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foxilayde · 1 year ago

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Collisions in Entropy [Peter Roiter x Fem!Reader]

Summary: You were drawn to him like gravity. Like the only two bodies of mass on a lattice field, dipping in the center like marbles, stretching the fabric of time with the weight of yourselves and converging at the center into a singular point.

Length: 5.5k

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Romantic smut. Oral: f receiving. PiV.

Author’s Note: I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter making it to Rome and then confining himself to wait out his remaining days like an invisible stranger, careful not to disturb this timeline. I like to think his curiosity couldn’t keep him away from a special event he never got to see firsthand. Enjoy!

The wedding of Callum Roiter to Rebecca Bradley took place at Creeksea Place in the Essex countryside on Saturday September 30th 2023. Is taking place, rather. Currently taking place. Peter Roiter arrives in a rented grey suit and gate crashes his own parent’s wedding, 13 months before his birth.

They’re taking the photographs now, the photographs that will adorn the walls of his childhood home. The same photograph he will accidentally shatter In 2032 while playing cricket in the house. He recognizes the angle of the pink jaunty bouquets up in the air, the collection of color in a joyous line on the red brick footbridge beside the white gazebo, a bridal party draped in lavender taffeta posed in what looks like “a silly one” where they lovingly encircle the blushing bride—Rebecca Roiter née Bradley.

The camera flashes weakly against the midday light and at the same instant a bridesmaid looks in Peter’s direction and smiles.

He’d cut his palm on that picture frame—the shattered one—the bridal party laid in fragments in that parallel future time. He looks down at his hand and the thick scar is still there. He wonders if the Peter Roiter who will be born 13 months from tomorrow will get the same cut. If he will hit the cricket ball in the same exact angle, turning his head to the same exact call of his mother’s voice from the other room. “Peter!” Crash. A vortex.

That’s what had ruined the photo in the end. Not the shattered glass, but the blood. Will this timeline’s Peter Roiter grow up and do what he’s done? Do it exactly the same? Blood and shattered glass in the parlor. Blood and shattered glass in the terminal 4 bathroom.

He’s never been to a wedding like this before. Never even heard of one with so many people, unrestrained smiles, photographs, laughter, dancing… nowhere outside of a movie, that is. His own wedding to Helen was private, as most weddings in 2050 were. Out of necessity. Sweet and civil. She held peonies and they danced to Marvin Berry in the backyard, underneath the stars and the patio lights. He has an insane urge to make a toast to the people of 2023 and tell them, “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

They’re so unaware. Unbothered. It’s beautiful to see. Like the carefree cheers-ing that must’ve been happening on the Titanic cruiseliner 10 minutes before they collided with an iceberg.

He doesn’t feel sorry for them. He is jealous. They’re feting in the last roaring moments of civilization, right before the interminable lockdowns will begin. He conservatively guesses that half of them will be dead within the next ten years.

He stays as invisible as he can, observing his parent’s tender happy moments from afar. They’re so young. He’s nearly old enough to be their father.

During the ceremony he sees both sets of grandparents for the first time in his life in person. Maybe that should be his alibi instead of “cousin of the bride”, he’s much more believable as “colleague of the father of the groom”. If only he could remember what Grandfather Roiter did for a living… insurance, maybe?

He won’t stick around long enough for anyone to ask just how he knows the lovely couple anyway. He’ll stay invisible for now, just another speck in this world that doesn’t belong to him.

This timeline might be defunct anyway, he may very well be cautiously tip-toeing around what he only assumes is a sleeping beast, but may in fact be nothing more than a carcass. Peter errs on the side of caution anyway and sips champagne from the further-most table.

Callum Roiter, looking everything like the father of his childhood, stands from the center of the high table and clinks his crystal glass. His cheeks look hurt and shiny from smiling, he holds his new wife’s hand and makes his toast, he thanks the guests for coming and makes a joke about how more guests might’ve showed up had they hosted the ceremony on the Boleyn Ground. He’s so young. So untroubled. The trip to Essex was worth every potential risk to the balance to see the joy in his parent’s eyes in real time. He feels supremely lucky to be a product of such an astounding love.

And then Callum raises his glass higher, winks to Rebecca and announces, “and lastly, a great big thank you to American psychologist Doctor Eliza Knight,” There is a knowing laugh amongst the wedding party who are privy to the story of the bizarre phone call from a Dr. Knight. “Without whom, I would have never met my beautiful bride. Wherever you are, love, cheers.”

“Cheers” the crowd responds. Peter downs the rest of his glass, “to Beatrix,” he mutters.

“You know what that’s about, don’t you?”

It’s the first time anyone has addressed him all day. He hadn’t seen her approach. The young woman from the bridal party. The one who smiled at him as the flashbulb went off. Pink roses, purple gown, shards of glass, blood, and a cricket ball.

“What’s about?” His voice slips into the Essex dialect like it’s nothing. He wonders how much of that is the chip and how much of it is his real voice— the one his mother and father taught him to use. He looks down at his lap when the woman sits beside him.

“The American doctor story.”

Oh he knows. He’s heard the tale his whole life, moreover he’s overturned timelines and sold out the souls of billions for the American doctor in question. “No,” he says to the pretty bridesmaid. “Would you let me in on it?”

*******

“Can’t believe you haven’t heard it before,” you smile, “would have thought Cal and Bex told damn near everyone in England by now.”

“Must be a good one.” He says with almost no defensiveness. Almost.

He’s cute. Older than you. A little scruffy, but in a very pleasing way—slightly overgrown at the nape of his neck and shadowed in the roughness of his sharp jaw. His eyes are kind though. So hopeful, sweet, and terribly familiar.

“Come outside with me and I’ll tell you, it’s getting warm in here.”

He glances to the high table, there’s a line forming of folks offering their congratulations along with envelopes of money to the young couple. He nods to you, leaving his grey rented coat on the back of the chair. He offers you his arm and you take it with a “thank you”, leading him to the French doors and stepping out onto the grounds.

The air is late summer. Warm and green. A million twinkle lights glow along the pathway to the pond, the place where you’d first laid eyes on him this afternoon.

“What’s your name?” You ask, trodding slowly towards the gazebo, your arm still in his. His forearm is warm under the white cotton dress shirt.

“Oliver.”

“Hmm.” You smile.

“What?” Defensive.

“Could have sworn it was something else.” You goad.

You can feel his pulse pick up from your fingertips on the crook of his elbow.

“What’s your name?” He counters.

You ignore him. “I didn’t bring you out here to tell you my name, I brought you out here to tell you a story, remember? Do you want to hear it or not?”

Peter breathes deep as if he’s winding up to tell you something but all he does with the breath is exhale and nod, “Please.”

“Last year, November the 23rd, 2022, to be exact, both Callum and Rebecca got a mysterious phone call from a Doctor Eliza Knight, a psychoanalyst from America, telling them that she knew their son. That he was a 39 year old time traveler sent from the year 2062 named Peter Roiter and he claimed to be on a mission to save the world. What do you think of that, Oliver?”

His grin is tight, dismissive, “sounds like a nut job.”

“The odd thing is, Callum and Rebecca had never met each other before. Doctor Knight gave each the other’s information and told them it was crucial that they meet and fall in love and have this child. Peter.”

Peter says nothing.

“So they do get together. Because of the absurdity. They go out for a drink, out of curiosity, to laugh about the madwoman who told them they were going to raise the messiah of the twenty first century.”

Peter leans against the railing of the gazebo and glances back to the house where the party is winding down. “And the rest is history.” He nods toward the red bricked abode.

“That’s not all,” you smile conspiratorially.

“No?”

“No. See, I looked into it, just to check to see if there was a Doctor Eliza Knight, and there is… or there was.”

He remains silent and surreptitiously fingers the raised scar on the inside of his hand while you talk. Nervous habit.

“See, the very next day after she made the phone calls, Doctor Knight walked into an airport bathroom in New York City and disappeared… disappeared! They checked all the security footage. She walks into the restroom and never walked out. They did find her clothes, and a shattered syringe full of blood that wasn’t her own, a tape recorder in a trash can. But her? Nowhere to be found. Can you believe it? The very next day after calling Bex and Cal. That’s insane, right?”

He nods, lost in thought across the lake.

“It’s funny, most people get a real kick out of that anecdote. I was excited to tell you. Brought you out to the dim ambiance and everything.”

“It’s a great story. Really. I’m just tired is all.” He folds his arms across his chest and looks at you with a believable amount of sleepiness.

“You’ve heard it before, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That would be one explanation for your boredom— you know the story by heart… How do you know the bride and groom, Oliver?” You nearly whisper, stepping closer to him.

“Who are you?” He backs away a step, bumping into the rim of the gazebo and catching himself on a polished beam.

“Peter, you’re about to upset a very fragile ecosystem that we’ve been curating. I had to get you out of that party, I hope you understand.”

“We?”

“Peter, if you care about the future, you need to kiss me right now, in the next five seconds, it’s our only chance.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. With a look of solid determination he takes two steps towards you, cradles your head in his hands and presses his lips to yours, kissing you with reserved lips that didn’t match the committed blaze in his eyes. You break the kiss in near disbelief and regret.

“That was mean, I’m sorry.”

Peter’s face scrunches and he takes half a step back, letting you fall out of his grasp.

“What? Wait, tell me who you are, what’s going on? Did the W.H.O send you? Do you have a message for me? Did the project work? Any word on Beatrix?”

You press your fingertips to your lips and your eyes widen.

“Are you fucking with me?” You accuse.

His face drops from hopeful to incredulous and the two of you stare at each other with mutual suspicion for a beat.

He licks his bottom lip. “Why did I need to kiss you? Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. I… hang on, are you— is your name really Peter? I just called you that because… because of what the doctor told Bex…” you can hear your heart hammering in your ears.

Peter’s eyes narrow, “you were teasing me?”

“Holy shit. The… the doctor? The story? Peter Roiter?”

Peter remains stock still, his back rigid, gritting his teeth.

You clap your hand over your mouth and laugh. “Oh my god! Bex is going to murder me if she finds out I snogged her son. This is so weird.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t! I mean, god, no one actually believes that story about the doctor, do they? it’s insane! something straight out of a movie! I figured they met each other on tinder and wanted a cuter “how’d you meet?” Story and made this one up for clout or something, but… then we were taking photos today and you were lurking in the back of the setting up, lurking the back of the ceremony, sitting all by yourself in the back of the reception— not talking to anybody… which is exactly what someone who isn’t trying to alter a timeline might do. What am I saying? And god you do really look like half Bex and half Cal… it’s uncanny.”

