah. I see what you did there. That’s not a bad pun, but it cod be better.” Skylar replied, tension easing slightly as she made a joke of her own. Glancing over at where Ricky was in the kitchen, Skylar shook her head. “I got hit by the tail end of a mackerel, but I’ve been pretty lucky. I saw a swordfish go through the awning of one of the shops in town and it had left some major damage. No one was hurt though.” She said.

“The bottom line is… our house is yours. So please make yourself at home.” Ricky nestled into his favorite corner of the kitchen, where he could chop and slice and still see and be a part of everything. He grabbed a head of garlic from a bowl and started peeling cloves, managing a couple before a glass of scotch made its way into his hand, the thin glass frosting where his fingers touched it “slainte!” The toast echoed through the kitchen as he raised the glass, the amber liquid in the glass almost the same color as his eyes, “to new friends, may they quickly become family.” Quaffing a mouthful of the scotch he went back to slivering garlic “it’s the chest on the beach.” His voice was flat as the words came out on the wings of frosted breath. “Morgan and I got hit with what I think was the first wave after we came in contact with it. I’d avoid touching it if I were you. It’s got some……. lingering side effects.”

Taking a drink from their beer, Winston laughed along with Skylar’s joke, it was better then their own and she seemed to be relaxing a little bit. Although they could see why this might be a little bit weird. “A swordfish? That’s taking it a little literally. I stopped by the police station earlier for some intern stuff and it was chaos. Apparently there is a big pack of those crab things moving around…” they sighed gently and shrugged. “I was hoping that after the cave that would be the first in a very short line of things that would attempt to disrupt my life.” They raised their drink in toast to Skylar and Ricky, and swallowed a generous portion. “I’ll do my best to avoid the beach that is frozen almost entirely solid at this point in time.” This was a weird life that they found themselves living. 

Raising her glass as well, Skylar was mid-way through a sip of water before she realized that… mist was coming from Ricky’s mouth. Like he was outside on a cold day? But, they were inside and it wasn’t at all cold and-- wait a second. Was this what he meant by the post about warming up? And crab things… Oh god. Setting down her glass, Skylar leaned against the kitchen counter as she began to understand what was going on. The weird bullshit from last week was definitely here to stay, just in a different capacity. “Lingering effects..? Are you talking about like… a curse?” She asked, confused. “The beach is frozen? That’s not right, that can’t be happening.” But, the more she thought about all the weird little pieces, the more it came together. And her logical, rational part of her mind was stuck with one very horrifying realization. “Magic. Shit. Magic’s real, isn’t it?” Skylar said, glancing at the two roommates, almost hoping they would laugh it off. That they would call her crazy. This was crazy. Wasn’t it?

It was almost akin to a slow motion train wreck, watching the spectrum of emotions that played across Skylars face as she started to put some pieces together. “Ding ding ding!” Ricky sang cheerfully, stuffing the body of the fish with fresh bay leaves and onions “she solved the puzzle!” He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder and moved back to grinding spices in a mortar, “it is. And whatever kind of magic that chest is it’s some real bad juju. It clearly caused the fish. Morgan and I might be cursed. And it froze a section of beach to a goddamn ice rink.” Another sip of whisky and he started to rub the spice mixture into the grooves he’d scored into the fish, “hence the warning you to stay away. You know… you caught on faster than a lot of people. Bravo. Six months in and you figured it out.”ure it out.” 

“Ricky….” Winston found themselves chastising their friend, “not everyone in here was brought up knowing all about a world full of … well ghouls and magic.” The irony of course was that they were almost convinced that Ricky and Skylar were the same thing. It made sense after all. The teeth. The hearing. The vision. It was too much of a coincidence. They just had to find some way of forcing their old friend and new friend to admit it to one another. Ricky could definitely help Skylar come to terms with everything, they’d helped Winston after all. “I know that this is a SHIT load to take in, believe me I bailed for like a week when I found out … after y’know the cave of voices incident, so if you need some time, by all means take it, but yeah magic seems like it is real and it seems like it has caused … whatever the hell is going on with that chest.” They paused for a second longer, wondering whether they should admit their own working theory on magic. Not that they’d ever been able to make anything happen deliberately. So far everything that might be magic had happened when things were really going tits up. “I’m sure you’ve got questions, I’m sure Ricky would be happy to answer them because I know about as much as you do.” 

