The kitchen is moving right along! Next on the menu is a House Special for Day 16, featuring the most reliable, rugged protector on campus, Monsieur Jack Howl.
While Leona hides from the cold, Jack confronts it. He is from the Shaftlands; he knows snow, and he knows survival. When a sudden "Cold Snap" catches you off guard, Jack doesn't complain—he acts.
The kitchen has prepared this Manager's Specialty Pasta with a side of oversized jackets and unwavering loyalty. We do hope this "House Special" is to your satisfaction!
Serving: Cold Snap
The weather forecast had said "mild." The weather forecast had lied.
You were walking back from the library with Jack Howl when the wind changed. It wasn't a gradual cooling; it was a violent, instant drop. The sky turned a bruised purple, and a wind cut through the campus like a knife, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees in seconds.
A true Cold Snap.
You gasped, the air suddenly stinging your lungs. You were wearing a light cardigan, which was now about as effective as a paper napkin against a blizzard. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hunching your shoulders, your teeth immediately beginning to chatter.
"Whoa," Jack said, stopping in his tracks. He lifted his head, sniffing the air, his ears twitching. "Pressure dropped. Storm front moving in fast. We need to pick up the pace."
He looked down at you. You were already turning a shade of pale blue, shivering violently.
Jack frowned. "You're not dressed for this."
"I... I d-didn't... k-know..." you stammered.
"Doesn't matter," Jack grunted. He dropped his gym bag onto the freezing ground.
Without a second of hesitation, he unzipped his heavy, fur-lined Savanaclaw vest. He shrugged it off, leaving him in just his t-shirt. The cold didn't seem to bother him; he was built of muscle and inner fire.
"Arms up," he commanded.
You obeyed shakily. He slid the heavy vest over your shoulders. It was massive on you, engulfing you completely. It was heavy, thick, and it smelled intensely of Jack—of cedar, clean earth, and warmth.
He zipped it up to your chin, his large, rough hands surprisingly dexterous.
"Better?" he asked, watching your face closely.
"A l-little," you admitted, still shaking. The vest was warm, but the cold had already settled deep in your bones.
Jack made a noise in his throat—a low, unhappy rumble.
"Not good enough," he muttered. "Your lips are still blue."
He picked up his bag, slung it over one shoulder, and then stepped into your personal space. He didn't ask; he just acted on instinct. He wrapped a massive arm around your shoulders, pulling you hard against his side.
"Stay close," he ordered. "Leech the heat off me. I run hot."
He wasn't lying. Pressing against his side was like leaning against a radiator. His body heat radiated through his t-shirt, soaking into the heavy vest you were wearing, creating a sealed pocket of warmth.
"Jack... aren't... aren't you cold?" you asked, looking up at him.
"I'm fine," he said dismissively, steering you toward the dorms, blocking the wind with his own broad body. "I grew up in snow deeper than you are tall. This is just a breeze."
He squeezed you tighter, rubbing your arm briskly through the thick fabric of the vest to generate friction.
"Just keep walking," he said, his voice gruff but his golden eyes soft with concern. "I've got you. We're almost there. Don't you dare freeze on me."
You walked in step with him, guided by his strength. The wind howled around you, biting and cruel, but tucked under Jack's arm, wearing his scent like a shield, you felt completely, utterly safe.
A "dish" served with strength, protection, and a very warm vest! The kitchen is pleased to present this House Special.
asks HEHEHE! I'm so sorry this took so long my life got bonkers coo-coo crazy lol. I have been thinking about this prompt since you sent it in sooooo, have Maeve being unwell about Abelard
2k words
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There were many things she could’ve been doing with her night. She could’ve been painting, dancing with Maive, taking a bath. Golden Throne, she should’ve spent her night catching up on her reports.Â
Instead she stood in the center of her room, tapping her foot on the bloodied carpet, massaging her temples as her retinue threw buckets of bathwater on the burning furniture. And they were arguing.Â
She was standing in nothing but her negligee and the flats she wore around her chambers, spinning her pistols around her fingers as she resisted the urge to shoot every single person in her room and go back to bed. She was exhausted, bruised and bloody. On top of it all her chambers were wrecked and it was the most irritating part of it all.Â
She could deal with xenos attacks. She could deal with corrupted people invading the upper decks of her ship. She could deal with warp attacks from every chaos demon.Â
But in her bedroom? They ruined her carpet with their filth. It would take ages to replace it all.