“You can’t tell anyone about this, you understand?”

“Tell anyone? No one would believe me if I did! I don’t even know if I believe me! Besides, I’m not joking about the whole ‘Bex would kill me’ thing, I’m kind of skeeving myself out right now. I mean they’re both fit and well obviously,” You gesture to Peter up and down before slapping your forehead, “oh my god, I need—I need to shut up.”

“Wait, wait, wait, just calm down. Okay. I need to—look, if this isn’t a dead timeline, I can’t have you treating Cal and Bex’s son any differently than you would had you not learned that.. that I’m him. So—“

“Hang on, dead timeline? What the hell does that mean?”

“Is the name not obvious enough for you?” Peter begins to pace around the pergola, the valley between his brows growing deeper by the minute.

Your eyebrows shoot up, “well excuse me for not understanding your sci-fi speak, Mr. Coherence.”

“Dead timeline. It means the statistical likelihood of salvaging the future of this particular timeline is… astronomically low. If this is a dead timeline, then there is a near 100 chance humanity will be destroyed within the next 40 years.”

“Oh god.”

“It might not be. There’s no way of knowing right now.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It could be a loop timeline, in which case, it’s important for you to—“

“Not treat the forthcoming baby Peter Roiter any differently.”

“Exactly.” He breathes with relief.

“Even though he will apparently grow up to be a man who potentially puts me and everything and everyone I know and love into a dead future or whatever you called it.”

“That’s not—“

“It’s fine, Peter, the less I know the better, right?” You shift in your heels and lean against the polished railing. “Might make it difficult to take him out for ice cream knowing that I snogged him at his mum’s wedding. Bleeding Christ, I really am sorry about that.”

“You’re surprisingly easy to convince. And you’re taking this extremely well. I’m not used to that— people believing me. And it’s fine, its my fault for being here, for following you outside. I promised I wouldn’t interact with anyone and now we’re getting… inextricable.”

“I don’t know why I believe you. I mean I know it’s crazy, it’s the least likely explanation for all of this, but I just feel like, I have to believe you. I just… have to. Now that sounds crazy.”

He shakes his head. “I really thought I was being stealthy coming here today. It was probably a mistake.”

“Well, if we are in a loop timeline, as you called it, I don’t think there can be any mistakes. And if we are in a dead end, then the mistakes don’t matter, right?”

“Who are you?”

You tell him your name. He shakes his head with that same worried valley between his brows.

“I don’t remember you at all from my childhood. Or hearing about you from my mother. I’m not even sure you were in the photo that I broke.”

“The photo that you broke? What photo?”

There’s a sudden cacophony from the French doors where you exited the reception with Peter. A group of groomsmen stagger out, each with a champagne bottle in their hand, singing what you can only assume is a fight song from Cal’s alma mater.

Peter runs his thumb and forefinger over the stubble surrounding his lips. Those lips that you made him kiss you with. God, what is happening?

“C’mon,” he mutters placing a hand at your lower back and guides you to the path by the pond, further away from the celebration. “Just being cautious.”

There’s a bench aglow with twinkle lights near the pond, out of view of the estate house. It feels good to sit and take some pressure off the silk heels you bought special for this evening. You slip them off and let your feet rest on the cool grass.

“What photo were you talking about?” You ask.

“The bridesmaid photos with the bouquets on the bridge. I grew up with that photo in my house. But one day I was playing football— no, it was… it was cricket. I was playing cricket in the house and the photo shattered. I cut my hand trying to hide it from my mum, look.”

You take his hand, inspecting his palm and turning it over. He continues. “But I don’t recognize you. From the photo. I don’t think you were there. You weren’t looking at the camera. You were looking at me.”

“I don’t see a scar.”

“What?”

Peter pulls back his hand.

“It is kind of dark out, so that could be why.”

“Wha…” Peter holds his hands up to the twinkle lights in the willow branches above the bench. He shakes his head. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Deja vu.” You whisper.

Peter’s hands fall from inspection, he rubs his fingers together at his sides. “What did you say? Did you say Deja vu?”

“Yeah. I’ve— I’ve been here before. This has happened before. With you. What’s happening?”

Peter sits back down next to you on the bench, grabbing your upper arms with insistence. “Are you messing with me again? Are you screwing with my head?” He’s breathing fast. He looks scared.

“No! No, I swear Peter. This just… feels so familiar. Do you feel it? The smell in the air, the champagne bottles popping, you checking your hands in the light, the kiss in the gazebo… what’s happening? What does it mean that I’ve felt this before?”

Peter lets go of your arms and runs his thumbs across the smooth insides of his knuckles. “It means… it means it’s elastic. This timeline is still alive. I’m not in a loop, I’m not in a dead end. Something is happening… or something will happen. Either way, we’re all still breathing…” Peter laughs quietly for a few moments before silencing himself with his own hand. “Somewhere, somehow, in the past 20 minutes or so, a vortex was formed— a shift in the timeline.”

“What does that mean? Is that good or bad?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know. We—us in the future—don’t even fully understand it. It’s a technology we discovered from elsewhere in the universe. I’ve been thinking lately that we don’t have the receptive capacity to understand the dimensionality. Like trying to conceptualize a tesseract.”

“What are you doing here? Still trying to save the world?”

“No. That window closed. Or at least, I thought it had.”

“So your window is closed. You didn’t succeed?”

He stares into your eyes for several beats. He thinks about December 31st in Rome. How he waited on platform 23 at the piazza di Spagna until the last train came it at near midnight. And how he walked around the Villa Borghese alone when security shooed him away from the station, he walked back to the red tiled hotel alone. A doomed mission. He must’ve passed at least a dozen kissing couples that night ringing in the new year.

“No. I didn’t. I’m sorry.” His apology feels personal.

“It’s okay.” You say with a small voice, placing a hand on his knee. “So, now what? Do you go back, to your original time, the future?”

“Can’t go back. Can’t go anywhere. Even if I could, there’s no one to retrieve me.”

“So you just live out the rest of your days here in 2023 onward?”

Peter bites his lip and looks out over the pond. “Yeah.”

“What happens when baby Peter Roiter is born?”

“You’re too quick, you know that?” Peter snorts and shakes his head.

“I watch a lot of sci-fi movies,” you smile, shouldering off your lavender shawl and pointing out your tattoo. “See. It’s a—“

“DeLorean.” He traces his finger over the small line drawing tattoo.

“A 1981 DeLorean DMC-12 to be exact.” You grin proudly.

Peter swallows and traces his finger down your bare arm, making your hairs raise.

“You got it the day of your 18th birthday. You had a fight with your father and you got it on a whim. You were so angry at your father that you cried when you got it and when the tattoo artist asked if you needed a break from the pain you said—“

“How do you know this, Peter, you’re scaring me.”

“You said, I’ve had worse.”

“Peter—“

“I know you. We’ve been here before. This bench. The lights, the way they glow on your skin.” He swipes the side of your face lightly with the back of his unblemished hand.” He gulps. “I kiss you on the gazebo by the pond, I kiss you under a willow tree far away from the house, I—“ he shifts closer, his forehead nearly touching your own. “I carry you like a bride up the stairs and I kiss you in a room with golden leaves on the ceiling.”

You shift closer to him, your noses touching.

“Don’t you remember?” He asks, cupping your cheek. “No matter where I go. There you are. Entanglement.”

“I remember.” You nod. “Tell me, Peter. Tell me what happens when you’re born.”

Peter cradles your face in both of his hands and pulls back a fraction of an inch, eyes flickering between your own before he sighs and shuts them in a near grimace.

“I die.” He kisses you. And its so different from the kiss on the gazebo. Your little lie, your little trick in back there that got him to kiss you the first time. A lie— or so you thought at the time. Something made you say it to him you’re sure of that now. The deception was compulsory. It wasn’t why you led him out at the time. But now it its.

As sure as he knows the date of his own birth, he knows he will die. In almost exactly 13 months. Or sometime before; but never after. They didn’t teach him every facet at The Project, mainly due to their own ignorance; and he wouldn’t have to face his demise if he had only taken himself to the extraction point… but that had been out of the question. And what is he doing now? With you on this bench? 100 yards from his newlywed parents. This is a new dream he is fulfilling, the erasure of his scar, these new-old memories, the fulfillment of a loop.

Your silk shoes abandoned in the grass, he scoops up your knees onto his lap, he holds your face so tenderly and kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you beneath the willow tree.

He carries you like a bride to your bedroom at the top of the stairs. If any party stragglers notice you, you aren’t aware. You cling to Peter with your face buried in his neck, holding to his broad shoulders, your bare toes make brushing contact with the walls of the stairwell as you ascend. You don’t need to tell him which room is yours, he’s been here before hasn’t he? You certainly have. In a dream. In another life.

He lays you gently on the bed, kissing up your ankles, sliding the satin of your sheath dress up your legs as he goes, crawling up and up and up you, his lips trailing over the rise of your knees with abject devotion. His strong hands splay and scoop under your dress, under your hips, to grab your lace panties. He looks into your eyes from where he kisses the crest of your thigh when he slides the material down your legs and tosses them to the floor.

“How could I have forgotten you?” He whispers with a longing against your skin, pushing your dress up until it pools in a satin puddle at your middle. He kisses the tip of your hipbone before he settles between your thighs, his stubble scratches pleasantly at the sensitive flesh when he runs his nose along the junction of your hip and thigh.

Cradling your hips in his palms, he shrugs your legs over his shoulders. He’s still fully dressed, the only disrobing he did of himself was the grey jacket abandoned on the the back of the far-table chair in the reception hall downstairs, and the blue tie he loosened and discarded somewhere near your panties. His disguise.

He crawls up further onto the bed to fully press his face into your sex. He latches onto your puffy cunt with his kiss-swollen lips and licks you open with messy, savoring swirls of his tongue. His mouth hot and slick, chin and nose pressing into you with a rocking hungry motion. You don’t intend to cry out at the sensation but he’s making love to you with his mouth like it isn’t the first time and you have no choice but to strangle your own keen of pleasure and fully and gracelessly recline on the bed, the prop of your elbows unable to hold you up through the slick furnace of pleasure that is Peter Roiter’s mouth.

You scrunch your eyes closed and bite your bottom lip when his tongue focuses in on your clit, hot mouth still sealed around your pussy, he lathes you with stern and steady lashings to your point of pleasure. Your hands fist in the pool, of silk at your belly. He sighs hotly into you and works his own fingers through yours, loosening your grasping hands from your dress. He laces all his fingers flush with yours, soothing the sides of your palms with his thumbs.

