#roulette reloaded fic

[mtraki]

Catherine found him hours later, working through everything he now knew, and everything he felt.  He surprised himself, how little anger there was with the conclusion of things.  The news of Dutch’s execution was bitter, but not as painful as the reflection on his betrayal of everything he’d held dear and taught them in exchange for everything he’d told them to deplore.  In the end, the man who’d been hanged, Arthur supposed, was not the man he’d grown to love.  If that man had ever existed in the first place...

“You haven’t told me your decision,” The lady said softly, taking a seat by the fire next to Arthur who closed his journal as she did so.

“Mrs. Cornwall… seein’ as you’ve been gettin’ letters from everyone, you surely know already that I’ve got TB.” He replied quietly, “So I ain’t gonna be any good for any sort of job you might offer me for long, and I ain’t got much use for your six thousand dollars.”

“Mister Morgan,” She answered in a similar tone, “you aren’t dead yet, and while that remains true, I have invested interest in how you want to spend your remaining days.  All I’ve offered are tools to go about securing that future.  If they’re insufficient, I am open to suggestions.”

He didn’t have any, really.  What he’d wanted, starting out, was more or less already around him.  It seemed she’d been genuine, and the people he cared for, who were still alive, were safe, and would remain safe for some years yet, if they were wise.  He hadn’t planned any further than this.  He supposed he hadn’t expected to live this long.

When his silence lingered too long, Catherine spoke again, “May I make a suggestion..?”

“... May as well,” He sighed.

“Come with me.”

“To California?  Sure--”

“To my house.  Stay with me.”

Feeling his back teeth grind, Arthur shook his head, “...Last thing I want is to spend my lingering days tucked up in a fancy bed all hours--”

“--Then don’t.  The estate has a stables and three orchards, a vineyard and wine press, two workshops, miles of hunting and trails, two or three streams.  Indoors, I’ve managed to collect the largest private library west of the Lanahachee River.  There’s also a gaming room where the men like to play cards three nights a week.  Spend your time how you want.  I just… I want you there.”

Meeting her eyes, he saw that she meant it, and not from a place of pity. “...It sounds real fine...”

“It should,” She said softly, “I had you in mind when I had it built.”

He slept most of the train journey, truth be told, in the private sleeper car she’d had made for them, just behind their private passenger car-- where they were all seated in comfort.  He was informed afterwards by John, Uncle, and Miss Grimshaw, that the journey had been a peaceful one.  Jack was excited about his chance to go up to the engine car with the engineer, and to pull the whistle.  He spent the next week telling his parents he was going to be a train engineer and a gunslinger, and nobody would rob his trains ever.

Arthur would only really remember the morning they finished their journey over and through the mountains and into California proper, seeing the pale purplish light of dawn reflecting off the snow-capped peaks and shifting the thin mists over the rolling hill country with its carpets of wildflowers.  Catherine had stopped beside him to look out the window as well, and as the light slowly turned from purple to gold, he felt her fingers brush shyly against his before he took her hand and held it.  Only for a few moments, but the warmth of her skin and weight of the intimacy in the touch lingered long after she stepped away again.

There were a number of passengers not related to their party, and they were continuing on to San Francisco  Their own stop came not long after sunrise, and another large camp was formed and the train partially unloaded.  After the train moved on, they spent the rest of the day putting wagons back together and walking out the horses and getting everyone used to their feet again.  The horses seemed to have journeyed well, despite most of them not having been packed for shipping before.  The following morning, the smaller group of them-- the remnants of the Van der Linde gang, Mrs. Cornwall, Barnabas, and some of his men-- rode out, leaving the nervous ledger man, whose name Arthur never caught, and the workers and their big tents to deal with themselves.

It was beautiful country, rolling plains of green and golden grasses in the valley and wooded foothills and towering cliffs over those.  A waterfall could be heard in the distance, even over all the horses and the wagons.

They kept a steady pace, stopping for lunch, where Catherine pointed out the town nearest her home, Flintpoint Hollow.  Arthur was paying more attention to the woman, herself.  There seemed to be a strange air coming over her, at once she seemed more nervous and more exhausted.  He wondered if she were not used to traveling days in her new life of wealth.  That didn’t seem right, though, because only a year ago, when she’d come from a similar life, she’d never seemed worn by the rigors of the outdoors.

It broke like a fever in her that evening when they arrived at the estate.  Whatever she had been anticipating, she anticipated no more, for it was upon her.  Before them was a beautiful mansion in the Spanish style in a clearing surrounded by ancient trees.  Three grooms met them to take the horses to the paddocks, and after a brief debate on the matter-- which the grooms surprisingly won-- they proceeded to the gate of the house where they were greeted by the biggest black man any of them had ever seen.  He dwarfed Arthur by at least a foot, and even at his strongest and healthiest, this man had to outweigh him by fifty or more pounds.  His clothes were clean and well-tailored, and he held himself with rigid, almost military dignity.

“Welcome home.” He opened the gate and bowed his head to Catherine, his voice deep and bass, the words rolling with an unfamiliar accent.

“Thank you, Mister Hawthorne.”

Looking them all over, Mister Hawthorne seemed to take their measure in an instant and reported to the lady, “Supper will be ready within the hour and the spare bedrooms are prepared with linens and hot water for our guests.  Will Mister Misser and his men be joining us at table?”

