SPN FIC - LARP the Night Away
It's a combination of combing through all that Steve Hanks art (much of which is ethereal female nudes or semi-nudes, which I figured Dean would have a serious appreciation for), a request from saberivojo, and the image of Dean as Indiana Jones I conjured up in Trick or Treat that leads to this particular story. It fades to black, and leaves the rest to your imagination, because that's what the movie does -- and because, yes, I am working on the next chapter of 1-800-MISSING.
She doesn't have to ask what he means. "Innnnndiana Jones," she croons.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 916 words
LARP THE NIGHT AWAY
By Carol Davis
That nightgown looks awfully familiar.
In fact, it’s crazy familiar - it’s definitely something he ought to recognize, but he’s been dealing with shrieking little kids for almost four hours, and he ate three Three Musketeers bars, a bag of M&Ms and a Chunky and his blood sugar’s up in the stratosphere somewhere, making focus a thing he can’t quite grasp, so he settles for murmuring, “Pretty.”
“Pretty?” she says. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Pretty’?”
“Incredibly hot?”
She sighs. Not a critical kind of a sigh. More a disappointed one. But still.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s as genuine as anything that’s ever come out of his mouth. “Been a long day. I got nothin’.”
Her expression now unreadable, she gets up off the bed, pads barefoot across the room and locks the door behind him.
Then she moves close to him, presses right up against him and whispers into his ear, “Indiana Jones. I always knew some day you'd come walking back through my door. I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable.”
“Heh,” he says.
This chick. Dear God, this chick.
She knows Raiders of the Lost Ark by heart, and she’s wearing Marion’s nightgown, the white satin one that made it look like Karen Allen was freezing her ass off in those scenes on the deck of the Bantu Wind with the wind blowing and that nightgown clinging to her like a second skin. There’s nothing like that available in town - he’s pretty sure - so Morgan must have ordered it online, which means she’s been planning this little adventure for a while now.
Planning to wear that nightgown for the first guy who walked through her door in a leather jacket and a fedora.
“I did what I did,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be happy about it. Maybe we can help each other out now.”
She grins at that.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks.
“From him.”
“Who, ‘him’?”
“Katanga. I got the feeling I’m not the first woman who ever traveled with these pirates.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
God, this woman. “You’re not gonna hit me with a mirror, are you?”
“Hadn’t planned on it. Don’t really need the seven years’ bad luck.” Smiling, she steps back to admire his outfit. And she ought to: he went all out for authenticity. Everybody in town knew immediately who he was supposed to be, and what part in the movie he was illustrating, except for one loudmouthed little redheaded girl who wanted to know why he was all dirty. “Did you have fun?” Morgan asks. “The munchkin didn’t wear you out?”
“Well…”
“Does it hurt?”
He could believe that this is his payment for doing the whole trick-or-treating thing: that this is his “thank you” for dealing with shrieking kids, for doing his best to morph himself into an everyday dad to make Morgan’s kid happy. But the thing is, he had fun. He hasn’t trick-or-treated in a couple of decades, and tonight made him remember what it was that made all that a good time. There wasn’t any TP’ing, which was a little bit of a disappointment, but you can’t have everything.
There was a lot of candy. And Morgan’s kid - the one who calls him dad, even though he’s not really that, he’s not anybody’s dad; he’s just a friend of her family’s - came away happy.
Sugar-wired to the gills, and happy.
So Morgan doesn’t owe him anything. Least of all, all this.
But you gotta take advantage of what life hands you, particularly when it’s dressed in clingy white satin.
“Yeah,” he says. “It hurts.”
Still smiling, she eases the leather jacket off his shoulders, then unbuttons and relieves him of the battered and dirty white shirt. “Where doesn’t it hurt?”
“Here.” Left elbow.
Not a lot of people have kissed that elbow. It’s not prime real estate; in fact, when she leans toward it, he can see he’s got a pretty bad dry skin situation going on there.
He could ask her about lotion. It’ll more than likely smell like flowers, or “Midnight Jasmine” or some damn thing, and Sam will mock him about it all day tomorrow, but that’s a small price to pay. Lotion feels good going on, when it’s being applied by the right person - good enough that what it smells like is a very, very minor consideration.
“I -“ he starts, but she silences him with a finger to his lips.
That elbow’s never been kissed like that.
“Huh,” he murmurs, then points to his temple. “Here.”
She grins. Flips his fedora off. Out of the corner of his eye he can see it drop toward the floor near the dresser. Then there’s another kiss, softer than the first.
“This isn’t…too bad.” His right eye.
“Not gonna fall asleep on me, are you, Dr. Jones?”
“Ate way too much sugar for that. I might still be awake a week from Tuesday.”
She ponders that, lips moue’d in a way that’s off-the-charts sexy. It gives him a chance to sweep a glance down the full length of that nightgown. She doesn’t quite look like Karen Allen - her hair’s a little lighter, and her body’s a little rounder - but she could probably hold her own in the Well of the Souls, battling a million slithering asps.