He never stops the hot assault of your spread sex with his tongue. Your grass stained heels rest lightly on the taut warm linen of his dress shirt. You can feel the way the muscles back there flex, your feet sliding every so slightly when his hips buck gently into the mattress. You don’t open your eyes until you’re desperately close to cumming in his mouth and when you look up all you can see are flashes of gold.

Your hips lift off the mattress with the arch of your back and the contraction of your thighs. You let out a long low keen and his face tilts up to follow your clit, sucking you lovingly, his hands gripping more tightly to your own than ever before.

“Peter,” your lips tremble, you slowly open your clamped shut eyes.

There it is. The gold leaf ceiling glinting in warm yellow light. Just as he said. Just as your remember. You stare dazedly at it and you know in less than a moment Peter will crawl up your shaking sweating body and place a kiss on your lips. He does. You grab him by his thick curls and push and pull and twist him in a debauched kiss till he’s flat on his back and you’re on top. His mouth is hot and sticky and so, so giving.

He runs his hands lightly over the open back of your dress. You only unbuckle him enough, and shimmy his trousers midway down his thighs, to get him inside of you. When you sink down on him he holds your forehead against his and gasps in disbelief.

“I—“ He chokes, catching his breath and fighting his eyes rolling back so he can get a good look at you when you take him all the way down.

“What?” You smile, stroking his cheek.

“I— I’ve missed you. Ahh.” He grabs you hard then, sitting up slightly and clawing your dress strap down so he can bite and suck the softest parts of your chest.

You cradle his head there, grinding into his lap slowly, gasping softly at the feel of him inside you.

“You won’t disappear, will you?” You whisper in a daze of pleasure.

No, he chants against your breast.

“No, no, no. I can’t lose you.” He holds you tight to him like he means it.

Peter has pulled the top of your dress down to your waist now and his hands roam freely over your back, plotting the elevated terrain of your shoulders, the valley between your breasts, and the maps of rivers at your wrists.

He lays fully back down and takes you with him. You smile against his kiss.

“Getting tired, old man?”

“Mmm, I’m younger than you—technically— negative one years old next month.” He bites your ear. You laugh. He thrusts up into you. You moan and clutch him by his clothed shoulders.

Peter cups your cheek in his hand. The one with the missing scar. You turn your face to kiss his unblemished palm. You rock on him slowly, his mouth parts in bliss.

“Does this mean anything can change at any time?” You ask, glancing at the inside of his hand.

“Yes but that’s always been a given.” Cheeky.

“No, I don’t mean just anything. I’m not talking about normal changes, I concerned about—“

“Dissolving out of a photograph? Ceasing to exist?” He teases, flicking your tattoo.

“Or Chuck Berry never writing Johnny B. Goode?”

“Who?” Peter delivers in convincing deadpan curiosity before breaking out into a beautiful grin.

You pinch his side. “Rat.” You can feel the intensity of his jerking response to the pinch where he’s buried warmly inside you.

Peter nods, “I don’t know. I hate saying that I don’t know and I hate that worried little look on your face, but I promise that it doesn’t change anything. We are here and like it or not the only thing certain is change.”

“The mortal agreement.”

“There is one thing I do know. No matter what I change, no matter where I go. I find you. Even when I send you away, you bounce back. Right back into my arms. A less scientifically minded man might think that love has it’s own special inter-dimensional set of physics. We just… keep extracting entropy from a closed system. No matter how hard I break the billiards they fly right back to the center of the table in formation. Not always in the same order, but… still… accounted for. I thought it was fragile, like butterfly wings, you know? But I’m learning it’s durable. It’s elastic, alive. And you always bounce back.”

“Sounds less like time travel and more like pattern reconfiguration.”

Peter tucks your hair behind your ear and drinks in your face, nodding thoughtfully. “Everything you say. Everything you’ve said. It’s all like something that’s on the tip of my tongue.”

You grin, bending over him, taking his pretty face in your hands, you kiss him and suck his tongue into your mouth, bobbing your mouth on the tip of it suggestively, “is it?” You smile. He’s still hard in you. You hope he never stops. This is how you should have every conversation about everything from here on out. Joined together, the beast with two backs as Shakespeare would say.

“I don’t want to cum.” He groans into your mouth, “when I cum I’ll have to stop being inside you, and I don’t want that, I want to live inside you.”

Call it the contrarian in you, but the admission only makes you want to force it out of him against his will. To make him fall apart precisely because he said he was trying his best to keep it together.

You clench, ride him, and moan into his ear until he’s nearly tapping out from ecstasy and when he comes he calls your name.

“Oh no.” You gasp, looking around worriedly.

“What? What is it?” Peter halfway sits up, adrenaline opening his eyes fully.

“Do you think your parents heard us?” You grin teasingly.

Peter sighs with relief and shakes his head, kissing your cheek and crushing you against his chest in a hug.

You don’t worry about tonight, the shoes you left outside, the rented jacket in the reception hall, or what will transpire in the next 13 months. Everything will bounce back in the end.

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

Tagging everyone who interacted with the post asking who was interested in this Peter Roiter fic:

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#Case 63 #Peter Roiter x you #Peter Roiter x Reader #Oscar Isaac #fanfiction #fan fiction #reader insert #self insert

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smolvenger · 1 year ago

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A Court of Mischief and Purpose Chapter Thirteen (Loki x fem! Reader Hiddlesverse Crossover Series)

Series Summary: Based on Sarah J Mass's A Court of Thorns and Roses series with the Tom Hiddleston characters. You are a woman of 1885 in Aldwinter in Essex, England, dying of tuberculosis. Never to be married to the local Lusty Vicar. When Loki appears to you and offers to heal you...if you spend a week of every month with him.

Chapter Warnings: You and Loki journey to Jotunheim to find the orb. But when events turn for the worse...you decide to ask for help.

Chapter Warnings: Using an oldie but goodie fanfic trope (Court of Mist and Fury does it, so I decided to use it too), some insecurity and mutual pining, and mentions of past cheating with a character who isn't Loki. Fluff and Angst.

A/N: I am not 100 percent certain about the cannon world of Jotunheim, so I threw my hands in the air and cried "fuck it! Give them horses". The next chapters are coming in fast since work was slow and I used the time to write some first drafts. Hence the fast posting.

Series Masterlist

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter

Dressed in your warmest coats and sheathed with daggers, you both went through the portal.

Jotunheim was still as bitter cold as ever. If only Loki could just create a portal within Jotunheim to land you right in the cabin! But no- that wasn’t in his abilities, as he kept reminding you whenever you began to complain. You had to travel through the blasted tundra. You trekked through the sharp wind and snow with Loki for a few hours. Thank goodness your fire floated in your hands and the movement gave you warmth. But you had yet to sense out where the cabin was. And now it was getting dark.

You used a certain creature to travel through- horses only known in Jotunheim. Like a regular horse. Only this one was a little bigger than normal. Bright white as the snow and that had crystals of ice on him. The Jotunheim Horses were immune to the cold- it was where they thrived. In fact, it grazed to eat the snow, swishing its blue tail and mane.

When you both got tired of walking, he used some of the money you had brought to rent a special horse of Jotunheim from a village. Like a regular horse that had crystals on them. Horses that were immune to the cold- it was where they thrived. Only barely larger than normal. You eyed the saddle nervously.

“I never even rode a normal horse before,” you said.

“Now, don’t be nervous my dear- here, I will show you how...” Loki guided.

He helped you up onto the saddle, you in front and him behind. You swung your legs to the side like you saw horsewomen in photographs back home do. He guided the reigns and as you both rode, gave you small instructions- keep your heels down. Stay calm. Flick the reigns to make them go faster, tug to make them stop or go slower. He even let you practice riding it for a couple of miles forward, the horse trotting at a calm pace.

“We’ve traveled for hours…but we cannot lose our place…” Loki said.

He checked the book again.

“It should be close…but it means it’s several hours of riding…”

He looked at you shivering.

“And we’ll need to stop…”

There was a city nearby. Some of the Frost Giant people gaped at you, but you ignored their starings. You checked the few inns in town. But it seemed many were full due to Starfall and those traveling to celebrate.

Finally, there was the third and last inn You both went inside, going up to the innkeeper at the wooden desk in the lobby. Her blue skin seemed to shine in the light and her red eyes were bright.

“We have good news, there is one room available for the night…” she announced.

“Oh, wonderful!” you cried.

She looked between you both.

“However, there is a problem…” she began.

There was only one bed. One comfortable, blanketed, bed in that room.

It was far too cold to lie on the floor for hours. You both would have to sleep in it.

Your heart raced a little- something so intimate! Something you would have never agreed to do a year ago…but now, what choice did you have?

Loki had nightclothes conjured for both of you. You fought back the memory of seeing him sleep semi-naked. You both had warm, thick nightgowns that were as white as the Jotunheim snow. You felt your eyes continue to flutter down to see the V of his own nightwear. The little bit of hair that poked out of his chest. But then forced them away.

Once it got dark, you both got into the bed. You and Loki turned around, him staring at the window and you at the wall.

The wind whistled sharply. Outside there were constant flurries of thick snowflakes. The cold air seeped through the room. Contrasting with the warmth of the blankets…and of your bedmate. Turning about, you had not fallen asleep yet. Your mind refusing to shut down despite the long day.

You kept thinking back, despite yourself, remembering the day you first spoke to him. The day he saved you at a price. But there was one little thing he said that still kept bugging you like an itch you weren’t allowed to scratch.

“Loki… are you awake?” you asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “Why aren’t you asleep by now?”

You heard him flip over and you followed suit. His dark curls out of the way of his face. Both of you on your sides, facing each other.

“Because I was thinking of the day you appeared to me when we made the bargain.”

“Oh yes…and what made you recall that?”

“Well, the fact we keep ending in each other’s rooms in one way or the other!”

His own eyebrows briefly shot up, and there was a smile on the verge of a little laugh on his face, yet he remained quiet.

“It happened when I first met you- not counting when you were a cat…but there’s one thing you said I still muse on…it still makes me a little mad!” you blurted.

“Which one? My dear, I’m sure I said several things that enraged you back then…” he prodded

“That you were surprised I could talk back just because I’m a woman from my time.”

The other thought that was floating in your head was the memory of the letter to Cora you found- that one phrase that seemed like being stabbed in the gut. The one phrase that solidifed her superiority over you-“You are truly not like other women!”

Loki said no reply but merely listened.