Barnabas spoke up, “No, that’s--”

“--Please join us for supper, Barnabas, at least.  There’s room at the table.” Catherine smiled graciously, then indicated the huge man, “My friends, this is Mister Dmitri Hawthorne.  He runs the manor.  My dear Mister Hawthorne, these are our long-awaited guests: Miss Susan Grimshaw, Miss Karen Jones, Mister Javier Escuella, Mister John Marston, Missus Abigail Marston, Mister Jack Marston, Mister Arthur Morgan, Missus Sadie Adler, and the good-natured fellow we all agree to call ‘Uncle’.”

“A distinct pleasure to finally meet in person.” The goliath responded, his tone quiet and cool, and yet there was no hint of sarcasm, either.  With one massive hand, he indicated a mousey woman in a plain dress and apron, “Miss Withiers, please take Miss Grimshaw, Miss Jones, Missus Adler, and the family Marston to their rooms so they can refresh themselves before supper, after their long journey.  Mister Escuella, Mister Morgan, Mister Uncle, I will show you your rooms, if you would follow me.  Mistress--”

“--Catherine, Dmitri.  Really.”

“--Mistress Catherine,” Mister Hawthorne continued, nonplussed, “I request you retire to your bedchambers and not your office before supper.  Mister Misser and company, I believe you know your way to the front lounge?”

“We’ll be fine, Hawthorne, thanks.” The moustached man assured him, gesturing for his men to follow him.

  Inside, the mansion’s warm cream walls glowed with lamplight.  The rooms were large and airy, and though the furnishings were of good quality, they were not oppressive in their presentation, and very little was present without a clear function.  Miss Withiers led the ladies and Marstons up the central stairs while Mister Hawthorne turned to the right, pointed out the dining room-- which was already lain with about twenty place settings on a long table-- and the adjacent parlor where Barnabas and his men situated themselves to smoke with the big windows open.  They passed a few more closed doors before the big man opened the door at the corner.

“Mister Morgan, this room has been prepared for you.  If you need anything at all, there is a bell pull just inside the door, or you can ask anyone in the house.”

“... So I jus’ stay here…?” Arthur gave the goliath and the men still behind him a dubious look.

“You are welcome to go anywhere you like, but please keep in mind supper will be served shortly.”

With that they left him.

The bedroom was decently sized with large windows and access to the outdoors.  A sinfully comfortable looking bed awaited him, covers already turned down, but Arthur ignored it, as he

suspected he’d sleep right through supper if he laid down.

Not that he was hungry at all, really.  He just wanted to sit with everyone what few chances were still afforded him.

He wanted to see the Marstons flabbergasted at real silver flatware they could eat with instead of steal and fence.  He wanted to see Karen speechless to be waited on.  Susan gobsmacked with the number of courses in the meal.  Javier praising the wine in Spanish.  He wanted Sadie to struggle to find something to be discontent with.  He even wanted Uncle to try and make up a story about how he’d once had a _finer _meal somewhere.  He wanted to see Catherine’s pale eyes smiling at them all from the head of the table over candlelight...

Decidedly avoiding the standing mirror in the corner, Arthur washed up in the basin, discovering the water was indeed heated as Hawthorne had said, and then stepped out the side door into the evening to watch and listen, taking in…his new home…?

Some time later, the big black man came to collect him for the dining room, suggesting he leave his gear in the room, but not insisting when Arthur made no move to take anything off.

  The meal was everything Arthur had wanted and more.  It did not take long at all for everyone to relax warmly into each other's company with good food.  The outlaws kept a modicum of decorum in the fancy environs of their hostess, but table manners were largely overlooked and indeed ignored by everyone except the lady in question, who had been reared with them in her education.  At the very least there was no spitting or smoking at the table.

Everything was going very well until that terrible, familiar feeling clenched through Arthur’s chest like a vise and he began coughing hard and rough.  Having mind enough to step away from the table, the food, and the others, he made it only two paces before the inability to inhale clean again stole the strength from his limbs.  Inky dregs of darkness began to swallow the outside edges of his vision.  He was drowning on phlegm and blood again…

Some part of his awareness caught snatches of activity: how the voices from the table asked after him, John and Catherine getting to their feet…

Someone’s hand on his elbow just before his knees buckled.

Trying to gasp protests as somebody-- or more than one person-- lifted him to be carried.

  He woke what must have been hours later, moonlight streaming in through the windows from the space between drawn curtains, and someone mopping the horrible night sweats from his face, neck, and the exposed part of his chest with a cool cloth that smelled like mint and lemon.  He knew it was Catherine from the way the fingers of her other hand smoothed through his hair at his temple.

Despite every desire to say something to her--maybe to ask her wryly if she was sure this was what she wanted in her fancy house, exhaustion and fever dragged him down again.  It was later that John told him they’d spent three days convinced they were just waiting to bury him.