“Van Calox,” she snarled, thumbs running along the hammer of her pistols. “Get a team of voidsmen down here to dispose of the intruders.”
When he turned to look at her he kept his eyes on her cheeks, fingers twitching at his sides, his gloves wet. He seemed to find issue with her current attire, it seemed. “Lord Captain, I must argue, we are perfectly capable-”
“Did that sound like a question?” she snapped, raising one of her pistols, cocking her head to the side, her nose wrinkled. “Let me rephrase. Get the voidsmen. Or I’ll blow your head from your shoulders.”Â
His brows shot upwards before he bowed his head. “Yes, Lord Captain.”
Emperor, she needed a drink. “Was that so bloody hard?” she muttered as he walked away, showing no signs of hearing her other than one of his hands flexing into a fist and then relaxing.Â
When she turned away to find a mirror, one of the supposed daemonette corpse’s hands reached out to grab her ankle, claws digging into the skin of her ankle. Her head jerked as her lips curled into a snarl.Â
Heads whipped around at the sound of her gun going off, more gore being plastered across her floor.Â
“Clean that up,” she spat, kicking the arm away.
Her headache was fading into a dull incessant pounding as the arguing continued from her crew, soon joined by the yelling of voidsmen.
With a soft huff she stomped over to her vanity, the arguing and yelling ceasing for a moment when she slammed her guns down on the wood, her hair flying into her face and catching on the metal and blood and gods damn it her mirror was shattered too.Â
Her nose wrinkled as she stared at her face in the mirror, blood splattered over her cheeks and her clavicale. There was even some on her slip, and the irritation of having to wash that out made her brow twitch.
She started to scrub at her face, fingers catching on the metal plate on her left cheek. She was missing a bolt now, she realized. It only served to further her irritation, the blood smearing around as she scrubbed. The arguing had stopped for a bit at least, the only saving grace of that moment. Of course it was ruined by the sound of them dragging bodies across her floor but at least they weren’t fighting.
Throne, it was going to be a headache to clean the blood out of the rugs.Â
One of the straps of her slip fell off her shoulder, though she hardly noticed, fingers scraping at the skin of her collar to try and get the blood. She would need another bath.
Someone noticed however, and when she turned her head to bark orders to get the hell out of her room before she added more to the carnage, something soft and warm was draped over her shoulders.Â
She paused, mouth half open with the orders on the tip of her tongue but she could scarcely remember what they were. She turned her head back to the cracked glass, peering at what could be the most shocking thing of the night.Â
“Werserian,” she said, brow furrowing. “Explain yourself.”
He dusted off one of the shoulders of the coat, adjusting it further. The hem was piling onto the floor. “I cannot in good conscience stand by and let the Lord Captain give orders in naught but her sleepwear,” Abelard simply said, pulling the coat tighter around her.Â
Their hands brushed when she reached up to correct it, eyes meeting once again in her mirror. He smiled at her, little and soft, before letting his face fall back into its normal neutral expression. Her fingers curled around the coat’s edges as her eyes fell to the floor, toes curling inside her flats.Â
“Well…thank you, seneschal,” she murmured.Â
“You did quite a number to the intruders,” he noted, watching another daemonette corpse be dragged out and dumped into her elevator. The corner of her mouth twitched at the sight of the blood smear that followed. Abelard sighed. “And the paneling of your room.”
She tilted her head to look at him, raising a brow. “Are you asking the pyromancer to not use their abilities in combat?”Â
His eyes fell to her two pistols, laying on her vanity. She had further chipped the wood by slamming them. “I was thinking more about the bullet holes.” There was a glint of humour in his eye when he looked at her again. “And one can certainly never miss the splatter of viscera around them.”
She smiled, it felt more like a snarl. “I hardly miss my shots.”
“And your retinue is better for it,” he simply finished, nodding at her.
Her brows furrowed at his words of praise, fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “Won’t you be needing your coat?”
He chuckled. “It’s hardly cold enough for me to require it so, please, Lord Captain, hold onto it for a bit. Allow me the illusion of preserving your modesty.”
“Werserian, I’m hardly naked,” she protested. “They caught me while I was sleeping, I’m going to be in my sleeping clothes.” He raised a brow, staring at her incredulously. She felt herself wilt a tad under his gaze, wrinkling her nose. She wanted to throw her hands in the air and huff about, but that required letting the coat drop from her shoulders. “Fine. Fine! If you insist upon it, I’ll preserve whatever modicum of modesty I may have left.”