“We’re people, like anyone else. We have feelings, like anyone else. Did you assume Just because we embroider and wear corsets that it means we’re boring or weak? We don’t enjoy being pushed around! We don’t like being mocked or hurt. And perhaps we aren’t all warriors, but that does not mean we are unworthy of respect! You should have seen my mother. I think she was far more in charge of our family than Papa ever was. Even Stella-Stella-said so to me that she wants Grendel and his army to, and I quote, ‘burn in hell.’”

“Norns above…” Loki muttered in reply.

“I can’t blame her after what they did to her…” you commented.

Loki furrowed his brow. He kept listening as you continued.

“It’s usually those who don’t know us who make such judgments. Who won’t even try to get to know us it…it…it’s comments such as these that make me so mad that I…I…”

The rest of the words failed you, and you paused. How much were you ranting about what he said…and how much were you ranting at the phrase in the letter? Perhaps he could tell. You were quite sure your shield was down. Loki only looked at you- realizing he had permission to speak.

“You were right back then. When I met you, I knew Thomas…but I never got to know a woman from your time. I made judgements and even jokes about it…but I didn’t truly know you then. I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Thank you. I forgive you, Loki,” you replied.

You turned around. Facing the wooden wall with a chair and table on the other side. The fireplace in the room was a mere, dying ember. The smoke was so thin, it was nearly invisible.

“I hate to disappoint you, Loki, but there is not much to me other than my magic. I’m just like every other woman…” you said.

You tightened the blanket around you, your knees hugging up to your chest. A lump in your throat. But you heard the trickster god shift forward. His voice right near your ear and his warm body against yours. Part of you fell stiff, yet also…comforted.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he consoled you.

You turned back over to look at him. You accepted his closeness as you faced each other. His nose mere centimeters from your own. His eyes were as blue as the skies of Asgard. You could smell your dinner on his breath.

“There are far worse things in life to be…but…”

His voice went back to that of teasing, a small smile on his face. He had to be at least a little mischievous while he was still awake.

“You could still improve your taste in wedding gowns…” he poked.

You cocked up an eyebrow.

“That’s rich coming from someone who wears ruffled blouses with his tuxedoes!” you shot back.

You both burst into laughter. You could still hear his rich baritone voice in his laughter. You could feel the rumbling in his body, his chest seemed to vibrate with the mirth.

“What can I say? I enjoy dressing with a little bit more flair...” he sad.

You shot him a smug grin.

“Well, if I can wear a ‘monstrosity of lace’ as you called it, you can wear your foppish tuxedoes!” you teased.

He laughed a little more. Then his voice became gentle.

“Though you did look lovely at the ball the other night,” he said.

“As did you,” you replied.

So close…he was so close. You could have just wrapped him in your arms. Perhaps you should have. His closeness made his warmth radiate toward you. Your own thoughts and memories were spoken, and your concerns were heard like the breaking of a long-held dam. And now that it was released, you began to feel sleepy.

You curled up next to each other, merely brushing each other’s skin. Warm and safe despite the howling wind. You whispered goodnight and turned around to your other side. At once, you drifted to sleep.

When you woke up briefly, it was still dark. Perhaps it was early in the morning. You were facing the wall on your side, but something felt different. Something solid and heavy was draped over your waist. Too heavy to be the blankets.

You looked down and realized with a small jolt of your nerves that it was Loki’s muscular arm.

He wrapped an arm around you while asleep.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, you kept repeating silently.

Should you move him? Wake him up? Oh dear lord, you felt his chest and stomach against your backside. If he was asleep it was likely he wouldn’t be…well, aroused. You would be in the uncomfortable position of feeling something against you that you didn’t want to right now. No- it was a sleepy, chaste embrace from behind.

You heard his small snore. Like that of a cat. It was adorable, you had to admit. So no…you didn’t have the heart to move. You felt in his arms that you were safe…no, more than just safe…wanted. Wanted so badly that his subconscious needed you close.

No, YN that’s an illusion, you mused.

And yet…

This is what my life could be…yet he’s a trickster god and full of mischief and flattery, if I became his beloved, he’ll betray me for another…I’m so…so horrible that even a vicar would break what he preaches for another woman’s bed just to get away from me. If that’s what he did, then, what would a god of mischief do!?…and yet-

It was warm and comfortable. If it was an illusion, One that felt real- one that was only real. If only for a few minutes. The embrace was known to husbands and wives and lovers when they slept with limbs entangled. An embrace you were destined to never know… except for now.

Pretending like it was that domestic, loving comfort…you found your own eyes drooping. Back asleep you fell and deeply.

When you woke up that morning, you saw the window on Loki’s side. You felt no arms and no weight anymore on it. It was empty, save for you. The sun seemed especially bright with the snow reflecting off it. It shot into the window, making you squint.

Shifting over in the bed, you realized Loki was already wide awake. Sitting on a chair near the bed, concentrating on the little vanity with a shiny red apple he placed there. With a flick of his hand, the apple vanished in green smoke. Then it would reappear in the next corner. He gave you a smile in greeting.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Practicing, my dear. It’s one thing to make a portal. It’s another thing to make something just vanish and take it somewhere else,” he answered.

“You’re working on it?” you cried.

“Practicing all morning. The furthest is four things that are not me. They can be sent several miles away…”

You felt the soft blanket, pulling it up to your chest.

He then used magic to have the apple reappear. He then placed it in his hand, shined it on his clothes, and took a bite with a loud crunch.

“It’s actually pretty easy. If I do it enough, I can do it without thinking.”

“Hmmm, It’s impressive…but please save an apple for me.”

He conjured one and threw it over to you. You caught it with both hands and thanked him.

After gathering more food, both of you mounted the horse and continued your long ride to the cabin. Stopping when needed, especially to check the map.

By now it was the late afternoon. But since Jotunheim was a land of eternal winter, the sky was dark. The snow kept falling and the cold wind kept howling at your side. But Loki’s company made it seem not as bad.

You finished the last of your bread and wiped the crumbs off of your mouth when you dismounted. Loki smiled as he showed you the map.

“Here- it’s not far…we’re almost there,” he promised.

You got out a carrot. The horse perked its ears. You offered it and the creature bit into it. It seemed that carrots were the universal favorite food of any kind of horse. You smiled and patted his long nose.

“What do you think of riding, my dear?” he asked.

“It’s a little nerve-wracking being on a living animal…but it can be fun. I’d like to learn more about it- I’m rather new and here we are.”

“When we return, I should let you practice with the horses we have. Perhaps I could show you how to ride with your legs over or even bareback! I’ve had years of training, you can trust me as an adequate teacher,” Loki proposed.

“Oh, Loki tell me- What kind of lessons does a prince have? What kind of classes or education? It must be interesting!” you commented.

He smiled at you. Going up to lift a hand to gently stroke the horse, brushing against the smooth ice crystals on its body.

“Well then, I remember there were etiquette lessons. Which is as fun for a little boy as you can imagine, but I managed to do well. Then we learned about how to use a sword and then we had to learn all of the history of-”

FWOOSH!

An arrow landed near your feet. You jolted with a small cry of surprise. The horse let out a cry with a raise of his front legs. Loki grabbed the reigns to try to calm him.

“Where did that come from?!” you cried.

You turned around and saw the answer.

Behind you were four men on Jotunheim horses of their own. The sadistic smiles on their faces and the dark armor on their clothes made your stomach heavy. They continued to ride, as one reached behind to get another arrow for his bow.

The breath stopped in your chest.

“Grendel’s men,” Loki breathed.

At once he threw you onto the horse and then got up himself. It was everything in you not to panic on the spot.

The horse galloped and held onto it for dear life. Looking back at the laughing, already triumphant soldiers with terrified eyes. Then you gritted your teeth in defiance of them. You let out a shaking hand, and the next arrows that were fired, you burned to ash to vanish in the wind.

But they were still gaining speed. The hooves of their own horses are like that of the drums before an execution. Loki kept urging the horse forward, too focused to create a duplicate or an illusion.

As all of you raced, you gained some distance away from them. Then they then fired another arrow. Faster than your flames could catch it.

Loki let out a yell of pain. You screamed out of instinct- an arrow landed in Loki’s right shoulder. It was black, full of grey smoke out of it like it was burning.

“YN, get it out! Quick!” he urged at you.

You let out a gasp and a small cry on instinct. But he kept riding. You turned around, and swiftly jerked it out, Loki letting out another groan of pain.

He then looked at the arrow in your hand, its swirling magic around it. His jaw dropped.

“No!” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” you asked.

“t’s a Kunnigr arrow! They are known for eventually draining one of magic!” he explained.

“What?! No!”

Loki shot out only a little green light from his hands.

“It’s still there, but it’s running out…”

He then suddenly stopped the horse. He at once pulled you down to your feet.

“Loki- what are you doing?!” you cried.

He looked at you. Sadness and resolve on his face. Your heart beat hard in your chest. He then grabbed your shoulders and looked you in the eye.

“Quick-listen to me- listen to me, YN darling! While I still have a little magic- I’m going to send you far from them. Go. Go find the Cabin. Find the Orb. Here-”

He gave you a pocket watch from his pocket, placing it in your hand.

“When you do, Get a signal to Asgard. Someone will see it- and they will get you.”

“Loki- no! Just transport yourself too! I’m not leaving this realm without you!”

An arrow was shot, and you both narrowly dodged it. But a few inches and- you realized with dread- it would have hit you.

“I am armed, I can fight them- but we’re outnumbered. Their arrows could make you lose your magic. And they won’t stop until they have at least one of us. I only have enough magic to save the horse and the brave woman I made a bargain with. …”

Deep in your gut, you knew he was right. And you hated it. His smile was so beautiful, so sad. You felt as if your heart was both being ripped into pieces and bursting at once.

“This is for you…I’m proud of you, my little mortal.”

“Loki-” you voiced.

He lifted a hand and flicked the wrist.

With the last bit of magic he had left, green smoke appeared around you. The horse whinnied as the smoke surrounded it too And you vanished from the scene.

The Green smoke surrounded your vision. Then at once it drifted away and you were far off into a snowy woods in Jotunheim. It was lined with fur trees full of beautiful snow around them like necklaces. Only some were normal trees where they settled on their branches in blankets. You heard the horse trotting around, brushing its lips and shaking its mane.

You felt light headed You were safe, alive. A far distance off.

Then a few uncontrollable tears began to stream down your face, feeling like they could turn to ice against your skin. You felt like there was a hole in your chest. But your senses were alerting you…the cabin was close. Wiping your nose with your sleeve, you took the reigns of the horse and you both walked forward. It wasn’t too long- only ten minutes of walking, despite the frigid wind paining your face…

And there it was. Sure enough, there was the cabin.