Skylar’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the kitchen island tightly, her vision wavering at the edges as she began to take deep breaths. Magic was real. Mhm. It was the only reasonable explanation for the ghoul. And for the bluddles. And for the “red sky” that people had saw. And now everything else that was happening, it was all coming down to magic. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Pinching her eyes shut, Skylar rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I… Think I’ll have a drink now. I don’t really care what.” She said weakly. Magic was real. Magic was real and the two of them knew that it was real and they were being so jokey and happy go lucky about it and Ricky was cursed, but he was joking about it and there was a magic/cursed treasure chest and why the fuck was there a cursed treasure chest and-- Her breathing began to come in quickly as she struggled to keep her cool. What the hell did this mean for her? “I-I-I need answers. Why? How? How long? What’s going on?” She stammered her way through that sentence, fingers tapping restlessly against the kitchen countertop all the while.

Ricky watched somewhat impassively as Skylar went through what appeared to be an entire mental metamorphosis as her entire world view shifted. He poured her a healthy measure of scotch before returning to his food prep “Ricky will answer what questions he can.” He corrected his roommate, sticking his tongue out at them, “I am not a supernatural almanac. I know a bit about a very specific portion of it all. But your questions are easy enough. Why? Because that’s the way the world actually works. How? See above answer. How long? Literally all of human and inhuman history. What’s going on? Way too big a question to neatly answer.” He neatly threaded skewers through the fish, sealing them so the inside would steam and perfume the meat. “Ultimately…. White Crest has it worse than most other places. Dunno why. But. Usually it’s quieter than it has been. Supernatural side’a shit’s been acting up lately.”

Perhaps Winston was more sympathetic because Skylar was going through what they had literal days ago. Swallowing a mouthful of beer they slipped off the top of the counter and moved next to Skylar. “Hey, just breath, this is a lot to take in and it’ll be a lot to process. But it isn’t as if we’re expecting anything from you. Take your time, if we’ve got answers for your questions we’ll tell you what we can, but honestly, I’m as new to this as you are.” They paused for a second longer and sighed gently. “The truth is that I think maybe the world has just always been like this and we’ve been willfully ignorant. There are so many weird things in White Crest, and you wouldn’t believe the other weird things that there are. But for the moment we can tackle magic. It appears to be real. Apparently there are people who can even use and control it.” Maybe like themselves.

Taking the glass of scotch, Skylar tossed it back in a single swallow before setting the empty glass back down on the table, her fingers still trembling as she did her best to collect herself. Mm. Hmmm. Nope, no, she didn’t believe this. But what else could she believe? It was the only reasonable and logical explanation to all of this. At the word, ‘inhuman,’ Skylar’s face twitched. Definitively not human, someone who wasn’t human. Mm. Like her-- nooooo. No, no, no, she wasn’t going to even think about that right now. “So, so… so supernatural shit. That’s what’s happening here? Like, fricking Gandalf is going to pop out of the woodwork, or we’re going to get letters to Hogwarts?” She let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “No, no, no. Nope. Nuh uh. Ahhh…” Skylar tilted her head down, fingers drumming loudly against the countertop as she stared at the island. “Okay, let’s say this is real. Say what you’re telling me is… real. What the fuck can we even do about any of this?”

Ricky couldn’t help but wince as Skylar pounded back a glass of what was $75 a bottle scotch, “Far as I know… no Hogwarts, and Gandalf is probably off the table too… but… it’s White Crest so you never know.” Wandering outside to put the fish on the grill he left the sliding door open so he could still join in on the conversation, “You’ve definitely just been willfully ignorant!” He called through the door after Winston’s comment. They had been their own version of willfully ignorant for sure. Ricky wasn’t even sure if Winston had unblocked him on the town message board yet. “Well.. this whole conversation will be a whole lot easier if you just accept that it is. Which you should. You ran into a ghoul in the Cave… you know it’s real.” The scent of the fish started to waft through the air, and he couldn’t help but take a deep inhale, “What can we do? Avoid the dangerous shit, be smart around the rest of it. We’re just people… not much else we can do.” Turning around briefly to check on the fish he shot Winston a look while his back was to Skylar, hopefully his roommate wouldn't out him as inhuman. 

Winston winced for an entirely different reason to Ricky. This was a lot for Skylar to take in and they weren’t sure that Ricky was all that helpful in this current moment. “I don’t think that Hogwarts or Gandalf are real in this world, not that i would really know because y’know, I’ve literally only just found out about this shit, but it can be intense.” They swallowed. Skylar was right. To some extent it truly felt as if they were at the whims of fate right now and no matter what they did they wouldn’t be able to control their fate. “The point is, that now you know, you can learn, like I’m doing and presumably like Ricky once had to, once you know what can hurt you then you can take precautions and make sure that you don’t get hurt by something.” That was Winston’s plan at least. They couldn’t help but wonder what the supernatural equivalent of mace and a tazer was. Would tazers really work on something that was powered by magic? “I think that we’ve also got to consider the possibility that if we know then a lot of other people know and have known about this stuff for a while and they probably have a pretty good handle on it too… right?” 