[by-nina]

i’ve written more in 2021 than i have in previous years, inspired by friends’ wonderful art, wild ideas, and incredible support. turns out, they were enough (and congruent enough) to form these two series! that’s on top of royai week and the “for auld lang syne, my dear” series. who would have thought?

this is my masterpost for a year of writing that took me by surprise. i found inspiration in unexpected places, fell into conversations that sent my head spinning, and in every way that i could, embraced writing in a way that i didn’t use to be able to. i’m thankful for my friends who have read my writing, cheered me on, awed me with their talents, and took care of me in our little corner of the world.

i’m so excited to keep writing in 2022. Smoke Without Fire will continue, i’ll be collaborating with my dear friend for a project or two, and i’ve got some concepts i can’t wait to dig into! for now, i present these—and please check the tags for warnings!

have a safe, sane, and happy new year!

MY HEART STILL THUMPS AS I BLEED

A Riza Hawkeye series for 2021.

Dark and Dead and Loveless AO3 | FFN This is how Maes Hughes died. At the end of a gun pointed at him by the same monster, disguised as the person he loved most. (First rewrite of the final fight with Envy; Riza faces death as it wears the mask of the man she loves. T.)

Red Sky at Morning AO3 | FFN For only a moment, Riza allows her shock and distress to sink into her, then just as quickly she calls herself back into the present. Focus. The situation is several steps past what she had anticipated, her subject beyond reason. The plan she devised will not suffice. (Second rewrite of the final fight with Envy; Riza confronts her worst fears with a gun pointed at Roy. M.)

Russian Roulette AO3 | FFN The chambers are reloaded, and the cylinder is spun. Her finger remains on the trigger. (An introspective drabble via metaphor. T.)

Wondrous AO3 | FFN “Beautiful is anything that brings you joy when you look at it. Like the colorful flowers that grow in our garden and at the side of the road. The nearby lake, where we swim in the summer. Trees and the blue sky and candlelight—these are all beautiful things.” (A Riza Hawkeye character study on her relationship with beauty. T.)

I’VE BEEN ON FIRE, DREAMING OF YOU

A Royai series for 2021.

—how can I stay away? AO3 | FFN There’s a near-empty bottle of wine between them on the floor, cards in their hands for what was meant to be a practice game of poker but which like many nights has turned into something else entirely. (Baby’s first strip poker fic! T.)

Troublemaker AO3 | FFN This is the consequence of knowing Roy as well as she does—knowing what he wants, and knowing just how desperately he wants even what he can’t have. (Riza’s drunken songfic fantasy.  E.)

For Tonight AO3 | FFN It’s a strange new way to know fire, but not nearly as strange as the fact that they have gone this long without allowing themselves a taste of this pleasure. (Sweet nothings and fire metaphors. T.)

A way of keeping you AO3 | FFN “Tell me what happened to you. I knew something wasn’t right when I called you that night. I sought you out at lunch the other day knowing that, and then it finally made sense when you told me about Selim. Please, tell me what happened to you.” (A brief reunion after Riza meets Selim Bradley as Pride. T.)

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Car Crash

Prompt: “Sex hair and bedroom eyes (somewhere innocuous)” (for @winchester-reload’s prompt roulette)

Summary: Cas attempts to seduce Dean. Dean (not so) slowly loses his mind.

Note: I’ve had a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

Cas has always looked a little devastating. Rumpled dark hair that makes him look like he’s just been thoroughly fucked, and those intense, deep stares that make Dean forget his own name. But lately – lately, Cas has become a whole other thing. The dishevelled hair has acquired an artful, tousled look, and he takes off his trench coat sometimes, showing off the strong, lean lines of his torso and the slender angles of his hips. Sometimes, if it’s warm, he even rolls his sleeves up. It’s driving Dean a little bit crazy.

But, worst of all, is the way Cas has started looking at Dean. Having Cas staring into the depths of his soul was always a bit of an overwhelming experience, but this is something else. Cas’s gazes have evolved into something that’s borderline seductive, all smitey and smouldering and deep blue. It’s the kind of intensity Dean has only come close to experiencing in the middle of fucking someone, and honestly, it’s a bit more than he can take. He’s not sure when Cas stopped looking intently serious and started looking like he wants to fuck Dean all the time. He assumes it’s some kind of misplaced angel interpretation of how humans interact, because, based on Cas’s past transgressions, that just seems like the most logical assumption.

Regardless of what’s causing it, it’s starting to get under Dean’s skin. Cas turns up everywhere now with this sex hair and these bedroom eyes, like it’s totally acceptable to look like a steamy movie scene at a morgue or a diner or unannounced in Dean’s motel room in the middle of the night. Like he has now idea how wildly inappropriate or inconvenient it is, how fucking distracting it is. How much it’s making Dean slowly lose his mind.

Up until now, Dean has managed pretty damn well at completely ignoring any less than platonic feelings he has for Cas. But trying to maintain that kind of front while Cas has been eyeing him seductively him at every possible opportunity has – been taking its toll, to say in the least. Last week, Dean accidentally stabbed a tree instead of the irate werewolf he was hunting, all because Cas showed up in a dramatic flash of light, all rumpled hair and protective glare. Later that same day, Dean had been forced to abandon his pie in the diner because, honestly, having Cas eye-fucking him across the table with Sam right there was all just a bit much. Two nights ago, Dean, flustered from hours of Cas staring at him like he wanted to jump him, attempted to take a drink from a lamp on his bedside table instead of the bottle of beer.