The door was unlocked. Already there was a blazing hearth in fireplace, a warm bed full of thick quilts, and a table full of food that was still fresh. Chopped wood for the hearth sat in a pile next to an iron pot to use for cooking. When you walked over to the hearth, you could tell, right in the fireplace was the orb glowing bright orange. The source of this light and comfort, though you were certain no one lived here.

You got out the pocket watch from your side… you knew you should alert them. You knew you had it. It was what he told you to do…but could not make it to twelve to give the signal.

Loki…Loki…it then hit you, the weight on you. What he did…for the mission. And for you.

He was armed. He could fight them. The training he had all of his life couldn’t have been for nothing. But he was outnumbered. But still…without magic and outnumbered! Perhaps killed already!

You couldn’t stand it. You couldn’t abandon him…and that was if he was still alive.

Despite your shaking, and your crying, your senses reached back. There was a mountain nearby. A familiar mountain…

And someone who would know if Loki still breathed.

You gathered a bundle of firewood and put them in your bag. Then you mounted the horse, both legs swinging off the saddle. Despite your nerves, your determination shot you forward. You were going to learn of Loki’s fate.

If he was dead, then you would go back to Asgard. It would be too risky to get his body. Tell the AllFather and AllMother of his last deed. So at least after his life, he would finally be seen as an equal, as a hero. And if he lived…you would do whatever you could to find him. Get him back.

You led the horse towards where you sensed the mountain and found the entrance. The place where the Jotun Prophet lived.

You rushed inside the cave. You down some of the wood and lit it with your fire. It crackled against the cave in echoes, its light illuminating the dark cave.

“Prophet! Prophet! Here’s my offering! Hurry! Please! It’s an emergency! I must speak with you- now!” you begged. Your voice echoed off into the infinity of black inside.

Sure enough, there were blue lights that glowed on the wall. And out walked the Jotun Prophet. Still with his proud, knowing smile.

“Oh, Mortal Lady, it’s you again…have you gained the wisdom to become engaged to an ugly priest this time? As you must have figured out by now, They don’t get half the attention from other women as the handsome ones do!”

You took a few steps forward. His red eyes remained calm and his smile remained gentle.

“This isn’t about any of that! It’s about Loki! He’s in danger! He could be hurt- or worse! Grendel’s soldiers ambushed us and he used the last of his magic to send me away! Please, Prophet, tell me one thing at least- is Loki still alive? Or are they going to kill him? Is this how he dies?”

The Jotun Prophet scratched his chin.

“Hmm, a god in distress...” he mused. He accepted the firewood. With some magic, it floated up in the air.

“They might have killed him by now- please! I’m begging you! Is Loki alive?”

The Jotun Prophet held up a hand as if to get you to calm down.

“They have abducted him. They’re tormenting him…but he is alive. There is nothing they love more than toying with their victims before they kill. But Loki is too valuable a prisoner for them to end his life just yet. They could use him to bribe the royal family of Asgard, hold him for the price of their domination of the kingdom or an alliance…so at least no killing yet. Even the most foolish of Grendel’s men know that.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, the dizziness washing down you. Your vision blurred from the high and then returned back. The Prophet wasn’t retreating- so you asked another question.

“Tell me where he is! Where have they taken him?” you pleaded.

“They are…southeast from here, a few leagues.”

The Prophet lifted a blue finger and pointed in that direction.

Once you journey down there, you will sense where they are clear as day. They are camped at the ends of another great mountain. You will see smoke- a fire they made there. There you may find Loki. There you may save him. What a lucky coincidence you found that cabin…just take him there after. Let him rest his injuries..”

New tears came down your face, tears of deep gratitude.

“Thank you…”

You began to turn to hurry off. But after a few steps, you heard The Prophet call out.

“Oh! Mortal Lady! One more thing!”

You turned right around, nearly skidding on your feet. He walked up to be closer to you, the firewood floating by his side.

“Brunhilde flowers,” the prophet said.

“Brunhilde flowers?” you repeated, tasting the words in your mouth.

“Named for the strength of the renowned Valkyrie. They grow in Jotunheim. You can find them growing outside the cabin. It will restore strength and even magic to anyone. The petals and bulb are very bitter to the taste but crushed up and steeped in boiled water, it makes a decent tea. To make it work faster, It should take two days and one cup of tea or one flower per day. Along with long hours of rest. If he exerts himself, it will slow the healing down. Then his magic will return in its entirety. So be patient,” the Prophet explained.

He began to turn and walk into the dark. But you took one step closer to where he walked.

“So all I do is find the flowers and give it to Loki?” you questioned.

The Prophet paused. Then he turned around, with a small, if not mischievous smile.

“That is, if you wish to complete your True Love’s healing.”

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killerdancingqueen · 1 year ago

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Good Omens timeline (as of season 2), from Before the Beginning until the end of season 2:

- “Before the Beginning” — Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time.

- 9:13 a.m, Sunday, October 21, 4004 B.C — The creation of the universe (according to God).

- 4004 B.C, "just after the Beginning" — Eve and Adam eat an apple, and then Crowley and Aziraphale have their first on-screen interaction.

- Somewhere between 3070 and 3030 B.C (when Nefertiti was alive), Egypt — Aziraphale presumably impresses Nerfertiti with his magic skills, “You're talking to the Angel who fooled Nefertiti with a lone caraway seed and three cowrie shells.”

- 3004 B.C, Mesopotamia — Aziraphale and Crowley witness the events of Noah's Ark.

- 2500 B.C, the Land of Uz — Aziraphale and Crowley help Job and his family (A Companion to Owls minisode).

- 33 A.D, Golgotha — Aziraphale and Crowley see Jesus’ crucifixion.

- 41 A.D, Rome — Aziraphale and Crowley have oysters.

- 537 A.D., Kingdom of West Essex — Aziraphale and Crowley are knights in King Arthur’s time, and Crowley first suggests “the Arrangement”.

- Sometime in the 1500s (likely between 1503 and 1506 if wikipedia is to be believed), Leonardo Da Vinci’s Studio, Italy — ‘In which Crowley gets drunk with Leonardo Da Vinci’ and buys a sketch of the Mona Lisa for fifteen florins (cut scene from the script book).

- 1601, the Globe Theatre, London — Aziraphale and Crowley meet Shakespeare (who steals a line from Crowley that he uses in Antony and Cleopatra). Crowley also performs a miracle to make Hamlet popular.

- 1650 — The first (known) time that Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1656, Lancashire, England — the last true witch in England, Agnes Nutter, is burnt by Witchfinder Major Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer, who is killed in the process by Agnes’ forward-thinking.

- 1760, Monsieur Rossignol’s Night Classess — Aziraphale learns french the hard way.

- 1793, Paris — Crowley saves Aziraphale from prison during the French Revolution's Reign of Terror (and then they get crepes, as well as Aziraphale doing the apology dance for Crowley).

- 1800, the opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop in Soho — Gabriel and Sandalphon visit Aziraphale to promote him back in heaven. Crowley overhears this, and tricks Gabriel into having Aziraphale stay on earth in order to “thwart him” (cut scene from the script book).

- Sometime before 10th November, 1827, but likely after 1800 — a conman attempts to seduce Aziraphale into helping her “brother” with his debt. Some-point after, Aziraphale tells Crowley of the story over a glass of claret.

- ~A month before 10th November, 1827, Edinburgh, Scotland — Crowley and Aziraphale visit a graveyard with a statue of Gabriel and end up helping a body-snatcher, Crowley also prevents her from committing suicide which results in him being sucked into hell “And that, was the last I was to see of Crowley. For quite some time.” (The Resurrectionists minisode).

- 1859, Aziraphale’s bookshop, Soho — ‘In which Aziraphale almost sells a book’ before receiving a note delivered by a street urchin from Crowley reading ‘the usual place - C’ (cut scene from the script book).

- 1862, St. James Park, London — Crowley requests holy water from Aziraphale for assurance in case anything goes wrong.

- Sometime between 1889 and 1919 (the years Hoffman is alive) but likely around 1876 (the year the book, Modern Magic: A Practical Treatise on the Art of Conjuring is published, that Aziraphale has a signed copy of), England — Aziraphale receives magic lessons from Angelo John Lewis, pseudonym Professor Hoffman, ‘“Aha! Professor Hoffmann's modern magic. Ah, there you are. To Mr. Fell, that's me, a wonderful student” (written) Yours, the Hoff’

- 1941, London — Aziraphale gives prophecy books to some nazis for Hitler, in an attempt to arrest them, only they double-cross him as well. Crowley then comes to Aziraphale's rescue and gives him a lift home, stopping at the West End theatre on the way back . However, the nazis come back as zombies for hell to expose Aziraphale and Crowley’s arrangement, but Aziraphale’s magic thwarts them (Nazi Zombie Flesh Eaters minisode). At some point later on, Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1967, Soho, London —Crowley arranges a heist (after having gone clothes shopping that morning) to steal holy water from a church with Lance Corporal Shadwell and others. Aziraphale thinks it’s too dangerous, so he gets Crowley holy water himself.

- 1970s, London — Crowley changes the design of the M25 to represent the symbol Odegra, which comes back to bite him later on (as most things do).

- ~2008, “Eleven Years Ago" — Hastur and Ligur deliver the Antichrist to Crowley, who gives it to The Chattering Order of St. Beryl. The Antichrist is then swapped with Deirdre and Arthur Young’s child, while their child, Warlock, goes with Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling. Trying to prevent Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley agree to help raise Warlock, the boy they assume is the Antichrist.

- ~2013, “Five Years Later - Six Years Before the End of the World” — Crowley disguises himself as Warlock's nanny, while Aziraphale disguises himself as the Dowlings' gardener.

- ~2019, “Six years later” — the chronological events of season 1 unfold, ending with Aziraphale and Crowley eating at the Ritz.

- Between 2019-2023 — Gabriel and Beelzebub routinely meet in the Resurrectionists pub, where they fall in love.

- ~2023 — the chronological events of season 2 unfold, ending with Aziraphale going up to Heaven and Crowley driving away from the bookshop to destinations unknown (his flat? out of london? out of the uk? out of the world?).