“Say it again,” he says close to her ear.
She doesn’t have to ask what he means. “Innnnndiana Jones,” she croons.
“Hello, Marion,” he whispers.
God, this woman.
* * * * *
She doesn't have to ask what he means. "Innnnndiana Jones," she croons.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 916 words
LARP THE NIGHT AWAY
By Carol Davis
That nightgown looks awfully familiar.
In fact, it’s crazy familiar - it’s definitely something he ought to recognize, but he’s been dealing with shrieking little kids for almost four hours, and he ate three Three Musketeers bars, a bag of M&Ms and a Chunky and his blood sugar’s up in the stratosphere somewhere, making focus a thing he can’t quite grasp, so he settles for murmuring, “Pretty.”
“Pretty?” she says. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Pretty’?”
“Incredibly hot?”
She sighs. Not a critical kind of a sigh. More a disappointed one. But still.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s as genuine as anything that’s ever come out of his mouth. “Been a long day. I got nothin’.”
Her expression now unreadable, she gets up off the bed, pads barefoot across the room and locks the door behind him.
Then she moves close to him, presses right up against him and whispers into his ear, “Indiana Jones. I always knew some day you'd come walking back through my door. I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable.”
“Heh,” he says.
This chick. Dear God, this chick.
She knows Raiders of the Lost Ark by heart, and she’s wearing Marion’s nightgown, the white satin one that made it look like Karen Allen was freezing her ass off in those scenes on the deck of the Bantu Wind with the wind blowing and that nightgown clinging to her like a second skin. There’s nothing like that available in town - he’s pretty sure - so Morgan must have ordered it online, which means she’s been planning this little adventure for a while now.
Planning to wear that nightgown for the first guy who walked through her door in a leather jacket and a fedora.
“I did what I did,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be happy about it. Maybe we can help each other out now.”
She grins at that.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks.
“From him.”
“Who, ‘him’?”
“Katanga. I got the feeling I’m not the first woman who ever traveled with these pirates.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
God, this woman. “You’re not gonna hit me with a mirror, are you?”
“Hadn’t planned on it. Don’t really need the seven years’ bad luck.” Smiling, she steps back to admire his outfit. And she ought to: he went all out for authenticity. Everybody in town knew immediately who he was supposed to be, and what part in the movie he was illustrating, except for one loudmouthed little redheaded girl who wanted to know why he was all dirty. “Did you have fun?” Morgan asks. “The munchkin didn’t wear you out?”
“Well…”
“Does it hurt?”
He could believe that this is his payment for doing the whole trick-or-treating thing: that this is his “thank you” for dealing with shrieking kids, for doing his best to morph himself into an everyday dad to make Morgan’s kid happy. But the thing is, he had fun. He hasn’t trick-or-treated in a couple of decades, and tonight made him remember what it was that made all that a good time. There wasn’t any TP’ing, which was a little bit of a disappointment, but you can’t have everything.
There was a lot of candy. And Morgan’s kid - the one who calls him dad, even though he’s not really that, he’s not anybody’s dad; he’s just a friend of her family’s - came away happy.
Sugar-wired to the gills, and happy.
So Morgan doesn’t owe him anything. Least of all, all this.
But you gotta take advantage of what life hands you, particularly when it’s dressed in clingy white satin.
“Yeah,” he says. “It hurts.”
Still smiling, she eases the leather jacket off his shoulders, then unbuttons and relieves him of the battered and dirty white shirt. “Where doesn’t it hurt?”
“Here.” Left elbow.
Not a lot of people have kissed that elbow. It’s not prime real estate; in fact, when she leans toward it, he can see he’s got a pretty bad dry skin situation going on there.
He could ask her about lotion. It’ll more than likely smell like flowers, or “Midnight Jasmine” or some damn thing, and Sam will mock him about it all day tomorrow, but that’s a small price to pay. Lotion feels good going on, when it’s being applied by the right person - good enough that what it smells like is a very, very minor consideration.
“I -“ he starts, but she silences him with a finger to his lips.
That elbow’s never been kissed like that.
“Huh,” he murmurs, then points to his temple. “Here.”
She grins. Flips his fedora off. Out of the corner of his eye he can see it drop toward the floor near the dresser. Then there’s another kiss, softer than the first.
“This isn’t…too bad.” His right eye.
“Not gonna fall asleep on me, are you, Dr. Jones?”
“Ate way too much sugar for that. I might still be awake a week from Tuesday.”
She ponders that, lips moue’d in a way that’s off-the-charts sexy. It gives him a chance to sweep a glance down the full length of that nightgown. She doesn’t quite look like Karen Allen - her hair’s a little lighter, and her body’s a little rounder - but she could probably hold her own in the Well of the Souls, battling a million slithering asps.
“Say it again,” he says close to her ear.
She doesn’t have to ask what he means. “Innnnndiana Jones,” she croons.
“Hello, Marion,” he whispers.
God, this woman.
* * * * *