They stood side by side for a moment in silence, her fingers messing with the soft embroidered details of the collar of his coat. The fabric was soft from many years of wear, and smelled of something spiced and something earthy. A hint of smoke. She couldn’t place exactly what the scents were, just that she liked them.Â
“I’ll spare you the questions,” he started after a moment, turning his body to face her. It was as choreographed as it must’ve been when he was in the Navy. She shrugged his coat up her shoulders, burying her face in the fabric for a brief moment. Was this truly how Abelard smelled? How had she never noticed? Did he ever do this for Theodora? “But for this old officer’s sake, are you alright? Injured? Shaken?”
She only smiled, her canines peeking out from her lips, her smile salacious. “Seneschal, those were hardly the worst creatures I’ve had in my bedroom.”
He blanched for a moment, before shaking his head with a small sigh and the smallest hint of a smile. “That may be true, Lord Captain, but are you hurt?”
She surveyed her room again, letting out a loud sigh. “Other than my ego and pride? Nothing a few medkits cannot handle. I’m more worried about the upholstery.”Â
He chuckled again. This was certainly shaping up to be her lucky day.Â
“Blood is certainly an arduous removal.”
She let out a sigh. “And all the gore they tracked in on their shoes? One would think She Who Thirsts would have better manners than this.”
“A shame that chaos demons don’t have etiquette classes.”
“Abelard…” The sound of his name on her mouth was certainly surprising, he let his guard down enough to show his surprise, head turning to look at her. “Would you like your coat back once everyone leaves?”
He turned away from her, clasping his hands behind his back, inhaling. She took the moment to inspect him. The coat covered much of his figure and clothes. He wore another jacket in a deep rich blue colour, it as well being embroidered in gold. Much of it was covered by his chestplate, and that was covered in awards from his ranking.Â
“You may hold onto it until you join us on the bridge. I’d hate to leave you cold.”
“But I’m not…” He wouldn’t look at her, and she knew he wouldn’t budge on the subject, her cheeks warming. She looked away from him, shuffling from foot to foot. She even knew, deep down as it was, she didn’t want to give up his coat just yet. “I do…suppose it’s a little cold. But you want me to give your coat back to you on the bridge, seneschal?” she asked, holding it closer with a smile, tipping her head to the side and letting her hair spill over her shoulder. “It’s so…public. Think of the scandal.”
He finally spared her a glance, sensing his victory, and laughed. A real laugh. “Lord Captain, I’m afraid scandal and Maeve von Valancius are one and the same.”
“Oh you wound me Seneschal! What if the rest of the Werserian family hears about this?” she joked.Â
“They wouldn’t think of it as a scandal, my lady.” The way he was looking at her now caused heat to rise back to her cheeks. She held his coat tighter around herself with one hand, the other still fiddling with the detail work.
Then with a flourish appropriate for a man of his stature, Abelard pressed a hand to his chest and dipped into a short bow. He reached out to grab her hand, still fingering the embroidery work, his hand much rougher than hers from years of military fighting and experience. Yet…he held her hand so gently, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles once, but only once.
Her eyes widened a tad, her exhale sounding more like a light sigh than a breath, and he brought her hand up to his mouth. His beard was awfully soft but it didn’t compare to the feeling of his lips on her bare knuckles. She could feel her cheeks flush, yet couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed.
“I shall see you on the bridge, Lord Captain.”
“I told you, you may call me Maeve.” Her words came out too breathy for her liking.Â
“Lord Captain, now you should think of the impropriety, the scandal.” His tone was light but his gaze couldn’t be moved from the bare skin of her arm.
“Werserian, I myself am an improper woman,” she said with a smile, tipping her head forward, more of her hair spilling out of the folds of his coat. Her words sounded nearly flirtatious. Her lashes brushed her cheeks as she blinked, holding the air of false innocence.Â
His thumb was rubbing her knuckles again, as he seemed to inspect her fingers for a moment. The knucklebone augments one could barely see through her skin, the scars on her palms and fingertips, the ash gathered beneath her fingernails from her abilities. Â
Then with the care of someone handling an object of value, he turned her hand over, watching her fingers splay. He met her eyes, pressing another kiss into her palm, before curling her fingers around the spot and pressing her hand to her chest, following the motion with a wink. “Well. We can’t have the crew knowing about that, now can we, Maeve?”
He left without another word, leaving her with her face scarlet and wearing a coat much too big for a person of her stature.Â