#good omens #good omens 2 #spoilers #go2 spoilers #ineffable husbands #good omens timeline #i need someone to stitch together all the scenes chronologically #asap #i just feel like it might make me feel better #(it probably wouldn’t)

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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Have you been to any Ukrainian restaurants/shops in NYC? I'm Ukrainian living in the US but I've never been to NYC (Technically been in one of the airports for an hour so I wouldn't count that) but I want to visit soon and would like some recommendations. Thanks <3

Absolutely! I will say that due to covid, among other reasons, a lot of places are no longer in business, unfortunately.

Veselka (specifically the one on 2nd Ave near Astor Place, but there are other locations - the first time I had Veselka was at their Essex Market location) is one of my all-time favorite places to eat in NYC. I like the varenyky, of course, as well as their borscht and mushroom barley soups and the potato salad (like a meatless olivier saiad) plus the holubtsi, bigos, and the medovyk and blintzes.

Nearby is the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant (inside and I think technically underground) which is a bit more old-school but also really good. Here I recommend the salat olivier (which is a perennial favorite of mine), the kholodets (although chicken aspic isn't for everyone, I will admit), the letcho, halusky, and borscht, of course.

If you're more in the mood for a takeaway and eat in your hotel room (or wherever you're staying) kind of vibe, in addition to ordering from either of these places for delivery or pickup, NetCost Markets have a really awesome deli and prepared food section with all kinds of options. (Which reminds me that I need to go to one again soon).

I know that there's more locations to eat in Brighton Beach, but I haven't been there as much as I'd like and not usually when I'm able to get food, unfortunately.

The Ukrainian Museum (which is near Veselka) has a really neat gift shop with lots of different items (they had a lot of stuff inspired by or part of their exhibit featuring Maria Prymachenko works) and I've enjoyed browsing it when I've had the chance.

Arka, also nearby, has some really interesting stuff, and is a bit like a vintage store featuring Ukrainian items.

Obviously, any mutuals/followers, please feel free to add!

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cbk1000 · 1 year ago

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Anyway, here's a preview of the next chapter of Book of Merthur. It's full of *checks notes* gay fetishes like grief and lute playing and politics. It also has some very large spoilers for something that happened several chapters back, as well as something that happened in the previous chapter, so if you're not caught up and don't want to be spoiled, I would avoid this.

But at that moment they were not sitting up late in one another’s chambers where they did not have to be alone till bedtime. Arthur, in the company of his usual court, minus, of course, two particular men, had set out with that riotous medley of courtiers, squires, provisions, and furniture which for weeks makes a nuisance of itself for any good citizen simply trying to take his produce to market. Now they had to scramble out of the way for a bevy of chaps on ridiculous horses, which were up to their tits in good silver, and did not even look as if they would be of any use for cart hauling. The king, at least, was in fine trim, and seemed a lesser cunt than his father; but still there were hustling merchants who had to move aside to pay homage to him, and though he did not lop off anyone’s head for bowing without the scraping, his train was still a goddamned nuisance. He was taking it all round the kingdom to reiterate his standing in the eyes of his lords; and that was what he was doing now, in the home of Lord Robert of Essex, with his musicians piping in accompaniment to the chatter.

Nobody wanted to be caught with their pants down in their larder when it was time to impress the king, so all that tour Arthur had had thrust upon him dishes he would not even have eaten at home, so enthusiastically, with such hope for cook, who was quivering in the kitchen for news of whether they were to be villain or saint of the feast, that he felt obligated to eat even those terrible concoctions which raised in him a fear no man had ever inspired. Men can be very large, or cannibalistic, or sadists; but they cannot be minced swan’s entrails, boiled down to the texture of bootlaces, and drowned in ginger and vinegar. And you are never obligated to say to an extra-large cannibalistic sadist (though it can’t hurt to butter him up a bit) that he is simply exquisite, whilst you are taking him into your mouth (and probably this couldn’t hurt either) because to do anything else would be disastrous for his feelings. This was what Arthur was doing now, with the swan, after some overly-garlicked cat, whilst the jongleur primed his vocals. He did this in various fascinating ways, first by making a little ‘hmm Hmm HMm HMM’ to himself, and then by calling for some ale, and taking out a little gold tube from his rucksack, and placing it in the ale, and blowing bubbles in it. Then he did something with his lips which Merlin had done once to Arthur’s chest as a joke, though there had been no spit, but only the absurd buzzing noise through the mouth as it flapped about like a horse’s.

And finally he took his place before the table with his lute, and began, in a lovely tenor, to ply his trade, freeing Arthur to put aside the swan, which he had to chew so violently he would have drowned out the singing. It was like putting down the cross at the end of the pilgrimage, or the sword at the end of the battle. He was left exhausted but alive by the ordeal, and now leaned back on the bench, with his arms crossed, and his weary soul ready to be cosseted by some little fluff about a knight and his steed.

It was some rot about a queen wasting away for her love, which he did not want to hear, because he was in the midst of his own romantical tragedy; and because he was the queen, though his own love, unlike the noble conqueror of the verse, was a rude, boorish, inimitable fucking twat, who ought long ago to have been confined for insanity.

Of course, Arthur was not really angry that Merlin had left him high and dry without so much as a letter on his fate; he was afraid. The name calling, the aspersions on his character (which really were not even aspersions, but merely observations) were because Lancelot had died. If you had asked him, he would have said Lancelot was mortal, and bound like the rest of them to return to whatever Maker he believed in; but actually really in the privacy of himself, he had not believed in it. Lancelot was one of those sorts who seemed to him too large to die; too representative of that fighting class of men who are always at risk of death but have chanced it again and again and always got up from the killing. It was like Morgana dying; it would have been like Gwaine dying. There are some people you do not believe can die: but of course they do, and then you have got to decide what is good and worth saving about a world that will take anything from you. So Lancelot had died, and he had never heard in all that time so much as a peep from Merlin, or France, who ought to have had something to say on the former. Gaius had written the professor on whom Merlin had been inflicted, and heard only that he was not so unfortunate in his affairs this time. Merlin was not at the university; or at least not under his despairing tutelage. And that meant to him that perhaps Merlin too might have been one of those impossible losses which he had suffered when Morgana went over the cliff to the sea, or Lancelot on the ship to France. He had wondered for nights upon nights whether he wouldn’t have known it; whether he wouldn’t have felt there was something different about the world, something less, something missing amongst the million fleeting souls which go into and out of the world like the meteors that are so cursory in the heavens. But he had not felt Lancelot till the messenger came with news of the ship; and he had held out all hope for Morgana till they found her body in the surf.

And too there was the other death, not of the body but of those feelings which he felt were always in danger. Merlin could have simply not wanted to write. He had gone away, Arthur felt, in a welter of genuine feeling: but in the interim he might have realised he was upset over Arthur, which was silly; might have realised that Uther, though rather a cock, was right to have made him perform for the love; might have realised that outside of that constant of Arthur’s presence he felt himself a freer, better being. He might feel as if he had got rid of a millstone round his neck. Arthur had always been there, loving him with that tragical dog-like persistence, so that Merlin might have felt it was like kicking a loyal hound in the face, not to take pity on that hopeless creature. Now away from Arthur, he could have realised what he thought was reciprocal feeling was merely some empathy for a fool.

So because the jongleur was singing about the queen, he was thinking all these terrible things. Neither voice nor lute were phenomenally good; but even mediocre music sometimes speaks to something in us, to when we were fiddling round with primitive drums in stone huts. The feelings were already there: but the jongleur brought them up into his throat. He gave Arthur the queen, who was sympathetic, who was relatable, and so made him feel in the hall surrounded by his courtiers and supplicants that he would have to be brave again, because it is a sign of humanity to tear up at human tragedy; but not of a king who wants to garner respect in men who are waiting for weakness. Because he was still young, because some of his lords still favoured his father, because he had been left, mere days before his wedding, by a bride who preferred one of his knights, he had to sit upright on the bench with his arms crossed and his face as impervious as stone. He had to be fixed in his body that was screaming for love as if he had never been moved by or wanted for it. Merlin was far away and dead, or dead to him; and Morgana and Lancelot were some odds and ends for scavengers. And the music was blowing up all these things which were already huge in him till they were nearly uncontainable. Because some string made of catgut had vibrated at just the optimal frequency, he felt that it was nearly unbearable to be one of those poor feeling creatures who have to watch their species war, and love, and leave, when he could have been a fish.

So that was what he was doing when the dog began to fart.

#also merlin is not being a dick #him not writing is a plot point #and it's not because he's dead #i'm not that huge of a dick #lol #fic #preview #writing #merthur

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 8 months ago

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So I'm thinking about moving to London for a job and I'm just wondering if any of your followers know good places to live? I'm not leaning towards living in London due to crime, overcrowding, little green space and extreme prices so thinking about somewhere in the Home Counties or Greater London or just outside, to commute etc. so anywhere where it is safe, low crime, green space and nature and also little overcrowding. I'm from a small town compared to London. Whether it is Berkshire or Essex or Hertfordshire or if anyone has other suggestions

Posting for other anons to help!

The only advice I can offer is my own experience with big city living and commuting into the city/office.

Yes, there's crime, but some parts of a city are safer/less crime-ridden than other parts of the city. Once those boundaries are learned, navigating and living in the city can get easier from a crime/safety perspective. And second, what you may hear in the news about a bigger city may not accurately reflect what's actually happening in the city. (The latter may be more American, as I'm not sure what British coverage is - here, our cities are portrayed as death and destruction Gothams. While there are parts of our cities like that, it's not the whole picture of what the city is like so the representation is unfair.) But safety is paramount and you must absolutely live where you feel safe and comfortable. Use your street smarts and always trust your gut.

And I get it about the affordability. I've got a 2-hr commute because of affordability (45 minutes on the train + 15 minutes driving to the train station, each way). It can suck the life out of you very easily so having a solid routine will help make it bearable, as well as having something that turns commuting into something enjoyable like a podcast or an audiobook. Another thing that had really helped with my commute (which I realize might be longer than the average Brit's commute) is meal-prepping and meal-planning a week or two ahead of time. It takes a huge mental load off when you don't have to worry about what you're going to eat and you can just throw some leftovers or an already-made meal into the microwave.

#anon advice

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promiscuouspomegranate · 8 months ago

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✧. ┊ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭ Dreich / 1

. ➶ ˚ AFAB! Selkie Reader x AMAB! Fisherman

TWs: Abduction, violence, light gore from wounds, manipulation, abuse, and the usual. (FURTHER IN THE SERIES) I gave the reader short hair. Sigh... don't hate me long haired readers 😍🥰

You are responsible for the content you consume! Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable.