Head still bent over the kitchen counter, Skylar listened to the two roommates try to reassure her. Well, Winston seemed to be trying to reassure her. Ricky… less so. When he wandered out to put the fish on the grill, she looked over at Winston, trying to gauge how they were handling all of this. “Get hurt by something?” Looking through the door at Ricky, her voice went high pitched, “Dangerous shit?” What other awful, crazy bullshit was happening? “If other people know about this sort of thing, why haven’t they said anything? This is like… a huge deal. I got strangled by a ghoul thing and now you’re saying there are other more dangerous things out there? Wouldn’t people want to help people be prepared?” Glancing around, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. But how do you know about all of this, Ricky? And how don’t you, Winston? Haven’t you lived here your entire life?”

“At this moment? I think the fish and karkinoids are the most dangerous shit. At least the most dangerous shit we know about.” Ricky flipped the fish carefully, closing the lid and leaning against the door frame, “Here’s the thing. There has always been this world, shifted slightly out of your focus, that you didn’t notice or know about before. The danger has always been there… you just haven’t known about it. So the danger isn’t any more or any less than it’s literally always been. You just see it now. So it seems worse.” Letting his hair down he shook it loose into its curly mess and shrugged, “It’s a fine line people walk. If they admit they’re a part of this world… well… not everybody is accepting. Sometimes the most dangerous things are human and scared. Me? Oh my mom did. Her mom knew and taught her how to watch for it and she taught me.” 

Winston was glad that Ricky came up with the lie. They were already mentally preparing to stumble through it. They definitely should have pre-rehearsed all of this before actually having this conversation with someone. “I mean, the ghoul was as bad as I’ve encountered, it just seems like now is a particularly bad time for it or something? I don’t know what the hell else is out there but after barely surviving collecting your… uh stuff, well I just don’t want to be unprepared.” They considered why this hadn’t been more widely reported on. “I mean, whenever you talk about cryptids or ghosts or vampires or werewolves to normal people who don’t live in the Hellmouth from Buffy, then they just laugh it off and call you crazy, I guess that until you actually see it then you struggle to believe it…” They paused again, taking a drink of their beer to occupy themselves as Ricky did their best to continue the lie. “I don’t know if my parents know or if they’re just in denial, but somehow I managed to avoid finding out about all of this stuff until some big dog breathing fire attacked me, then I managed to get away and there was something with another dog, and then there was something else with a moose thing and then now these giant crabs. It’s just been a shit show since the New Year.”

Doing her best to process all of this information, Skylar shut her eyes tightly. Mmm. The concept of aliens, she could handle. The idea of weird fish spouts and terrible pranks, she could handle. All of this, all of this magical stuff, it was a hard pill to swallow. But the more and more Ricky and Winston talked about it all, the more she could tell that they were genuine about all of this. “Ghosts and vampires and werewolves. Those are all real too? What the fuck? What the actual…” She opened her eyes to stare at the two of them before clearing her throat. “Fire breathing dog and moose and a giant crab... I’m sorry. This is all just… a lot.” She knew that White Crest was weird, she’d known that it was an odd little town since she’d first started poking around the place. But, she’d never thought it would be full of literal magical demons and stuff like that. Even though she was forcing herself not to think about it, not to address it, the same thought kept creeping up in the back of her mind. If this was all real, then what the hell was she?

Ricky pulled the fish from the grill and brought the platter inside, sliding the door closed against the winter chill with his hip as he did so, “Definitely vampire and werewolves…. I assume ghosts are too? But… I don’t actually know that one for sure.” He set the plate on the table and started to get out silverware and plates, “Oh it’s definitely a what the actual fuck moment. It’s gonna be a what the actual fuck week.” Gesturing for his friends to sit and eat the food he was sure would taste cold the minute he put it in his mouth, Ricky shrugged and refilled Skylar’s scotch, “Winston’s right though. It’s easier for people to assume none of this is real and that everyone who thinks so is batshit. Because trying to logic your way out of something like rusalki or aipalooviks is a helluva mental hurdle. But really. If you’re not stupid it’s pretty easy to avoid having the supernatural enter your life… unless the whole town becomes cursed and fish start falling from the heavens. Then it sorta demandingly inserts itself into your life.”