It’s getting to the point where Sam will intermittently make mildly distressed sounds and leave a room, and, more concerningly, Dean keeps accidentally stabbing things that aren’t meant to be stabbed (walls, a fridge, a rosemary bush, and in once unfortunate moment of inattention, Sam). He knows it’s reached a point where he needs to talk to Cas and make him understand what he’s doing. People’s lives are at stake. Dean had nearly run over an elderly lady last week just because Cas was in the passenger seat staring at him.

But Dean has been struggling to bring himself to speak to Cas, because, although he’d never admit it aloud, he kind of likes it. Being able to live – however briefly – in the illusion that Cas wants him as much as Dean has tried not to want him for so long. Dean knows Cas doesn’t really want him, that it’s just some muddled up angel-to-human mannerisms that have got confused, but it’s still surprisingly let go of.

Read more on Ao3

[tristinai]

First Lines Meme

Tagged by the amazing @headfulloffantasy. Thank you for including me in this!

Here’s how this works:

List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’ll list them under the cut just so that this post doesn’t get too long.

Detroit Become Cyberpunk: The Edge of Insane (DBH, Convin, E)

The neon glow of the club’s lights bathes the dance floor in hues of blue and green, bodies swaying to the beat of some shitty EDM Gavin remembers being hot back in the 50s. 

A Deadly Fever (DBH, Reed900, E)

Living fast is the only way Richard can describe his downward spiral into his addiction.

Before I Go (DBH, Reed900, E)

The tips of his fingers are gray from the spilled cigarette ashes as Gavin sluggishly feels around for the ashtray.

Burns Like Gin (DBH, Reed900, E)

Another night of restless sleep.

Powder & Fuse (DBH, Reed900, E)

I told them this was useless, Richard thinks, struggling to hold back a frown.

(Cocked and) Reloaded (DBH, Reed900, E)

The road is quiet as Nines speeds down it, leaning his body forward to flatten his frame against the Ducati.

Ride And Die (DBH, Reed900, E)

Soft jazz music carries out onto the balcony where he’s leaning, a cigarette dangling between his lips.

Subversion (DBH, Reed900, E)

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Russian Roulette (DBH, Reed900, E)

Gavin stares absently at the window, watching as tiny, white flakes dot the glass.

Subterfuge (DBH, Reed900, E)

The resounding clap of contact echoes in the room, pain flaring across sun-kissed skin.

Locked And Loaded (DBH, Reed900, E)

Gavin’s eyes slowly blink open, staring blearily at the digital clock on his night stand.

Pull The Trigger (DBH, Reed900, T)

Soft jazz plays in the swanky lounge of the hotel bar, Gavin tapping his fingers along to the smooth baritone.

Bulletproof (DBH, Reed900, E)

Laughter filters up to the loft, Gavin glowering as he leans against the wall, each passing second driving him further into the jealous rage that’s been percolating inside of him in the last hour.

The Kamski Test (DBH, Reed900, M)

“You must have some sense as to why I have called you here.”

I Need A Gangster (DBH, Reed900, E)

The snapping of cartilage has him choking back a cry, blood spurting from his nostrils as pain explodes from the point of impact.

What Gangsters Do (DBH, Reed900, E)

“...is prone to impulsive behavior and has been treated in the hospital three times in the past 12 months alone, for injuries received on the job,” Nines says, placing the tablet on the surface of the ebony desk and indicating to the open file.

Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) (DBH, Reed900, M)

“This is bullshit, Con! You can’t—”

Bad Boy Down (DBH, Reed900, E)

“You know, you can’t stay mad at me forever.”

One Shot, Two Shot (DBH, Reed900, E)

Gavin struggles against the firm grips pinning his arms at his sides, nearly tripping over his own feet as he’s forced into a poorly lit room.

Crushing My Pride (DBH, Reed900, lesbian AU, E)

Gwen props her feet up on her desk, leaning back in her chair, arms stretched to angle the phone’s front screen camera in a way that highlighted the curve of her jawline, lips curling with the hint of a nonchalant smirk.

I am terrible at starting fics and usually struggle with opening lines. I find lines that address the setting/tone are the easiest to write but my favorites are the ones that dive immediately into the action (such as the one in I Need A Gangster and One Shot, Two Shot). Honorable mention: Bad Boy Down. I just love writing scenes where Gavin and Connor argue XD.

Tagging @mordinette, @redxluna, @cap-sweet-and-salty-sadness, @mechabones, and @brighteststarinthesky. <3

[mtraki]

 “... So that’s it?  We can just… go?” Abigail asked, breathless, “To California?  To live on your land… with your money?”

(to read more click the link above!)

[mtraki]

Summary: I had to rewrite 'Roulette' twice.  The first draft was just... too long.  Really long.  I didn't want to have the 'choose your ending' be so unbalanced. So this is the "expanded B Choice" where Arthur chooses to follow Mrs. Cornwall to Emerald Ranch and the five years that follow.

 He couldn’t look at her.  He looked at Sadie, who looked back at him, waiting to follow his lead.  She’d become so capable in such a short time, what business did she have wanting to follow him?

 He looked at Tilly.  Her dark eyes pleaded with him.

 He looked at Jack.