The sun had not yet risen, and the waters wore an illusion of darkness—a blurry veil of sapphire that soothed my soul. My eyes crashed to a close like the waves on the rocks. I heard the conches communicate in hushed whispers as the wind howled a lachrymose lullaby to damned souls like me. Did I dare to sing with the waters and profess a forbidden love for the sea? No, I wasn’t the fool I was yesterday or the day before. After all, people change like the tides before it all goes still.

As my kitten heels clicked on the cool concrete path, I looked back at the sea once more. I firmly held my straw hat in place as Notus, determined to blow it away, caused a trickle of sweat to drip down my forehead. I pulled out my embroidered handkerchief and wiped the bead off before I resumed my stroll away from the waters. The distant cries of the mighty albatross of the North Sea faded into the bustling streets of Essex. I hummed as I swooped up a newspaper from the trash, scanning the headlines before tossing it away. I opened my parasol as the sanguine sun stretched its fiery body above the port, piercing every shadow with blinding radiance. Hoarse offers of fresh-cut flowers, baked loaves of bread, imported treasures, and every meaningless trinket imaginable overwhelmed my ears. My nose—ever the detective—picked up the scent of fresh fish, and my mouth involuntarily watered. I blushed when I felt the saliva trickle down my chin and wiped it off with my glove. “It seems I am quite the mess today,” I muttered as I approached the stall, eyeing the filleted flesh with an unspoken urgency.

I removed my gloves as I picked up the headless haddock, resisting the temptation to consume it as is.

“Somethin’ catch yer eye, missus,” A gruff voice chuckled as I set the fish down, “By all means, buy it.”

“My apologies, sir,” I cleared my throat and felt my ears burn red at my indecency, “I just haven’t seen fish that looks so… delectable.”

“Relax, missus, ya needn’t be so stiff ‘round me,” He hoarsely chuckled as he adjusted his stained apron, “Can I cut somethin’ fresh fer ya?”

“Do you sell cod?”

“Of course.” He turned around and seized a flailing cod with strong, hairy arms, setting it on a wooden cutting board. He gripped his knife with a steady hand and, with a quick motion, cut the fish’s head clean off. Blood splattered on his face, and I felt my stomach growl at the scent.

“Seems like someone’s hungry,” He grinned—the way most sailors do—and packaged the fish with practiced ease, “Don’t tell me ya ‘aven’t eaten yet, missus. Yer already too thin as is, delicate thing, aren’t ya? What’s a lovely lady like yourself doin’ in the markets?”

“I haven’t any time to sit down in the mornings; too much to be done then to idly ruminate as I eat,” I took the bag from his hands and—what I assume was intention—felt his calloused fingers against my hands.

“A woman after my own heart,” His gray eyes bore into my soul, and he wiped the blood off his cheek, “Didn’t feel a ring on yer hand too so I won’t have to sneak in through the back.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you any class?,” I gasped and pulled away from him, crossing my arms.

“What’s wrong, little lady? Need me to put a ring on ya finger first? Don’t know if I could afford somethin’ worthy of you,” He smugly grinned as I reached into my purse, “Now, I know yer not offerin’ to pay fer that. Take it, it’s free of charge.”

“Thank you, sir,” I hoarsely responded, trying to make my disapproval apparent through my mannerisms.

With that, I walked away and only glanced over my shoulder once to see a smile that nobody had ever presented to me. Would it be wrong to ask for his name?

“Don’t be foolish, Y/N,” A small, unfamiliar blush swept across my sunkissed skin as I walked into an alleyway, “Man and monster do not go well.”

I unwrapped the package and, with sharp, beastly fangs, tore into the scales of the sea. Blood splattered on the old stone pathway and onto my gloves as I ravished the fish. Its bones cracked in my strong jaw, and I spat out whatever remained of the fish. I threw my gloves away and wiped the blood off of my upper lip; the feeling of hunger still remained but wasn’t as unbearable. I opened my parasol and disappeared into the sharp turns and jagged rock of the unspoken alleys of Essex.

…

His calloused fingers reach into the bins and examined soiled lace that reeked—oddly enough—of fish.

“Seems like we’ve got ourselves ‘nother beast in this town,” He hummed as he pocketed the gloves, instantly recognizing the package.

His eyes widened, and his crooked teeth flashed an unruly, savage smile. He took the gloves out of his pocket and inhaled the scent of fragrance, blood, and sea.

“Yer all mine, little lady,” He chuckled and squinted his eyes as the sun shone brightly, illuminating all that was hidden.

#yandere writing #dark romance #yandere #yandere character #yandere oc #yandere oneshot #❤︎.pomegranate #☆–graham #yandere male #yandere x reader

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lost-harts · 8 months ago

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get to know nate better

thank you for tagging me @bunnyboybosom

Last song: palmistry by great lake swimmers

Currently watching: fake or fortune, it is a programme on bbc about art that might be by great artists

Three ships: I do not tend to ship characters from existing media, i prefer creating relationships from scratch

Favourite colour: a moss green

Currently consuming: i am neither drinking nor eating anything currently but that last thing i did consume was some milk

First ship: unfortunately again i do not ship existing characters

Place of birth: derbyshire uk

Current location: the same, but come september all going well i will be in essex

Relationship status: i, as a part, am not dating anyone but the host and gabe are and will have been with their partner a month tomorrow i am not currently comfortable with the idea of dating anyone but their partner is sweet and will be staying with us next week

Last movie: i cannot remember the last film i watched, i do not often watch films when i front

Currently working on: a cowl, scarf or shawl like thing made from wool i am spinning currently, i will weave it afterwards

tagging @tidepoolarchive @mossycattail2electricboogaloo and anyone else who would like a go, no pressure

#thoughts from the hart

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millennialgirlinagenzworld · 11 months ago

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M U R A L

Declan trudged into the family home. He hadn’t wanted to go home and see his parents and brother straight after captaining a home defeat - to the team currently in bottom position in the league - but he had promised he’d go see them for some food. And maybe it’d take his mind off the loss.

“Hello,” he called out, holding onto the door knob as he toed off one trainer at a time and flicked them somewhere behind the door. Growing up, they’d never had to take their shoes off as soon as they got in the house - but since Declan had bought his parents a nice house and he had a nice apartment, they all just seemed to naturally do it, not wanting to spoil the lovely flooring they now had.

Declan’s Mum called out from the kitchen. “In here, sweetheart.”

The kitchen was so big that it now acted as the casual place that everyone gathered. Easy enough to sit on the squishy couch and look out at the garden; easy enough for the boys to demolish all the food in the house.

As usual, his Mum was sitting on the comfy chair by the glass doors, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a hot cup of tea. His Dad was sitting on the edge of his end on the couch, hunched over the iPad, clearly interested in something he was reading. And his big brother, Niall, was next to the kitchen island, leaning against it, holding his phone and texting. Only Declan’s Mum acknowledged him when he moped in.

“Alright, love?” she asked, knowing full well that he probably wasn’t.

Declan shrugged as he made his way over to her and kissed her cheek hello. “Any food on the go?”

She smiled at him. “We could go out for something,” she suggested.

“I don’t feel like going out,” he mumbled, taking a seat on the couch opposite to where his Dad was sitting, still engrossed in his iPad.

“Have you got it?” Niall called out, still attached to his phone as well.

“Got it,” his Dad replied, not even looking up.

Declan look between them, then over to his Mum. “What’re they doing?” he asked.

His Mum smiled as she sipped more of his tea. “Dunno,” she shrugged. But she clearly knew. She was rubbish at lying.

“Oi,” Declan called over to Niall. “What’s going on?”

“AirDrop the Pin,” Niall told his Dad, seemingly ignoring Declan.

His Dad was quite good with technology, so he had no problem doing what Niall requested. But clearly he couldn’t multi-task either because when Declan asked him what was going on his Dad ignored him as well.

“Right, get yourself ready, Dec,” Niall finally said to him, placing his phone in his pocket. “Long drive to Essex!”

Declan looked confused. “Essex? What are you on about?” He went on to argue that he wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere, never mind drive a couple of hours away for God-knows-what.

“There’s something there you might want to see…” His Dad replied cryptically.

“Unless it’s a time machine so we can replay the game, I don’t wanna know…” he moaned, unlocking his phone for something to do. Normally, there was a load of messages about how well he and the team had played. Today, nothing.

Niall laughed. “Get up, and get your trainers on,” he told him, clapping his hands together.

“Unless you really don’t want to see this mural someone has kindly made of you…?” his Dad asked, holding the iPad up with the picture of said mural on a random wall.

Declan couldn’t drive, so Niall did. Not that he couldn’t drive; he just didn’t have the mental energy to drive and take in the thought of this mural. Plus, he was starving.

So, after making a stop at the Burger King drive-thru, he settled in the back of his brother’s Range Rover and stared at the picture of the mural on the iPad. He couldn’t get over it. Someone had gone to the trouble of making this piece of art for him. Loads of his teammates had murals in their home towns, but he’d never thought too much about having one himself. But now that he was going to see his, he was over the moon.

Between eating his food but not being able to enjoy it properly because he was so excited and talking too much and then not talking at all, and having a crappy loss today, Declan’s head was all over the place. Thankfully, his Mum was also sitting in the back with him. She managed to keep him sane by talking about other things besides football that could distract him while his Dad and brother figured out the sat-nav route to Essex.

“This is the road,” Niall said, turning into it slowly.

Declan couldn’t sit still. He was like an excitable child on Christmas morning.

Niall drove down the road carefully until they reached the end where the mural was. It was pitch black out but the odd street lamp helped illuminate the area.

“It looks huge!” Niall said, pulling up opposite the wall.

Declan couldn’t wait to get out and take it all in.

“Shit, there’s a car there blocking the view,” Niall said.

Declan shrugged. “It’s fine. I can still see it!”

He didn’t care about any cars on the road. Or the fact that some people were watching him. He just wanted to see the art for himself.

Jogging over to the wall, he reached out to feel the cool, colourful brick. A spray painting of him in his beloved England kit, cheering with the crowd, looking like a leader. He giggled like a little kid.

“Mate,” he beamed, turning his head to see it all. “This is mad!”

“Get a picture!” his brother encouraged him.

Declan wouldn’t never consider himself a shy character, but even for him this seemed a little narcissistic. “Don’t you think it seems a bit…” he made a little noise and pulled a face on lieu of knowing what the right words was.

“No!” Niall laughed at him. “This is for you! You should get a picture with it.” He pushed his little brother towards the wall as he stood back and held his phone up ready to take the picture. “Shit,” he moaned. “This fucking car is in the way.” Niall looked around. “Who do you think it belongs to? We need to move it.”

