CNC 13; Butter Pecan 3
Author: Marina
Story: Nothing is Ever Easy universe, post-Pirates!
Challenge: Butter Pecan 3 (soft), Cookies n’ Cream 13 (hold)
Toppings/Extras: Caramel, Cherry (special attention to sensory detail), Malt (Potluck prompt from bookblather: Orange, love is orange/Yes, we’re mixed up in a heavenly game), Milkshake (NIEE and Dean belong to Casey and are used with permission)
Word Count: 860
Rating: PG (with 13ish hints, ahem)
Summary: For Carrie and Dean, being together is a healing experience.
Notes: LAST BUTTER PECAN, FREAKING FINALLY. Carrie has been a member of KIN for a year and change here-she and Dean are roughly nineteen and twenty, respectively.
Toward evening, Carrie blinks awake, feeling as though she’s been sleeping for weeks instead of a few short hours. The orange light of the sunset streams in through the one window above her. For a moment, it’s too bright for her bleary eyes to stand, so she closes them again, relying on her other four senses to help her make sense of things.
She aches all over-from running, she remembers-and there are dull pains in her face and her side. The latter sharpens abruptly as she takes a breath deep enough to agitate it, and she winces. Testing it shows that she will have to breathe more shallowly than normal to avoid it, so she resigns herself to an uncomfortable couple of days and tries to relax.
As she does that, the more pleasant things around her begin to register. The air is pleasantly warm and she can feel the reassuring presence of another person half-beside, half-underneath her. She opens her eyes again and takes in the shaggy blond wisps of hair behind Dean’s left ear. Carrie doesn’t remember him settling down next to her, but he must have, even though-here she glances over her shoulder, just to be sure she recalls this correctly-there are two beds in the room. She’s glad he did. Her rest is always better when he’s there, especially when they’re on missions.
That thought sparks another memory and she edges her head out from under his chin, pushing aside the collar of his tunic very gently so as not to wake him. He took a knife in the left shoulder as they were running, and she stitched it up after. The bandage concealing the stitches is still white, so they’re holding, gods be thanked. She had never had to use her cursory medical training before. Letting the fabric drop again, she eases back down.
Dean’s chest heaves with a deliberately deep breath. “Hey,” he murmurs, covering her hand with his.
Carrie smiles and presses a little closer. “Hey.”
His other arm immediately goes around her waist. It’s a familiar gesture and probably totally instinctive, or at least that’s what she tells herself when his hand brushes against the bruising under her ribs because he hasn’t taken any particular care with the motion. She stifles a whimper and hopes he doesn’t notice, but he does. Feeling him raise his head, she turns her face up to his. His eyes are concerned. “Does it hurt?” he asks softly.
“A lot,” she admits.
“Let me see it.”
She shifts back and lets him get up. To his credit, he barely winces as he moves, which means either that his shoulder doesn’t hurt too badly or that he’s used to it. Probably both, she thinks.
Supporting himself on his right elbow, he gingerly tugs her tunic up just far enough that he can see the injury and bites his lip. “Yeah, she got you pretty good with that kick. It’ll be sore for a while.”
“I figured,” she says, striving for lightness. She knows she was lucky to get off as easily as she did-she sparred with a woman both bigger and more experienced than she was during their escape and disengaged through sheer chance. “I can live with that. How’s your shoulder feel?”
Dean shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
“True.” Carrie’s seen him with more extensive injuries before, and to hear him tell it he had even closer brushes with danger before he knew her. She doesn’t like the thought, but she can’t stop him any more than he could stop her. They both chose this. They work well together, too, but at times like this it’s not enough to keep them from harm.
She can tell his thoughts run on a similar vein because his eyes haven’t left the bruise. She allows hers to flicker down as well and hastily redirects them to his face when she sees how purple it’s gotten. It’s definitely worse than anything she’s had before, and she knows he knows it. “Hey,” she says, and he meets her gaze. “My eyes are up here, you know.” To emphasize her point, she covers herself up again.
He smiles faintly and lifts his hand to her cheek. “You’ve got something on your face,” he says wryly as he runs his thumb over the other bruise blossoming there. The gesture both soothes and stings.
“That’s embarrassing,” she murmurs.
A tiny chuckle actually escapes him at that. His hand shifts to cup the back of her head as he leans in to kiss her. His lips are warm and solid, and despite her body’s protests she feels good-wholly, impossibly good and safe. Dean would never hurt her intentionally, not ever, and she can stop him if it gets to be too much but it hasn’t yet and probably won’t. He always, always does her much more good than ill, and she loves him for it.
She doesn’t say that just then, though. “You need to shave,” is what she says instead, against his mouth, and draws her fingers over the day-old stubble on his jaw.