 The boy was one of the reasons he’d come this far, wasn’t he? All his efforts the last few weeks had been bent toward getting these people out of this life and safe.  What kind of man was he if he turned back now and didn’t see that through? (click the link above to read more!)

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Green Jasmine 

Prompt: “Barista Cas flirts with Dean by writing his number on a napkin, Dean smears it on his face, and Cas has to fess up” (for @winchester-reload​’s prompt roulette)

Summary: Cas has never liked anyone enough to even contemplate going through the social agony of asking them out. But Dean – Dean is different.

Note: I’ve had quite a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

Cas hates his job. Admittedly, the prospect of serving coffee for eight hours a day in a busy campus coffee shop probably isn’t any introvert’s idea of fun. But it’s not the constant noise and bustle which bothers Cas the most about working at the Moose & Squirrel. It’s not even the fact he has to wear an apron covered in tiny bumblebees, or that the cappuccino machine breaks and spitefully spits hot foam everywhere on a pretty much hourly basis. The thing that makes Cas hate his job is how invisible it makes him feel (no mean feat for a grown man wearing a bumblebee apron and covered in hot foam).

Every day after his morning lectures, he spends from 2pm to 8pm talking to customers, taking orders, serving food. He knows all the regulars, could pick them out of a line up; the timid, bespectacled professor with hunched shoulders and a battered briefcase who sits at the window table every afternoon reading textbooks on phenomenology and religion; the three girls in blazers and ties who come in most days after school and order milkshakes with as many sugary toppings as possible; the mother and chubby-cheeked toddler who stop in every Thursday afternoon. Cas notices things about the one-time customers too; whether they look tense or distracted, if they look longingly at the cakes but then order a fruit salad, how they relate with whoever’s with them. He knows none of them, not really, but he feels like he does. And yet none of them look at him, really see him. They don’t notice what mood he’s in that day or what book he’s got stashed behind the counter to read whenever it’s quiet, they don’t notice if his smile is real or not. He’s just the person who serves their coffee.

Cas doesn’t know why it grates on him so much. It’s not like he ever wanted to be the centre of attention; he hates the spotlight. Maybe what really bothers him is that it’s not just the coffee shop where he feels unseen. Like no one really cares about knowing him. Working at the Moose & Squirrel is just an eight-hour-a-day reminder of how invisible he is.

Monday is particularly bad. By the end of his shift, Cas is exhausted and bad-tempered, and just wants to go home and curl up under his duvet before he has to do the whole thing all over again tomorrow. It’s ten minutes to closing and the café is finally empty. He’s just finished wiping down the display and has switched off the quarrelsome cappuccino machine. Drained, he retreats behind the pages of his Plath poetry book, silently praying no one else comes in before Meg finishes in the kitchen and they have the chance to lock up.

He’s only four lines into Tulips when the chime of the door makes his heart sink. But whatever irritation Cas is feeling fades the moment he looks up, eyes settling on the person who’s just walked through the door.

It’s a guy not much younger than him, so strikingly beautiful it kind of punches the breath out of Cas’s lungs. The guy looks like he’s just walked off the pages of a magazine spread – only he’s a little too rough around the edges, like maybe he had to fend for himself more than he should growing up. He’s wearing a beat-up old leather jacket and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and there’s a cigarette tucked carelessly behind one ear. He catches Cas’s eye and grins easily, all dirty charm. It’s the smile of someone used to the impact he has on people, but it still makes Cas’s stomach somersault involuntarily.

“Hey,” the guy’s voice is low and a little rough, understatedly sexual in a way that makes Cas swallow. He watches helplessly as the guy saunters up to the counter and leans casually against it, gazing up at the drinks’ menu. He drums his fingers restlessly against the freshly polished glass, and instead of being annoyed that he’s going to have to clean it again, all Cas can wonder is what beat he’s moving them to. A Zeppelin track seems too obvious. Perhaps something similar, classic rock ‘n’ roll bands that Cas has never been cool enough to listen to. Or maybe nothing at all, maybe it’s just a nervous habit. Although Cas can’t imagine this guy being anything but careless, casual.

“What would you recommend?” his gaze falls on Cas suddenly, deep, complex green flecked with quiet hues of honey and hazel, so striking it takes Cas’s breath away all over again.

Cas swallows, realises he’s been caught staring. “Um –” he stammers, trying in vain to stop the head flooding his cheeks. “Our London Fog is quite popular at the moment, and the special this week is the pumpkin spice latte. Or we have cold drinks. Local raspberry and vanilla cordial or ice cream milkshakes. Sparkling water. Uh - it depends what you like, really,” he finishes lamely, internally cursing the way he can feel his cheeks burning.

“Lots of things,” the guy grins wider, and leans closer into Cas’s space. He smells of faintly of mint and smoke and warm skin, like he’s spent all day in the sun. “I’m not fussy.”

Read more on Ao3

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: A Less Than Ideal Situation

Prompt: Vampire!Dean having a Cas snack (for @winchester-reload’s prompt roulette)

Summary:  If Dean weren’t currently so consumed with rampant bloodlust and the consequences of a longstanding sexuality crisis, he'd be fascinated by how hard Cas's heart is beating right now.