“Just use the zoom out option,” Declan suggested, really not wanting to make a fuss.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see some people from the pub on the corner outside having a smoke looking over his way. In the other direction were people standing on the doorstep talking amongst themselves, starting to realise who was standing like a wally waiting for his photo to be taken. Feeling self-conscious was new to Declan, and he wasn’t sure whether it suited him.

He watched as Niall approached a group of girls over the other side of the road. Declan groaned, and relaxed his pose to reposition himself next to the cream Fiat 500 and began taking pictures of the mural himself on his own phone. He noticed his parents had wondered off to the pub to meet with the landlord who’d commissioned it. Alone with his thoughts, he reminded himself to breathe.

“So, you want me to move my car?”

Declan heard the female voice, and turned around from where he was leaning. He dragged his eyes away from his phone only to double-take at the gorgeous girl standing over the other side of the small car.

She had long wavy blonde hair, and round piercing blue eyes. It didn’t look like she was wearing any make-up because it was dark but her skin looked smooth and creamy. She wore a black hoodie with black leggings and black trainers. Casual, but they looked like soft materials and expensive. She swung her keyring around on her index finger, her nails ever-so-slightly long in length, slightly rounded slightly pointed in shape, a nice neutral colour. Her accent, though… she wasn’t from the south.

Declan smiled at her, not realising how wide she had made his mouth turn up considering his mood only a few hours ago. “Erm, yes please.”

“Why?” she asked.

“It’s kinda embarrassing…” he admitted, before sheepishly turning towards his mural. “I’m trying to get a picture against this.”

She looked up at the mural on the wall. “Who’s that of?”

Declan’s cheeks burned. “Can’t you tell?”

She narrowed her eyes at the mural, then looked back at him. “Hmm,” she hummed, before walking round the car and standing next to where he stood. Her eyes darted between Declan’s face and the spray paint. “That’s you?”

“Correct,” he grinned, nodding.

She chuckled at him. “You’re right - it is embarrassing trying to get a picture like this.”

Declan couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or not.

“Is that your car?” she asked him, nodding over to where Niall’s black car was parked.

Declan nodded.

“Then I’m not sure where I’m supposed to park since every other spot has been taken…” she shrugged.

Where they were was a dead end; three bollards separated the road from the pub. The rest of the terraced road was taken up with cars; nowhere to turn around and drive to another street. Declan had no explanation for her. He just wanted a picture next to his mural so he could go home and cheer up.

“Don’t worry,” she finally said. “I know where I’ll park.”

She unlocked the car and jumped in. Declan looked around for Niall - he was still chatting away to the girls over the road. He hoped his brother was just being polite because he had a missus and several sons at home. Before he knew it, she had moved her car away from the kerb only to leave it in the middle of the road with the hazards on. She jumped back out, grinning at him.

“Better?”

“You can’t leave it there,” Declan argued with her.

She held out her hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll get your picture dead quick, then I’ll move my car back.”

Declan swallowed, before nodding and handing her his phone. As she took his phone, she gave him a black marker pen.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“Don’t you think you should sign it?” she shrugged. “Might be worth a fortune, one day. Like a Banksy!”

Declan laughed. “Ok,” he said, shaking his head.

She slid the screen to the left to open the camera app, and began recording him sign the wall.

“What’s your name?” she asked him as he carefully scrawled on the bits of brick that were painted white.

Declan turned to look at her, where she was holding the camera in his direction. “Declan,” he replied quietly.

“Declan what?”

He finished his autograph, put the lid back on the marker, and handed it back to her. “Rice.”

“Declan Rice,” she repeated back at him, making him blush some more as well as laugh nervously. “I’ll have to Google you,” she told him, accepting the marker back. She was still recording. “Go and stand by the wall so I can take this photo you want,” she told him. “I had to move my car for this,” she reminded him with a chuckle.

Declan shook his head but did as he was told.

She ended the recording, then slid along to find the camera. Before she could even start clicking, they heard another car beep at hers.

She walked into the middle of the dead-end road, and held her arms out. “What?!”

“Move your car!” they demanded.

“No!” she shouted back at him. “Can’t you see I’m doing a photoshoot with Declan Rice?!”

“You what?!” they called from the car, but she simply grinned at them before turning back around and continuing where she left off.

Declan groaned, deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t want all this fuss,” he told her.

“Should have thought of that before you asked me to move my car,” she told him, pulling her tongue out at him.

She sneakily turned the camera round to face her, took a few pictures of her smiling, before taking a load of Declan. In the background, the car was still beeping its horn.

“That’s not going to make me go any faster!” she shouted over her shoulder, warning them.

Declan laughed at her. He liked how confident she was.

“Here,” she said, handing him his phone back. “Declan Rice.”

“Thanks,” he smiled back at her. As he took his phone from her cool hands, they lingered just a second longer than they needed to. “What’s your name?” he asked.

~Instagram~texting~FaceTime chats~driving up and down the country to meet for dates~taking photos and videos~kisses in parked cars~watching a football game~hotel rooms~holidays~celebrating birthdays in fancy restaurants~arguing~making up~Instagram official~posing underneath Christmas trees~NYE kisses~bringing Ted the cockapoo home~proposing with a glittering ring~engagement party~hen do~stag do~wedding party~honeymoon on a private island~ new jobs~pregnancy tests~ultrasounds~baby showers~bringing babies home~moving homes~new cars~injuries~hospital visits~summer BBQs~pumpkin picking~trick or treating~fancy dress~celebrating milestones~funerals~bonfire nights~sparklers~decorating the Christmas tree~visits from Father Christmas~tantrums~quiet family NYEs~retirement~setting new goals~children starting school~new opportunities~ageing together~dating as often as possible~growing together~childrens’ milestone birthdays~family holidays~laughing together~being with each other until the end~

“Kirsty,” she replied, trying to hide a smile.

“Kirsty what?” he asked, shooting her the same question she asked him.

“O’Connor.”

“Kirsty O’Connor,” he repeated back to her, grinning at her. “Thanks for the photos.”

“And the video,” she reminded him, raising a well-groomed eyebrow at him.

The car beeped its horn again.

She told them to fuck off underneath her breath. “Maybe you should go and give them your autograph and get me out of trouble with them?” she sweetly suggested.

“No chance!” he laughed. “You got yourself into that mess.”

“What a mean famous person you are,” she told him. “By the way, what are you famous for?”

Declan blushed again. “I play football.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “Should have guessed. A mean footballer, how cliché.”

He chuckled at her as she made her way back to the car. “Alright, alright! Keep your knickers on!” she called out to them as she opened the driver’s door and got inside. She allowed Niall to cross her path before she parked back in her previous position. The car beeping her revved its engine before moving along to the end where the bollards were.

“Don’t know what you’re moaning about,” she called over to them. “There’s no room for you to park.”

Niall widened his eyes as he approached Declan. “Got your picture then?” he asked, trying not to verbalise how he found the northern girl shouting at the random people in the car.

But Declan’s eyes were firmly on Kirsty. “Yeah, got them.”

And before Niall could ask to see them, Declan found himself making his way over to Kirsty. He wanted to keep talking to her. He wanted to listen to her voice again. He wanted to know more about her.

As Kirsty had finished telling the car where to go and watching it turn in the road and then drive off again, she almost bumped into Declan as he approached her so closely.

“Oh!” she grabbed her chest in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”

“Can I have your number, Kirsty?”

Kirsty blinked at him. “Don’t be silly. We don’t know each other.”

“I know, but I want to get to know you.”

She laughed nervously. “What, the famous footballer wants to get to know little old no-one me?”

Declan nodded. “Yeah, I do,” he told her seriously.

Kirsty folded her arms across her chest. “How do you know I haven’t got a boyfriend already?”

“Shit.” Declan hadn’t thought of that. “Have you?”

“Or a girlfriend…?”

Declan relaxed, and grinned at her. “Have you?”

“Shut up,” Kirsty said, pushing on his arm lightly.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Instagram at least. I can tag your photo skills,” he winked.

Kirsty rolled her eyes. “My Instagram is private.”

“Perfect.”

“Is yours?” she asked, getting her phone out of her pocket.

“No,” he chuckled. “Got nothing to hide.” He unlocked his phone and opened his Instagram app. “Go on, put your name in.”

Kirsty hesitated before doing so. But as soon as she had put her name in, Declan clicked to request to follow her and her phone pinged with that notification. She laughed, shaking her head.

“That was quick.”

“I know what I want,” he told her.

“I don’t live down here,” she said quietly.

Declan shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when we have to.”

“And I know nothing about football.”

Declan smiled. “Thought you were going to Google me?”

Kirsty rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing exciting on my Instagram, you know.”

“Photos of you?”

Kirsty nodded.

“And we can chat on there. You can give me your number another time,” he told her, feeling more confident around her as their conversation went on.

“You seem sure of yourself.”

“I am,” he shrugged.

“I’m driving back up tonight,” she told him. “I might not be able to accept your request until tomorrow…”

Declan smirked at her. “Accept it now,” he told her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her arm up. “Before I have to go.”

Kirsty looked down at her phone. “You better not be horrible, Declan Rice,” she told him, biting down on her bottom lip, unsure. “I haven’t got time for dickheads.”

“Do you think I’m a dickhead just from this conversation?”

Kirsty looked up at him. She wanted to leave him in suspense for a minute, but the pleading look on his bearded face - and his general excitable demeanour - told her everything she felt in her gut about him.

“No, of course not,” she confirmed.

She opened her notification and accepted Declan Rice’s request to follow her. His phoned pinged at the same notification. He grinned, holding his phone up.

“So, let me know when you’re home safe?” he told her.

Kirsty swallowed. “Ok,” she smiled, nodding. “Yeah, ok, I will.”

“Good.” Declan grinned at her. “Thanks again for the pictures.”

“And video,” she winked, before walking back to her friends.

Declan watched her go, before Niall interrupted his staring and thoughts.

“Dad wants you to meet the landlord who commissioned the mural,” Niall said, bringing the whole meeting back to business.

Declan nodded. “Of course, yeah.”

Considering he was in a foul mood after the loss earlier on and the fact that he only turned up at his parents’ house because he promised them he’d pop round for food, his night had actually turned out really well. A mural made by a fan - right before the biggest football competition in international football - and swapping Instagram accounts with a gorgeous girl were clearly things that made his foul mood disappear.

✨i promised myself i would post my stories this year, so i’m starting with my fave (person). i enjoy them, so i hope someone else does too!✨

#declan rice #fan fiction

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