In response, he only laughs and rolls her on her back.
Story: Nothing is Ever Easy universe, post-Pirates!
Challenge: Butter Pecan 3 (soft), Cookies n’ Cream 13 (hold)
Toppings/Extras: Caramel, Cherry (special attention to sensory detail), Malt (Potluck prompt from bookblather: Orange, love is orange/Yes, we’re mixed up in a heavenly game), Milkshake (NIEE and Dean belong to Casey and are used with permission)
Word Count: 860
Rating: PG (with 13ish hints, ahem)
Summary: For Carrie and Dean, being together is a healing experience.
Notes: LAST BUTTER PECAN, FREAKING FINALLY. Carrie has been a member of KIN for a year and change here-she and Dean are roughly nineteen and twenty, respectively.
Toward evening, Carrie blinks awake, feeling as though she’s been sleeping for weeks instead of a few short hours. The orange light of the sunset streams in through the one window above her. For a moment, it’s too bright for her bleary eyes to stand, so she closes them again, relying on her other four senses to help her make sense of things.
She aches all over-from running, she remembers-and there are dull pains in her face and her side. The latter sharpens abruptly as she takes a breath deep enough to agitate it, and she winces. Testing it shows that she will have to breathe more shallowly than normal to avoid it, so she resigns herself to an uncomfortable couple of days and tries to relax.
As she does that, the more pleasant things around her begin to register. The air is pleasantly warm and she can feel the reassuring presence of another person half-beside, half-underneath her. She opens her eyes again and takes in the shaggy blond wisps of hair behind Dean’s left ear. Carrie doesn’t remember him settling down next to her, but he must have, even though-here she glances over her shoulder, just to be sure she recalls this correctly-there are two beds in the room. She’s glad he did. Her rest is always better when he’s there, especially when they’re on missions.
That thought sparks another memory and she edges her head out from under his chin, pushing aside the collar of his tunic very gently so as not to wake him. He took a knife in the left shoulder as they were running, and she stitched it up after. The bandage concealing the stitches is still white, so they’re holding, gods be thanked. She had never had to use her cursory medical training before. Letting the fabric drop again, she eases back down.
Dean’s chest heaves with a deliberately deep breath. “Hey,” he murmurs, covering her hand with his.
Carrie smiles and presses a little closer. “Hey.”
His other arm immediately goes around her waist. It’s a familiar gesture and probably totally instinctive, or at least that’s what she tells herself when his hand brushes against the bruising under her ribs because he hasn’t taken any particular care with the motion. She stifles a whimper and hopes he doesn’t notice, but he does. Feeling him raise his head, she turns her face up to his. His eyes are concerned. “Does it hurt?” he asks softly.
“A lot,” she admits.
“Let me see it.”
She shifts back and lets him get up. To his credit, he barely winces as he moves, which means either that his shoulder doesn’t hurt too badly or that he’s used to it. Probably both, she thinks.
Supporting himself on his right elbow, he gingerly tugs her tunic up just far enough that he can see the injury and bites his lip. “Yeah, she got you pretty good with that kick. It’ll be sore for a while.”
“I figured,” she says, striving for lightness. She knows she was lucky to get off as easily as she did-she sparred with a woman both bigger and more experienced than she was during their escape and disengaged through sheer chance. “I can live with that. How’s your shoulder feel?”
Dean shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
“True.” Carrie’s seen him with more extensive injuries before, and to hear him tell it he had even closer brushes with danger before he knew her. She doesn’t like the thought, but she can’t stop him any more than he could stop her. They both chose this. They work well together, too, but at times like this it’s not enough to keep them from harm.
She can tell his thoughts run on a similar vein because his eyes haven’t left the bruise. She allows hers to flicker down as well and hastily redirects them to his face when she sees how purple it’s gotten. It’s definitely worse than anything she’s had before, and she knows he knows it. “Hey,” she says, and he meets her gaze. “My eyes are up here, you know.” To emphasize her point, she covers herself up again.
He smiles faintly and lifts his hand to her cheek. “You’ve got something on your face,” he says wryly as he runs his thumb over the other bruise blossoming there. The gesture both soothes and stings.
“That’s embarrassing,” she murmurs.
A tiny chuckle actually escapes him at that. His hand shifts to cup the back of her head as he leans in to kiss her. His lips are warm and solid, and despite her body’s protests she feels good-wholly, impossibly good and safe. Dean would never hurt her intentionally, not ever, and she can stop him if it gets to be too much but it hasn’t yet and probably won’t. He always, always does her much more good than ill, and she loves him for it.
She doesn’t say that just then, though. “You need to shave,” is what she says instead, against his mouth, and draws her fingers over the day-old stubble on his jaw.
In response, he only laughs and rolls her on her back.