Note: I’ve had a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

As far as situations go, it’s not ideal. For starters, Dean is – temporarily – a vampire. Which is a fairly stressful state of being, actually. His gums are still tender from where his brand-new fangs have made an appearance, and everything is so fucking loud.

But, even less ideal than the fact Dean is currently a member of the undead, is the fact he is alone, in his bedroom, with Cas. Which, if Dean is being totally honest with himself, is the kind of situation that would stress him out even if he weren’t currently experiencing the whole uncontrollable bloodlust thing. Because – not that he’d would admit this to anyone, especially Sam and his stupid, smug face – he actually already has enough urges when it comes to Cas without also wanting to, y’know, drain him of blood. Which is, incidentally, pretty much all he can think about right now.

Thankfully, Cas is sitting at a safe (tantalising) distance on a chair by the door. Less thankfully, he’s wearing uncharacteristically little. After helping Sam wrestle Dean into submission (read: handcuffing him to the bedframe), Cas had shed his trench coat and suit jacket, and he hasn’t put them back on. Instead, he’s sitting with his shirt sleeves rolled up, hair rumpled, blue gaze heavy and watchful. Which is just. Not helpful in any capacity.

Especially as – so far, at least – the transformation seems to have not only heightened Dean’s desire for blood, but, to his horror, any kind of desire. It’s only been a couple hours since he was bitten, but already Dean feels all rational thought fading in the face of how much he wants. Fleetingly, he wishes Sam had stayed to watch over him instead of leaving to track the vamp responsible for this whole mess. At least then Dean would only have had to worry about trying to suck his blood, not also trying to suck his dick. Cas – Cas is a different matter.

Because – okay – if Dean sometimes finds himself attracted to Cas under normal circumstances (i.e. being human), it’s nothing to how he feels right now. Cas looks fucking irresistible with his blue eyes dark and serious in the muted light of Dean’s bedroom, staring unflinchingly, intensely at Dean like he’s all that exists. And god – Dean can hear the rush of hot blood through Cas’s veins, feel the light, airy swirl of his grace like clear water. He can taste the soft clarity of it, intriguing, compelling, familiar. He realises it’s a stronger version of the smell he associates with Cas’s hugs, and can’t help wondering if that’s what Cas’s skin would taste like under his tongue. The thought draws him in almost as much as the blood pumping just beneath it.

Involuntarily, Dean groans darkly at the thought of biting into Cas’s skin, the ache for the blood he can hear humming through Cas’s veins almost overwhelming.

“Are you alright?” Cas’s voice is low and gravelly, the timbre of it sending shivers all through Dean. Cas is leaning forward in his chair, brow furrowed slightly as he regards Dean, wild-eyed and straining against his restraints.

Read more on Ao3

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Flours and Kisses

Prompt: “Great British Bake-Off contestants with fewer clothes and lots of flour!” (for @winchester-reload’s prompt roulette)

Summary: Dean’s pretty sure that if Castiel hadn’t spent so much time looking at him, he wouldn’t have burnt the angel cakes in last week’s challenge. It's really fucking distracting.

Note: I’ve had a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

If it weren’t for Castiel Novak, Dean knows he’d easily win this competition. Castiel Novak with his stupid messy hair and serious eyes and long, skilled fingers. Castiel Novak and his insufferable ability to bake the fluffiest angel cakes when Dean burns all his in the oven.

Castiel’s bench is the one next to Dean’s, and Dean has watched him creating perfect rosemary souffles and elaborate, intricate showstoppers for five weeks now. Dean has always been pretty damn confident in his baking skills, but over a month in such close proximity to Castiel has made him increasingly flustered and self-conscious in a way he’s never experienced before. Something about him is slowly but surely getting under Dean’s skin, and it’s affecting his baking with disastrous results.

The last two weeks have been a mess, and Dean knows that if he doesn’t watch himself, this week will be his last one in the competition. Determined not to be intimidated out of his rightful place in this competition by a man who wears a bumblebee apron, Dean sets his alarm extra early on Saturday morning to get in a couple hours practice in before everyone else shows up. His frustration is momentarily soothed by his walk across the sloping grass lawn; the spring sunshine is just pastel and soft, warm on his back, blossoms rustling softly in the breeze.

However, when he enters the tent, his fleeting good mood rapidly disappears. Despite the earliness of the hour, the space isn’t empty. Castiel Novak is working intently at his bench with some marzipan figures, sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong, lean forearms. Something funny happens to Dean’s heart, but he ignores it and tugs on his own apron (plain black with no stupid garden insects thank you very much), tying it with a little more force than necessary as he walks over to his own bench.

“Hey,” Dean grunts, reluctantly, because, yeah, Cas is probably going to steal this competition from under his feet, but he’s not going to a complete asshole about it.

Castiel looks up, eyes very blue. “Hello, Dean.”

Read more on Ao3

[aishitara]

Prompt Roulette - Vampire Sex Hair

Yes, you read that right.

Prompt(s) for this ficlet: Sex hair & bedroom eyes (somewhere innocuous)/Vampire!Dean having a Cas snack

Tags for this ficlet: vampire!Dean, creature!Dean, insomniac!Cas, blood, graphic(ish?) descriptions of blood consumption, Dean has a little chill but only when it counts lol

So partly in the interest of time and partly because this is just the way this shook out, I combined these two prompts into one fic. Which is just shy of 2K, so I don't know if this one will count. This may become a longer thing in the future, we shall see! Go take a bite out of Cas!