Swallowing gently, Winston followed Ricky from the kitchen to the dining room table that not half an hour ago they had meticulously set for the three of them. Nodding for Skylar to take a seat, they paused for a second trying to give her the time that she really needed to take all of this in. “Look, Skylar, I get it, this is all completely wild, everything that seems to come with this is completely crazy too, it is going to take you a couple of days or maybe even weeks to really process this, fuck knows that I haven’t really processed it, I still have these moments where I feel like I imagine you’re feeling.” They assumed that it was completely and totally normal to feel overwhelmed by all of this. “I have it on fairly good authority that ghosts are real, but I don’t want to out my source for obvious reasons…” they were learning that in a world like the one they had just discovered they lived within, information was both powerful and dangerous in this world that they lived in. “No one is expecting you to adjust to this straight away, but now that you know something, it is better that you know more then less.”

Skylar cradled the glass of scotch in her hand as she followed the roommates into the dining room, taking the seat offered to her by Winston. Her eyes were focused on the fish sitting on the platter in front of them, but she was doing her best to take in all of the information they were telling her. A part of her, a very large part, wanted to shut her hearing aids off and pretend that she hadn’t heard any of this. But, she couldn’t just pretend that this wasn’t real. Not if she wanted to stay safe. She took a sip of scotch, the glass shaking slightly in her hands. “It’s better to know more. Mhm.” She echoed. Better to know more about the situation but also… about herself. Now that was a super troubling thought. “So. If there are vampires and werewolves and whatever that Russian thing you said was… Does that mean the people around here aren’t actually people?” Like me? She wondered.

It was strange to see his dining room look like it was used for a dinner party regularly. Ricky and Winston were both so busy and so laid back that they frequently just ate in the living room, if they were home to eat at the same time at all. Winston’s comment about ghosts had Ricky raise an eyebrow slightly, apparently he had some catching up to do on his roommate’s life. “Winston, like they usually are except when they’re trying to get me to be a responsible adult, is right. Now that you do know… the more you know the better.” He served them each a fish, removing the skewers so fragrant steam filled the dining room, “just because witches are real doesn’t mean they’re evil. At least one of them is an absolute mega bro and I love her. You can judge the supernatural just like you judge the human. On a case by case basis. That being said if it’s chasing you assume the worst.” He cut into his fish and started to eat, shrugging broadly at Skylar’s question “well…:. That depends entirely on how you’re defining people. There are people who are not human. If that’s your question.”

Sitting down, Winston grabbed the bowl of salad that they had put on the table and served themselves. Handing the bowl over to Skylar, they grabbed some fish and hoped that both Ricky and Skylar would realise that neither of them were eating vegetables. They were convinced that they were both selkies and they couldn’t tell the other about it, so they had to lead them to that realisation on their own. Which was hard. “I don’t know if I am really the person to answer these questions either,” they picked up their cutlery and delicately cut into their fish, “the truth is that there is a lot out there that I don’t know. But I’m trying to learn as much as possible. So I can help at the station if things go really bad.” 

“People who aren’t human. Cool, just normal people being not people. Neat. Mhm.” Skylar said as she slid a large chunk of fish onto her plate, setting the skewer aside. Just as she was about to take a bite of fish, a flash of movement through the dining room window caught her eye. Looking outside, Skylar did a double take as she saw something skittering along the back patio of the house towards the dining room-- multiple, large, skittering lobster monsters? “Um… Guys? What the fuck is that?” She asked, pointing out of the window to the lobster things that were barreling towards the house. Skylar rose from her seat, hands automatically reaching for one of the large knives on the table. “Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck…” She mumbled under her breath.

Ricky had been been about to eschew the offer of vegetables, ready with the convenient excuse of oh I’m doing paleo/keto/whatever. But before he could present his everready and easy lie Skylar brought his attention to the karkinoids apparently about to lay siege to the house “oh fuck right off! I just fucking cleaned those place.” As Skylar went to for the knife, Ricky’s mind flashed to the baseball bat tucked into the hall closet, “Winnie. Call Dee. Tell her to lock the doors and get upstairs. I know she’s got that shotgun under her bed. She’s gonna need it.” His feet carried him to the closet as he hefted the bat, “can’t have one goddamn dinner in peace in this town.”

#p: ricky #p: skylar #para #wickedswriting #// i'm just making this after the chatzy #one shell of a dinner party