@winchester-reload

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Home

Prompt: “Song Lyrics: Come on and lay it down/I’ve always been with you/Here and now/Give all that’s within you/Be my saviour.” (Downfall by Matchbox Twenty) (for @winchester-reload‘s prompt roulette)

Summary: Freedom is a feeling Cas has come to associate with Dean. 

Note: I’ve had a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

It’s a particularly grim motel room. Faded eggshell wallpaper and ugly geometric lamps, a sunken queen with wrinkled nylon sheets. The curtains are too thin to fully blot out the bleak neon of the gas station outside, and there are cigarette burns on the carpet and faux-wood nightstand. Cas knows it should feel hostile, lonely. He’s spent eons under quietly forming constellations, watched the unheard ebb and flow of ancient tides. He knows loneliness intimately, knows this should be it. And yet, in this cramped, bleak little room somewhere in the middle of Colorado, Cas feels closer to home than he’s ever known.

Dean is a warm weight on the bedspread beside him, dreaming of a mountain cabin he and Sam stayed in alone the spring Dean turned twelve. Cas can taste the burnt woodsmoke and the orangey coldness of spaghetti hoops and slowly burgeoning wildflowers. There’s a sense of freedom, space to breathe that there often isn’t in Dean’s dreams. Freedom is a feeling Cas has come to associate with Dean.

The air con hums, out of key. Cars growl and fade outside, the sky darkens to pitch. Cas closes his eyes and listens to the slow, steady inhale, exhale of Dean’s breathing. Lets it wash over him like the comforting lull of a tide. It brings the same, quiet solace Cas had once only known from vast midnight oceans or the entire expanse of the sky at dawn. Dean is warm and human beside him, smelling of the impala’s leather and cheap laundry detergent and scarred skin. Heat radiates off him like the sun.

Once, Cas had been terrified by it. Now, he gravitates towards it, like a planet spinning out of obscurity into orbit. For months, he’d tormented himself by trying to fight the momentum and come to fear himself powerless in the face of it. Now he knows the only reason his attempts to subvert it failed was because he never wanted them to succeed. Somewhere, he’d always chosen this, from the moment he’d touched Dean’s soul. The momentum was unstoppable, irreversible. To his younger self, it would have been inconceivable, much like the concept of freedom. Now, it makes Cas think of the human expression, “falling into place”. He has come to understand it has more meaning than flying ever had.

Read more on Ao3

[aishitara]

Prompt Roulette - Downfall

So I'm participating in @winchester-reload's March prompt roulette, and instead of dropping everything at once I'm dropping things as I finish them or else I will go insane. Here's the first one done.

Prompt for this ficlet: Song Lyrics: Come on and lay it down/I've always been with you/Here and now/Give all that's within you/Be my Savior

Tags for this ficlet: song/lyric!fic, Dean POV, gen, Castiel is in the Empty, supportive!Sam if you squint, post-series, fix-it (kind of), language (but really, it's Dean, so should that even be a tag?), shameless use of the bloody handprint as a device. Enjoy!

[lulu-zodiac]

Prompt Roulette Masterlist

A list of all 8 prompts I’ve completed for @winchester-reload’s prompt roulette. I had so, SO much fun doing this, a big thank you to winchester-reload for organising it! Also thank you so much to all the lovely people who left such positive feedback on my submissions, I really can’t tell you how much it’s helped and inspired me <3 

Prompt #1 - “Thee Pink Panties”

Prompt #2 -  Sex hair and bedroom eyes (somewhere innocuous)

Prompt #3 - Barista Cas flirts with Dean by writing his number on a napkin, Dean smears it on his face, and Cas has to fess up.

Prompt #4 - Song Lyrics: Come on and lay it down/I've always been with you/Here and now/Give all that's within you/Be my Savior

Prompt #5 - Cas getting tattooed by Dean (or the other way around)

Prompt #6 - Great British Bake Off contestants with fewer clothes and lots of flour!

Prompt  #7 - Vampire!Dean having a Cas snack

Prompt #8 -  Dean staring up at the stars and praying to Cas in purgatory (time period between s7 and 8), Cas in the shadows watching, expression full of the pain of not being able to go over to Dean, but also showing how overwhelmed he is that Dean is still praying to him, the quiet hope that gives him for how Dean feels about him.

(All posted on my Ao3 account)

If anyone wants to be added to my fic taglist, then pls feel free to comment/send me a dm <3 

[lulu-zodiac]

Title: Twelve Phases of the Moon

Prompt: “Dean staring up at the stars and praying to Cas in purgatory (time period between s7 and 8), Cas in the shadows, watching, expression full of the pain of not being able to go over to Dean, but also showing how overwhelmed he is that Dean is still praying to him, the quiet hope that gives him for how Dean feels about him.” (this was actually my prompt lol) (for @winchester-reload’s prompt roulette)

Summary: The quiet of purgatory makes it too easy to hear Dean.

Note: I’ve had a few people asking me about a tag list for my fics, so if that’s something you’d like to be a part of then pls let me know <3

Purgatory is quiet.

Not the iridescent, awed quiet of heaven. Not even the quiet of earth that is never really quiet, but which Castiel has learned to love. Soft, stolen moments of golden summer sun slanting through the windshield of the impala; exhausted, unspoken conversations at 2am in harshly lit roadside diners; the repetitive hush of Sam and Dean’s breathing in dark motel rooms. Purgatory is quiet like a crypt. Rigid, dark, endless. It’s quiet in the same way a dead body is completely still. There is that same sense of wrongness to the silence that swathes everything here. Castiel has never felt more aware of his own heartbeat, how much it aches.

The quiet makes it too easy to hear Dean.

Castiel can’t decide if this is a blessing or a curse. Perhaps both. He has always heard the prayers directed to him, of course. But on heaven and earth, they’re hazy, faraway, easy to tune out if he tries. Here is different. Through the stillness, Dean’s prayers feel closer, disarmingly intimate. As though Dean is whispering right into the shell of his ear.

At first, it had been unbearable. Dean, wandering the endless space, shouting himself hoarse on Castiel’s name. His prayers had been abrupt, frequent, often aborted midway through. Full of the kind of rage that was a split second away from tears, his voice breaking on the single syllable of please. Sometimes that’s all a prayer would be; just Castiel, and please. Castiel had almost gone to him then. It was more than he could bear, the endless torment of Dean’s voice, slowly tearing itself to pieces in the quiet. Please Cas. He pictured Dean stumbling around in the snarled branches and colourless fog, shouting blindly with nothing to kill, nothing to be angry at. It hurt Castiel so much it felt like physical pain, like Dean was punching him over and over again with his despair.

The only thing worse than listening to Dean slowly fall apart was knowing what would happen to him if Castiel went to him. How the Leviathans that were already so close on Castiel’s trail would tear him apart. Castiel tried not to think about how Dean might not care, anymore. That he might welcome an end to the abyss.

Time was meaningless in purgatory; it was never fully light, and dark unpredictable, often for what felt like days. The only way Castiel had learnt to mark the passing of time was by looking up at the sky. It was choked in murky black, but he could just make out the lunar eye of the moon, miniscule ancient constellations glimmering in hope, or mockery. They were so very small, from all the way down here, but Castiel could still see them, and he held onto that. Like Dean’s prayers, sometimes he was comforted by them, other times tormented.

Read more on Ao3

[aishitara]

Prompt Roulette - Tattoos

Prompt for this ficlet: Cas getting tattooed by Dean or the other way around

Tags for this ficlet: Dean/Other characters, soulmate!AU, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, homophobia, homophobic slurs, internalized (internalizing?) homophobia, bicurious!Dean, kid!fic (kinda), some light violence/gore, mild angst, Castiel, Dean Winchester, Meg Masters, Aaron Bass, Sam Winchester, Lee Chambers

I, uh, ::cough:: once again did not really follow the prompt. ^.^;;; Technically, they give each other tattoos??? Eh, close enough for government work as my Old Man used to say.

Also it must be said that this leaves off in a weird place because conversationalpurgatory is an instigator and now we've got a huge soulmate!AU planned and in the works lol. This will eventually serve as the first chapter of another fic, one of these days. Here's the fic!

@winchester-reload

[mtraki]

Ok... hear me out...

There I was, trying to figure out how to make my brain make words for the next ‘Revolvers’ fic... or the next chapter of ‘Magpie’... or the next chapter of ‘Roulette: Reloaded’... or the spooky-ish thing I’m trying to get done in time for Halloween... Brain says: "nah, boss, let’s watch a movie" Fine.  So I watch Austenland for the nth time because it’s a guilty pleasure flick... And then it happens...  The idea comes out of nowhere and tackles me like a freshly spawned grizzly bear with a cougar on its back:

Modern RDR2 AU... but they’re running a “living history experience... for adults only”.

Basically the premise of ‘Austenland’, but with RDR2.  If you haven’t ever seen Austenland, the protagonist signs up for an “authentic Austen story experience” in which she is to immerse herself in the Regency Era and experience a romantic story arc, as found in Jane Austen’s books.

PICTURE THIS: Dutch and Hosea going in together to open up this big ‘old west’ themed experience.  With Hosea’s love for theatrics and Dutch’s inability to do anything by halves, it’s a great big production and small groups of paying guests get brought in to experience ‘a fortnight on the frontier’.  They’ve hired a bunch of actors to play various roles, and part of the premise is not only adventure, but also romance-- of whatever flavor you’d like! (of course, this kind of production is just RIFE with troubles... from finances to safety to the whole legality... so there’s the whole “rl story” side of things too... not to mention that all these people have lives they go back to at the end of every fortnight...)

I think this sort of thing would be just GREAT for ‘reader insert’ fiction or even RP!  But... I don’t usually write ‘reader insert’. (I find it really difficult to write for a ‘non-character’ character... Who the heck is ‘reader’??  What are their goals??)  I’d really much rather RP something like this...

SO TELL ME WHAT Y’ALL THINK?  RP?  Reader insert?  Not worth the effort??

I’ve got a LOT of ideas for this running loose, but I’m not going to take the time to corral them all up into something useful if nobody else thinks this is any good.  Whether it’s reader insert or RP, I’m gonna need a lot of backup on this one...!